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Robert A. Heinlein. All you zombies


        2217  Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov. 1970-NTC- "Pop's Place":
I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came
in. I noted the time-10: 17 P. M. zone five, or  eastern  time,
November  7th,  1970.  Temporal  agents  always notice time and
date; we must.

        The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five  years  old,
no  taller  than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I
didn't like his looks - I never had - but he was a  lad  I  was
here  to  recruit,  he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep's
smile.

        Maybe I'm too critical. He wasn't swish;  his  nickname
came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his
line:  "I'm  an  unmarried  mother.  --  If  he  felt less than
murderous he  would  add:  "at  four  cents  a  word.  I  write
confession stories. --

        If  he  felt  nasty, he would wait for somebody to make
something of it. He had a lethal style of  infighting,  like  a
female cop - reason I wanted him. Not the only one.

        He  had a load on, and his face showed that he despised
people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of  Old
Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.

        I  wiped  the  bar top. -- How's the "Unmarried Mother"
racket? --

        His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed  about
to  throw  it  at  me;  I  felt  for  the sap under the bar. In
temporal manipulation you try to figure everything,  but  there
are so many factors that you never take needless risks.

        I  saw  him  relax  that  tiny amount they teach you to
watch for in the Bureau's training school. -- Sorry, " I  said.
-- Just  asking, "How's business? " Make it "How's the weather?
--

        He looked sour. -- Business is okay. I write "em,  they
print "em, I eat. --

        I  poured  myself  one, leaned toward him. -- Matter of
fact, " I said, "you write a nice stick - I've sampled  a  few.
You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman's angle. --

         It  was  a  slip I had to risk; he never admitted what
pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the
last: "'Woman's angle! "" he repeated with a snort. -- Yeah,  I
know the woman's angle. I should. --
        "So? -- I said doubtfully. -- Sisters? --
        "No. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. --
        "Now,   now,  "  I  answered  mildly,  "bartenders  and
psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than  truth.  Why,
son,  if  you  heard the stories I do-well, you'd make yourself
rich. Incredible. --
        "You don't know what "incredible" means! "
        "So? Nothing astonishes me. I've always heard worse. --
         He snorted again. -- Want  to  bet  the  rest  of  the
bottle? --
        "I'll bet a full bottle. -- I placed one on the bar.
        "Well-"  I  signaled  my  other bartender to handle the
trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept
private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled  eggs
and  other  clutter.  A  few were at the other end watching the
fights and somebody was playing the juke box-private as  a  bed
where we were.
        "Okay, " he began, "to start with, I'm a bastard. --
        "No distinction around here, " I said.
        "I  mean  it,  "  he  snapped.  --  My  parents weren't
married. --
        "Still no distinction, " I insisted.  --  Neither  were
mine. --
        "When-"  He stopped, gave me the first warm look I ever
saw on him. -- You mean that? --
        "I do. A one-hundred-percent  bastard.  In  fact,  "  I
added, "no one in my family ever marries. All bastards.
        "Oh, that. -- I showed it to him. -- It just looks like
a wedding  ring;  I  wear  it  to  keep  women off. -- It is an
antique I bought in 1985 from  a  fellow  operative  -  he  had
fetched  it  from pre-Christian Crete. -- The Worm Ouroboros...
the World Snake that eats its own tail, forever without end.  A
symbol of the Great Paradox. --

        He barely glanced at it. -- if you're really a bastard,
you know how it feels. When I was a little girl-"

        "Wups! " I said. -- Did I hear you correctly? --
        "'Who's  telling  this  story?  When  I  was  a  little
girl-Look, ever hear of Christine Jorgenson? Or Roberta Cowell?
--
        "Uh, sex-change cases? You're trying to tell me-"
        "Don't interrupt or swelp me, I won't  talk.  I  was  a
foundling, left at an orphanage in Cleveland in 1945 when I was
a  month  old.  When  I  was  a little girl, I envied kids with
parents. Then, when I learned about sex-and, believe  me,  Pop,
you learn fast in an orphanage-"
        "I know "
        "-I  made  a solemn vow that any kid of mine would have
both a pop and a mom. It kept me "pure, " quite a feat in  that
vicinity  -  I  had  to learn to fight to manage it. Then I got
older and realized  I  stood  darn  little  chance  of  getting
married  -  for  the  same  reason I hadn't been adopted --. He
scowled. I was horse-faced and buck-toothed,  flat-chested  and
straight-haired.
         "You don't look any worse than I do. --
        "Who cares how a barkeep looks? Or a writer? But peaple
wanting to  adopt  pick  little  blue-eyed golden-haired moron.
Later on, the boys want bulging breasts, a cute  face,  and  an
Oh-you-wonderful-male   manner.  --  He  shrugged.  I  couldn't
compete. So I decided to join the W. E. N. C. H. E. S. --
        Eh? --
        "Women's  Emergency  National  Corps,   Hospitality   &
Entertainment    Section,    what    they   now   call   "Space
Angels'-Auxiliary Nursing Group, Extraterrestrial Legions. --
        I knew both terms, once I had them  chronized.  We  use
still  a  third  name,  it's that elite military service corps:
Women's Hospitality Order Refortifying & Encouraging  Spacemen.
Vocabulary  shift  is  the worst hurdle in time-jumps - did you
know  that  "service  station"  once  fractions?  Once  on   an
assignment  in  the Churchill Era, a woman said to me, "Meet me
at the service station next door -- -  which  is  not  what  it
sounds; a service station" (then) wouldn't have a bed in it.

        He  went on: "It was when they first admitted you can't
send men into space for months and years and  not  relieve  the
tension. You remember how the wowsers screamed? - that improved
my  chance,  since  volunteers  were  scarce.  A  gal had to be
respectable, preferably virgin (they liked to train  them  from
scratch),  above  average mentally, and stable emotionally. But
most volunteers were old hookers, or neurotics who would  crack
up ten days off Earth. So I didn't need looks; if they accepted
me,  they would fix my buck teeth, put a wave in my hair, teach
me to walk and dance and how to listen to a man pleasingly, and
everything else - plus training  for  the  prime  duties.  They
would  even  use plastic surgery if it would help - nothing too
good for our Boys.
        "Best yet, they  made  sure  you  didn't  get  pregnant
during  your  enlistment - and you were almost certain to marry
at the end of your hitch. Same way today, A. N.  G.  E.  L.  S.
marry spacers - they talk the language.
        "When  I  was  eighteen  I  was  placed  as a `mother's
helper'. This family simply  wanted  a  cheap  servant,  but  I
didn't  mind  as I couldn't enlist till I was twenty-one. I did
housework and went to night school - pretending to continue  my
high  school  typing  and  shorthand but going to a charm class
instead, to better my chances for enlistment.
        "Then I met this city slicker with  his  hundred-dollar
bills.  --  He  scowled. The no-good actually did have a wad of
hundred-dollar bills. He showed me one night, told me  to  help
myself.
        "But I didn't. I liked him. He was the first man I ever
met who was  nice  to  me  without trying games with me. I quit
night school to see him oftener. It was the happiest time of my
life.
        "Then one night in the park the games began. --
        He stopped. I said, "And then? --
        "And then nothing! I never saw him again. He walked  me
home and told me he loved me-and kissed me good-night and never
came  back. -- He looked grim. -- If I could find him, I'd kill
him! "
        "Well, " I sympathized,  "I  know  how  you  feel.  But
killing  him-just  for  doing what comes naturally - hmm... Did
you struggle? --
        "Huh? What's that got to do with it? --
        "Quite a bit. Maybe he deserves a couple of broken arms
for running out on you, but-"
        "He deserves worse  than  that!  Wait  till  you  hear.
Somehow  I  kept  anyone from suspecting and decided it was all
for the best. I hadn't really  loved  him  and  probably  would
never  love  anybody-and I was more eager to join the WE. N. C.
H. E. S. than ever. I wasn't disqualified, they  didn't  insist
on virgins. I cheered up.
        "It  wasn't  until my skirts got tight that I realized.
--
        "Pregnant? --
        "He had me higher "n a kite! Those skinflints  I  lived
with ignored it as long as I could work-then kicked me out, and
the orphanage wouldn't take me back. I landed in a charity ward
surrounded  by  other  big bellies and trotted bedpans until my
time came.
        "One night I found myself on an operating table, with a
nurse saying, "Relax. Now breathe deeply. "
        "I woke up in bed, numb from the chest down. My surgeon
came in. "How do you feel? " he says cheerfully.
        "Like a mummy. --
        "Naturally. You're wrapped like one and full of dope to
keep you numb. You'll get well-but a Cesarean isn't a hangnail.
"
        Cesarean" I said. "Doc - did I lose the baby? "
        Oh, no. Your baby's fine. "
        Oh. Boy or girl? "
        "'A healthy little girt. Five pounds, three ounces. "
        "I relaxed. It's something, to have made a baby. I told
myself I would go somewhere and tack "Mrs. " on my name and let
the kid think her papa was dead -no orphanage for my kid!
         "But the  surgeon  was  talking.  "Tell  me,  uh-"  He
avoided  my  name. "did you ever think your glandular setup was
odd? "
        "I said, "Huh? Of course not. What are you driving  at?
"
        "He  hesitated.  I'll give you this in one dose, then a
hypo to let you sleep off your jitters. You'll have "em. "
        "'Why? I demanded.
        Ever hear of that Scottish  physician  who  was  female
until  she was thirtyfive? -then had surgery and became legally
and medically a man? Got married. All okay. "

        'What's that got to do with me? "
        "'That's what I'm saying. You're a man. "
        "I tried to sit up. What? "
        "Take it easy. When I opened you, I  found  a  mess.  I
sent for the Chief of Surgery while I got the baby out, then we
held  a consultation with you on the table-and worked for hours
to salvage what we could. You had two full sets of organs, both
immature, but with the female set well enough developed for you
to have a baby. They could never be any use to you again, so we
took them out and rearranged things so  that  you  can  develop
properly  as  a  man. He put a hand on me. "Don't worry. You're
young, your bones will readjust,  we'll  watch  your  glandular
balance - and make a fine young man out of you. "
        "I started to cry. "What about my baby? "
        "Well, you can't nurse her, you haven't milk enough for
a kitten.  If  I  were  you,  I wouldn't see her-put her up for
adoption. "
        "'No! "
        "He shrugged. "The choice is yours; you're her mother -
well, her parent. But don't  worry  now;  we'll  get  you  well
first. "
        "Next day they let me see the kid and I saw her daily -
trying to  get  used  to her. I had never seen a brand-new baby
and had no idea how awful they look - my daughter  looked  like
an  orange monkey. My feelings changed to cold determination to
do right  by  her.  But  four  weeks  later  that  didn't  mean
anything. --
        "Eh? --
        "She was snatched. --
        "'Snatched? --
        The  Unmarried Mother almost knocked over the bottle we
had bet. -- Kidnapped - stolen from the hospital nursery! "  He
breathed hard. -- How's that for taking the last a man's got to
live for? --
        "A  bad deal, " I agreed. -- Let's pour you another. No
clues? --
        "Nothing the police could trace. Somebody came  to  see
her,  claimed  to  be  her  uncle. While the nurse had her back
turned, he walked out with her. --
        "Description? --
         "Just a man, with a face-shaped face,  like  yours  or
mine.  --  He frowned. -- I think it was the baby's father. The
nurse swore it was an older man but he  probably  used  makeup.
Who  else would swipe my baby? Childless women pull such stunts
- but whoever heard of a man doing it? --
        "What happened to you then? --
        "Eleven more  months  of  that  grim  place  and  three
operations.  In four months I started to grow a beard; before I
was out I was shaving regularly... and no longer doubted that I
was male. -- He grinned wryly. -- I  was  staring  down  nurses
necklines. --
        "Well,  "  I  said, "seems to me you came through okay.
Here you  are,  a  normal  man,  making  good  money,  no  real
troubles. And the life of a female is not an easy one. --
        He glared at me. -- A lot you know about it! "
        "So? --
        "Ever hear the expression "a ruined woman'? --
        "Mmm, years ago. Doesn't mean much today. --
        "I  was  as  ruined  as a woman can be; that bum really
ruined me - I was no longer a woman... and I didn't know how to
be a man. --
        "Takes getting used to, I suppose. --
        "You have no idea. I don't mean learning how to  dress,
or not walking into the wrong rest room; I learned those in the
hospital.  But  how could I live? What job could I get? Hell, I
couldn't even drive a car. I didn't know a trade; I couldn't do
manual labor-too much scar tissue, too tender.
        "I hated him for having ruined me for the W. E.  N.  C.
H. E. S., too, but I didn't know how much until I tried to join
the  Space Corps instead. One look at my belly and I was marked
unfit for military service. The medical officer spent  time  on
me just from curiosity; he had read about my case.
        "So I changed my name and came to New York. I got by as
a fry cook,  then  rented  a  typewriter and set myself up as a
public stenographer - what a laugh! In four months I typed four
letters and one manuscript. The manuscript was  for  Real  Life
Tales  and a waste of paper, but the goof who wrote it sold it.
Which gave me an idea; I bought a stack of confession magazines
and studied them. -- He looked cynical. -- Now you know  how  I
get the authentic woman's angle on
        an unmarried-mother story... through the only version I
haven't sold - the true one. Do I win the bottle? --
        I  pushed  it toward him. I was upset myself, but there
was work to do. I said, "Son, you still want to  lay  hands  on
that so-and-so? --
        His eyes lighted up-a feral gleam.
        "Hold it! " I said. -- You wouldn't kill him? --
        He chuckled nastily. -- Try me. --
         "Take  it  easy. I know more about it than you think I
do. I can help you. I know where he is. --
        He reached across the bar. -- Where is he? --
        I said softly, "Let go my shirt, sonny-or  you'll  land
in  the  alley and we'll tell the cops you fainted. -- I showed
him the sap.
        He let go. -- Sorry. But where is he? -- He  looked  at
me. -- And how do you know so much? --
        "All  in  good  time.  There  are  records  -  hospital
records, orphanage records, medical records. The matron of your
orphanage was Mrs. Fetherage - right? She was followed by  Mrs.
Gruenstein  -  right? Your name, as a girl, was "Jane" - right?
And you didn't tell me any of this - right? --
        I had him baffled and a bit scared. -- What's this? You
trying to make trouble for me? --
        "No indeed. I've your welfare at heart. I can put  this
character  in  your  lap.  You do to him as you see fit - and I
guarantee that you'll get away  with  it.  But  I  don't  think
you'll  kill  him.  You'd be nuts to - and you aren't nuts. Not
quite. --
        He brushed it aside. -- Cut the noise. Where is he? --
        I poured him a short one; he was drunk, but  anger  was
offsetting  it. -- Not so fast. I do something for you - you do
something for me. --
        "Uh... what? --
        "You don't like your work. What would you say  to  high
pay,  steady  work, unlimited expense account, your own boss on
the job, and lots of variety and adventure? --
        He stared. -- I'd say, "Get those goddam  reindeer  off
my roof! " Shove it, Pop - there's no such job. --
        "Okay,  put  it this way: I hand him to you, you settle
with him, then try my job. If it's not all I claim  -  well,  I
can't hold you. --
        He  was  wavering;  the  last  drink did it "When d'yuh
d'liver "im? -- he said thickly.
        He shoved out his hand. -- It's a deal! "
        "If it's a deal-right now! "
        I nodded to my assistant to watch both ends, noted  the
time  - 2300 - started to duck through the gate under the bar -
when the juke box blared out:  "I'm  My  Own  Grandpaw!  "  The
service  man  had orders to load it with Americana and classics
because I couldn't stomach the "music" of 1970,  but  I  hadn't
known  that  tape was in it. I called out, "Shut that off! Give
the customer his money back. -- I added, "Storeroom, back in  a
moment, " and headed there with my Unmarried Mother following.
        It  was down the passage across from the johns, a steel
door to which no one but my day manager and myself had  a  key;
inside  was  a door to an inner room to which only I had a key.
We went there.
        He looked blearily around at windowless walls. -- Where
is he? --
        "Right away. -- I opened a case, the only thing in  the
room;  it  was a U. S. F. F. Coordinates Transformer Field Kit,
series 1992, Mod. II  -  a  beauty,  no  moving  parts,  weight
twenty-three  kilos  fully  charged,  and  shaped  to pass as a
suitcase. I had adjusted it precisely earlier that day;  all  I
had  to  do  was  to  shake  out the metal net which limits the
transformation field.
        Which I did. -- What's that? -- he demanded.
        "Time machine, " I said and tossed the net over us.
        "Hey!  "  he  yelled  and  stepped  back.  There  is  a
technique to this; the net has to be thrown so that the subject
will  instinctively  step  back  onto  the metal mesh, then you
close the net with both of you inside completely-else you might
leave shoe soles behind or a piece of foot, or scoop up a slice
of floor. But that's all the skill it takes. Some agents con  a
subject  into the net; I tell the truth and use that instant of
utter astonishment to flip the switch. Which I did.

        1030-VI-3 April  1963  -  Cleveland,  Ohio-Apex  Bldg.:
"Hey! " he repeated. -- Take this damn thing off! "
        "Sorry, " I apologized and did so, stuffed the net into
the case, closed it. -- You said you wanted to find him. --
        "But - you said that was a time machine! "
        I  pointed  out  a  window.  --  Does  that  look  like
November? Or New York? -- While he was gawking at new buds  and
spring  weather,  I  reopened  the  case,  took out a packet of
hundred-dollar bills, checked that the numbers  and  signatures
were compatible with 1963. The Temporal Bureau doesn't care how
much   you  spend  (it  costs  nothing)  but  they  don't  like
unnecessary anachronisms. Too  many  mistakes,  and  a  general
court-martial  will exile you for a year in a nasty period, say
1974 with its strict rationing and forced labor. I  never  make
such mistakes; the money was okay.
        He turned around and said, "What happened? --
        "He's  here.  Go  outside  and take him. Here's expense
money. -- I shoved it at him and added, "Settle him, then  I'll
pick you up. --
        Hundred-dollar bills have a hypnotic effect on a person
not used to them. He was thumbing them unbelievingly as I eased
him into  the  hall,  locked him out. The next jump was easy, a
small shift in era.

        7100-VI-10 March 1964 - Cleveland-Apex Bldg.: There was
a notice under the door saying that my lease expired next week;
otherwise the room looked as it had a moment  before.  Outside,
trees  were  bare and snow threatened; I hurried, stopping only
for contemporary money and a coat, hat, and topcoat I had  left
there  when  I  leased  the  room.  I  hired a car, went to the
hospital. It took twenty minutes to bore the nursery  attendant
to  the  point  where  I  could  swipe  the  baby without being
noticed. We went back to the Apex Building. This  dial  setting
was  more  involved, as the building did not yet exist in 1945.
But I had precalculated it.

        0100-VI-20 Sept. 1945 - Cleveland-Skyview Motel:: Field
kit, baby, and I arrived in a motel outside town. Earlier I had
registered as "Gregory Johnson, Warren, Ohio, " so  we  arrived
in  a  room  with  curtains  closed,  windows locked, and doors
bolted, and the floor cleared to allow for waver as the machine
hunts. You can get  a  nasty  bruise  from  a  chair  where  it
shouldn't  be - not the chair, of course, but backlash from the
field.
        No trouble. Jane was sleeping soundly;  I  carried  her
out,  put  her  in  a  grocery  box  on the seat of a car I had
provided earlier, drove to the orphanage, put her on the steps,
drove two blocks to a "service station" (the petroleum-products
sort) and phoned the orphanage, drove back in time to see  them
taking  the  box  inside, kept going and abandoned the car near
the motel - walked  to  it  and  jumped  forward  to  the  Apex
Building in 1963.
        2200-VI-24 April 1963 - Cleveland-Apex Bldg.: I had cut
the time  rather  fine  -  temporal  accuracy  depends on span,
except on  return  to  zero.  If  I  had  it  right,  Jane  was
discovering,  out in the park this balmy spring night, that she
wasn't quite as nice a girl as she had thought.,  I  grabbed  a
taxi  to  the  home  of  those  skinflints, had the hackie wait
around a comer while I lurked in shadows.
        Presently I spotted them down the street,  arms  around
each  other. He took her up on the porch and made a long job of
kissing her good-night-longer than I thought. Then she went  in
and  he  came  down the walk, turned away. I slid into step and
hooked an arm in  his.  --  That's  all,  son,  "  I  announced
quietly. -- I'm back to pick you up. --
        "You! " He gasped and caught his breath.
        "Me.  Now  you  know who he is - and after you think it
over you'll know who you are... and if you think  hard  enough,
you'll figure out who the baby is... and who I am. --
        He  didn't answer, he was badly shaken. It's a shock to
have it proved to you that you can't resist seducing  yourself.
I took him to the Apex Building and we jumped again.

        2300-VIII,  12  Aug.  1985-Sub Rockies Base: I woke the
duty sergeant, showed my I. D., told the  sergeant  to  bed  my
companion down with a happy pill and recruit him in the moming.
The  sergeant looked sour, but rank is rank, regardless of era;
he did what I said-thinking, no doubt, that the  next  time  we
met  he  might  be  the  colonel  and I the sergeant. Which can
happen in our corps. -- What name? -- he asked.
        I wrote it out. He raised his eyebrows. -- Like so, eh?
Hmm-"
        "You just do your job, Sergeant.  --  I  turned  to  my
companion.
        "Son, your troubles are over. You're about to start the
best job a man ever held-and you'll do well. I know. --
        "That  you will! " agreed the sergeant. -- Look at me -
born in 1917-still around, still young, still enjoying life. --
I went back to the jump room,  set  everything  on  preselected
zero.

        2301-V-7  Nov.  1970-NYC  -"Pop's Place": I came out of
the storeroom carrying a fifth of Drambuie to account  for  the
minute  I  had  been  gone.  My  assistant was arguing with the
customer who had been playing "I'm My Own Grand-paw! " I  said,
"Oh, let him play it, then unplug it. -- I was very tired.
        It's rough, but somebody must do it, and it's very hard
to recruit  anyone  in  the  later  years, since the Mistake of
1972. Can you think of a better source than to pick people  all
fouled  up  where they are and give them well-paid, interesting
(even though dangerous) work in a  necessary  cause?  Everybody
knows now why the Fizzle War of 1963 fizzled. The bomb with New
York's  number  on  it  didn't  go  off, a hundred other things
didn't go as planned-all arranged by the likes of me.
        But not the  Mistake  of  "72;  that  one  is  not  our
fault-and  can't  be  undone;  there's no paradox to resolve. A
thing either is, or it isn't, now and forever amen.  But  there
won't   be  another  like  it;  an  order  dated  "1992"  takes
precedence any year.
        I closed five minutes early, leaving a  letter  in  the
cash  register  telling my day manager that I was accepting his
offer to buy me out, to see my lawyer as I  was  leaving  on  a
long  vacation.  The  Bureau  might  or  might  not pick up his
payments, but they want things left tidy. I went to the room in
the back of the storeroom and forward to 1993.

        2200-VII- 12 Jan  1993-Sub  Rockies  Annex-HQ  Temporal
DOL:  I  checked  in  with  the  duty  officer  and  went to my
quarters, intending to sleep for a  week.  I  had  fetched  the
bottle  we  bet (after all, I won it) and took a drink before I
wrote my report. It tasted foul, and I wondered why I had  ever
liked  Old  Underwear.  But it was better than nothing; I don't
like to be cold sober, I think too much. But I don't really hit
the bottle either; other people have snakes-I have people.
        I dictated my report; forty recruitments all okayed  by
the  Psych  Bureau  -  counting  my  own, which I knew would be
okayed. I was here, wasn't  I?  Then  I  taped  a  request  for
assignment  to  operations; I was sick of recruiting. I dropped
both in the slot and headed for bed.
        My eye fell on "The By-Laws of Time, " over my bed:

        Never Do Yesterday What Should Be Done Tomorrow.
        If at Last You Do Succeed, Never Try Again.
        A Stitch in Time Saves Nine Billion.
        A Paradox May Be Paradoctored.
        It Is Earlier When You Think.
        Ancestors Are Just People.
        Even Jove Nods.

        They didn't inspire me the way they had when  I  was  a
recruit;  thirty  subjective-years  of  time-jumping  wears you
down. I undressed, and when I got down to the hide I looked  at
my  belly.  A  Cesarean leaves a big scar, but I'm so hairy now
that I don't notice it unless I look for it.
        Then I glanced at the ring on my finger.
        The Snake That Eats Its Own Tail, Forever and  Ever.  I
know  where  I  came  from - but where did all you zombies come
from?
        I felt a headache coming on, but a headache  powder  is
one thing I do not take. I did once - and you all went away.
        So I crawled into bed and whistled out the light.
        You aren't really there at all. There isn't anybody but
me - Jane - here alone in the dark.
        I miss you dreadfully!
Last-modified: Fri, 21-Feb-97 18:55:38 GMT