N EBULA 
AT\n/7 /i\ ]-R ]-D S 

l_fu VY lfi\ u\ tv,/ v 

sHowcAsE2000 

The Year's BestSF and Fantasy Chosenby the ScienceFiction and Fantasy Writersof America 
EDITEDBY 

GregoryBenford 
A HARVEST
ORIGINAL HARCOURT,
INC. San Diego NewYork London 
compilation copyright @ zom by Science l.'iction and Fantasywriters of America 
Inhoduction copyright @ zrrc, 

1999byAbbenford Associates 
Headnotescopyright @ zooo by Abbenford Associates 
George Zebrowski essayscoplright @ zom by Ceorgc Zebrowski 

David Hartwell essaycopytight O zom by Davi<lHartwell 
Bill Warren essaycopyright @ zooo by Bill Warren 
Poul Anderson essavcopyright O zooo by poul Anderson 

AII rights reserved.No part ofthis publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storageand retrieval system,without permission in writing fiom 
the publisher. 
Requestsfor permission to make copiesofany part ofthe work should be mailed to 
the following address:PermissionsDepartment, Harcourt, lnc., 
6277 SeaHarbor Drive, Orlando, Floida 

32gg74777. 
The SFWA Nebula Auards is a trademark of the science Fiction and Fantasywriters of America, lnc. 
The Library ofCongress hascatalogedthis serial asfollows: 
The Nebula awards.-No. r9-New york 

lN.y.]: Arbor House, cr9g3_v.;zzcm. 
Annual. 

Published: San Diego, Calil: Harcourt, Inc., 1984­
Published for: Science Fiction and Flntasy Writers ofAmerica, r9g3_ 
Continues: Nebula awardstories (New york, N.y.: r98z) 
ISSN o7415567= The Nebula awards 

r. 
Sciencefi ction. Anrerican -Per.iodicals. 

r. 
Science Fiction and FantasyWriters ofAmerica. PS648.S3N388Z-6+lnS 8r3'.o876'o8-dcr9 


AACRzMARC-S LibraryofCongress jrev
[87o9r84 ISBNor5ro47qx ISBNor16oo7o5-3(pbk) 
Textsei in Electra Designedby Kaelin Chappell 
Printcdin theUnitedStatesofAmerica F irst edition !]DCBA 
Permissionsacknowledgmentsappearon pagesz81z8g, which constrtutea continuation ofthe copyright page. 
IN MEMORIAM 
RobertA. W. ("Doc")Lowndes 
NaomiMitchison RachelCosgrovePayes 
T. A. Waters fo Clayton 
|ean-ClaudeForest Allen Drury LawrenceSanders Alain Doremieux 
Shin'ichi Hoshi Sean A. Moore 
Ernstftinger Peter Nilson Wayland Drew Ted Hughes Frank D. McSherry fr. JohnL. Millard AuberyVincentClarke |ohn V. Baltadonis 
T. Bruce Yerke Richard Wright fudis Waters 

CONTE NTS 

Introduction: The ScienceFictionatGenhrry ix GregoryBenford 
Readingthe Bones 1 SheilaFinch 
lost Girls 69 faneYolen 
ThirteenYVaysto Water 89 Bruce Holland Rogers 

From Forener Peace 101 
)oe Haldeman 

Genreand Genesis: 
A Discussion of $cienceFiction'sLiterary Role tl5 

WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST LIVETOGETHER? 
)onathanLethem 
RESPECTABILITY 
Gordon Van Gelder 

GATEKEEPERS BIGOTS
AND LITERARY 
George Zebrowski 

GOODNEWSABOUT5F IN BADPUBLISHING
TIMES David Hartwell 
THETRUTHABOUTSCI-FIMOVIES,REVEAIEOAT LAST 
Bill Warren 
Winter Fire 147 
GeoffreyA.Landis 
Lethe t6S 
Walter)onWilliams 

The lt{ercyGate ZO3 
Mark).McGaruy 

The 1998Author Emeritus:Wiiliam Tenn 237 
GeorgeZebrowski 

My life and llard Timesin SF Z4t 
William Tenn 

TheGrandMasterAward:Hal Clement Z4g PoulAnderson UncommonSense ZS3 Hal Clement 
RhyslingAwardWinners Z7t fohnGrey LaurelWinter 
AppendixesZTs AbouttheNebulaAwards SelectedTitles preliminaryNebulaBallot
from the ryg8 
PastN ebula AwardWinners 

'\bout theScienceFictionand FantasyWritersof America 



Introduction 
THE SCIENCE FICTIONALCENTURY GREGORY
BENFORD 
This volume celebrates someof the best science fiction published duringa particularly engaging period, the years justa bit before the cen­fury turns overand delivers unto us amillennium. A suitable momentto cast a backward glance. 
Severalpieces in thisanthologyrefect on science fiction'splacein literature overall. (See,in particular, thepiece by fonathanLethemand the responsesto it.) Othersrevel in the genre's history. Both views are particularly germane to a field that has come to dominatethe visual media, while remaining largely neglected by the conventionalliterary world. 
Nebula volumes are not collections of the best of the year; for those, see the annual productions of Messrs. Hartwell and Dozois. Instead, Nebula nominees and winners are the favoritesof a club, the ScienceFiction Writers of America,which is asriddledwith highly opinionatedfolk as any smalltown. Winners can represent a compro­mise,theresultantof divergent forces.Factionsandeven bloc votingcan carry the day, and have.Since a large number of fantasy writersmigrated into the SFWA,making it the SFFWA, we see more fantasy among those honored by nomination. So any Nebula volume is more like a momen­taryreadingof the pulse than a pinnacle of effort. That given, I have tried to frame the fictionherewith commentarv bv others on how the 
Introduction 
genrelooksin thewaningmomentsof a millennium. onry in thisinho­
duction shallI hold forth from my own,rafier unusual,perspective. 
-HereI mingle my own opinionswith someincidentsI found clar_ 
lfyiT, from the genre'sothersource:science.As a professorof phpics(atthe universityof californiaatlrvine)andan SFwriter,I feelmyselfat the intersectionof both theseilluminating spotlights. Considerthesequotationsfrom 
century:
""rorJth."It isthe businessof thefutureto bedangerous;and it is amongthemeritsof sciencethat it equips thefuturefor its 
duties." 
_Atfred North Whitehead,rgu 
"Deniedthemagicof mythology,we musthaveit in science_ 
hencescience
fiction." -EdwardHarrison,r98o 
"Scienceismy tenitory,but science
fiction isthelandscapeof my dredms." _Freeman Dyson,1997 
me, this bespeaksa curhrre thinking aroud.whitehead wasa philosopher,Harrisonisanastronomer,
andDysonisaphysicist,futurisgandanexcellentwriter.Theyall feltthequickpulseof science,s heartbeat beneathsociety'sskin. 
In 1997David Hartwell presenteda mammoth tome titled The 
scienceFiction century, making the broad claim that in this last re­
markablehundredyears,"sciencefiction did not aspireto takeoverlit-
erah:re,but reality." 
Furthermore, in his view, "t-heoverwhelmingevidenceis that AmericansciencefictionandtheAmericanmarketdiivethesF world.,, 
sF has "now outlastedall the othercountercultureor outsiderliterary 
movementsof the century"and "is readwith easeand comprehension by the teenagechildren of educatedadultswho can derivelittle 
or no pleasurefrom it." Hartwell seesthe genreas"attemptsto getatthetruth 
of the human condition in this century,socontouredand conditioned by science andtechnology." 
Alas,I wishmorepeoplebelievedthiswereso. Much of our culture still doesnot seesciencefictionthisway-principally,I think, because
we all havea built-in reflex:to accept the presentas a given,ordinary,unremarkable. Yet todaywould havebeen a wonder to anyoneliving in rg99,simplybecause
of changes wroughtby science. unthinkinglyanchoring 
Introduction 
ourselvesin our moving Now, we do not realize howit came from Then. We cannotsee our lives as taking place in our great-grandparents' 
awe­somefuh:re. 
Fundamentally,Hartwell was right-SF speaksfor sciencemore thananyotherfiction (andoften more tellingly than nonfiction). Itsgoal is to take over the real world, because slowly scientists became quite awarethat, like it or not, their culture was doing justthat. 
Of course, it was easy to make mistakes,but more often through timidity than bravado (". . . computersin the future may have only r,ooo vacuum fubes and weigh only lz a ton." -Popular Mechanics, March 
ry4s). 
As change acceleratedover the last two centuries, Iiteratureex­pressedanxietiesand anticipationsabout it. In Mary Shelley's seminal novel, Frankenstein was the scientist'sname, yet revealingly, most re­member it as the monster's. 
A telling hit. Often SF makes scientistsinto heroes, while conven­tional fiction (andmuchof Hollywood) fearsthem.Yeta century ago sci­entists were more likely to be depicted heroically. Why? 
Anotherway of getting at what we in this genre have all been about is to inquire into how scientists make their own culture through SF. I havehadalong,winding involvement with modern science and fiction, theinevitableclash ofthe noble andimaginaryelementsin both science and fiction on one clean hand, with the gritty and practicalway the world uses it on theothersoiled hand. 
I estimate that half the scientists I know have been heavy-duty SF fans,even if they now read little fiction at all. Many notable figures I knew-Edward Teller,FreemanDyson, Leo Szilard,Stephen Hawking, Marvin Minsky, Martin Rees-read S[, and some even wrote it. Though some derideS[ sciencefeelsthegenre at its back,breathingon 
its neck in the race into the future. 
This has been principally a century driven by physics. The nine­teenthcentury was dominatedby the metaphors andtechnologicalim­plicationof two more appliedsciences:chemistryand mechanics. 
Startingaround 1899, elechomagnetictheory and experiment gave us thetelephone, radio, TV, and computers,and made the internal combustionengine practical-thus, the car and airplane, leading in­evitablyto the rocket and outer space. That fatefulweddingof the rocket with theothermonumentalproductofphysics,
thenuclearbomb,ledtotheendof large-scale 
strategic,rrfrr._r, profounda changeasanyinmoderntimes. Personally,
I haveneversettledemotionallythe tensionsbetween the h1s;r impact of physics and its abshactgraces.They representtwoquitedifferentmodesof thinking. I grew up amid the shatteredruinsof Germanyand/apan,with a father who had foughtthroughWorld WarII andthenspentlongyearsoccupyingthefallei enemyl"ands. 
-
I took asa giventhatphysicshadstoppedstrategicwarfare,not byupliftingmankindto higherconsciousness -but by ,.r'ring it siily.Noth­ing in thehalfcenturysincehaschangedmy mind. 
At the time, I did not realizehowmuch thatresolutioncamefrom ideasdevelopedin sF. Forthe centrallessonof sF asa medium is that 
thehighwaybetweenit andsciencerunsbothways. 
In the Wellsianera, r89o-r9ro,physicswasexploringelecho_ 
magneticwondersand inventingboth relativity and earlyquanfum 
mechanics.Meanwhile,SF wasconcernedmostlywith voyages
in an ever-expandinglandscape.It laggedscienceconsiderably,though its 
flightsmadewithout much scientificbacking-time travel,otherdi­
mensions-werecertainlyimaginative. 
YetSF did takeon ideas longbefore the generalculturewouldface them. Throughout this cenfury, conventional literafure persistently avoidedthe gatheringprospectof a conceptuallyalteredtomo*ow, re­heatinginto a realistpostureof fiction of ever-smaller compass. 
Evenasa boy,when I started readingHeinlein,Clarke,and the othermodernmasters,it tooka while beforeI rearized
thatmostpeople thoughtthata "sciencefictional"conceptmeantit wassomehowunreal, evenabsurd. In orthodox literaturethis is the common, unspokenassumption; 
the presentworld, sosoonto be the stuff of nostalgia,enjoysan auto. matic,unearnedprivilege.In thisthe humanisttraditionresists
the cul­hrreof science-for SF is, fundamentally,bestseenthatway. In America the genre came about through scruffy pulp maga_ 
zines,beneaththe contemptof modernistsavants.This bias remains today,isolatingthe genreas no other is from the springs of mainstream attention.High-churchmysteriesreceiverespect'ulnotice (p D. fames, 
Introduction xiii 
fohn le Carr6); our best receivea paragraphof notice in the back of the literary bus. 
All this began back at the Wells-)ames frach-rre.Foregrounding personalrelations, the novelof character came -in a classic pre-World War I debate between Henry famesand H. G. Wells-to claim thepin­nacle of orthodox fiction. |ameswon that argument, banishingWells from the citadel of high literature and concedingto him a popularity famesdid not enjoy in his time. But in so doing, |amessurrenderedmore thansales; he left the future to thegenre that would later increasinglyset the terms of social debate. 
Of course, the genre is not a simple predictive machine. The sci­ence fictional shotgun blast into tomorrow isboundto hit some targets. 
H. G. Wells, the Shakespeare of the genre, fired off more speculative roundsthananyone,andindeed helped bring about thetank in hisr9o3 "The Land lronclads." Churchill remembered this tale during World War I and beganthe researchthat led to its battlefield use. 
When Hugo Gernsback founded Amazing Sforiesin 1926, full-bodied quanfum mechanics was being invented,mostly in Germany. Pulp SF dealt mostly with the wonders issuing from the physics of the Wellsian era-electromagnetism, wider explorations of the planets. 
In World War II we saw fohn Campbellt Golden AgeatAstound­ing, andsimultaneously,the greatexplosionof physicsinto the percep tual world of the public. 
By this time SFwas breathing on the neckof physics, running just slightly behind the implications of discoveries. Since then, the two have been closely linked, yet this is seldomknown in thelarger culture. 
Thatspeculationleads to seriousstudy I learned moreand more in my career.The usual version of the scientific method speaks of how anomalies in data lead theorists to explore new models, which are then checked by dutiful experimenters,andso on. Reality iswilderthanthat. More fun, too. 
No one has impressed me more with the power of speculation in science than Freeman Dyson.Without knowing who he was,I found him a like-minded soul at the daily physics department coffee breaks, when I was still a graduate student at the University of California at San Diego, in the mid-r96os. 
I wasespeciallyimpressedthathe had the audacityto giveactual
-departmentcolloquiaon his odd ideas: notionsaboutspaceJxprorationby usingnuclearweapons
asexplosivepushers,andspeculationson odd variantsof life in the universe.He had just publisheda short note on 
what cameto be called Dyson spheres-vast civirizationsthat swarm 
aroundtheirstar,soakingup alravailablesunlightandemittinginfrared. 
we might well studyinfraredemittersto detectcivilizations,tilen. 
-Dysonat age eightwrotean SF nover,sirphinipRoberfsbEroru­
nar collision, about scientistsdirectingthe orbitsof asteroids.He was 
unafraid to publish conjectural,even rather outrageousideasin the 
solemnpagesofphysicsjournals.when I remarkedoi-,thir, heanswered 
with a smile,"You'llfind I'm notthefirst.,, 
Indeed,hedescended
froma rineof futuristBritishthinkers,from 
J.D. BernalofThe world, theFleshand theDevil toolaf stapledonto futhur c-clarke. rn rnfinitein AIIDirectionsDysonremarkedihat,.Sci­encefiction is,afterall, nothing morethanthe exproration of thefuture 
usingthetoolsof science.,' 
This wasa fairly commonviewin thoseburgeoningtimes.In ry63,my firstyearof graduate school,I met Leo Szilardat dfarhent 
co]ro­quia, avidly holding forth on his mpiad ideas.Szilardhad persuaded Einsteinto write the famousletter to Rooseveltexplainingih"t A­
"n
bombwaspossible,andadvocatingthe Manhattan project.He hada ge­niusfor seizingthe moment.Szilardhadseenthe potentialin nuclear physicsearly,evenurginghis fellow physicistsin the mid-r93osto keep their researchsecret.And he readSF.He evenwroteit. 
I had read szilard'ssatiricalSF novel Thevoiceof the Dolphinsin t96t,andhissF shortstories,andfrom him heardthestory,famousin 
thegenre,of howin thespringof ry44crevecartmill pubrisheda clear descriptionof how an atomicbomb worked, in Astounding
scienceFic­fion, titled "Deadline."Szilardmentionedto me that caitmill,s bomb 
wouldnot haveworked,but thestorydid shessthatthekeyproblemwas separatingnonfissionableisotopesfrom thecrucialuranium235. 
This storybecamelegend,proudly touted by fans ,ft., th" *r, 
as proof of SF'spredictivepowers.It wasa tale of an evil alliance called the Axis-oops, no, the Sixa-who 
arepreventedfrom droppingthe A-bomb,while their opponents,theAllies-no,oops,that'sth; seiila­
refrainfrom usingthe weapon,fearingits implications. 
Introduction 
As Campbell never tired of telling, in March 1944a captain in the Intelligence and Security Division of the Manhattan Proiect called for an investigationof Cartmill. He suspected a breach in security, and wanted to traceit backward.U.S. security descendedon Campbell's of­fice, but Campbell truthfully told them that Cartrnill had researched his story using onlymaterials in publiclibraries. 
Indeed,aspecial agent nosed aroundCartmillhimselflgoingsofar as to enlist his postman to casually quiz him about how thestorycameto bewritten. The postman remembered that Campbellhad sent Cartmill a letter several days beforethe special agent clamped a mail cover on Cartmill's corespondence. This fit the day when agents had alreadyvis­itedCampbellt office. Campbell was alerting his writer, posthaste. Soon enough, security came calling. 
SF writers are often asked where they get their ideas. This was one time when the answer mattered. 
Cartmill had worked for a radiumprodrrcts company in the rgzos, he told the agent, which had in turn interested him in uranium re­search. He also fished forth two lettersfrom Campbell,onewritten ten days short of two years beforetheHiroshima bombing, in which Camp bell urged him to explore theseideas:"U ,3, has-l'm statingfact, not theory-been separatedin quantityeasilysufficientfor preliminary atomicpowerresearch,andthe like.They gotit out of regular uranium ores by new atomic isotope separationmethods;they have quantities measuredin pounds. . ." Since a minimum criticalmass is less than a hundred pounds, thiswas sniffing closeto Top Secret data. 
"Now it might be that you found the story worked better in alle­gory,"Campbellhadadvised,neatlyleadingCartmill to distance the yet-unwritten tale from currentevents. 
PlainlyCampbellwas trying to skirtclose to secrets he must have guessed.The literaryhistorian Albert Berger obtained the formerlyse­cret files on the Cartmill case, and as he pointsout in Analog (Septem­ber 1984), Campbell never told Cartmill that wartime censorship directivesforbadecny mention of atomicenergy. Campbell wasurging hiswriterout into riskyterritory. 
Cartmill wasedgy, responding that he didn't want to be so closeto homeasto be "ridiculous.And there isthe possible danger of actually suggestinga means of action which might be employed." Still, he had 
usedthe leadendeviceof simplyinvertingthe AxisandAiliesnames, thin coverindeed.campbell did notaskhim to changethis,suggestingthat both men were tantalizedby the lure of ,"rrity behiil their 
dreams. 
The Ofhce of Censorshipcameinto play.Somesuggested
with_ holding Astounding'smailing privileges,which would havJ endedthe 
magazine.In theend,notattractingattentionto thecartmill storyand 
the magazine seemeda smarterstrategy.Securityfearedthat ,,. 
. . ru.h articlescomingto theattentionof personnel connectedwith theproiect areaptto leadto anundueamountof speculation." only thosesitting atop the Manhattan project knew what was going on. "Deadline" might makeworkersin the far-flungseparation
plantsand machining shopsfigureoutwhatail thisuraniumL, 
for,"nd
talk about it. The Projectwasafraidof imagination, particurarrydisci­
plineddreamingwith numbersand factswell marshaled.Thev feared 
sciencefiction itself. 

This setthe mold. Forin the r94osHenry Luce'sTimeMagazine announcedthatthiswasthe American Century. 
H. Bruce Franklin'swar stars:Thesuperwedponand theAmeri­canlmaginationhasmadethecase
thats$ particurarry in thepurpmag­azines,shongly influenced U.S. foreign policy. In the r93osHarry 
Tiuman had readlurid pulp magazineSF yamsof ,,rp.rw"apons set_ tling the hashof evil powers.often theywereherdin ,.adin.rs in­
"fter,suringthecountryagainstan uncertainfuture. 
Tiuman wasn'talone.popularculture'srootsrun deep. Time and againatLivermoreI heardphysicistsquoteSF works as arguments for or againsttheutility of hypothetical inventions,especiallyweapons. 
one daywhile wewereworkingon a differentsortof problem, Ed­wardTellertooka break andpointedout to me an interestingparagraph in an old paperback: 
We were searching.. . for a way to useIJz35in a controlled ex_ 
plosion.Wehad a yisionof a one-tonbombthat would.be a 
wholeair raid in itself,a singleexplosionthat wouldfl.ntten 
out an entire industrialcenter... . If we could devisea really 
practicalrocketfuelat thesametime,one capable of drivinga Introduction xvii 
warrocketatathousandmilesdnhour,ormote'thenwe 
wouldbe in a position to makemostanybodysdy"uncle"to 
UncleSam. 
Wefiddledaroundwith it all the restof 1943andweIIinto 1944.Thewarin Europeandthetroublesin Asiadraggedon' 
Afterltaly foldeduP. . . 
The storywasby RobertA. Heinlein, writing as"AnsonMacDon­
ald,"titled "SolutionUnsatisfactory"(May ry4r,Astounding)' Tellernotedthatthestoryevengetstheprincipaleventsin the war in the rightorder."I foundthatremarkable,"Tellersaid,describinghow ManhatianProjectphysicistswouldsometimestalk at lunch aboutSF 
storiestheyhadread. Someonehad thought thatHeinlein'sideaswereuncannilyaccu­rate.Not in the details,of course, becausehe described not a bomb,but 
ratherusingradioactivedustasanultimateweaPon.Spreadoveracoun­try,it could bedecisive. In a wayHeinlein hadbeenprovedright.The falloutfrom nuclear burstscan kill many more than the blast.Luckily, Hiroshimaand Na­
gasakiwereair bursts, whichscoopedup littletopsoilandsoyieldedvery low fallout.Forhydrogenbombs,falloutis usually much moredeadly. 
In Heinlein'sdescriptionof the shategicsituation,Tellersaid,the physicistsfound a sobering warning.ultimate weaPonslead to a strate­lic standoffwith no way back-a solutionunsatisfactory.How to avoid ihir, ,r,d the wholegeneralproblemof nuclearweaPonsin the hands 
of brutal states,preoccupiedthe physicistslaboringto make them. 
Nowhere in literature had anyone else confronted such a Faustian 
dilemmaasdirectly,concretelY. 
coming threeyearslaterin the samemagazine,cleve cartmillt 
"Deadline"provokedastonishmentin the lunch-tablediscussionsat Los 
Alamos,Tellersaid.It really diddescribeisotopeseparationandthebomb 
itselfin detail, andraisedasits principal plotpivottheissuethephysicists 
werethendebatingamongthemselves:ShouldtheAlliesuseit? 
To the physicistsfrom many countries clusteredin thehigh moun­
of New Mexico,cut offfrom theirfamiliar sources ofhu­
tain strangeness manistlearning,it must have seemed particularlystrikingthatCartmill describedanalliedeffort,a ioint responsibilitylaid upon manynations. 
Discussionof Cartmillb "Deadline"wassignificant.The storyt de­tail was remarkable,its sentiments evenmore so. Did this rather obscure storyhint at what the American public reallythoughtaboutsuch a su­perweapon,or would think if theyonlyknew? 
Thlk attracts attention. Teller recalledasecurity officer whotooka decidedinterest, making notes, saying little.In rehospect, it was easy to seewhata wartime intelligence monitor would make of the physicists' conversations.Who wasthis guy Cartmill, anyway1Where did he get these details? Who tippedhim to the isotope separation problem?"And thatis why Mr. Campbell receivedhisvisitors,"saidTeller. 
I blinked. So the great,resonantlegend of early hard SF was,in fact,triggered by the quiet, distanl"fan" communityamongthe scien­tiststhemselves. 
Forme, closing the connectionin this fundamentalfable of the 
field completed my own quizzicalthinking aboutthe link between thescienceI practiceandthefictionI deploy in order to think aboutthe largerimplicationsof my work,andof others. Eventstingedwith fable havean odd quality, loopingback on themselvesto bring usmessages 
more tangled andsubtlethanwe sometimes guess. 
That erawasnotthe zenith of SF's infuence,though' To the largerculture,afterthe r95os, visual SFwas at least as im­portantas anything in Print. Today,in visual media SF rules.lt delivers regularmegahits'Fan­tasy, SF's marketally, enioys exactlythereverse' 
Hugefantasytrilogiesdominatethe best-seller lists,while little SF gets there in the r99os.Yetfantasyhasnever led tolargegrossesfor Holly­wood,despiteits apparent compatibilitywith the rise of special effects. 
Thissuggests averydifferentpart of the culture, 
that SF penetrates andthatitsmosteffectivetoolsmaybeits visions, asin StanleyKubrick's zoor,ratherthanitsidea-hearyfictions.Fantasymay best appealto deep emotionalneeds,andnot depend asmuchon specialeffects(seenone elf,seen 'emall)or wonders. 
Spacetravelwasthe signature imageryof the genre -and it pho­tographswell,too.(Biotech is not going to haveit so easy') Asfar back as1869EdwardEverettHale's"The Brick Moon" envi­sionedmannedartificialsatellites.SFhadplayedoutthisideain greatde-
I 
i 
Introduction xlx 
tail by the time Arthur C. Clarke anticipated the hugeimpact of global 
communicationssatellitesin ry45(withoutpatentingthe idea,alas). 
Spacewasan intuitive choice, mingling technologywith vast hori­zons-and an easy one.MostSF advocates have hailed each predictive bull seye asthough the authors wereusing rifles, when in fact the genre spraysforth a shotgun blast of what ifs. Heinlein anticipated the water bed and remote-conhol waldoes.Wells and othersforesaw nuciear weaponry,massbombing, and space travel. 
Indeed,eversince)ulesVerne'scannon-propelled expedition to 
the moon, SF used space as a metaphorfor the opening of the human prospect.Verne correctly sethiscannonverynearCape Canaveral, ar­guingthat the U.S.wouldprobablyleadthe worldin technological in­novation,and southern Florida was energeticallyusefulfor launching, sinceonegainedtherethe most cenhifugal boostfrom the Earth's rota­tion. His choice of cannon over rockets seemsto have come from a nov­elisticdesire to link space with military means,another prescient shot. 
Conhary to a common observation,half a dozen authorsforesaw first moon landingswatchedby the whole worldon television. Thoughvi­sionarieslike Heinleininconectlydepictedthe first moon rockets as built by privatecapital, in fact suchcompaniesdid build theApollo-erahard­ware; the moneywas first launderedthroughthe government, though. 
Someauthorsevensaw that a U.S.-U.S.S.R.rivalrywouldbenec­essaryto launch the Space Age. Largeideas needed big causes to drive them,a lesson we should not forget. Nothinggrand is doneoffhandedly. 
SF has a love of the large, a reaction to )amesiansitting-room drama.Changes in everydaylife,which mostconcern real people,SF uses as backgroundverisimilitude,not the focus. 
While earlyoptimisticSFthoughtautomationwouldyieldan easy cornucopia,by the r95os Kurt Vonnegut's Player Piano sawhowmargin­alizedsomepeoplewould become,a persistent problem. Few authors have seen any solution to this predicament, other than republics of leisurethat inevitablyrun into the hap of bread-and-circuses distrac­
tions-an uncomfortableresemblanceto many aspectsof our present, with our exaggeratedsportsand entertainment, which increasinglyinfil­hates politics andeven science. 
RudyardKipling predictedhansatlanticair expressin "With the Night Mail." Eventhe pulpera deathraysfound their vindication in the 
Introduction 
laserbeam, but in our lives lasers read CDs and serve as tiny, smart ser­vantsbearing information, not death. 
Still,the genre did a conspicuous prafall over computers.Well into the r96os,writersclung to the image of a monolithic singlemachine worshipedby attentive mathematicians,missing the personal computer revolution. 
Worse,startingin the r93osthey assumed that robotswould con­front us with the mostprofoundpuzzlesof human identity.SF robots werehumanoid with advanced intelligence.Few imagined robots as routinemonomaniacfactorylaborers,boltedin place. 
This meant that the issues of artificial intelligencewere acted out bymetal men we now know tobeimplausible,missingmany of the deep conceptualproblemsthe field confronts today.A.rtificialintelligences shouldn'tlooklikeus, because theywon'treallybelike us. 
How technology looks has become,thanksto TV and movies, moreimportant than ever. Movie imagerymatters;whenPresidentRea­ganadvocatedmissile defense (advisedin part by SF writers like ferry Pournelle)the media dubbed it "StarWars"-though Reaganneversaid the defensewouldbe space-based. of
If politics is at basisa discussion wherewe are going, whatthen is its naturalliterarymedium? 
We have come a long way from unblinking wonderat technolog' andfrom the top-downsocialengineeringdoctrinesthat accompanied thebroodingoptimismof a century ago. SFnow more often employs the 
self-organizingprinciplespopularin biolory, economics,artificial intel­
ligence,and even physics. 
Virginia Postrelin r998's TheFutureand l* Enemies argues that 
the essentialpolitical differencestoday are between stasistsand dy­
namists.In a sense, thesetermsreflecttwo sciences:biologl vs.me­
chanics.SF now usually sides with futuresrun not by Wellsian savant 
technocratsbut by the masses,innovatingfrom belowandrunningtheir 
ownlives, thank you very much. 
This gathering beliefin dynamic changedrivenby freedomand 
information flow contrastswith the oddly statictone of much earlier 
thinking.Mundaneliteraturehas carried an unspoken agenda,assum­
ing thatthe presenttpreoccupationsstandfor eternal themes. 
Even early SF presumedthat elites shouldrule and that informa­
tionshouldflowdownward,enlighieningthe shadowed many. Wells was Introduction ,od 
welcomed to speak by the PehogradSoviet,the Reichstag,Stalin,and 
both Roosevelt presidents-a companythat never doubted their man­
agerialagenda. 
Today,such mechanistic, pseudo.scientificself-confidenceseems 
quaintlysmug.Control dominatedmuch SF thinking, perhaps more 
strikingly in Asimovt psychohistory.I recentlywrote a novel set in his 
Empire,and tried to update how psychohistorycould work-but it'sa 
toughjob.Clockworktheoriesarenot in vogue. 
Now, the genre looks to more vibrant metaphors, while cocking a 
wary eye atour many loomingproblems. 
SF writers arenow much less interested in predictingand thus de­terminingthe fuhrre, preciselybecausetheydo not believe that linear, programmaticdeterminismisthe right angle of attack. They see them­selvesmoreasconceptualgardeners,planting for fruiffirl growth, rather thanengineersdesigningeternal,gray social machines. 
What does this portend for thenext century? Grand physical mea­sures still beckon. 
We could build a sealevelcanalacrossCentral America, explore Mars in person,use asteroidal resourcesto uplift the bulk of humanity. Siberia could be a fresh frontier, better run byAmerican metaphors than thefailed,topdown Russianones. 
Biologicalanalogieswill probablyshapemuch political thinking to come. We will gain control of our own reproduction, cloningand al­tering our children. Geneticmodificationis surely a dynamist agenda, 
for the many mingled effectsof changedgenesdefydetailed prediction. 
Though theconvergingpowersof compuiersandbiologywill give usmuch mastery,how such forcesplayout in an intensely cyberquick worldwill be unknowable, arisingfrom emergentproperties,not stasist plans. 
Unlike physics, biologyisgoingto behardto direct in a topdown manner.Parentswill makemajordecisions,seekingbiotech to better the prospectsof their children. 
Despiteour rather dark impulsesto control the shadowyfuture landscape,to know the morrow, it will be even harder in the science fic­tional worldsto come. 
Scientistsusedto pay moreattentionto SF than anybody. (I mean thethinking genre, not theknockoffHollryood product.)I doubt thatis so today, thoughsurelyit is still the genrethatbest expresses the unique 
powerof their worldview I amsurethat the writersof sF's founding era, andperhapsof this oneas well, would be pleasedto hearthattheyhave beenso infuential. Fromthe vantage ofa fewdecades
hence,ashistory comesinto focus,the mainstreamculfure may fathom that we have passedthroughThe ScienceFictionalAmericanCentury. 
somebodyreallywaslisteningout there.our writersarebardsof science,as Poul Andersonhasremarked. 
Perhapstheyareaswell theunacknowledgedlegislatonof tomonow. In the nineteenth century,missingthe mark by a mile, Shelley
(Mary'shusband)thoughtthatjob fell to the poets. 
The1998NebulaArrvardsFinalBallot 
FORNOVEL 

TheLastHawfr,CatherineAsaro(TorBooks)
oForever

Peace,loeHaldeman(Ace) Moonfall,JackMcDevitt (Harperprism) How Few Remain, Hary Turtledove (Del Rey) Death of theN ecromancer, Martha Wells ToSayNothingoftheDog,ConnieWillis (BantamSpecha) 
FORNOVELLA 
'Aurora
in Fourvoices,"catherine Asaro(AnalogscienceFictionand Fact) 
"The Boss in theWall," Awam Davidson& Grania Davis(Tachyon Publications) 
o"Readingthe Bones,"SheilaFinch (TheMagazineof Fantasy 5 Science Fiction) 
"lzzy and,theFatherof Terror,"Eliot Fintushel(Asimov'sscienceFiction) 
"fumpingOffthe Planet,"DavidGerrold(SFfue) 
"Ecopoiesis,"GeoffreyA. landis (SFA,ge) 

olndicateswinner. 
Introductionxxiii 
FORNOVELETTE 
"The TiuestChill,'Gregory Feeley(SFAge) 
"Time Gypry,"Ellen Klages(BendingtheLandscape:Sd Overlook Press) 
"The MercyGate,"Mark f. McGarry (TheMagazineof Fantasy 6 

Science Fiction) "Echea,"KristineKathrynRusch(Asimov'sScience Fiction) "Lethe,"Whlter|on Williams (Asimov'sScience Fiction) o"LostGirls,"faneYolen(Realrnsof Fantasy) 
FORSHORTSTORY 
"When the Bough Breaks,"Steven Brust (TheEssentialBordertown, 
Tor) "StandingRoomOnly," Karen |oy Fowler(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "FortuneandMisfortune,"LisaGoldstein(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Winter Fire,"Geoftey A. Landis(Asimov'sScienceFiction)o"ThirteenWaysto Water," Bruce Holland Rogers(BtackCatsand 
BrokenMinors,Martin Greenbergand)ohn Helfers,Ed., DAW) "Tall One,"K. D. Wentworth (The Magazineof Fantasy 6 Science Fiction) 
Til 5--)


NlE )e) .TXLA A
ll-ri 



VMARDS 
sHowcAsE2000 

Readingthe Bones 
SHEILAFINCH 
Sheil.aFinchwasbornandrearedin London,attendedBishop 
0tterCotlege,thentaughta yearin the dockLands
before they 
becametrendy.Shecameto the UnitedStatesanddidgraduate 
work in medievatliterature withHarol.d

andtinguistics whitehail. 
at Indiana University. sincej.962and

She has livedin Catifornia 
haspublished

six novets, inctudingherlatest, David Bin,s\ut of Time:Tigerin theSlcy,ayoung-aduttnovet.Withthirty shortsto_ riesandseveralnonfictionpiecesaboutSFpubtished,shehas longbeen interested in themoreintellectualcomponentof the 
fietd.She also haspubtished
poetryandothernon-SFwriting. She has taughtat E[ CaminoCoLtege
since19g0and has con_ workshops Her,,[ingste/,
ductedsummer in Idyl,twiLd,
Catifornia. series,to which ReadingtheBonesbelongs,istheforemoststudy of linguisticproblemswithatiens,bringinga thoroughunder_ 
standingof modern ptusimagination.
theory, Thisstrihngnovetla ,,lingstef
wonthe Nebutaand is partof an in-progress novet. 

Someonewastryingto tell him something. 
RiesDanyowallowedroundon the bench,peeringthroughthe 

tavern'sthick haze,eyesunfocusedby too much4tth.The sitarhedidn't 
remembersettingon the bench besidehim crashedto the floor.The 
gourdcrackedasit hit stone. 
A male Frehsat beside him, the alient almostliplessmouthmov­ing urgently.The Frehhada peculiar swirlingdesigntattooedfromhis foreheaddown the nose, and one of his hands waswrappedin a filthy rag. Ries staredatdarkbloodseepingthroughthefolds.The alienspoke again,thepitchof his voicewrithinglikesmoke. 
Riesdidn'tcatchaword. 
sometimeshe wonderedif the nativevocalizationson thisplanet shouldevenbecalledanythingasadvancedas language -especiallythe impoverishedversiontheFrehmalesused. Not thathis human employ­ers were interested in actuallyhavinga conversation with thesealiens. 
Justas well. He wasn'tthe lingster he'dbeenjustfiveyearsago. The nativeliquor had given him a pounding headacheand he neededto sleep it off. 
The Freh's unbandaged,bird-clawhand shookhis arm, urging him to pay attention. Dizzinesstook him. Fora moment, he driftedun­tethered in a mahix of protolanguage, unableto grasp either the alien's Frehtior his own native Inglisto form areply,a sensation closelyresem­bling what he remembered of the condition lingsterscalled interface, but without the resolution. 
A harshburstof noisebatteredhis eardrums, booming and echo­
ingaround the low-roofed tavern.He squinied, tryingto clear hisclouded vision. Two male Freh caperedacrossthe floor, armswindmilling.He startedto rise-
And was knocked down offhis chairanddraggedbehindtheover­turnedtable. 
Thuds.Screams.The crowdedtavernerupted into shrill pande­monium.Freh voices ululatingattheupperendofthe scale. Something else a deeper footnotethat brought thehairs up on his neck. 
-
He tried to stand. The room cartwheeleddizzilyaround him. A -
pungeni odor filled his nostrils astench like rotten flesh, decaying fun­gus. He had a sudden imageof nightmare beastsrutting.The meal he d justeatenrushedback up into histhroat. 
Something slammed into hisback, toppling him again. He struggled out from underneaththe weight. A pudgy juvenile Freh,shapelessin 
Readingthe Bones 
layersof thick, stinking rags,stareddown at him for a moment, then scrambledawayhastily.Riessaton the floor in the wreckage,his head throbbing,hismind blank. 
Tonguesof flame flickered acrossthe low ceiling; acrid smoke 
filled his lungs andmade him cough.The coughingcausedhim to retch 
again.He doubled over. 
"Thlker."The alien with a bloody hand shook his arm. "Thlker. 
Danger." 
The soundof Frehti was like birdsong. Trying to make sense of suchwarbling,twittering,and chirruping-problematicat the best of times-was impossiblein his presentstate.He got maybe one Frehti word in everytwo. 
He closed his eyesagainstthe stingingsmoke,ihe piercing 
screeches.MoybuI reallyamdying, he thought. 
No exaggeration. Maybe not tonight,ortomorrowor even a month from now.But he sensed his bodysuccumbingto death little by little, felt the slow tighteningof zyth's grip around his heart. He had a sudden vision-a splinterview of green foothills andsapphirelake-that closed down as rapidly as it opened.If he didn'tgive it up, he wouldn't live long enoughto see Earth again. 
Then he was aware of the bump and scrape of beinghauledover benches,brokencrockery, other bodiesin the way. He was tootired to resist. 
One of the aliens had tried to givehim a message last night. 
The memory pricked him as hedroppedastep behind theDeputy Commissioner'swife and her companionsmoving through the cloth merchants'bazaar.He shielded the flasko{ qth he wasopeningfrom theirsightand took a medicinalgulp. The demonthatlived in thatflask 
racedthrough his blood like liquid flame, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. 
In hisexperience,stone sober or drunklike last night, the Freh had the most stuntedlanguageof any sentient beingsin the Orion Arm. Even very early linguists from pre-Guild dayshad taught there was no such thing asa primitive language,and what wastrue on Earth had provedtrue throughthe Orion Arm: All languagesthe Guild of Xeno­linguistshad everfound wereas sophisticated astheir speakersneeded. 
On the otherhand,theGuild couldbe wrong; Frehti,thelanguagespo_ 
ken here on Krishna, couldturn outto be an exception. 
His headpoundedasif he d slammedit repeatedly into a stone 
wall, his skinwas clammy, andhis throat seemedto have been scrubbed 
with sand. He had no recollectionof how he gotbackto his quarters in 
New Bombay. 
It wasnot yet noon,but the heatwas already fierce. Dust roseas he 
walked,makinghiseyeswater.He sneezed,startlingasmallcroudof in­
sectshoveringabouthis face. Alreadyhecouldsmellthe rich, chocolate 
odorof the river movingsluggishlypastthe edge of the nativetown.The 
monsoonwould be here any day,bringing its own set of problems. 
Therewereno pleasantseasonson Krishna. 
The nativenamefor the planetwasNot-Here.^Howcan anybody 
saytheirownworld isn'there?ithe Deputy commissioner'swife nnaa.­
mandedwhenhed translatedthisfor her. "No wonderthey'reall so use­lessl"l(rishna was too benign a deity to give name to this planet, he thought.Kaliwould'vebeenmoreappropriate. 
The DepCom'swife and fifteen-year-olddaughtermovedslowly downthe line of stalls in thesilkmerchants'section,followedbv the wife of someminor official in the human colony.The womendabied sweat from theircheekswith onehand,fendedoffflying insectswith the other. 
They took their time,the Depcom's spoileddaughterpluckingwith ob­viousirritation at her mother'ssleeve.The girl's red hair which she'd piledon her head in astylemuchtooold for herhadcome loose, andhe couldsee damp shandsof it stuckto the back of her slenderneck. 
The bazaarwascrowdedwith small,plump alienswhoseskinhad a color andtexturethatremindedhim of scrubbed potatoes.The males' facesweredecoratedwith iattoos, crudeasa child's scribbleddesigns, done in darkpurple ink; the females wentunadorned.Like -"rry ,r"., he'dseenin the orion fum, the Frehwerehumanoid-as if oncehav­ing found a goodrecipe,Mother Naturewas loathe to throw it away_ and no taller than ten-year-oldhuman children. Their mouths had almostno lip, and their eyeswereroundandlackedlids.Like a bird or a reptile,they had a nictitatingmembranethat could veil their gaze,and, their handswerefour-fingered.The oddestthing aboutthem was that such lumpish beings had mellifluous,birdlikevoices. 
Almost all of them here in the bazaarweremale.They squatted 
Reading the Bones 
alongthe edges of the narrow pathbetweenthe stalls, leaned on poles supportingtattered silk awnings,or crowded aroundthe stalls of food-sellers.Two-thirds of the male population never seemed to have any­thing to do; their solepurpose in life seemed to be standing about hallnaked,staring at each other and at the humans. 
No more details surfaced from the events in the tavern. When he'd 
been younger, he'd bounced back vibrantly from nighk like last night. 
Now they left him feeling a hundred yearsold, his body demanding 
more of what was killing it to function at all. He took another sip-the 
alcoholflamed in his throat-put the flaskback in his pocket, and 
caughtup with thewomen. 
He despised these shopping trips.The women argued and dispar­aged and forced the prices down to a level he was ashamed to hanslate. And then they'd take their shimmeringpurchasesbackup to the Resi­denceand havesomething fussy made out of them. The DepCom's 
womenliked the delicate textiles on Krishna, but they preferred the elab­
oratefashionsthey remembered from Earth, however inappropriate they 
might be in this climate. But eventhatwasn't the heart of hisdiscontent. This was no job for a lingster, even one who'dfallen as faras he had. 
Raggedawningsovereachstallhunglimp in the still air. The ever-presentsmellsof the bazaar, rotting vegetables,flyblown meat, sewage running in openditches behind the stalls, and the merchants'sweat­soakedrags filled his nose. A hand dimpled like a child's plucked at his sleeve,and he tumed to see half-raw meaton a stick offered to him. The seller of the meat gazed at him. 
He recognized a juvenile, still carrying the rolls of fat about its 
neckthatmarked immaturity. Behind the iuvenile,rows of small, feath­erless, flying creatures the natives trapped were set to roast over a bed of coalsalongsidesucculent red-brown tubers. He shook his head and regrettedit when the hangover poundedagainin his temples.The iu­venile grinned. There wasa youthfulnessin all their faces, a bland 
childlikeexpressionthat never seemedto mature. The only difference betweenthem as they grew was that while they stayed pudgy theytended to lose the exaggeratedneck fat. 
He'dneverseen an old Freh,maleor female, or even an obviously middle-agedone. He didn't know if this meant they died young, if they simplykept their old out of sight, or even if they put them all to death abovea certain age. It was a mark of how little importance humans placed on the natives of this world, their customs or their language, that no xenoanthropologistshad spent time here,and the xenolinguists ini­tiallysent by the Guild hadspent precious little. 
Across the alluvial plain on which the Freh town was built, Krishna'ssun climbed the Makert Bones till the eroded mountains glowedfiercelywhite like the skeleton of some extinctmammoth. He wipeda trickle of sweatfrom his neck, willing the women to hurry up. Sometimesthey could go on like this for a couple of hours, examining boltsof iridescent material, picking and complaining. 
The squatting merchantsheld their wares uP silently, gazing incu­riouslyat the human women, occasionallyscratchingsimplemarkson smallsquaresof damp clay to keep track of their sales.They had no writ­tenlanguage,and their arithmetic, on a base of eight, seemed not to be very flexible either. He glanced at an alien infant lying in a makeshift cradleunderneath a stall; its parent paid no attention or perhaps wastoo lazyto swat the insects swarming over its face.The DepCom's wife had organizeda wives'committeeto teach lirishnat natives elementary hy­giene;it didn't seem to be having much success. 
"Danyo."Mem Patel crooked a finger at him. "Seethat bolt? Find out whatthis shifty-eyed thief wants for it." 
For this elementary task the DepCom'swife required the expen­siveservices of a Guild lingster. Mem Patel, like the rest of the human colony, hadn't bothered to learn anything of this language beyond "Kitchen Frehti," an impoverishedpidgin of a very few alien wordsand her own native Inglis, which she used with the female Freh who worked in theResidence. 
"Danyo!The brocade this boy's holding!" 
Beside the male alien,a female stood up, ready to bargain. She 
worea shapeless brown garment and a necklaceof plaited vines with a 
fewgray clay beads thatwas no match for the garish blue designs on her 
mate'sface. On Krishna it seemed to be the female'siob to communi­
cate;he wondered if perhapsmalesfound it beneath their dignity to talk 
toomuch. 
Before he could begin,the comlink theDepCom insisted he wear 
on theseoutings btzzed at his wrist. He held the tiny receiver to hisear. 
"Ries.I need you up here. Right away." Deputy Commissioner 
Readingthe Bones 
ChandraPatel'svoice echoed insidehis skull, disturbing the brooding hangoveragain as if it werea flock of bats. 
Ries stared athisshaking hand. "Sir?" 
"lntelligenceiust in," the DepCom's voice said. "Mules massing acrossS e par ation Riv er." 
In the little more than two yearsRies had been here, he'd seen the patternrepeatevery year. A handful of the second race on Krishna, nick­named"Mules" by the humans for theirlong,horseyfaces,cameinto the native town and ran wild for a few days just before the monsoon struck. Nothing serious, asfar as anyone could tell. A few fights with their Freh neighbors, an occasional native shack burned to the ground. One of the DepCom's hobbies had been gathering information, anec­dotal for the most part, about the Mules. 
"lt's monsoon weather, the silly season,"he said, watching the womenpluckingfrefully at rainbowsilks."Mules don'tpayattentionto New Bombay." 
"Maybe.But I found a recordof an attack when the colony was foundedfifteenyearsago.Almostwipedthem out." 
The DepCom's daughter turnedand, catching Ries'sgaze on her, sfuck her tongue out at him. He frowned at the girl and saw her laugh. "The early commissioners kept very poor records," Patel said. "Maybewecan't trust them. But I don't want to takechances." 
"Nothing the Sfar of Calcutta can't take care of, surely?" 
"Bringthe women back to theResidence,Ries. lmmediately." 
The DepCom's women hadn't been pleased. Ries had let their in­dignation wash over him, ignoring their shrill protests. 
Backin his own quarters in theResidence,hepoured a shot of zyfh in a smallglass. They'd been wrong at the Mother House to think he couldn't handle it. There was a lotof pressure in lingstering; some of the Guild'sbest people broke under the shain. 
He leaned down to the computer on his desk and touched a key; the screen becamea mirror. The action reminded him how long since he'd usedthe AI for the pulpose it was intended; hoursspentbrowsing through its copious files on the floraandfaunaof lfoishnadidn't count. It was as superfluous here as he felt himself to be. A highly trained ling sterand a superior AI with nothingto do, what a waste. 
He frowned at his swollen face undertangled curls of dark brown hair-no grayshowingyet-the line of his cheekbones blurred under the flushed skin, the blue eyes bloodshotlike the hacks of a wounded bird over snow. He stepped away and noticed an exha couple of kilos around the waist. 
He changed intofreshtropicalwhites,tugged a comb through his hair, erased the mirror, and went out of his room. At the top of the stairs, hechangedhis mind, ducked back inside, and grabbedtheflask,which he hrcked into a thigh pocket. 
On the ground floor, a Freh houseboywith no understandingof how a central air system worked had left the doors of the Residence's great entrance hall wide open. A faint breath of humid air moved slug­gishly inside, already laced with aerosolsfrom the distant ocean's sea­sonal diatom bloom. Soon the monsoon would turn the streets of human enclave and native town alike into rivers of mud and the airinto a smothering blanket laden with infection. He closed the doors. 
Turning back, he found one of the houseboys silently moving acrossthe hall. This one was drapedin gaudy layers of red and orange silk. But today somethingfierce moved through the houseboy'ssmall eyesbeforeit wasreplacedby the servile, grinning expression the Freh adoptedin human presence. 
An arched alcove revealed a closed door. Ries knocked. "Comein." Chandra Patel glanced up from a large desk dominated by an oversizescreen.The only sign of luxury here was the antique scarlet andgoldcarpetwith a design of thatched huts andwater buffalo that lay on the polished wood floor.Purchasedfrom an impoverishedmuseum in India and imported at great cost, it soothedPatel'soccasional bouts of homesickness. On the desk todayRiessaw an uncharacteristically
disorderly heap of papers, infocubes,and disks, asif ihe DepCom had lost patience and banged a fist down in their midst, jumbling them.The usuallyimmacu­latediplomathadn't taken time to shavethis morning, and the burgundy silklounging robe he wore looked as if he'd slept in it. 
"What haven't you told me?" Ries asked. Across the room, Patel's tea kettle on a hot-stone and two cupsof delicate porcelain waited on a small table. Ries took a pinch of aromatic 
Readingthe Bones 
blacktea leaves from a canister, put some into each cup, thenfilled the cupswith boiling water. Back turned to theDepCom, he poureda few dropsofryth from the flask into his own tea. He handedthe other cup to the DepCom. 
Patel said heavily, "The Calcutta'son training maneuvers.Out of the sector. It'll take too long for her to get back." 
Tea forgotten for a moment, Ries stared at the DepCom. When humanshad first arrivedonthisplanet, the Freh wholived mainly in the lowlandsalong Separation River had been easily impressed by the dis­play of superior technology into letting themsettlepeacefully.TheDep-Com was fond of pointing out that most Freh were living better now than they'd been beforetheadventof human colonists. Not to mention the stuff they managed to steal from the humans they worked for, his wifewouldadd;colonywives had developed the necessary ritual of in­ventorying household property at least once a month. 
The Mules seemedto bea differentspeciesthantheFreh.Almost nothing was known about their history or their culture; their only ob­served behavior was thisonce-a-yearmayhem visited on theirneighbors. Rieshimself had never even seen one close up. But the puqpose of the small starship,The Star of Calcutta, was mainly to guard the planet againstattack by the Venatixi, an alien race who bore no love for humans and whose violence intermittently scarred thissectorof the fum. Yet it seemedsomebodyhadblundered,havingthe ship gonerightnow. 
"Butthatisn'twhy I called youdownhere,Ries.Lookatthis." The DepCom indicated the screen with a brown hand. "I know you're inter­ested in the Freh language. I think I've found something more bizarre." 
Curious, Ries moved over to the desk to look. The one thing that had made his employment here bearable was Patel's friendship. It was the DepCom who suggested Ries make use of the sitarthat had been his. The sitar, Ries rememberednow, that had been damagedand then for­gottenin a native tavern. 
Before Patel could elaborate on what he'd found, thedoor opened and his wife hurried in. Nayana Patel-a short woman who might've been voluptuous in heryouth-had changed into an elaborate red gown withvoluminousskirtsheavily embroidered in silver. He could see hints of the gown's Indian ancestry, but overornamentedand fussy;the em­broiderymust've added at leasi akilo to its weight. 
10 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
"chan!" shesaidsharplytoherhusband."you mustsaysomethrng to the servants.Amah ruinedmy breakfastthis morning.youd think 
afterall thiswhileshe'dhavelearnedhowto prepare naan.Now I find thatshe'srun away." 
NayanaPatelcalledall thefemalehouseservants"Amah,"refusing to learn theirnamesin retaliationforwhatshesawas their refusalto pre­parethe vegetariandiet the Patelsfollowed,and claimingshecouldn't tellonefromanotherin anycase. 
"Findyourselfanotherservant.Nava." 
Halfadozensilverbraceletson her wristchimedmusicallyas she movedin front of his desk."That'swhat I'm trying to tell you, Chan. They'veall gone." 
Patelstaredat her for a second, thenabruptryturnedbackto his deskandpresseda button on a small pad.They waitedin silence.He 
bangedhishandon thepadagain.Nothinghappened."Yousee?"Mem Patelsaid."we'realonein thisgreatawfulhouse. Left to fendfor ourselves." Rememberingthe odd,veiledlook the houseboyhadgivenhim,
Riesfelta hemorofapprehensionslideup his spine.
"Ries,"Patelsaid."Get my familyto rhecarcuffa'sbase.Thkemy
skipcar." 

Mem Patelsaidpehrlantly, m notgoinganywherewithoutyou. 
Chandra." 

"Stoparguingfor once,Naya,andgo with Ries. followassoon 
asI can." 

Shestaredat him. "But I needto nack_,' 
"Get the children."pateltook her arm and steeredher out the 

door.When she'dgone,he gazedat Ries. ..I cantrustyouwith my fam_ ily,can'tI?" "Sir7" 
"Youtea good manwhenyou'renotdrinking,"patelsaidbluntly.Angerburnedin hisstomach.,,youcanrelyon me.,, 
"The bottom line, Ries,"MagisterKai had said, thatwe can't relyon you anymore." 
The Headof theMother Houseof the Guild ofXenolinguistshad turnedhisgazeoutthearchedwindowof his studyas if auturinalrain­ReadingtheBones tt 
cloudsslowly obliterating Alpine peaks absorbed his full attention.fues had been summoned back to the Mother House for retraining, some­thing all lingsters were encouraged to do at regular intervals. Otherling­sters caught up on newtechnoloryand techniques, but hewassubjected to lectures from a new Head, a man less inclined to be indulgent than the one he'd known asa student twenty years ago. 
"l see from the record that the Guild has given you a number of chancesoverthe last three years." Magister Kai turned to face him again. "Youwerea very talented lingster in the beginning.But your addiction to native alcohols isa seriousproblem." 
"lt's under control now, Magister." What choice did he have but staysober on Earth? They would've found and confiscated hissupplyat theport if he d tried to bringanyhome with him. 
"ls it, Ries?I'd like to think so.I'd like to think that all the yearsthe Guild spentpreparingyou for service haven't been wasted after all. I'd like to believe that we could send you out into the field without worry­ing whether or not you'd be sober enough'to do your job. But I find that beliefhard to sustain." 
His last assignmenthad been a disaster. He knew the Guild would'vemuch preferredto sendsomeone other than himself, but the client alienhad expressed urgency, and he'd been the only experienced lingster close enough to take the assignment atthe time. 
"I was sick. Picked up some kind of native virus-" 
"And dosedit with nativealcohol," MagisterKai said. "Danger­ouslycompromisingthe interface because you were out of control.An­othertime you, and the Guild, may not be so lucky. You do realize the riskyou take?" 
Lingsteringwas more of an art than a science forall the Guild pro­claimedotherwise,andasan artist he'd found that some native liquors sethis considerable talent free. That lasttime he'd managed to scare himself because it had taken him days to shake the demons that stalked throughhisskull. 
There were hazards to mixing alcohol or any pharmaceutical, alien or otherwise, with the already volatile drugs of interface.The Guild had long ago learnedto weed out candidates with sensitivityto Terranintoxicants, narcotics, stimulants,and hallucinogens, not even bothering to send them for heatment. Yet it was impossible to know in 72 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
advanceallthealiensubstances
ahumancouldbecomeaddictedtoand developappropriateimmunogens. He'dbegunthe slide threeyearsearlierwhenhisyoungwifedied. He'dpromisedherhe'dbe ihe rockunderher feef insteadhed let her die.The Guild told him therewasnothinghe couldhavedonefor yv, 
evenif he'dbeenthere.Therewasnothinganybodycould'vedone,theysaid.He didn'tbelievethem;theGuild didn'tapproveof lingsters mar­rying.Hed been outof it on somenativepotionthatmorningjncapable of helpingherwhensheneededhim. Later,hedrankto foriet theiam­
agethedrinkinghadcaused.
Andthenhe'dfoundhecourdi,tstop.The Guild hadmovedhim from planetto pranet, andon eachhed found somethingto easehis pain, somethingthey courdn'timmunizehim againstin advance.
He didn'tneedsomesanctimoniousrepresentativeof the Guild tellinghim he shourdquit; he knewit. But ire knewhe wasn'treadyjustyet. 
He saidtersely,"I'm sobernow." 
"Perhapsyou meanit this timei MagisterKai gazedat him for a moment'1{nd becauseof that,I'm givingyou one rastchance.The colonyon Krishnawasfoundeda d,oz-eny."r,,go. The aboriginalpop_ulationis placid with therudimentsof , ri-pr.Irnguage. rhZ tingrt"^
who forgedtheinterfacesetup theAI to handleit.,, 
"'l-henrvhydoesanybody

still needa lingster?,, "The DeputyCommissioneron Krishna,Chandrapatel,isanold
-
friendof mine,"MagisterKaisaid."He wantsapersonarhanslatorfor his

family;' 
shoppingfacilitatorwasmore like it, he thought,ashe reftthe
-
Depcomt study.Therewasn'tevenenoughwo.k hJrefor a gradeone 
translator'But hed kept his word to Magiste,Kai. He hadn't-misseda dayof thisboringanddemeaningduty. He crossedthe hall. Through the high windowshe sawthe first wispsof cloudgatheringoverthe iaggedribcageof theMaker'sBones.IfPatelwas right andtheMulesintendedto attackthehuman thistime while theshipwasoffworld,thered berealtrouble."o-pound He enteredhisownroomandgazed
atthemesshelivedin.while the Depcomt wifepacked,he'dbeiterpull togethera few thingsof his own' The only objectof realimportancehepossessed
wasthefi".ldp"ck 
Reading the Bones 13 
of interfacedrugs that all lingsters carried when they were on assign­ment.Not thathe'd had any opportunity to use either the alpha or beta sequencesin the whole two yearshe'd spent on Krishna,bui no lingster ever walked offandleft his fieldpack behind. 
He thoughtof apocryphalstories of lingsters who'd come through disasters,triumphantlyhefting their packs as if theyd faced nothing morethan a routineinterface. The stories were more propaganda than actualhistory, but the habit lingered. He strapped it on the hip opposite theflash. 
Tohimself at least, he had to admitthathe'd loved the Guild once, when he was young.He still thought with fondnessof his shrdent days. It hadseemedan almostholy endeavor to immerse himself in the mys­teryof language,and the Guild, monasticin its foundation in any case, did little to discourage this religious fervor in its lingsters. Yet there was somethingabout the Guild thatate up a lingster's productive years,then spathim out, exhausted, cynical,and bereft. 
Somewherein the silenthousehe heard a muffied thud. Mem Patel,probably,bumpinga hunk full of expensive clothesand baubles, andhe'd be the one stuck withcarryingit up to the roof. In a sour mood, he started up the stairs thatled to the family's private apartments. 
Anotherthump,behindhim this time. Then a sharp crash of fur­nifure overturned. And ascream. 
He turnedback too fast, triggering a giddy spell.Fora second the stairstilted crazilyunder his feetand he lost his footing,slipping down two steps. He grabbed at the stair rail for balance, thenmovedwith greai 
care across the hall till the dizziness subsided.The noise was coming 
from Patel's study. 
Nausearosein his stomach. He hesitated outsidethedoor. 
Another scream. 
He flung the door open on a nightmarescene and came instantly, sharplysober. 
The DepCom lay on the antique carpet by his desk, the spreading pool of his blood obliteratingits pastoral designs. One of Patel's hands clutched the shatteredkeypad of his terminal. Standing overhim, a small.nakedalien,with a face socoveredin tattoosthat the natural color ofthe skin hardlyshowed,held a blade likeanelongaiedthin pyramid in 
onebloodstainedhand. 
It took Ries severalsecondsto comprehend the incredible scene. Not Mule. The assassin
was Freh. His heart lurched. 
The plump little alien glanced at Ries.Two others, wearing only the Freh version of a loincloth, were ransacking the room,overturning chairs and emptying bookshelves. 
He screamed at them in Kitchen Frehti:"Scum,obey your master." Lingster or not, it was all he could remember of the language in his shock. The Freh holding the three-edged knife crimson with Patel's blood jabberednervously.The other assassins 
reverted to familiar nativebe­havior,shoving each otherin their haste to scramble out the open win­dow through which they'd entered. 
Sick with horror, he let his eyescome back to the DepCom's life­lessbody, glazed with its own blood. Then he dropped to his knees. Patelt fingers had flickered briefy. 
Somethingclatteredto the foor as he knelt. Ignoring it, he cradled the DepCom's bloodyhead in his lap. Close up, he caught the faint iron smell of the spreadingblood. 
"Ries,"Patelwhisperedhoarsely."l must tell you-Mules-SomethingI justlearned-" 
"Saveyourstrength,Chan. I'll get help." 
Weak fingers scrabbledat his sleeve."Important.Youmust know this. The Freh-" 
Patel'svoicestopped.His head lolled back,his eyes staredunsee­ing into the lingstert own.Then his colorlesslips moved soundlessly, andRies read his last words:"Savemy family." 
He stareddown at the dead man in his arms for a moment longer.Then he laid the head gentlyback down on the Indian carpet and stood up. 
The assassinstill stood, knife in hand, gaping sh-rpidly at the result of hisheachery.Riestook a step forward, and the alienbolted, scram­blingout the window in his turn. 
He glanced back one more time at the body, feeding a growing rage.The broken flask laybeside Patel, ryth runninglikea fieryoil slick over his bloody body. 
The familyt privateapartmentwas at the end of a long hallway on thethirdfoor. Riesskiddedonwooden tile polished slick every morning by grinning Freh houseboys, thesame ones or their friends and neigh­
-
Readingthe Bones 
bors-who now had the bloodof Chandra Patelon theirhands. Never in thefifteen years the human colony had been on Krishna had the Freh given any indicationtheycould turn into killers. 
The fogginess of the hangover he'd experienced earlier came back, cloudinghis thoughts astheshockingclarityof Patel'smurderfaded. He coulduse a drink*but he knew he had to stay sober now. 
The DepCom's bedroomdoor stood ajar, and he heard the skreek of trunks being dragged acrossthewoodenfoor, the thud and thump of thefamily'sfrantic packing. He knocked oncetoannouncehis presence, then wentinsidewithout waitingfor a reply. 
Three-year-old|ilan, the Patels's late-inlife child, sat in a heapof vivid scarlet and turquoise pillows on the hugebed,silentlyclutching a shrffed toy. He'dalways thought there was something fey about this child who'd been born on Krishna.The older daughter wasadding her weight to her mother's as they triedto close an overstuffedtravelingchest.Lita's eyeswere deep brownflecked with gold,andwhen she d finishedgrow­ing out of her awkward years he imaginedshed be asexoticas a tiger. For now,shewasa moody teenager, unpredictableasa cat. 
"Danyo."NayanaPatel looked up and spottedhim. "l can'tfind a boy to help us. Give me a hand with this." 
"Respect,Mem, but we have to get out now. Leave it." 
She stared athim, fussing absently at the long, elaborately pleated gown."I can'tgo without-" He grabbed the woman's elbow and turned her toward the door. The younger daughter wailed. But the older daughter snatchedat hissleeve,andhe saw scarlet, long-nailedfingers. 
"Don't touchmy mother!" the girl ordered. 
He removedher hands from his sleeve. "We don't have time to waste." 
Mem Patel's eyes widened as she caught sightof the blood on his handswhereher husband's headhad rested. "Chandra?"she whispered. Colordrained out of her dark face leaving it gray. 
He was afraidshe'd break down helplessly if he gave her the truth. But she obviously guessed the news was bad. She clapped a heavily ringedhandoverhermouth,stifing her exclamation. Then she turned back to the bed, bracelets tinkling, and swept heryounger child up.The toddler whimpered asthe stuffed toy fell out of her arms.The big case she'dbeenpackingforgottennow, the womanmoved to the door. 
16 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
Lita scowled,pushinga loose strandof copperhair backup on her 
head.Hewatchedhergab up asmailercase
thathadbeenonthefloorbythebed,feelingtheheatofherdislike.,,Whata reyou,Darryo?,, she?once asked.'Monk 
orfairy?Do youevereyenlookat women?,,How closeshed cometo the truth; sincehis wife'sdeath,he hadnt beenwith 
a woman. Lita followedhermotherto thedoor. 
"Wait." He steppedin front of Mem pateland looked
cautiouslyaroundtheopendoor. 
The upstairshallwaywasdeserted,thegreathousesilent,givingno hint of the carnagehe'dwitnesseddownstairs.A senseof wronirresssuf­fusedtheplace'The stairweilreadingup to the rooftopra, ,t fr-,"oppo­
siteendof thehallwayfromthemainstaircase.No rooms openedoffthe hall atthispoint,no balconiesor evenwindowsthatopened,andif they werechallenged
herethey'dbecornered. 
Asthefugitivesmoveddownthe hall, a row of holo-portraitsof for­merDeputycommissionerswatchedgrim-faced,white-robedmenand 
women in ceremonialsaris,whosemost seriousthreatduring their 
tenureon lGishnahadbeentheuphordingof Hindu customsin tte face of Freh indifferenceand incompetence.To *rL, eyecontactwith any
oneof them wasenoughto activatecircuitsthatwourdderiver,rrifp"t,
of wisdomin the subject's

voice.some had chosenfavoriteaxiomsof othersrepeatedcherishedrinesfromtheBhagavad
{rl:T'", cita. He
didn't look at them.Therewasno advicemodernor rr"f,"i" tf,"y "oufa
givehim; notoneof themhadfaceda nightmarelikethis. 
"You might not want to tell Mama the truth, Danyol,Lita,slow voicesaidjustbehindhim. "But you'dbettersoontell me or I,m not goinganywherewith you.,' 
He glancedbackatthe girlt suilenface."you don't havemuch of a choice." 
"Pah!Yourbreathstinksof liquor,"shesaid. 
]ilan wailedandMem patersmotheredherchirdt faceagainsther 

own breast,muffing the sound.The womant eyesglitter.d riith t""rr,but she held hergriefin silence.He shepherdei the"family 
untir theyreached "ro"g
a doorthatledto theroofsiairs.opening it cautiouly,helistenedfor sounds. 
Theyweredirectlyaboveasmall,walledgardenthepatelsusedformeditation,with aholo-stafue
of Krishnain a niche surroundedbv fow­Readingthe Bones 17 
ers. It struck him then how the Patels clung to the things of home, how little they'd adjusted to this new life. Yet in this they were no different from the restof New Bombaycolony. 
A dampwind was picking up, soughing through the treeson the other side of the wall. Thll and skinny,they reached as high as the flat roofof the Residence.The Frehcalled the trees "Spirit-Tiap,"the name servingto buggest again how little he really understoodof the Freh or their language. The air was heavy with the clotted green smell of the coming monsoon. Hissinusesiingled. 
He stepped cautiously outside. Beyond the trees, he saw the other wall, the onethat shut New Bombay offfrom the native town squatting at its feet like a scruffy beggar, and south of the town, Separation River. To the north and east wasa great chain of mountains dropping down to foothills in the northwest where it was possible to cross to the rolling sweepof grasslands wherethe starship wasbased.Their only hope of safety lay in the Stcr of Calcutta'sbase. 
The DepCom's silver skipcar crouched on a bull's-eye pad in the centerof the roof, an oversized mosquitoaboutto launch itself into the sky. It wassmallenoughthatMem Patel's luggage, if he'd let her bring it, would've made it unbearably crowded. He didn't needto know much abouiflying;the onboard AI would take care of most of it. The sooner they got on board the better. He beckoned to the women. 
His waywassuddenly blocked by a Freh in a voluminous ankle-length,orange-browngarment. Awhite silk scarf,like all the natives wore duringthe season of blowing spores, covered his face. 
"Thlker.Wait," the alien saidin Frehti."No harm." Mem Patel gasped,but if the mother was scared, the wildcat daughter certainly wasn't. "Go from our way," Lita said a high-pitched Frehti that Ries hadn'tknown she couldspeak. 
The Freh stepped back a pace and allowed the white scarf to slide down, revealing sallow features andonelone tattoosquigglethatbegan on his foreheadand ran down over one cheek.Ries recognized themale alienwho'dbeenin thetavernlastnighi; his name was Born-Bent. The Freh'sspineseemedtwistedout of alignment, raising one shoulder higherthan the other and throwingthe head off balance. One eyewas dull amber,the other gray. "What they'd caII back home a sport," the 18 NebutaAwardsShowcase2000 
DepComhadoncecommented,cominguponthe malformedalienin themarketplace. 
"What areyoudoinghere?"Riesdemandedin Frehti. 
Born-Benthaddonesmallservices
for him from time to time, but he'dnevertrustedthe Freh. 
Behindhim, he heardthe child'svoicestartup againin a rising
whine of protest,andthemother'surgenthushing. 
The Frehmadea half servile,half nervousgeshrrewith his head. "Dangerhere." 
He becameawareof thehemorin hishandsandshuthisfiststo 
still it. "What do youwantwith me?" 
The liplessmouthpulledup in an uglycaricatureof a grin. ,,1do 
service.ThenThlkerdoservice.,, 
Hewonderedsuddenlyifthe namethealienscalledhim indicated 
respectorcontempt.Probablythelatter,sincemalesdidn'tseemto hold 
conversations. 
"Whatservice?" 
At that point,the little girl screechedloudly. 
"What is it, preciousone?"Mem patelaskedanxiously. 
Born-Bentreachedinto histentlikerobewith hisbandaged
hand and pulled somethingout."Thke." 
His handroseinstinctivelyto ward offattack beforehe sawwhat it was the alien held oul the sitar he'd left in the tavern.The cracked gourdthat had formedthe instrument's resonatoratitsbasehadbeenre­placedwith theshellof a large,nativenut. 
"Thisalso." 
Ries looked downat a secondobjectthealien laid on his palm. It 
seemedto be a small bonefrom an animalwith somekind of marks scratchedon its surface;at first glance,they resembled the scrawl of the primitive counting systemusedby the merchantsin the bazaar. Yetas he gazedat the bone,somethingstirredin him, somesenseof mystery. 
"What isit?" 
"Soulbone.Giveto themothers." 
He had to raisehisownvoiceoverthe sound of the child'swailing. "What mothers?Where?" 
"Beneaththebones.Go.Greatdanger." 
ReadingtheBones 19 
The lastthing he hadtime to dowascarrya nativerelic to analien graveyard.Riesshovedthe boneinto apocketandloopedthe carry-cord of the sitaroverhisshoulder. 
He turnedbackto Lita."Get in the'car." 
"I don't takeordersfrom servants." 
"Lita!" Mem Patelscolded. 
"Well-he is." 
"Yourpapawishesusto gowith Danyo,andsowewill." 
The girl scowledbut turned towardthe vehicle.He took the still shrieking,red-facedchild from her mother.filan pummeledhis arms with her fists. Mem Patelsuddenlyseemedto understandthecauseofherchild's distress."Where isit, sweetheart?Tell Mama." filan pointedbacktowardthe open door at the top of the narrow stairwell. 
Hisskinprickled.Foramomenthethoughthe'dheardtherumble of voicesrisingup the stairwell,the echoof trampingfeet.He listened. Nothing. 
"We 
have 
to 
leave, 
Mem. 
Now!" 

The oldergirl wasalreadyin the skipcar;sheleanedbackout the door,holding her armsout to takeher sister.He lifted the child up to Lita'swaitingarms,then turnedto help the DepCom'swidow 
NayanaPatelwasrunning backtowardthe stairwelldoorto fetch the child's toy,one hand clutching the ridiculouslyornateskirt above her knees.Lita screamed.He lungedafterMem Patel,but Born-Bent grabbedhim, pinning hisarms.The Frehwassurprisinglystrongfor his smallsize. 
"Thlker!"The alien saidurgently."You understandhow words 
As NayanaPatelreachedthe door, anotheralien appeared,his bodynakedbuthisfacescarvedin white.Riescaughttheprismaticglint of a three-sidedknife. Mem Patelscreamed,the sounddwindling away into a gurgleasbright red arterialblood spurtedhigh, hitting the lintel 
asshefell. "Mamal"Lita wailed. Two more Freh spilledout onto the roof,steppingcarelesslyover thedownedwoman. 
Hethrew his weightagainst the sport. Hisheadspun dizzily, but he caughtBorn-Bent oflbalance and almostbrokefree. 
Born-Bent punched him full in the stomach. 
Hisknees buckled under him andair rushed out of his lungs. The 
alien dragged him across the roofand shovedhim like a sack ofvege­
tablesthrough the door of the skipcar. Inside,the childt deafeningnoise echoedroundthe confined metal space. His belly scraped painfully over the ridgedfoor. Lita's long-nailed fingers scrabbled at hisarm,pulling him in; her redhairhadcome loose from theclip, andlongcurlsspilled overher face. 
He glanced out the door again, iust in time to see Bom-Bentgo downunder the flashof a blade. 
il 
The skipcarwas flying low over leafySpirirTiap treetopsglowing olive by stormlight. High crestswhipped pastonly centimetersaway. Lita Patel sat in the pilott seat,frowningout the forwardport at the hori­
zon, where the gray-green of the iunglemet the iron gray of the clouded 
sky.She'dhad the presence of mind to get the skipcar airborneafter 
Born-Bentshovedhim aboard. 
"Flying too low,"he observed. His eyeswererawand his stomach 
feltbruised. 
"Gladyou'refeeling better." 
"OnboardAI-" 
"Overrode it. I'm keeping us under thestorm clouds." 
He squintedat the iunglefowing like a darkriverbeneaththem' 
"Didn't knowyouknew anything aboutflying." 
"More thanyou,apparently."Sheturnedto lookat him. "Youdrink 
toomuch." 
In the watery light he sawsmudgesunder her eyeswhich were 
bloodshotasif she'd been crying. Her red hair had come completely 
loosenow,tumblingoverher shoulders. 
And suddenlyhe knewthatoneof the thingsabouther that irri­
tatedhim somuchwasthatherhairwasthe same rich color ashis young 
wife'shad been. Lookingat this half-grownvixentriggeredpainful mem­
ReadingtheBones 2l 
oriesof his lost, sweet Yv. The soonertheyreachedthe baseand he could hand these two over to somebodyelse the better. 
His head felt as if it had been hollowed out; the sound of his own voice when he spoke boomedandechoedinsidehis skull. He leaned forward and punched up the'car'sautomapand studied it. The terrain betweenNew Bombay and the base was hilly and wild; their route passedover a ridge thick with unbrokenjungle,a tapestry in vermilion and umber. 
"Danyo,I expect you to explain "
-
"Then adviseme. I've been trying to raise Calcutta's base, but I get no response," Even with the starship gone, there should be a skeleton mainte­nance crew left behind. He deactivatedthe map. "Tiy again." Sheleaned forward andkeyeda command into the pad. Nothing happened."Why don't they answer? Is something wrong?" 
He considered possibilitiesbut decidednotto share them. Ahead, a iaged spikeof lightning streakedout of the black clouds and raced to theground. 
Aftera moment,shesaid in awhisper that couldn'thide the shak­iness of her voice, "Tell me the truth now,Danyo.My father's dead too, isn't he?" 
If theyweregoingto have any chance of getting through this, she would have to grow up. Therewas no way he could make it painless. "The Freh killed him." 
Sheclosedher eyes, and he sawher smallwhite teeth biting her lowerlip. She had her mother's ability to absorb terrible newsand not cry out. He couldnt remember the death of his own parents-he'd al­readybeen on assignment for the Guild-but he knew it wasn't under terrible circumstances like these. He felt there was something he ought to say to herbut couldn't think of anything appropriate. 
They skimmed overthewind-churnedtreetopsin silence again for a few seconds. Rain spattered in a crazy staccato on the forwardport. They'dbe lucky to make it to the base before the storm caughtthem. 
Finally,he said lamely,"I'm sorry." 
She stared resolutely ahead."We haveto get to theCalcutta naw." 
He hadn't been able to weep after Yv's death. Like Lita, he'd found no time for grief. Instead, he'd taken the way pastthe pain of living through a bottle of whatevera planet offered. But that had beenjustan­otherkind of lie. 
"The ship isn't at thebaseright now." 
"Not there?Then-" 
She didn't get to finish her thought. The little skipcarshudderedas if hit by a giant fist, rolled tail over nose, and headedstraightdown for theforestfoor. 
When he opened his eyes again,he wasdangling upside down fromthe seat webbing, the foor of theskipcar above his head, Branches pokedtheir way in through broken ports. A long iaggedspikeof whatwas supposedto be shatterproof plastiglass waspoisedabovehis neck. It took him a moment to figure outthatthe 'carmust have been caught in a tree thathadbrokentheir fall. 
What the hell're wegoingto donow? 
The silencemade him nervous. Supporting his weight with one hand on a strut, he wriggled cautiously round until the glassno longer threatenedto impale him. Now hecouldseethe pilot's seat. 
Empty. 
He craveda shotof zyth to steady his nerves, but he knew he was going to have to do this alone from now on. The thought scared him. Then he abandoned cautionandtwistedin the web until he couldsee theback. Also empty. If they'd been eiected­
"You'reconscious,"Lita said, leaning in the window, careless of thesplintered glass. He stared upside down at her. "l thought you might've been killed." "Youdon't have that much luck, Danyo." Her expression, wan be­neath the coffee-brown skin,gavethe lie to the bravado of her words. "We must'vebeen struck by lightning." He wonderedif the on­boardAI had been badly damaged, and if it containeda self-repair 
Program. "l gotfilan out first in case the'carburned." She indicated whereher sister sat,fingerin her mouth, atthe foot of a tangleof slender iungle trees. Long emeraldfronds dripped rain­
water on her. 
ReadingtheBones 23 
HenoticedthatLitahadremovedtheornateoverskirtshe'dbeen wearingat homi-the thoughtbroughtbackan unwelcomeimageof 
Mem Patel'sskirtspatteredin blood -revealingsturdybrownlegsin ser­viceableshorts.She carried the skirt slung over one shoulderlike a 
on herfeetwerenot sopractical'
cloak.The little strapsandals 
Hisseatwebwasjammedandittooktimetofreehimself'['ita helped,supportinghim to taketensionoff theweb'sfastening' "Devi!Youweightoomuch,"shegrumbled' He turned,allowinghislegsto slide slowlydownto the ceilingthat 
wasnow the foor, and felt the sitarbump againsthis head' For a mo' andBorn­
menthe consideredleavingit behind.But it hadbeenPatel's, 
Benthadgoneout ofhiswayto mendit and bring it back. It reallydidn't 
weighthal much, he thought.The sitar'scarrycord had caughtin the ,""t-*.b andhadto be untangled.A lightweightiackethe'dthrown into hispackhadsnaggedon the cordtoo, and camewith it' He rolledhimselfcautiouslyout of thewrecked'carandstoodbe­
sidethe girl in the wet forest.Immediately,his sensitivesinusestingled 
painfully. 
"filan'shungry,"Lita said."Shehasn'teatensince-" 
He felt heat on thebackof hisneck and turnedto see theskipcar 

burning. He staredat it for a moment.The forestwastoo damp for 
thefire to become a threat, but he hadn'thadtime to gettheirbelong­
ingsout. 
"Yousee?"shesaid."Now what?" 
IGishnawasn'ta world that invited tourism.He knew few things 
aboutthefoothillsotherthantheywerewild and dottedwith smallFreh 
villageswheresomeof the bazaar'svendorslived. He'd hustedthe skip­
car'sAI to get them to the basewithout knowing exactlywhere it was. 
Now he was certainof only one thing:They dared not stay herein the 
jungle,so close to thechaosin New Bombay' 
"Now we goon foot," he said. 
thatformedathick,waist-highcarpet

Lita scuffeda toe in thegrass 
under the hees,and drops of waterfew off the stalks."Not much of a 

path.And whataboutfilan?This isoverher head'" 
He glancedin the direction sheindicatedand saw the little girl 
through grassthat reached her shoulders.As he

pushing h", *"y 
watched,shestumbledand fell, disappearingunder a green wavethat 

24 Nebula 2000
AwardsShowcase 
closedoverher.If shewenioff on herown,theycouldeasilylosetrack of her. 
"I'll carryfilan." 
"Do youknowwhatdirectionweshouldtake?" 
He didn't,but he wasn'tgoingto admit that.Spirit-Tfaptreeshid themountainsfromsight,andtheskywastooovercastforhim to gethis bearingsfrom thesun.If he climbedoneof thetrees,he'dgeta better senseofwhich wayto go,but theseheesweretoothin to takehisweight. Hehadnoideahowmanyhourshadpassedsincethey'dfledNewBom­bay.He hadto doit soon,orwhatlittle daylightwasleft wouldbefading. 
He pickedup the toddlerand settledher on his shoulderswhere shetwinedherfingersin hishair,leaningherheaddrowsilyagainsthis. She washeavy,but at leastshe'dgiven up that awful screaming.He wasn'tusedto children,andhe'dneverhadmuchcontactwith thisone in New Bombay;she'dstayedmostof the time in the nurserywith the familyt personalservants. 
"Be 
careful 
with 
my 
sister," 
Lita 
warned. 
"She's 
very 
upset." 
Heglancedattheoldergirl.It wasn'tthefirsttimehe'dnoticedher interpretingforhersilentsibling."Doesn'tshespeakforherself?" "Why shouldshe?My motherspoiledher.And the amahsdid everythingfor her.Everybodyaroundherdid thetalking." 
Threewaslatefor achild io begintalking,hethought.All healthy humanbabieswerebornwithimpressivelinguisticskills.)ilanshouldbe conveyingherthoughtswithsomefuencybynow,notrelyingon others to do it for her. 
Somewhereastreamrushedby,hiddenin thedenseundergrowth, chatteringurgentlyto itself.The sharp,clearscentofwaterlaylikeades­cantoverthedarkernotesofwetsoilandthickplant-life.Enormousma­gentaandscarletblossomshungfromvinesthatclimbedthetreetrunks; smaller,acidyellowflowerslit up theshadowsbeneaththem.Cloudsof eyelessinsectswhirredby;guidedonly bythe smellof the flowers,they blundered constantly into the humans' faces.He pushed his way throughthe high grassandLita followed. 
"Thesesandalsarerubbingmy feet,"shecomplainedatonepoint. 
Hewouldn'thavebelievedthebrutalcarnagethey'dleftbehindin the Residencewasthe work of Freh if he hadn'tseenthem himself. Somethinghadcausedthenormallyplacidaliensto riseup againstthe humans.If they'dbeenharboringdeepresentmentagainstthecolonists 
Readingthe Bones 25 
alltheseyears,they'd done agoodjobof hiding it. He tried to remember if he'd ever sensed anger or even reluctance in the native behavior, but all the images he conjuredup were of bland,incurious, passive faces. 
"Youunderstandhow words make." Born-Bent had been wrong; he didn't understand atall.Therewere obviously hugegapsin his knowl­edge of how Frehti operated. He wished he could take theproblem back to the Guild, let his old teachers play with it. He imagined them as he'd known them in his youth. Magistra Eiluned, old already when he'd first come to the Mother House, and Dom Houston,who'd believed that every language served only to disguise. Was Frehti disguising something he should know? In memoryhe sawthem gathered round the seminar table while the warmgreen smell of summer flowed through tall win­dowsandcuckoos spoke from sunlit appleorchards. 
A stifedexclamationat his side brought him back. Litahad caught oneof her fimsy sandals in a wiry grassstrand. He put out a handand steadiedher. 
When the sandalwas settled back on her foot, she glanced up at him. "Do you have any idea whatcausedthat. . . that.. . whathappened backthere?" 
Hervoicewavered,but hecouldtell she was determinednot to let him see her terror. Hair in disarray,clothingstreakedandtom, she was, after all, hardly out of childhood herself. 
"Time to talk aboutit later,"hesaid. 
Somethinghad happenedin the nativetavern. Born-Bent had tried to givehim a message and perhapsbeen killed for it. Then the DepComhadtried to share something he'dlearned.Again, something importantenough for a man to waste his dying breath tryingto commu­nicate.Ries had asenseof huge piecesof informationlacking,questions without answers.Until he understoodthe deadly puzzle, he and the DepCom'schildren were in mortal danger. 
When they'd gone a few hundred metersthrough the dense un­dergrowth, he found what he was looking for. An old Spirit-Tfapwith a thick, gnarled trunkshoveditsheadup through thecanopy formed byits 
youngerneighbors.He let the child andthe sitar slide gently downto the wetgrass.filan clungto his leg for a moment, staringup at him wide-eyed,but she made no sound. He wasbeginningto find the child'ssi­lenceunnerving. 
"Waithere a minute." hesaid."Okav?" 
AwardsShowcase 
filan didn't answer. 
"What're you doing now? Lita asked ashe beganto climb. She seemed to havepulled herself together again. "You'll never make that, Danyo. You're out of shape." 
The smooth trunk was slick from the rain but free of the clinging vines.Nearthetop,themaintrunk splitinto three, and he couldgo no furtheraseachthin limb bent under his weight. He sat in the securityof thisthree-prongedY, blood pounding in his temples, leaning out precar­iouslyto gaze over the surrounding forest. 
The rain had stopped and thesunhadalreadyset,leaving a diffuse glow in the banked clouds on the horizon.To his left, the stormhad cleared,and he sawthe first faint sparkof the constellationthe Freh called"The Thief." Below it, a white smear,a tail end of the home 
galaxythat the Freh knew as "sorrow-Crossing,"gleamedfaintly. Some­wheredownthatsoftwash of light, a small blue planet orbited a sun too insignificantto be visible thisfaraway. 
He looked away.Fugitives couldn't afford the luxury of being homesick. They were on the slope of one of thefoothills, a gentlerise that he 
hadn't noticed as they'd trudgedthrough the thick iungle' He gazed acrosscanyonschokedwith dark vegetation and saw Separation River, glowinglike a pewter ribbon in the twilight, winding acrossthe alluvial plain. He thought of his first impressionsof Krishna asthe shuttle ferry­ing him downfrom thestarship came in through the atmosphere: alush greenplanetlacedwith shining waterways, signsof squalidhabitation 
appearingonlyafterthe shuttle landed. 
In the foreground, downslope, he noticed a number of hees seemedto be leaning crazily,and he realizedhe was staringatthe skip cart crashsite.Then his attention waspulled back to the distant human settlementon the banks of the river. It seemed asif it were illuminated. Ashe stared, it eruptedin a fountain of fame that turned the bluffs crim­son.New Bombaywason fire. 
"How much longer areyou going to stay up there?" 
It was completelydarkon the forest floorwhen he slid backdown 
the treeagain,but his eyes retainedthe afterimage of flame'The Dep 
Com had thought dangerwould comefrom the wild Mules, yet it was 
the placidFrehwho'drebelled,and that wasmoreftightening' 
'Well, did you find which waywe have to go?" 

Reading the Bones 27 
"I think so." 
No sense passingon to her what he'd learnedfrom the AI of car­nivoreson Krishna. fu if to underline his concern, the leathery black shapeof a hugenightbird slipped between the treesand swept past his shoulder.He heard the slap andcreakof iis featherless 
wings. 
And he heard something else. Somethingmore menacing than a wild animal. "What?Danyo,why'reyoupushing me?" "Up there." He jerkedhischin atthetreehe'djustclimbeddown. 
'We'll waitup there till itt light." 
"But I don't climb hees. And what about Jilan?" 
He shoved the hesitating girl toward the tree. "Get your foot up on thatbolethere.Then the other. Keep goingl" He slung the sitar over his shoulder,grabbedthechild up and held hercloseto his chest with one hand, reachinginto the tree's darknessfor a handhold with ihe other. The fieldpack dug into his hip as the child claspedher legs around him. 
Lita seemed to pick up his urgencyandsheclimbedquickly. He followed,burdened by the child and the sitar, which he couldn't leave behind in the damp grass. It banged into hisshoulder blades with each movement.Scaredby the ascent, the little girl made it worse by clinging tightlyto his hair. Lita's foot slippedtwiceon thedamptrunk and struck hisfingers, almost knocking him off. The child struggled,andhe had a hardtime hanging on to the slipperybark. 
"Staycalm!"he commanded. 
Shewhimperedbut stopped struggling.Lita had now reachedthe Y wherehed stoppedearlier;he pushedthe child up into her down-stretchedhands.Relievedof Jilan'sweight, he scrambledup afterher. 
He heard the harsh intakeof Lita's breath as she turned toward the 
plain of Separation River.The entiresky to the south and east was lit by thelurid glow of the fire,andunder it the wetleavesof theforestcanopy gliitered redly asif they'd been drenchedin blood. 
Belowthem,theforestsuddenlyfilledwith screams-the crashof bodiesrunningblindlythroughundergrowth-a high-pitchedkeenrng thatbroughtthe hairs up on his neck andarms.A suddensmell like pu­trefzingfleshroseup to his nostrils. 
"MercifulLord IGishna!"Lita exclaimed,her hands claspedover her nose. "What isit?" At the foot of the tree thatshelteredthem,a naked, spindlylegged 
creature, its corpse-white skin hanging in folds like a toobig overcoat hastilythrown over spikes of underlying bone, wrestled a plump Frehfe­male to the ground. The Freh shrieked and thrashed about as the other alien covered her.Ries could seeher fists pummeling the largeralien's shoulders-a male,he could see its elongatedpenis and scrotal sack-and he heard the stream of scolding she gave vent to in her birdlike voice. The male made no sound in reply. 
This was the first Mule he'd everseen close up,and he wasstunned by the height and emaciation of the alien. The powerful reek of their vio lent mating roseup in a thick cloud till he thought hewouldvomit. 
Then it was over. The Mule stood up, hislong,horselikehead hrrn­ing slowly,the overlargeearspricked as if they were listening to sounds out of human range. Then he vanished wraithlike into the trees. A mo. ment later,the Freh female picked herself up from theground,brushed leavesanddirt off, then strolled away as if nothing had happened. 
It made no sense.The Frehand the Mules were separate species; that was obviousat a glance. Had he misunderstoodwhatwas happening? 
Lita wascrying now. The mask of arrogance and precociousness thatmarked the teenager in the bazaar this morning had dropped away. The younger daughter stared up at him, her eyeswide with fright, her hands gripping the front of his iumpsuit. 
"Shelooked like one of |ilan'samahs,"Lita said in awobbly voice. "What'rewegoingto do, Danyo?" 
"We'll stay up here forthenight.In the moming, we'll make plans." 
He put one arm aroundeach of them, drewthem close to share a little warmth, and thought about what she'diustsaid.The girl obviously 
didn't shareher mother's boast that she couldn't tell one Freh from 
another. 
The lurid glow in the sky over New Bombaygraduallyfaded.The stormhadblown overfor the time being, leaving a sky bright with alien constellationsand the white hail of Sorrow-Crossing. The planet had no companionin its orbit round itssun; IGishnat night skywasperpetually moonless.He lookeddown.Now the wet leaves mirroredthe fierce glit­
ter of stars. 
When it was light again in the morning,he'd try to remember in­formation browsedin the computer'slibrary about edible plants and roots. One prbtein-rich,red-browntuber the natives roasted over hot ReadingtheBones 29 
coals,he'd tasted in the bazaar.The Frehusedthehusksto makethedye they favoredfor their own robes.If he could find sometomorrow it 
would solvethe foodProblem. Somethingdugintohis ribs wherethe child clungto him. He took Born-Bent'ssoul bone out and examinedit curiously. It was aboutthe sizeand width of his own index finger,and in the starlightits surface 
gleamedalmostas though it weretranslucent.He ranhisfingeroverthe symbolscratchedon it, but it yielded no secretsto him. The mothers-whoeverand wherevertheywere-would know whatto do with it, the 
Frehhadsaid.If he survived long enoughto find them. 
After a while, the girlsslept,but he remainedawakeand watchful 
for a long time, listeningto the sounds of fight and evasionandbestial rutting that camefrom all directions,punctuatedwith an ominousani­mal roaring that brought to mind the chilling sightsand soundsof junglelife he'd found in theAI's library. 
He slept fitfully. Shortlybeforedawn,he dreamedYv was drown­
ing in SeparationRiver.Shewaswearingthe sky-blue dress she'd worn 
ontheir weddingday,andher outstretchedhandsimploredhim to help 
while he stood on the otherbank,unableto reachher' 
When he woke, his head had the sticky,cobweb-filledfeeling 
he knewwell, a cloggeddullnessthalqth causedand only zyth could 
remove. 
His muscles iumpedandtrembledthismorning.Fireraceddown 
the nervepaths,and sweatbrokeout on his brow in spite of the cool 
morning. He felt weak, drained, readyto give up, desperatefor the 
courageqth could.give him, evenif it didn't last. 
The forest had dissolved in a pearl-white mistthat drippedoffthe 
leaves.He looked down atfilan,still nestled in the crook of hisarm. She 
was awake, gazingupat him, thumb in mouth, her face puffy and tear-
streaked.Thiswasn'tpart of my Guild oath! But for the child ssake,he 
had to pull himselftogether. 
Lita was kneelingin the tall grass in the gray light, emptyingsome­
thing out of her skirt, which she'dusedas a basket.Wispsof fog drifted 
slowlyoverthe ground. 
She glanced up at him. "I found breakfastwhile you were still 
snoring." 
30 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
He wouldn't give her the satisfactionof seeing her barbsstrike home.He let the sitarslidedownuntil it was low e'olgh to dropsafelyintoheroutstretchedhands.Then hegrasped|ilan wittLoneshakyhand andwith the other lowered himselfdownto stand besideLita. The little 
girl wriggledfreeand clutchedher sister'sarm.Lita pulled her sister downto sit on thegroundclosebesideher,thenindicateda mound of thumbnail-sized,darkpurpleberries. 
"The houseboyssometimesbrought usberries,,'shesaid.,,They lookeda bit like these." 
He pickedone out of the mound and raisedit cautiouslyto his nose,then brokethe berryopen with a fingernail and gazedat the honeycomboftinysegmentssurroundinga small ovalseed."This one's 
okay." 
He handedit to herandpickedup another. 
"You meanyou'regoingto do that with eachone?"sheasked, herdisbeliefobvious."But theyall camefrom thesame bush. If oneh okay "
-
"Three kinds of berriesall growon one bush. They all look alike on the outside.The one I gave you is female,safeto eat. Another kind 
containsthemalechromosomes,a kind of reddustthatwill makeyou sneezeand your stomachcramp,but it won'tkill you. The thirdissexu­ally neuter. It'sdesignedtokill the plant'senemiesthatmistakeit for one of theothertwo." 
Sheclappedherhandsoverhermouth."But I was so hungry,and they looked- Danyo,I alreadyate one!" 
"Doesyourstomachhurt?" 
Sheshookher head. 
"Youwere lucky. Nexttime,wait for me." 
"I wasonlytryingto help," shesaidin a small voice. 
He satcrossJeggedon the wetgroundandsniffed,split, and sorted the berries, discardingmostof them, stoppingto sneeze frequently.Both sisterswatchedhim work. Finally he took a berry from the smallest pile and-to reassureLita-put it with great show into his ownmouth.Then heturnedthat pile overto her. 
"Thoseyoucaneat safely." 
"You'reonly goingto eat one berry?" 
"I'm not hungry." 
ReadingtheBones 37 
He didn't tell herthatzTfhwas distilled from the poisonous form of 
these berries, madesafe only after a long period of fermentation,and 
perhapsnot even then. Hunger for qth roseup from his bowels like a 
starvedbeast,all claws and teeth,overwhelminghis bodyt need for food. 
Fora moment he consideredsavingthedangerousberries. If he put one 
under his tongue, sucked it, didn'tchew-
He stood up abruptly and walked away from temptation. 
While the children ate their meager breakfast, thesun rose and the 
mist gradually melted off the grass.A fallen tree trunk provided a place 
to sit. He unslung the sitar from his shoulder, settledit in his lap, and 
beganto explore the stringswith a hand that wouldn't stoptrembling. 
The native nut that had replaced the crackedgourd changedthe reso­
nance,and he compensatedfor it as much as he could.He really needed 
a wire plectrurnto pluck thestrings,but that hadn'tbeen in his pocket 
when Born-Bent returnedthe lost instrumentto him. 
His fingernails were still caked in the DepCom's blood.He wiped 
his hand cleanin the wet grass. 
Lita came over to sit beside him as he finished. Her red hair 
tangledoverher shoulders, andpink juicefrom the benies stainedher 
mouth.filan wasdrawingon apatchof bare ground,using a pieceof dry 
grass she'd pulled from the forest floor.Absorbedby her work,the child paid no attentionto them. The two lookednothing alike,he thought. Lita wouldbeas voluptuous as her motherbut taller when she matured; the child was elfin-faced andseemeddestinedto be small and delicate. "That wasmy father's sitar,"Lita said. 
"Yes." 
"Playsomething." 
He pickedout an old song he'd learnedasa student, a lament for 

time past and homelandlost,like a thousand similardirgessungin dif­ferent languagesover the millennia by humans who'd been explorers andwandererssincetheyemergedfrom theprimalocean. 
"Sad.It reminds meof Earth." 
He set the instrument downon the ground besidehim. 
"I neverlearnedto play.I think it would'vepleasedmy father if I had."she ran onefingertipdownthe lengthof a string."I've beenaway solong,it'shardto remember Earth,let alone India. Havevoueverbeen 
to India?" 
32 NebutaAwardsShowcase2000 
He shookhisheadandstoodup,workingon tensionin hisneck andshoulders. 
"one thing I remember isa white housein the mountains,
near the headwaters of the Ganges.
we lived there in the summertime.we hadpeacocksandmonkeysin thegardens-" Shebrokeoff.He watchedher staring into thed.istance,therising sunilluminatinghalfherface,highlightingthedarkcheekbones
so that sheseemeda bas-reliefcarvingof ayounggoddesson a templewall. 
In thesilence,hebentdownand rehieved thesitar,slidingan arm 
throughitscarry-cord."Time to moveon." 
Afterawhile she said,"Youmust'vemet lots of aliens." 
'A number.They'renotall pleased to meetHomosapiens.', 
shescrambledto herfeetandtookhersister's
hand.Theystepped out through tough,wiry grass that grewup to the height of the childt 
head.He tookJilanfrom Lita andswungher up ontohisshoulders.The 
child grasped the neckof the sitarasshe rode, which didn't preventit 
from banginghisback but tightenedthe carry-cord as it passedacrosshis 
throat. 
Lita walkedbesidehim. "How did you knowaboutthebe'ies?" "There wasa wealth of informationin theAI's library. your father seemedto bethe only person in New Bombaywhowasinterestedin it." Shewas silent fora moment, then she said,"youdon't like mevery much,doyou?" "Not important.I haveto get you to safety." 
"Well, maybeit'smutual." Shehalted,staringat the stark peaks, bonesshroudedin funereal graymist."I hatethis planet.Especially thoseugly mountains." 
He glancedup withoutslowinghispace."The Maker'sBones?" 
Shecaughtup with him again. "And whydo they havethatname? Do the Freh believe in a god calledthe Maker? Is he supposedto be buriedup there orwhat?" "I haven'tseenany evidence the Freh have a god." 
"How canthatbe? All primitiveraceshave gods orgoddesses." 
Beforehe could answer,somethingcrashedthroughthe under­growthaheadof them. He seized Lita'sarmand pulled them all down behindatall clumpof the bushes. |ilan whimperedandpressedherface againsthis chest. 
ReadingtheBones 33 
The noisegrewcloser,andnowthey could hear snuffiing-growl­ing-keening­"What isit?" Lita whispered, her breath warmathis ear' Threefiguresemergedfrom the trees, atall Mule malewith deep-set eyes and two male Freh, one a iuvenile,wrappedin rags and still showingthe distinctiverollsof adolescent neckfat.The Mule tackled the nakedadultFrehandwrestledhim to the ground. Theyrolledover 
andoverin the grass, the Mule grunting,theFreh screeching, and both poundingeachother,at one point comingso dangerously closeto the humans'hiding placethat Ries smelled the Freh'ssoursweat and the 
rancid odor of the Mule. 
The Mule appeared to be iryingto sink long fangs into the Freh's armswhile the iuvenilestood by, shrillingandgesturingwith his four-fingeredhands.Rieswouldneverhave guessed from the starvedlookof the Mule that he would be so strong,but he was obviously gettingthe 
betterof the sturdierlooking Freh. 
As abruptly asthe sexual encounterhad ended lastnight, this fight ended.Now the combatantsseparated,not looking at each other, satup, andbrusheddirt off themselves.A long moment passed. When he finally stood, the Mule'sthin arms were as long ashis legs; Ries saw the bonesclearlythroughthe skin asif the alien werea walking anatomy demonstration, 
The Freh turned unblinking eyesin the directionof the hidden 
humans,but farfrom signaling defeat, there wassomethingthatseemed 
glutted and satisfied in that expression. There was someunexplained 
connection here, some clue he was missingthat would explain the 
bizarreinteraction between thesetwo species that he d witnessedlast 
night and today, but he had no ideawhatit could be. 
Through all this, the fuvenile continued to wail. Suddenly, the 
Mule seemed to becomeawareof the noise for the firsttime. With aroar 
that was almost too deep to come from such a sunkenchest, he now 
turned on theyoungerFreh.At first Ries thoughi he meant to kill the iu­
venile,but he saw that the Mule'sintention was to drive him away.The 
juveniletook a step back, his eyes large with fear, arms flappingineffec­
tually in front of hisface. The Mule lunged forward. 
Then, to Ries's astonishment, the adult Freh joinedthe chase. At 
this,the iuvenileturnedandran. The Mule and the adultFrehboth ran 
34 NebulaAwardsShowcase
2000 
afterhim. The soundsof thechasegraduallydied away behindthemand 
thesilenceof theforestreturned.Riesblewbreathout, releasing tension. 
"I wantto go home!"Lita clutchedher little sister. 
He sighed. "New Bombayburnedlastnight.you sawthe fire." 
"Not New Bombay.Earth." 
He didn'tthinkanyof them hadmuchchanceofeverseeingEarth 
again. 
Warm rain peltedthem without ceasing,and sodden blind bugs crashedagainsttheirfacesandhands.He'dgivenhislight jacketto Lita, who was carryinghersisteron her back;both of themhuddledunderit. 
Their hairhung limp andwetoverfacesstreakedwith mud.Lita'sflimsy 
sandalshaddisintegratedin the rain, andnowshewore his boots,lashed aroundher ankleswith vines to preventthem from falling off. His own feet wereprotectedonly by sockswith strips of hee bark to fortify the soles, also securedwith vines; leaves jiggledfestivelyasthey walked. The 
tropical white jumpsuit he'd put on yesterday morning wasnow filthy and ripped. Lita seemed in betterspiritsthismorning.He heardher murmur* 
ing to her sister, telling her how closetheywere to thecalcutta's base, howsoonthey'dbe there. Maybehe'd had the same optimisticresiliency whenhe was her age; he certainlydidn't now. He trudged,head down, water pouring down his back.His emptystomachprotestedconstantly 
andhis tired musclesached.His nervesshiveredwith need, andit was hardto stop thinking aboutzyth. one shot of it would be like grabbing power lines in his bare hands,electricityracingacrossthe connection, burning,energizing. 
It wouldbe so much easierto giveup, lie down,sunender-
I am a channel. .. . Throughmeflowsthe meaning of the lJ niverse.
. . . The wordsof the lingster'smantra rose unbidden in his mind, dragginghim backfrom the abyss. First was the Word and I am its canier. 
He had to go on. Therewasno choice; the Guild had seen to that. The Guild hadbrandedhim, andtherewas no removing the mark from his soul. Alien alcohol was his attemptto breakthe bond and it had failed,justas it had failed to take away the pain of Yvt death. 
He swatted insectsandmovedon. He was glad for the small relief ofbeingrid of the youngerchild for a while, and not justbecauseof the 
ReadingtheBones 35 
burdenof carrying her extraweighton his back.)ilan'scontinuingsi­lencewasunnerving.she didn'trespondto anythinghe saidto her.He hadno idea what to do about her. 
If Yv had lived,he wondered,would shehavewantedchildren? One of them would'vehad to leavethe Guild sincethe Guild discour­
agedchild-raisingbyitslingsters.Would she have doneso gladly? Could he have accepted her decision,whateverit might've been?A memory surfaced:Shelay under him in a grove of giant,singingfernson an ex­
otic world,the first time they'dmadelove;the wild redhair spilledover her small, firm breasts, her eyes in shadow thecolorof moss, asprinkling of rosy frecklesover her nose. He achedto realizethere were things abouthisyoung wife he hadn't hadtimeto learn. 
Underneathhis thoughts,like an evil mantra, the need for 4'th 
a
pulsed.He should've gatheredthe berries. He could go back-iust small detour- it took all hisfading shength topreventhisfeetfrom leav­
ing thepath and turningback. 
FirstwastheWord.. . 
The depth of his need for rythterrified him' He hadto escapethis 
nightmareaddictionbeforeit was too late, and abstinence wasthe only 
way to ftee himself. 
The iungle gave way slowlyto the sparservegetationof the hill 
country;treeswerenot so towering here,their leaves sproutinghigher 
up the trunk. And the grassno longer grewso tall. With a sigh of relief, 
Lita put her sister down on the ground. 
They heardit first: an insistentmurmur like faraway haffic, grow­
ing to an animal roar. Then the ground slopedundertheirfeet and they 
came out suddenly from the forest to stand on a bank where trees 
tumbled down a ravine to the west. Through the bare branches they 
glimpsedwater,an emeraldcascadeflashingover the rock face in fie 
subduedlight and racing away through the undergrowth.One of the 
many hibutariesof Separation River with its headwaters in the moun­
tain range theywere skirting, it lay directly in their path,too wide and 

fowing much toofast for them to cross. 
His mind woozy with fatigue, he stared at it, trying to remember 
theautomaphe'd consulted before the skipcarcrashed.Thereshouldn't 
havebeena river that size anywherenear.How had he gone wrong? 
"What do we do now?" Lita asked,her voice husky. 
36 Nebula 2000
AwardsShowcase 
It was afair question.New Bombaywas gone. The calcutta'sbase wasprobablydesertedbut betterthan nothing if he could'vebeencer­
tain he could find his way acrossthis country.which apparentlyhe 
couldn't. 
Then he thoughtof something."you speakFrehti." ,,Well,
A spotof colorcameandwentonher high cheekbones. I've learneda little." 
Morethana little, l'Il wager, he thought."Do you remember what 
the Freh sportsaidto us as we left theResidence?" 
She frowned. "somethingabouthis mother?', 
"Not hismother.'The Mothers.'Ithink it'sa title." 
'Well, wheredo we find them?" 
"Underthe bones," the misshapenalienhad said, and hed imag_ ined a graveyard of some sort. But nowhe realizedit meantthe Makert Bones,the sharptoothed mountainsto the north. They'dbeenheading 
northwestwhen the skipcarwent down, crossingthe foothills to get to thebase. They neededto change course. "Northeastanduphill, I think." 
"Up there?"sheasked,hervoicefull of skepticism. 
"Could beour only hopefor help." 
"Who'sto say these'Mothers'will be friendly? The rest of the na­tivesaten't." 
"We don't havea lot of options." 
She heaved a deep sigh for his benefit. "Howfar?" 
"Farenough." 
He gazedup at the distantpeaks.Perhapsa twoday journey on foot,maybelongerbecauseof thechild. The rain was bad enoughhere wherethe thinning heesstill provided someshelter.Up on the ridge, theywould beexposedto the full force of monsoonwindsandtorrential 
rain,and the cold of high altitude at night.It would take all his strength to get them through this, but he had no shengthanymore.They need­ed-deserved-a farbetterguide. 
Lita was righq whether the Mothers would shelter them was doubtful,but he couldn't think of an alternative.And therewas nobodv else around to help them. 
He selecteda peak shaped like the broken tooth of a as a referencepoint,then liftedJilanoff her sister's back. 
"Let'sgetmoving,"he said. 
Readingthe Bones 37 
IU 
Forthenexttwodaystheymadeslowprogressoverruggedground' 
keepingthe distinctivelyshapedpeakin sightat all times'The land thetall'
,loj.d"rt".ply up throughthe boulders androckyoutcropping; tropicalgro*it, of tn. y.tr,gt.floorgavewayswiftlyto low, wind-battered 
ofleaves.cold rain sleeted downall day.
t ee, witl sharpneedlesinstead The ground beneaththeir feet turned to mud, slowingtheir progress 
further. "We'll take a break here." He indicated an isolatedclump of 
stuntedSpiritJTrapsthat seemedaslostand out of placeasthe human fugitiveson thesehigh slopesand in almost asmuch dangerof not sur­viving. They huddled togetherin the meagershelter,watchingthe rain. Lita leanedback againsta knobby trunk and closed her eyes;after a 
while,her regular breathingtoldhim sheslept.Heneededsleeptoo,but the constant itch of his craving forzyth preventedhim from finding it. filan seemedunableto sleep. He studiedher.Therewasnothing dull or retardedaboutthe eyes that gazed backathim, andheknewshe wasn'tdeaf.Then why didn't shetalk like a normal three-year-oldZHe seemedto rememberhearingher exploring pre-speechsoundslike all 
human children,tryingoutthe full rangeavailablebe{oresettlingon the 
onesselectedby the languagethat would becometheir nativetongue 
andforgettinghowto makethe others. But shehadn'tprogressedto the 
next stage. 
"Baby,"he said softly,so asnot to wakeLita. "Thlk to me' Say: 
'Ries.Hello,Ries."' 
He soundedridiculousto himself.It gave him a suddenrespectfor 
motherseverywherewhoprovidedmodelsfor their childrento learnlan­
guagefrom.The little girl staredatherhandsin herlap' 
"Tly'Hello, Llta."' 
Nothing. He pondered for a moment,madeanotherdecision' 
"Tdq'na,"he said.Food,in Frehti. 
Her darkeyesficked briefly over him. Not much, but more reac­
tion thanhe'd got for Inglis.Encouraged,he tried again. 
"Yati.How aboutthat one? Yati. Mama." 
Sheblinked at him and he fearedfor a moment shewasgoing to 
cry.Idiotlhe thought. why bring up badmemories?But she'd obviously 
AwardsShowcase 
grownboredalready; she began to hace patterns in themudwith herfin­gers. Not surprising thatshereactedto Frehti,he decided.She'd prob­ably had more interaction with her alien amahs than she'd had with her parents. 
His musings were interrupted by a bout of sneezing.His nose was constantly on firewith invading spores. The DepCom's daughters didn't seem to be as botheredby the phenomenon; Lita sneezedoccasionally and rubbedher eyes,filan's nosewasrunny,but neither one was seri­ously affected. His immune system waschallengedmore than theirs. The AI had wamed aboutrythaddiction's sideeffects,but he hadn't paid attention, at first arrogantly certain none of it was ever going to happen to him. And later, not caring. 
After a while, Lita woke up, and they continued their iourney. Along the way, he kept his gaze onthe ground,searchingfor signs of the nuhitious tuber that would solve one of their problems,not daring to 
venturefar offthe path he d set for fear of getting them further lost. He didn't find any. Their secondnightout, he had better luck and founda sheltered place between a iumbleof huge boulders wherehe could light a small 
fire to dry their clothes.That night he also found the last of the edible 
berriesfor their supper, but not enoughfor all three. Evenwith his share 
added to hers, the child whimpered from hunger, her face wan and 
pinchedwith dishess. 
It wasn't hunger that sent the spasmthroughhis body, and it took 
all his willpower not to put one of the poison berriesunderhis tongue. 
lustone-How couldone hurt?-You'd feelsomuch better-the seduc­
tivevoice inside his head pleaded and caioled.You could handle one. 
Hishandsshook so badly as he handed Lita hershareof the berries 
that she noticed. 
"l(s qth, isn't it? You needsome." 
He sat downon the other side of the fire from her. "Who told you 
that?" 
"Mama saidyou wete an incurable drunkard.Shesaid it was a 
scandalthe Guild sentyou to us"' 
'A lot of things your mother never understood'" 
"Shesaidit was goodwe didn't haveto pay the Guild toomuch for 
your services becauseyou were squandering all your sharein the native 
taverns." 
Readingthe Bones 39 
"Noneof her business what I did with my money." 
"My fatheralways defended youwhen they argued, did you know 
that?" 
He felt too sick to be angry."l don't want to hear any more. Get 
some rest." 
"Well,don'tgo and die on us during thenight, will you?" 
She lay downand covered herselfand her sisterwiih his jacketand 
wassoon sleeping soundly.He staredat the little fire till the fames flick­
eredout. It took him a longiime before anger and need both subsided, 
allowing him to fall asleepfora little while too. 
The third night, they werenot solucky.After a long, exhausting 
day when at times he despairedof finding a way aroundthe huge boul­ders in their pathwhile the child cried constantly from hunger,they campedout on stony ground on a windsweptridge whereeventhe thornybushescouldn'ttake hold. The rain heldoffwhen thesunwent down,but it wasbitterlycoldand he found nothing to burn. 
For a long time after filan hadclosed her eyes, he heard the soft muffiedsoundof Lita weeping.Afterthe girl finallyfell asleep, he sat stifflybeside them, every muscle in his bodyachingfrom physical exer­
tion, his nerves vibratingwith a desperate cravingforzyththatwouldn't lethim sleep. It wastime he facedthe truth. He didn'tknowthesemountains. He had no clearideawherehe was going. He was incapable of looking 
after himself; how could he hopeto take careof these two children? only a fool wouldtakeseriouslynativesuperstitionsabout"sours"and "Mothers"who mightor might not exist. Howcould they help him even if they did? He'd madea bad decision.They should've hiedto getacross the river to the base. There wasno way they would survive this ordeal, and justas he felt he'd beenindirectlyresponsiblefor yv's death,he wouldnowbeto blame forthedeathof the DepCom,s children. 
He pulledBorn-Benttboneout of his pocketand peeredat the symbolcarvedon it. Disgusted, he flippedihe bone into the darkness. He heard it glanceoffa rock. 
Then helaydown,andimmediatelydistinguishedthe uncomfort­able lump of the fieldpackfrom the shary stonesdigginginto his ribs. Evennow,he couldn'tviolatehis training andthrowthe thing away.He hadn'tthoughtso much aboutthe Guild in years,and now he could hardlygetit outof his mind.It rode onhisheartbeatandslidthroughhis 
veins;hewasasaddictedto the Guild ashewas to zyth.He couldi't lift 
hishandswithout itslawsspringingup in his path. He hadneverhated 
theGuild sofiercelynorneededit somuch. 
He shiftedthepackso it wasn'tdirectrybeneathhim, andclosed
. hiseyes.At once,all theuseless,stupid,shameful out of his past
scenes sprangvividlyto his mind.The opportunitiestheGuild hadgivenhim 
that he'dwasted,his constantfailureto live up to the lingsteJcode,the 
wayfre'dultimatelybetrayedyv, he relivedthem all. Darithoughts skit­
teredthroughhisbrain,tormentinghim lateinto thenighi. 
He camesuddenlyawakejustbeforesunup,consciousof someone 
bendingoverhim. His skincrawledas he forcedhimselfto bearthe 
silentscrutinywithoutflinching.whoeverit wascould'vekilledhim as 
hesleptbuthadn't.Besidehim, hecourdfeerfiran'ssmailbody,wedged 
betweenhim andhersisterforwarmth.Bothgirlswerestillsleeping. 
Heheardasuddenintakeof breathabovehim. cautio"rtu,t 
tedhiseyesand looked up. ",tit-

A pudgy,adultmaleFrehkneltoverhim, layered in the familiar ankle-length,orange-brown
cloth. The Freh'sheadwasturned,tilted as 
if he were listeningto somesoundcoming from the direction of the iaggedpeaksthatloomedwhiteassnowthismorningin coldpredawn Iight,Iookingmorelikethefangsof a beastthan bones. 
Thenthealienbecameawarethehumanwasawake,andhishead swiveledbackin alarm.Riesstaredat him. one half of the Freh'sface wascoveredwith an ugly redblotchthatspreadfrom justbelowthehair­
line to well belowthechin. The nosewas twisted andwarpedoff-center, 
a defectthat pulled one eye down with it and trappedthe nictitating membranehalfwayover the eyeball. 
The Freh scrambledto his feet,keeninganxiously.Something slippedoutof hisfingers.Riessatup.Nowhe could seethat behind the maletherewasa female gesfuringto him. 
"What do you want?"he saidin Frehti. 
At the sound of his voice, Lita woke up. She took one look at the Frehand shrieked. The Freh stumbledaway in obvious panic.The fe­maleclutchedhis arm andhobbledbesidehim, half pulringhercom­panion,half being draggedalongbyhim. 
Readingthe Bones 47 
"Devi!"Lita said."I'veneverseensuch an ugly one." 
The native was another sport, only the second he'd seen. 
The child was awake and whimpering now. Lita stooped and picked her sister up. "fue we justgoing to let them gelaway?" 
The two Frehwere scrambling up a rockyincline toward the near­est peak. He watched their awkwardprogress; they seemed to know wheretheyweregoing.And if they could do it, so could humans. 
"No. We'regoing to follow them." 
"filan can't go much farther withoutfood." 
As he bent downto retrieve the sitar, something caught his eye, The bone lay out in theopen where the alien had dropped it. He picked it up; a crack obliteratedpart of the markings. He dropped it back in his pocket. 
Lita took two shuffling steps forward with her sister perchedon one hip. The girl'sexhaustionwas apparent in the slump of her shoul­ders,her pinched expression.He caught up with her and took )ilan 
from her. 
"l'll carrymy father's sitar," Lita said. 
They stumbledforwardsilentlyfor a while, no energy left over for talk,whilethe land rose inexorably beneaththeir feet. 
The rising sunbrought no warmth,andthe dazzleit struck from thebarepeaks hurt his eyes. At leastit hadstoppedraining, and his nose seemeda little less sore. Lita hadshut her eyes againstthe fierce light 
and walked blindly, clinging to his arm. He squinted through lowered eyelids,hisvisionnanoweddown to thepoint where hefelt as if he were sleepwalking.With his free hand,headjustedtheway the fieldpack rode 
at his waist.One good thing had comefrom so much exerciseand so little food: his belt fit looser nowthan it had a few daysago. 
Yet in spite of his exhaustionand the pressingneedfor food, hefelt betterin spirit than he had in a long time.Miraculously,hismind was clear and pure as spring water this morning.The self-hatred of thenight before seemed to haveburnedaway;possibilitiesspun in the bright air like butterfliesin the apple orchardsat the Mother House.He looked deep into hisbeingand found it miraculouslyfreeof the demon thathad boundhim for so long. He took a deepbreath. He mightnot have a co­herentplan for theirsurvival,but for the first time since chandra patel's 
murderhe knew hope. 
AwardsShowcase 
It was such a ludicrous emotion under the circumstances that he laughed aloud. In the thin air of this high altitude, the laughter soon turnedto gasping for breath. 
"Comenot nearer." 
The Frehti words cut short his amusement. Shielding his eyes againstthe sun with one hand, he peeredat the small, bent figure of an old Freh femalestanding directly in his path. 
His heart jumpedwith the realization: an old female. 
She wore a long,shapelessbrowngarment of some coarse, woven material,the hood thrown back from herlined face revealingthin, gray­ing fur on her head. She was holding a three-edgedFreh knife ready to shike, reminding him powerfully of Patel's assassins.Belatedly,he set filan down, pushing her and Lita behindhim. 
"Name yourself,"the old female said."Tell what you seek here." 
"I am Ries Danyo.I seekthe Mothers." 
"Youhavefound. I am called First-Among-Mothers'" 
The word she used wasNa-freh'm1a, ar'd,he heard a common root in it, but she didn't give him time to think about it. Shegestured with one clawlike hand, and they were suddenlysurroundedby three more hooded figures who had come uP on his blind side where they'd 
beenhidden in sun dazzle. All three canied the viciouslooking triple-
edgedknives. 
Before he could react,the little girl wastakenfrom his grasp. See­
ing one of the hoodedfigureslifting her sister,Lita yelled and kicked at 
her own captors. Ries'sarmswere seized and rapidlyboundto his sides; 
his nose filled with the powdery scenthe associated with old age, and 
somethingdanker,an underground smellthat clung to their robes. 
Every one of their captors, he saw, wasbent,wrinkled,gray-furred, 
skinny-necked,and female.It would've beenfunny,he thought, a gang 
of old alienfemalesstrugglinguphill with a furious humanteenagerand 
a wailing humanchild, if he could'vebeen sure theywouldn'tresortto 
usingthoseknives. 
First-Among-Mothersheld up one hand, cutting off Litat noisy 
protest."Little one safer herethan Danyo." 
"Why is Danyo not safe with the Mothers?"he asked. 
Shestoppedabruptly in his path and he almost fell. One of the 
other femalesyankedhis bonds, pulling him upright. First-Among­ReadingtheBones 43 
Mothers's face was an arm's length away from his. In spite of the situa­
tion, he was fascinated by this close view. 
There was nothing here of the blandness that had marked every Freh's feahrres he'd seen until now, yet she was no sport. The round, amber eyes, curdled with age till they resembled milky opals, held a depth of intelligence that was unmistakable. He read anger in them, but alsoatouch of humor in the lines attheir edgesas if she laughed at her­self for a role she was playing. Something in her expressionseemed to saythis wasall an elaboratejoke.The effect was so human that he felt convincedhe could read her basic goodwill. It was almost impossible not to anthropomorphize and think of her as an old woman. 
He knew instantly to distrust his naive reaction. He'd forgotten a 
lot of the Guild'steachingsoverthe years, anddisobeyedmore, but this stayed in his mind: The closerto human an alien appeared, the more , difficult it was for a human to read its intentions. 
"Danyomale,"First-Among-Motherssaid. 
"But Danyonot Freh," he countered. 
She considered this for a moment. "No trust here." 
At that, they all resumed their uphill journey.The old Freh fe­
males urged the humansto hurry with kicks and slaps and the occa­sional waming prick from the tip of a knife, though henoticedthat they wereeasieron Lita than they were on him. 
He felt like Gullivercapturedby the Lilliputians. 
It waspast noon whenthe party haltedin the shadow of thebroken peakhe'd used as a bearing. "1n,"First-Among-Motherssaid. 
The femalesescortingLita and |ilan went ahead througha naruow openingin the rock. He did as hewastold, and found himselfat the top of a flight of steps carvedinto rockwalls.Torchlightmadeshadowsleap on thewalls. 
"Down." 
He went down. 
The steps openedup into a cavem,broadand high-ceilinged, with rough-hewnpillars supportingbalconiesthat overhungshadowyside aisles.The stonefloor was covered with a layer of rushes, and plainly wovenhangingsgaveprivacyto different areas. While it was still cool 
downhere,it wasseveraldegreeswarrnerthantheair outside,for which he wasgateful. But he wasmostrystuck by its resembranceto the mo­nasticdesignof the refectory,the ordestbuirdingof the Guildt Mother 
House.The cavernlackedonrymodernmeansoflighting andwindowsto lookout on high mountainsratherthanbeburiedbeneaththem ashere. 
A Iong woodentabledownthecentercompletedtheresemblance. OId femalessattogetheron stonebenchesin groupsof two or 
three,all wearingthe samekind of homespunrobes.Th. ,".n. 
wasar­mostreassuringin its domesticity,until he noticedthe glitter of a knife tuckedin oneold crone'sbelt. 
They werestaredat with a good dearof open-mouthed curiosity,but unlike justabouteveryFreh he'd evercomein contactwith. these old femalesdidnt grin in thepresenceof humans.It wasarwaysan odd sensation
to be staredat asa human on an alienworld,one hed had 
manytimesbut nevermanagedto getusedto. Suddenlywhenhe least 
expectedit, thetableswould be turned andhe'd perceive himselfasthe 
alien in the crowd,the man farfrom home. 
From somewherein the vastcavecamethe aromaof food beingprepared.
The smellmadehis kneesbucklewith hunger.Now he was pushed back againstone of the columns. He resisted and a female slappedhim across
the mouth, makinghim tasteblood.His thighsen­countereda hardedge,and he slumpedawkwardlyonto a narroi stone benchwhileoneof the alienssecuredhisarmsto thecolumn. 
He wassuddenlyawareof how firthyand repursivehe mustseem, 
morelike a wild man than the neatlydressedcolonistsof New Bombay with their emphasison hygiene.He could smell his own sweat,sour from daysof not bathing. 
Acrosstheway, he sawLita andJilanseated
at a long woodentable whereFirst-Among-Motherssatwiththem.Thereseemedto be no men­acein thealient actionstowardthegirls.He testedthe bonds;theywere flimsyenoughthathe could burstfreeif he had to, but he ,rr" oniy orr" 
exitfrom thecavethatwouldleadup to the ground,theonethey'dcome down. 
Soon other femalesappearedcarrying large pots made from gourdslike the one Born-Benthad usedto mend the Depcom's sitar; theybeganladlingthecontentsout into claybowlsto servethegirls.He, apparently,wasnot goingto begivenfood. 
Readingthe Bones 45 
As if she sensedhis thought, Lita turned and glanced at him. "Danyohungers too," shesaidin very clear Frehti. 
First-Among-Mothersleaned forward andgazedat Lita. "No male eats here but the kipiq." 
She used a word Ries had never heard before. In spite of his stom­ach'sprotests and the presence of danger, he was excited.He felt an adrenalinerushatthe unfolding revelationof mystery. While theform of Frehti First-Among-Mothersused ranged from the simpler, chirping ut­terancesof males in the marketplace to more complex constructions, he knewthat no lingster encountering it wouldquestionthehigh sentience quotient of the speaker. He had difficulty following it at times, accus­tomed as he was to the maleform of the language. 
And he understood now why those first lingsters hadbeen so mis­takenin their judgment:They'dforgedinterfacewith the wrong sex. "Danyo is a.. ." Lita struggled but didn't find a word for it in Frehti." .. . a lingster." 
Lightheadedfrom hunger, he almostlaughed,remembering an old student ioke:Whcf comesin two sexesbut hasno sex life?Alingster. First-Among-Mothersglancedathim. "The tale arrives before the male. A vragim comes from Sorrow-Crossing andspeaksour words." 
"I am vragim too,"Lita said, iutting her chin sfubbornly. 
It surprised him to find the girl arguing in his defense. Therewere a lot of things about her that he still didn't understand. Her handling of Frehti was one; the DepCom's daughter used the new word as confi­dentlyasif she d always known what it meant. 
First-Among-Mothersgot up and cameoverto him. 
"Vragim. Lingster,"she said.If she'd been human he would've read contempt in her tone, but he must resist making connections that might not be there atall. "Anddo you know how words make, as the tale is told to me?" 
He blinked, hearing Born-Bent's voice in memory, "You under­stand how words make." He jumped suddenlybetweenthe known and the hidden, the leap of faith every lingster performed at somepoint, the lucky guess that was also one of humankind's most basic tools for learn­ing language. 
"l bring the kipiq's soul home for the Mothers to make words with,"hesaid. 
46 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
The effectin the stonecavernwaserechifying.EveryMother setdownherworkor herfoodandstared.others crowdedin from roomsoffthemainhall till therewereatleastfortyordFrehfemaresgapingat him, 
round-eyed
asowls.A long silencefollowed,brokeno'ly"bi n? "Uu",
of the child'sbowl;filan seemedthe onryonein the cavernnot affected byhiswords. 
He closedhis eyesfor a second againsthis body,sweakness,seek_ing strengthto prevailin the battreor.,'iils he sensedhad been setinmotion. First-Among-Mothers
held out her hand, palm up, and he wasstartledbyherlookof almostdesperatedesire. "Give." ..No.,' 
Shethought aboutthat for a moment,then turned and snapped. _
herfingers.A bentfigurehobbredquicklyforward*a ,raiJin, bona,
holdinghisarms'Anotherfoilowedwith a bo*t fuil of the thick stew. 
Soshethoughtshewasgoingto bribehim with food? 
His stomachinsistedit wasa fine idea. 

First-Among-Mothers 
. waitedwhile he wolfed the contentsdownwithout tasting.A secondbowl appeared,and he devouredthat too,barelynoticinghowrich andspicyit wasthistime.when thethird bowr­
ful arrived,hewasabletoeatwith asemblanceof mannersthatwould,vebeenacceptablein the Guild'srefectory. First-Among-Mothersgesturedto the gatheredfemaresand they
movedsilentlyaway.He sawone old alien carryingJilan,and Lita fol­lowingthem.The main cavernemptiedslowlyout." 
"Now,"First-Among-Mothers

said."we makethewordstogether.,, 
He followedher througha row archat the far end of the big cav­
ern,andcameto a smaller cave.
The lightwasdimmerhere,andiitoot 
amomentfor hiseyestoadjust.when theydid,hesawtheMotherswait­
ing silentlyin a circle.Hisbreathcaughtin hischest. 
The oldalienshadshippedoffanddiscardedtheirshapeless
robes.
The flickering light of waxtapersgrowedon nakedflanksand fleshress touchingwith silverthegrayfur on theirheads,slidingpastbony
T*!r: 
shoulders
andspillingoverfat, shriveledbreasts.one emaciated
femare turnedherbackto him, andhe sawclearlyknobsof vertebraeandsharp 
ReadingtheBones 47 
bladesof boneoutlinedunderthe skinthathe identifiedasribs,though ihey didn't appearto be assembledin the human plan' Although Freh females'faceswerenevertattooed,decorationcoveredtheir trunksand all four limbs in scrolls,swirls,leaves,andvines.Primitive,by the stan­dardsof high civilizationsin the fum, but full of energyandpower'the 
tattoosweredarkpurple,the colorof zyth berries' 
He'dneverseenaroomfulof nudewomen,let aloneoldwomen ­it was next to impossiblenot to think of them aswomen;they seemed morehumanunclothed,asif spirit wasmoreimportantthanspecies* 
They wore their yearswith dignity and a
but he felt no awkwardness' 
kind of patientbeautylike a ring of wise eldergoddesses' 

Now First-Among-Mothersalso dropped her garmcntson the seemed
floor,kickingthem impiiently againstthecavewall' Nakedness to makeh.r"gro* taller than the others,her bodystraighterthan theirs though ,,o 1""r,slackand wrinkled, her grayheadfur still partly dark' Like"theothers,herbodywascoveredinintricatepurpledesigns.The circleopenedto letherthrough' 
Shewalkedslowlyclockwiseinsidethe ring' which beganto move 
counterclockwisearoundher.There wassomethingon the ground in­sidethe ring, a centerthatFirst-Among-Motherswascircling,an irregu­
irrly rhrp.i*osaic formedbysmallbones,all aboutthesamewidth and length oi th" orr" Born-Benihad entrustedto him' To one side'there *"i-" ,"u.rrl haphazard,smallerpiles.Theremust'vebeenwell overtwo hundredbon"ri.rthepattern,butitlookedunfinished'withmany
of being
spacesandgapsinterruplingwhateverdesignwasin theprocess formed. Somekind of religiousceremony'he guessed'watchingher cir­cling slowly,her bare feet marking an intricate rhythm on the stone a bottt ftom the pattern'raisedher
floor.Then shestopped,caught"p 
arms,andbeganto gesture.Her handscaughtthetapers'light' sweeping in a broadarcaboveherhead.Sheseemedto beinscribingsomekind of 
ephemeralcalligraphyon the air'As she did so,sheopenedher mouth ,r,d ,"r,g or," ,rot". Now all the Mothersfollowedher lead' performing 
theloopingarmmovements,thesingingtonein unison' 
pirst-Among.Mothersrepeatedthiswith eachof the bones in hrrn, markingeachwith adifferentsound'Then, afteralongwhile' the group fell silent,the outercircleopenedagain,and the malformedmaleFreh AwardsShowcase 
who'd stood over Ries on the mountain appeared.The kipiq, who was nakedtoo, entered the circle humbly, shuffiingforwardover the stone foor on bare knees and holding one hand high abovehis head. In it, Ries saw another small bone like the one in his pocket. 
Now a low, animal hum broke the silence, risingquickly in pitch and volume. The sound became almost deafening in the confined space,then stopped abruptly as thekipiq reached thecenterof the ring. He took his time choosing a place to set thebone he carried. In the si­lence, First-Among-Mothers to see it. The kipiq remainedon
squatted his knees, head bowed. 
She examined the bone, holding it close, turning it, shifting its po­sition, exchanging it with others. At times she seemed to change her mind and returned a bone to its original position, removinganotherthat had now apparently become less desirableand tossingit on the outer piles.Whatever these decisionsmeant, Ries sensed they were of the ut­most importance to the assembledFreh. At last she put a hand on the kipiq'sshoulderand the ring of Mothers gave a long drawn-out sigh. 
First-Among-Mothersturned, and Ries could see her owl eyes glowingin the light from thenearesttaper. She held upthe kipiq's bone. Now he saw it had marks scratchedon it, like the onein his pocket.Then accompaniedby another elaboratehand movement above her head, she sang out a clear, distinct syllable. As she did so, the Mothers followed her arm movements andrepeatedthe sound after her like children perform­ing rote learning.It reminded him suddenly of how, hundreds of years ago on Earth, Chinese children had learned by hacing the characters of their language on the air. 
The revelation of what she was doing stunnedhim. First-Among-Motherswasreadingthebones. 
But these couldn't be complete words, he realized in a great rush of comprehension, noteven morphemes, the smallest units of meaning. The Freh had no written language. She was taking the first step, invent­ing a system of codifying the phonemes, the individualunitsof sound. From the gathered bones at her feet, she was choosing the best symbols to begin writing her language. 
It was obvious from what he'd observed that not justany shape on a bone would do. Creating a written language was a sacred job,notone to be completed hastily. Through meflowsthe meaning of the universe. 
Readingthe Bones 49 
He thought First-Among-Mothers would understand the Guildt philos ophy very well. 
Runes, hieroglyphs, logograms,ideograms,pictograms,alphabets, humanshad tried them all through long millennia of experimentation. The Guild taught lingsters in a few years what had taken cenhrries to un­lock,the secrets of thesescripts.All but the main one:how they had come into beingin thefirstplace. He'd always wonderedwhataccidents of chance and intelligencehad caused early humans to takethe first step, associating soundswiih symbols, then developing themintoscript. And from that to go on to write lawsand poems, shopping listsand equa­tions that guided starships acrossthe darkness of space to a world that still stood on the threshold. 
The Guild itselfwith all its research hadn't been able to answer that question, not evenfor oneTerran language. A great wave ofexhila­ration washed overhim. He was witnessing an alien raceset out on that mysteriousjourney.Yet he could also see First-Among-Mothers had a long way to go before the symbols she was collectingwere usable. 
After a while, she fell silent. The kipiq shuffied back out of the circleintothe shadows attheedge of the cave. Ries was aware ofhergaze on him now. 
It washis turn. The bone containing the symbol Born-Bent found so vital hecalledit his "soul"mustbeaddedtothe collection growingat the feetof First-Among-Mothers.The ring of old females gazed at him, waiting patiently. But even in his exciied state, a sense of humanpride restrainedhim. He was not going to remove his clothes,nor wouldhe enterthe circle on his knees. If the Mothers wanted Born-Bent'ssoul. they would have to take it his way or not at all. 
Consciousof the weight of a shared destiny,human and Freh, he walked solemnly forward in the silence and leaned down, placing the bonein a vacant space­
First-Among-Motherssquatted, peering at the bone as she had done before. Now shereached for it, squinting in the glimmering light. Fora longtime she studied the symbol scratched there. Then her hand droppedslowlyto her side. She stood and faced Ries, her expression bleak. 
"Broken,"First-Among-Mothers
said."The soulisgone." Aroundthe ring, old Mothers began to wail. 
ry 
"Think aboutthe waste," Lita said to him. "The tragedy, as the Mothers see it." 
The girl had beenhis only visitor since a group of females had draggedhim off to a small niche in a corridor off the main cavern andbarred the entrance with a stronglattice of wooden branches lashed with vines. The alcovehadprobably been a vegetablestoragearea,he guessedfrom the lingering smells. 
Lita passed a cup of water through the lattice gate and he took a sip. In her otherhandsheheld a slim taper that madedeep shadows jump in his cell. He felt exhausted;all emotion and energ, had been suckedout of him. 
It washardto estimate the passage of time in this darkness, but he guessedadayhadpassed ceremonial read-
since First-Among-Motherst ing of the symbols on the bones. While he'd been stuck here, contem­plating the consequences of one moment of bad temper, Lita had apparently been deepin conversationwith First-Among-Mothers. 
Her ability shouldn't have been suqprising. She'd been about eight or nine when the family came to Krishna, an age when children still learned languages with some ease, and she must'vebeen exposed to the more complex forms used by the houseservants who were largely fe­male.She'djustneverlethim see evidence of it. 
"Freh males don't conhibute to the work. Except the kipiq, of course,and not toomanyof them make it to adulthood." 
"I imagine not," he agreed, thinking of the dayhe and the Dep-Com had encountered Born-Bent in the bazaar. In his experienceof cultures of the fum including earlyhuman, such deformitieshadusu­ally signaled a short life forthe child born with them. 
"Do you understand howseriousthisis,Danyo?" Her face in half-shadow,she looked asif she were thinking about leaving him alone again."The racedoesn't use languagelike humans.Freh males have a very simple version. Sort of like Kitchen Frehti. Without the Inglis words, of course." 
He had the absurd fantasyhe was back at the Mother Housetaking an exam about pidgins and creoles. "lt'suncommon to find such a wide divisionin abilitybetweenthe sexes." 
Readingthe Bones 51 
"The femalesare much better at it! But the big thing is, up here, year after yearfora long time,theMothers'vebeen working on finding a way to get the languagewritten down." 
"You'velearnedan impressive amountin such a short time." 
"Wbll," shesaid,softeningher tone a little, "l might've missed a few things. I'm not really perfect in Frehti yet. Anyway, every Mother who manages to come up here conhibutessomething. And the one who is'First-Among-Mothers'puts it all together." 
"Why are symbols from the sportsso important?" 
"The kipiq," she corrected,"are male. First-Among-Mothers says the language must balance between male and female or the race will evenfually destroy itself. But regular males don't use language well, and kipiqs usually don't survive to be adults, so they don't get very many male symbols. So when the one you brought was broken, they were upset." 
It was as if he could hear First-Among-Motherst words echoing throughLita's, and he had the sense that the Freh meant something he couldn't fathom yet. 
"The Mothers believe if they can write the languagedown,they'll have a chance to prevent somethingbad from happening. Do you un­derstand,Danyo? Can you follow this?" 
"Does she say why there are no old males up here, only old fe­males?" "Shesaidit was the-the-oh, a word I don't understand. Sem yai-something." "Semyaji nuq,"First-Among-Motherssaid. She had come to stand in the shadows behind Lita. "Tell me in other words,words I can understand," he said, switch­ing to Frehti. "Sem yaji nuq. No other words." She turned to Lita and said kindly,"The little onecallsyou." Lita went away, taking the taperwith her.In the darkness, he was aware of First-Among-Mothers's
soft breathing. "No male comes here except thekipiq whobrings his soul bone," shesaid."Now I must kill you." 
He was suddenly exasperatedwith her mysteriesandevasions."Ex­plain the death of these children'sfather,and maybeI can help you speedup the work." 
52 NebulaAwardsShowcase
2000 
"Youbargainwith me?" 
"Yes,Ibargainwith you." 
Shehesitated,thinkingit over.Then shesaid,"He learnedabout 

semyajinuq." 
"I do not understand

thosewords!Useothers.,, 
"l havenotyourskill." 
"Youacceptedmy bargain." 

Her voicerosein anger."He knewaboutThose-who-Have-Gone-Over.Youcall them Mules,but that is yourword,not ours.,, 
He peeredthroughdarkness,
wishinghecouldseeherexpression.Lingsterslearnedto usevisualcluesaswell asauraronesto decipher
meanings. "Something I iustleamed. . .,, patelhad said.,,What is this 
connection,
soimportanta man mustdiefor knowing it?,, 
"Youhavethe answeryousought.Keepyourword.,, 
If so,hethought,it wasananswer

hedidn,tunderstand,but he was apparentlynot goingto get anyfurther explanationatthe moment. "I haveseenmany worlds,First_Among_Mothers,
spokenmany
languages.
Youarenot the firstpeopleto wrestlewith thisproblem.,,Shewassilentfor solonghe beganto think shed gor," 
Th.n
"rry.
shesaid,"In the markettheycail you Tnrk"r.But you Jannotherpwith 
this." 

"Youhavenothing to losebyletting metry.,, 
He had thefeelingshewasreadinghisface,as if hermirkyoldeyes
couldsee in thedark.Then he heard hersigh. 
"We havea saying .Bone 

-defeat,bonJ,but stoneoutlives.,I think 
perhapsyouarestone." 

"Let me lookat thebones,First_Among_Mothers.,, 
In the darkness,

he heardher sricethe vineshordingthe lattice with herknife. 
He squattedon the stonefoor, examiningthe bonepattern,while First-Among-Mothers
heldatapersohecourdsee.The airwasthick and fragrantwith the incensesmell of tapers,making his eyes1,.^f 
H. 
frowned,-concentrating.Somewherein the main cavern,he heardthe 
soundsof thesitar:Lita picking out tunesto sootheher sister. He staredat the symbors 
on the bones.The fine etchinghadbeen coloredwith a dark, rustyink thatmight veryweil havebeenbrood.He 
ReadingtheBones 53 
wasawareof an almostreligiousqualityto the moment' Spreadout be­forehim on the roughstonefloor of the cavewasthe birth of a writing 
a scriptthat could capturea languageandits speakers'visionof 
system, tireirworld.No modernhumanhadeverwitnessedsucha moment' handin itsbloodybandageand
Then he rememberedBorn-Bent's 
heexaminedthebonesmorecarefully.Theywereallasimilarlength andshape,andall ofthem hadoncebeenfingers'he was sureofit' The ,ymbolis* of the Motherst task began with the mediumon which it ap­i""r"a. He wasawedthatthesealiens-iudgedsimpleaborigineslythe 
human colonists-caredso much abouta proiectthat manyof them couldn't possiblyeven comPrehend'He glancedup at First-Among-
Mothers. 
..EachMothergivesone,,'shesaid'..ExcepttheFirst.Shegivesall 
beforeher death'One bYone'" 
Sheheld up her handsfor his inspection'Frehwerefour-fingered' 
threeforwardanJaflexiblefourthbelowthepalm'He countedthreefin­gersgoneout of eight,two from theleft handandonefrom theright' An 

lfpnrf" forgediJlood, a rih:al asdemandingasinterfaceandasdan­g.*ur, hethiought,giventheprimitivestateofmedicineon thisworld'He 

iuond"r"d if he could'vefoundthecourageif it had beenhisrihral' 
"The work has taken many' many years"'she told him' "The 
mustbe iustright to hold the soundsthatmakeup our language'

shapes 
Noi .u"ry one that iJ given is accepted'It is the work of the First to 

choose." 
Shegesturedwith thetaper,indicatinghe should continue'Aiter a 

while, shelquattedbesidehim and gazedatthe bonesasif shetoo was 
seeingthem for the firsttime' Forgotten,the taperdrippedwaxon the 

ffoor. 
Someof the symbolshe examined werecarefullyandlovinglyin­
scribed;othersresembledthefirstscratchingsofachild.Champollion seeingan Eg,ptian cartouchefor the first time might havefelt light-he"dJdlike ihis,he thought, andNiebuhr copyingcuneiforminscrip 
tionsmayhavecaughthisbreathin iustthesamemannerasconnections 
becameclear.RiesDanyo,drunkardandfailedGuildlingster'wasbe­comingpartof the galaxy'shistory' rt"rry of th" fingerbonescarriedobviouspictograms'tiny exquts­evenat first glanceof obiectsfrom the
ite glyphsthat weres-uggestive 54 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
world of the writers,thoughhe knewbetterthanto supposethe picturenecessarilygavethe meaningof the signanymorenr" 
it had in Eg,ptian hieroglyphs.Othersb-orewhat,o" 
semanti",y_bolr,abstractrepresentations "pp"r.ntly
of the soundsor pr.r,ti, and thesedelicatery
carvedlogogramshadan austerebeautyof their own. 
Mixed systemswerenot unprecedented;Earth had seenseveral,
mostnotablytheEgrptianandMayanscripts.He wasn'tparticurarrysur­prisedto find one evolvinghere. But eventuallyall tie tr.,g,rrg., ofEarth hadfound it mo-reco-nv_enient
to adoptarpiabets.The nnip-u­lem wasnot the mix of symborsfor soundsandgrlphsfor wholewords,
but that there were still far too many choiceshere at present.Somewouldneedto beeliminated. First-Among-Mothers
touchedhis shoulder."l will tell the soundof eachone." 
Then shebeganessentially
-to repeatthe ceremonyhed witnessed 
earlier.One byoneshepickedup theto'er rrrd pro.rourr""dthesound
thatwentwith it, but whereearliershehadsungthesephonemesaspartof a venerable ceremonywith theassembled
Mothers,nowshewascon­tentjustto vocalize. 
Almostimmediateryhe rearizedthe impossib'ity of workingthis y1y..Ilwas like trying to catch one drop out of a sheamof ,rt"i. 
H.
didn't havethe staminato sustainthis concentrationfor verylong. He
neededto impose

somekind of order. 
Not for thefirsttime sincehe'dfed New Bombayhe thoughtwith 
regretof theAI left behind.sorting and identifyingsomanyarifn signswithout help wasa dauntingtask.But there'dbeenlranslatorsandinter_preterslong beforethered beenlingsters,beforecomputerstoo; n*"
earlypioneershadworkedunderprimitiueconditions.
'1 needwet clay.And somethingto mark with, like a cloth mer_. 
chantkeepingtally." 
_ _First-Among-Mothersmadeno replyto the request,and he won_deredif theideaof reducing her exarted
gorrto humb]echy seemedrikesacrilegeto her.If so,she? haveto getJsedto it; humaniiyt profound_estlawshad first beenscratchedin clay.she setthe tape, on the floor
and clappedher hands.A momentlatei,a figure appearedin the cave,slow archway'First-Among-Mothers
saidsom"ethingir, ,apid Frehti andtheMotherwithdrew.Theywaitedin silence. 
Readingthe Bones 55 
Aftera while, the Mother came back with a lump of clay the size of his fist, clammyfromthe storage bin. He took it andflattened it out, stretching it into a tablet he could use to make a syllabic grid to plot the signs of written Frehti. 
The work progressed slowly over a number of hours; he losttrack how many. Thice, First-Among-Mothers sentfor more tapers and re­freshment.He drank water gratefully, and splashed some on his face to ward off drowsiness, but in spite of his recent hunger he couldn't eat. Gradually, he familiarized himself with the symbolsso that similarities and repetitions began to appear, and together they weeded the redun­dancies out. Overand over again, she patiently repeated the sounds that accompaniedglyphsandlogograms.It was tedious work. 
"lt goes too slowly," First-Among-Motherscommented. 
Shewas right. It was an enormous taskandwould take days atthis rate, possibly weeks.The early scholarson Earth had spent years unrav­eling the secrets of cuneiform or Linear B; if he didn't want to spend that much time here in this cave he needed to find some way to speed thingsup. 
In this fieldpack there was a way. 
He touched it now, still safe on his belt; since he'd arrived on IGishna, there d been no occasionto use it. In it, there were two se­quences of drugs that lingsters used in interface. The alpha sequence consisted basically of sophisticated neurotransmittersthat increased alertnessand enhanced the lingster'sabilityto work at high speed, es­pecially at such routine tasks as analyzing, cataloging,and memorizing. He'd used them manytimes on other worlds, always when working with anAI that also monitored the dosage; he knew how effective the alpha sequencecouldbe. 
That had all been a long time ago, beforehe'dbegun poisoning himself with zytft.No way of telling if there'd be a drug interaction, or how severe.He hadn't had any of the Krishnan liquor for several days; perhapsthat would lessenthedanger.And if not?"Anothertime,"Magis­terKai'svoice said in his memory,"yolt may notbe so lucky." In allhisca­reer,he'd done very littleto make the Guild proudofhim, and much he wasashamed of. This was a risk he had to take. 
"I canmake it go faster," hesaid. 
AwardsShowcase 
He took out the rack of small plastivials and thought about the pills they contained. First-Among-Mothersgazed steadily at him, her round eyesluminous as a nocturnal animal's in the taper light. She'daskedno questionssincehe'dbegun studying the bones, even when hedisturbed the careful way she'd laid them out, accepting that whatever he did it wouldadvanceher work. He hoped he could reward her faith. 
He shook two small brown ovals onto the palmof his hand, then swallowed them. Within seconds, he felt the sudden jolt of the alpha drugs streaming through hisveins. Thoughts sped through hisbrain too fast for words to catch them; his visionsharpenedtill microscopicdetails sprang into vivid display, and he could see individual hairs on First­Among-Mothers'sheadevenin this dirn light, the wrinkles on her face like the paths of long-dry rivers. 
Somethingelse, too, something different this time, something flickeringat the back of hismind, disappearing whenhe turned his at­tention to it. Then it vanished in a greatrushof endorphins that lifted andtossedhim like a cork. 
The work wentfaster.Connectionsseemed suddenly illuminated for his recognition, correspondences
jumpedout at him, were consid­ered, and First-Among-Mothers indicatedher choices, which he then recorded.A workable Frehti alphabet began to emerge on the clay tablet. 
"One sound is missing." His nerves jumpedat the sound of her voice. Absorbed by the work,he'd lost awareness and again hewas confused 
ofhissurroundings by the passage of time. Disoriented, he gazed at the lastof the tapers burning low, flickering in ihe draft she caused asshe stood up fromthe work.He squinted through the wavering light at the neat chart he'd in­scribed on the clay tablet, sixty-seven the
symbolsthat best represented consonants,vowels,anddiphthongs of First-Among-Mothers's
language, chosen from the drawings on the assembled bones. 'A small sound," she continued dreamily. "Not oftenused.But the veryhighestof all. I havewaited a longtimeto find its symbol." 
"What soundisthat,First-Among-Mothers?" 
In answer, she formeda small 0 with her mouth and allowed breathto come sighing through; he couldseehercurled tongue almost touchingher lips, shaping the sound. What emergedwasa diphthong Readingthe Bones 57 
with an initial labial, a singing tone as if ii camefrom a flute. Shere­peatedit for him twice more. A small scuffing noisebehind them drewFirst-Among-Mothers's attention and she fell silent. 
"l -I am sorry, First-Among-Mothers," Lita saidnervouslyin Freh­ti from the shadows in the archway."My sisterwanderedoff-and I just found her. I will take her away." 
"Do so." 
Forthe first time, he wonderedwhat First-Among-Mothers's 
lifewas like before she came up hereto live beneath ihe Maker's Bones. Had she workedin the bazaar for a cloth-merchant mate, or had she cleaned and cooked in a human residence? Had she borne children, and were any of them male. and if so. did she ever think of what had become of them? 
First-Among-Motherswaited until the sounds of the children faded.Then sheinclinedher head towardthe small pile of bonesre­mainingon the stone floor, urging him back to work. 
He glanced at them, seeingonly duplications of symbols that had alreadybeen assigned or obvious clumsilydrawn discards. Therewas no signleft over that could correspondto the new sound she'd justmade. 
She raised a hand andhewas aware of the missing fingers. 'A holy sound. Not oneThlker hears in the market. It is Wiu, The White Bird. You will not find its sign there among the ordinary ones. It is a male sound, and a kipiq should give it shape.Now, Thlker-from-Sorrow-Crossingmustreplacethekipiq'ssoul that he lost." 
The high mood of the alpha sequence desertedhim asfastas it had come on. Cataloging the symbolson the bones with her help was one thing; that was no differentfrom the regular duties lingsters often per­formed for their employers. Deliberatelyadding a human element to an emerging alien alphabet was another. 
It was such a temptingly simplething she asked of him: one sign, justone, from all the possibilitieshe'dencounteredin human history, or from any of the worlds along the fum for that matter. But even that little gift would be interferencefrom one culture in anothert development, andevenminor interference wasstrictly forbidden. Nothinggood ever came from violating this rule, however much the people of the less-advancedculturewanted it. Like all lingsters, he'd sworn an oath to re­spect that prime prohibition. 
58 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
"l cannotdo it,"he said.,,1amsorry." 
"Why canyou not?,' 
"I cannot give you a sign that hasits rootson the other side of 

Sorrow-Crossing.Nothing goodwould comefrom suchagift.,, 
"I wishtheworkcompretedbeforemy death,Thrker,;shesaid,her voiceascalm as if shediscussedthe price of a bolt of silk.,,And
I do not havemuch time.Youwill do it or you will die. I will giveyou oneday,sturning to decide." 
Tho Mothershad appearedas if they'dbeenwaitingfor her com­mand,andtakenhim backto his alcoveprison. Alone in the darknessonceagain,exhausted,histhoughtsdrifted. First-Among-Mothers
had poseda dilemma for him. To giie her what 
shewantedhe mustviolatehisoath.Neverin hisrifehadhe knowingrydoneanythingbig or smallthatwould arterthe naturaldestinf oirny or 
the alienraceshe'd comein contactwith. But to die for the sakeof that oathnow meanthe mustviolatethe promisehe'd madechandra patel to protecthis family.If he died,the girlshad no hopeof everreaching
theCalcutta'sbase. 
Which was more important, interferencein a developingcul_ture-such 
a tiny touchat tha! justthe one symbor-o, theiuferi'g
and perhapsdeathof the Depcom's children?How would the Guild 
decide? 
"Danyo." 

He iumpedat the soundof hervoice.without knowingthe bound­ary,he'd drifted from thought to sreep.This time Lita hadn't brought wateror a taper. 
"Danya,somethingk
'As wrongwithJilan.Sheseemsveryhotand_,, youmayhavenoticed,I'm aprisonerhere." "Devi! Why don'tyou justopenthe doorand walkout?,, 
He heardthesoundof the latticegateopening.
"How stupidyou aresometimes,Danyo.I could tell assoonasI

,touchedit theyhadn'tlashedthe lattice togetheragain.. If First-Among-Mothers
hadailowedihe opportunityfor him to es­cape,then it wasbecausesheknewtherewasnowherehe could escape 
to, with or without Lita and her sister.The thoughtfrushatedhim; he didn't like beingdefeatedbyan ord Freh femare,lu"r, orr. soobviousryintelligent. 
Readingthe Bones 59 
"Nowwill youcome and seefilan?" 
He felt Lita's impatient handon his arm, tugginghim through the open gate; he let her guide him throughthe darkness until light seeped into the corridor from the central cavern. 
"l don't know what good I cando.I'm not a medic." 
"Keepto the wall justto be safe. No sense lettingthem see you 
outhere." 
"Maybethe food didn't agreewith her." 
"She'sbeeneating Freh foodall her life. Thatt all the amahs ever made for her after they stopped wet-nursing her. She never touched what Mama andI ate. Do hurry up!" |ilan was sitting cross-legged
on a wide stone bench cushioned in bright silk. Thpers burned in a sconce fixed to the cave wall above her head. In their yellow light, he saw colored clay beads strung on a thong, a crude doll made of wood and covered in fur, toyshe'dseen Freh chil­dren play with under the stallsin the bazaar.filan wasmaking marks with a cut reedon a small lump of clay the size of a cloth merchant's tally. By the uneven flamelight, he could see her pixie face looked flushed. He laid a hand on hercheekand felt how warm it was. Lita bent quickly to wipe saliva from the corner of her sister's mouth. 
"l'vebeengiving her water." 
"Good." 
"What elseshould we do?" 
The child didn't look too sick to him. 
Then he becameawarefilan wassaying something, verysoftly, almost under her breath, over and over again. No, not saying, sing­ing-But not that exactly either. He felt chilled. Possibility shivered up his spine, moved like the touch of a featheracrosshis nerves. He kneltquicklyon the pad beside the child, whoimmediatelystoppedvo­calizing. 
"Baby,sayit again for me," he said."Please?" 
"What is it?" Lita asked. 
filan stucka thumb in the cornerof her mouth andstared wide-
eyed at him. 
"Wheret the sitar? Get it for me." 
Lita scrambledaway and was back a momentlaterwith the instru­ment. He ran his fingers overthe five melody strings,searchingfor the right notes thatdescribedthe pitch valuesof Frehti:G shaqp, A, B flat, B. 
AwardsShowcase60 Nebuta 2000 
filan seemedto be listening intently. Encouraged, he let his fingers wan­der among these four tones, the drone strings humming under the im­promptumelody. 
"What'reyou doing,Danyo?" 
|ilan openedher mouth and sang a note. 
Not B, he realized, somewhere in between B andC, a fattened C. 
The native nut altered the tones he produced, fitting the sounds of the language better than the original gourd. He quicklyadiustedthe tuning pegs to reflect the subtly different harmonics of the semitone. Now she gaveshape to the sound. His hands shook as he realized whathewas hear­ing, the diphthong First-Among-Mothers hadpronouncedfor him: Wu. 
"Danyo?" "Get First-Among-Mothersand meet me in the cave with the bones." 
He hooked the sitar over his shoulder,grabbed up the clay block andthe writing utensil in onehand,andtuckedthe child under the other arm.He felt her cheekburning against hisashe ranback to the cave. 
New tapers fickered in the small cave, eerily lighting the dis­turbed pattern he and First-Among-Mothers had left behind. He set filan down on the stone foor. Silentagain, she gazed up at him, her breathingheavyand quick. 
"This won't take long, baby." 
"Childreninventlanguage,"the Guild taught. Why not the alpha­bet too, or at least a small part of it?The child was as close to a pure source as he was likely to find. Her parents might've come from Earth, but she was born on Not-Here-the planet's alien name was suddenly more appropriate than the one the colonistshad givenit-and shed never spoken a word of Inglis. It was a near-perfect compromise. As long asFirst-Among-Mothersacceptedit. 
"Haveyou changed your mind, Talker?" The clouded eyes gleamed like mother-of-pearl in the taper light when he turned to face her. She stood very erect, almost as tall asLita. He chose his words with care. "l offera compromise, First-Among-Mothers." "No more bargaining. Only one solution. Make the sign to hold that last, holiest of sounds." "l cannot give you the sign you desire. It is not my gift to give and 
ReadingtlreBones 61 
would only bring you evil. InsteadI offer a child from sorrow-crossing 
but born on Not-Here.A vragim from her mother'swomb, but nour­ishedwith a Freh mother'smilk. Let thischild makethe sign"' First-AmongMothersgazedskepticallyat him in silence' "The syrrbolyou wantfrom me,"he saidgently,"would be male' 
but it would be alien to your world. What I offer now is better.Tiust here." He waitedfor several long momentsmore' Shesaidnothing, but shedidn't specificallyforbid the attempteither.He took the sitarand with the nail of his right forefinger.The child
pluckedthe flattened c 
g"r.d ,tp at him, thumb in mouth. She was droolingagain' "Comeon, baby," hecoaxed."Singfor me'" He plucked the note again.She removedthe thumb from her 
mouth andcopiedthesemitonethesitarsang' 
HeheardthesmotheredgaspofsurprisefromFirst-Among. Mothers,andas the notediedawayhe soundedit again. The child gave 
voiceto the diphthong a second time,andthistime hersmallpurevoice 
wasioinedby the old woman'slarget,mellowerone' 
He laid his palm fat acrossthe strings,cutting off the vibration. 

The child g"zed,rp at him. He set the sitar downandheld out the clay 
tabletto her. 
"Draw the sound, )ilan," he said' "Draw Wiu here,in the clay'" 
she tookthe tabletandthestylusfrom him andstaredatthem for 

amoment,thenbeganto draw. Apartfrom the child'slaboredbreathing 
therewasno soundat all in the cave.From time to time she smoothed 

overwhatshe'ddoneand beganagain.Finally,sheheld the tabletup 
andtilted her head,examiningit. Then sheheld it out, not to him, but 
to First-Among-Mothers. 
Overthe child'shead,her sister shothirn a startledlook' 
squatteddownand took thetabletreverently

First-Among-Mothers 
asif it were holy,peeringat it in the dim light. She tookher time. 
Then, in a softvoice,shesaid,"l acceptthelastsign'" 
He let the breathhe'dbeenholdingcomesighingout in a whoosh 

of relief.Leaningforward,he peeredatthesymbolthechild haddrawn. the crude,stickfigureof a bird. He discovered
The claytabletleld that where a moment beforehe'd been chilled, now he was sweating 
heavily. 
AwardsShowcase62 Nebuta 2000 
First-Among-Motherslaid the tablet down and took the child's handin both her own, closingher fingers overit. "But it must be written on bone." 
Lita gotthe significance first."Youcan'tcut a finger offmy sisterk hand. I won't let you!" She threw herself at First-Among-Mothers, almostknocking the Frehand the child over. 
First-Among-Mothersdidn't appear upsetby the outburst; instead, she smiled at Ries over the angry girl's head, a terrifying rictus grin from that almostlipless mouth. Thking the childt handhad been an act of provocation,showinghim who held the powerhere. 
'A child's sign, a male's bone together complete the work." She re­leased the child and stood swiftly. Her hand came up with the three-edgedknife glittering in it. 
Hisvisionseemedclouded,splittingthelight from the knife into a rainbowof fire that stung his eyeballs. The universe was full of wonder and beauty, the Guild taught, but it also held much that waspainful and cruel. The first lesson Earth's earliest astronautshadlearnedhundreds of yearsago was that space offered suffering as well as glory.Thefaint of 
heartamong you, the Guild warnedits young students, should stay at 
home. 
It was a small sacrifice she asked of him, and far better him than the child. Humans had been given an exha finger, as if long agoNature had foreseen thismoment and the need for one of her children to help another.He would think of it as payment for the privilege of witnessing the birth of a written language;no other lingster could say that. His head ached with the burden of such knowledge. 
1{nd in return, will yougiveus safe passageover the mountains to the starship's base?" 
"We will guide you to your people, Thlker." 
"Take|ilan away now," he saidto Lita. 
"No, Danyo! We're staying righthere with you." 
First-Among-Mothersnodded as if their presence too was an ac­
ceptablepart of the ritual. She held out her hand to him, and hesitantly 
he put his left hand in it. For the first time in dayshe thought how good 
a shot of qth would be to steady his nerves. 
Shedrew him down until both of them were on their kneeson the 
ReadingtheBones 63 
foor in a circle ofgoldenlight.with onehand,shepositionedhisonthe 
stone.The otherraisedtheknife. At the last moment, he found a centerof calm within. He didn't finch as the knife descended' 
The weatherwascoldand clear astheycrossedoverthestonysum­
mit of the Maker'sBones.It was still two hoursbeforedawn,and alien blazedabovethem in a forevermoonlesstky.H" stopped
constellations to gazeat the brilliant river of light that wasthe home galaxy,Sorrow-
Crossing.Somehowthe nameseemedto fit betterhere,in the farthest fum, than "Milky Way."Dark skyand high altitude com­
,.a"h oith" binedto makea magnifying lensof the thin air;he squintedatthe enor­mous treasureof stars spilled acrossblack space,half convinced he 
could distinguishthe onedim pinpoint of light from all the restthatwas 
Earth'sSol. Lita touchedhis arm and he startedwalkingagain.First-Among-
Mothershad giventhem foodfor the iourney,andshe'dsentalongtwo 
femaleswhoknewthemountainpathsas guides' The groupmovedpur­
posefully,not wasting breathon conversation.Fromtime to time a crea­
turechirrupedsleepilyfrom an unseennest,fooledby theirpassageinto 
thinking it was morning. 
Gradually,the pageantryoverheadfaded,and a breeze cameuP 
followedby the first rays of Not-Here'sstar.Within the hour, the sun 
shonefiercelydownon them; therewaslittle heatin it yet, but he started 
to sweat again.The air had the clean, clearsmellof sun-warmedstone, 
and it was mercifullyfreeof spores, but he had difficulty breathingand 
stumbledoftenon the unevenground. 
Belowthem on one sideof the ridge,the land sweptdowna hun­
dredkilometersto the valleyof Separation Riverandthe alluvialplain 
wherethehumancolonyhadbeen.The othersidefellless steeply tothe 
golden sweepof grasslandand the starship base'From up here, the 
planetappearedsuddenlynew,asif he'd nevel seenit before, more ex­
otic thanhis memoryof itsstrangenessthe firstdayhe'dlanded.Know­
ing some of its secrets madeit more alien,notless. 
He felt light-headed,an a{tereffectof the wound to his left hand 
thatstillthrobbed,andthefactthathe'dhad no desireto eatmuch in the 
daysthatfollowedthereadingofthebones.Lita scoldedhim for his lack of interest in food, but he was relieved to be free of both the promptings of hungerandthe needfor zyth. 
First-Among-Mothershad bandaged the wound herself, stopping thebloodby packing a native moss into the spaceleft by his severed fin­ger,then wrapping it securely in layers of silk. While he still lay on the bed where filan had played, he'd seenthe Mothers reverently preparing a small cauldronof boiling waterinto which they'd added herbsto boil his fesh offthe boneso the childt symbol could be inscribed properly on if his headstillrang with the sound of their chanting. 
For a momenthis mind teetered between past and present, then First-Among-Motherstfaceroseup before him as she'd stood by his bed. "I am well pleasedwith thework," she'd said. And he'd argued,"But mys­teries remain. Tell me why language belongs to Frehfemalesbut not Freh males.""HdveyouforgottenwhatFreh means?" She held up one of her remainingfingers.He'd neverreally thought about the literal meaning of a word he'd usedso casually for two years. He guessed,"One?First?" Then he knew: Those-Who-Come-First. 
The memory faded and he staggered against one of the Mothers. She grabbed his arm, steadying him, her old eyes peering into his asif as­sessinghis abilityto continue the journey.The two Freh females had caught their long skirts up over bony knees and wore animal-skinboots laced above their ankles. The level of their ener$/ surprisedhim; olo as they seemed to be, they'd been taking turns carrying |ilan on their backs overthe uneven ground. 
But at that moment the child skipped besidethem, gathering pebblesand flowers along the way, and chattering in Frehti like any three-year-oldwho'dbeenborn on thisworld. Since that first sound ut­tered over the bones,she hadn't stopped babbling in First-Among­Mothers'slanguage. As if a wall had been breached, he thought, allowingthe child to express everythingshe'd saved up for justthis mo­ment. Yet it wasjust another irony of the human experienceon this world that the child had found her native tongue at the very moment whenshe must leave the companyof thosewho spoke it. 
"Are you all right, Danyo?"Lita asked, coming alongside him. "We could restfor a fewminutes." He couldn't rest until he'd fulfilled his promise and broughtthe DepComt daughters to the safety of the starshiptbase. 
ReadingtheBones 65 
Lita'scoolhandtouchedhisforehead."You'reveryhot'" 
He attempteda ioke."Teething.Likefilan'" 

He rememberedLita visiting him soonafterhis donation-aword he could dealwith withoutself-pity.She'dtriedto distracthim from the pain in his hand with gossip:The Motherswerebusypracticingwriting 
out the alphabetunder First-Among-Mothers'sdirection;the girl had 
laughed,Jescribingtheirfirstclumsyattempts.Shealsotold him filan had cut alatemolarandher feverhadgoneaway' "Let melookatyourhandagain.Maybeit'sinfected'" 'Antibiotics
atthe base." "Danyo,"the girl said, "stoptrying to be sucha hero all the time'" He staredat her,uncomprehending.she stalked off aheaddown 
the rough path. The ferocioussun dazzled his eyes,and his head 
throbbedagain. "What has this to do with Those-Who'Have-Gone-Over?"
he'd 
. "Weqreoneondtllesdme,"she'dsaid,"onl7askedFirst-Among-Mothers 
youdo notseeit Yet." He thoughtabouther wordsnow as he stood on the path,one handpressedto his chest, catchinghis breath. Metamorphosiswasnot in the orion Arm;humanshadencountered
uncommonamongspecies 
it morefrequentlythan they'dfound sentienceon the worlds they'dvis­ited.Evenon Earth,caterpillarsturnedinto butterfliesandtadpolesbe­camefrogswithoutanyonebeingtoo suqprised' Why shouldn'ta pudgy 
Frehtransforminto agauntMule?And if it only happenedto onesex,it would still be no strangerthan a hundredotherquirksand tricksof MotherNaturehe'd seen elsewhere.Yetbutterfiesweren'tproneto do 
violenceon caterPillars. "There is moreto it than that," he'd argued,thinking of First­"somesecrets
Among-Mothers'surgentneedto write the languageo.g.t. hiddununtil theirtime comes,"lheold Frehhadreplied."Andwill
,u*aii 
youtell methen,First-Among-Mothers?"

"If webothlive,Talker'" 
An hourlater-two hours?Three?He seemed to havelostthe abil­ity to keephack of time-the party stopped.They'd reachedan over-two hundredmetersstraightdowna cliff.
look, the iandfallingperhaps Spiralsof dust rosein the heat, and the view beforehim shimmered hazily as if it were underwater.A vast plain spreadout beforethem, an enormousvalleystretchinglikea lake of grass to a rangeof mountains on 
AwardsShowcase66 Nebula 2000 
the misty horizon. Huge flocks of bright-skinned, featherlessbirdsrose and fell over gold-greenfields,and the sweetsmell of the grasslands drifted up on the warm air. 
Sweatstartedout on his foreheadandneck, instantly evaporating, and he sneezedonce.He squinted throughwateringeyesinto brightness atthe goal they'd struggledto reachfor so long, the end of their iourney. 
"There,"one of the Mothers said,pointing. 
"The Sfcrof Calcutta'sbase.l seeit!" Lita said. 
"We go no further," the second Mothersaid. 
"We canmake it from here, can't we,Danyo?" 
He nodded and wishedhe hadn't asthe sparkling world spun aroundhim. Drunk withoutzyth,hethought. One MotherhandedLita the sitar she'd been carrying, the other gaveher package offood to the girl. "Youarestone,"one of them saidtohim, touching his head gently' Stonewas a muchmore humble positiontoaspireto than rock, he thought. 
Then both of them startedback up the path.He knew they were anxiousto rejoin the frenzy of work going on in the cave, writing out the history of their racein order to preserve its memory. And perhaps put an endto violence in some mannerhe didn't understand.Whatexcitement 
there'd be in the Mother House whenthisstory got back to ihe Guild. 
He could almost see the Head-whoever it would be now-summon­
ing the teachers and the senior students­
"Youreally are feverish,"Lita said. 
"I'll getyou there. Don't worry." 
Shestaredathim. "You'Ilgetus there?" 
For the next few minutes she wasdistractedby the antics of her 
little sisterwho scampered backandforthacrossthe path, chasingsmall 
flying creaturesinto the thickets.He was ableto direct all of his strength 
into putting one foot in front of the otherinstead of having to spendit 
making conversation. For some reason,goingdownhill was more diffi­
cult and took concenhation. 
The gleaming whitedomesandcommunicationtowersof the star-
basegrewsteadilybiggeras they followed Ihezigzagg,ingpath, but the 
heatincreased,slowingtheir progresssothat the nearer they cameto 
thevalleyfoor the longer it seemed to be taking. It didn'tseemto bother 
the two girls,but he found it harder andharder to lift his feet. 
ReadingtheBones 67 
"No use,"hesaid,aftera while. "l can'tgoany farther." "We'realmostthere."Lita adjustedthe sitar over her shoulder. "Look.only aboutanotherhundredmetersto the perimeter.I cansee the gate andtheguardhouse." 
He slumped down by the sideof the path. filan cameskipping backand gazedat him, a sprayof crimson wildflowersin her fist.The smallbloomswerethe color of the bloodthatspurtedfrom his hand 
when First-Among-Mothers'sknife descended.He put his bandaged handup to supporthis head, whichseemedto weighmorethanhe re­membered. The child openedher mouth andsang,"Wir!,"a note aspure as a 
birdt. 
"Please,get up," Lita said urgently. "I can'tcarryyou." 
"Yougo.I'll waithere." 
"They'llbeable to help you downthere.Youjustneedsomegood humanpharmaceuticals.. ." 
Asshe stared downat him, the hot breezerisingfrombelowteased the coppery hairandbroughtitsfaintscent like woodsmoketo his nose, so that for a moment he had theillusionhewas looking atyv. 
So long ago. He'd fallenin lovewiththe wayYv's longhair lifted in the warm wind,the hair with its smokyperfumethatbewitchedhim. He couldseeherclearly in memory,sittingin the shade of a treewhen he'd firstseen her, her arm aroundoneof thatworldt younglings who was teachingherto name thefowersthatsurroundedthem.Thoughhed al­waysbeensharplyawareof his aliennesson each world he'd visited,yv 
had always seemedat home. Then he knew one question wasanswered:yv would,vewanted children.And he would'vecome to lovethem,too. If felt good justto sit hereandthink about hiswife. "There.I can see a guard."Lita stoodon tiptoeand wavedher armsexcitedly."Oh, he doesn'tseeus.But I'll go get him, and then somebody'llcomebackfor you." filan put her bouquetof wildflowers in hislapand their perfume 
wasso rich it madehisheadspin.Shedancedawayfrom him into the light, her slightfigureshatteringin a myriad diamondpointsthat hurt his eyesto watch.She seemed morean elementalspiritof this worrd than a human child,andhe recognized in thatonescintillatingmoment that there weremysteriesthatwerenot givento him to understand. 
68 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
"You'll be all right?" Lita asked."lt won,ttakeverylong." 
"Yes.Go." 
Shehesitatedfor a momentlonger,thenIeaneddownandkissed 
him quicklyon thecheek."when we get backto Earth, Ries,"shesaid, "I'm goingto become a lingster, likeyou." He put his hand up to touch his cheekand found it wet with his own tears. The DepCom'sdaughtersrandownthe path to thebase,the Dep 
com ssitarbouncingon theolderdaughter'sback.The runningfigures becamesmallerand smaller. Then a tall figureemergedfrom ii-,.-gate­
houseand hurried towardthem. Rieswatchedtill the radiance foiced his eyesclosed. 
when he openedthem again,his wife was standing in the wild­flowersattheedgeof the path, hairspillinglike fame overhershoulders. Shewaswearingthesky-blueweddingdress. 
Yvheldoutherarmsto him, welcominghim home. 



LostGirts 
JANEYOLEN 
the "HansChristianAndersenof America"
Caltedatternativel'y (Newsweek) ofthetwentiethcentury"(NewYork
and"theAesop 
Yotenis a storytetter,novelist'chitdren'sbookau­thor,poet,ptaywright,and author of morethan200 books for chitdren,young adutts, andadutts' 
Ms.Yolen'sbooks,poems, and storieshavewon so many they cannotatt. be tisted'but include:the Catdecott 
Times),Jane 

awards, 
Medaf.,Nebul,aAward,the Rhysting.anAsimov'sMagaineRead' 
ers'PotLaward,WortdFantasyAward,a NationatBookAward 

nomination,threeMythopoeicAwards,the GotdenKiteAward' JewishBookAward,the ChristopherMedal'
theSkyl.arkAward, 
theAssociationofJewishLibrariesAward,theCharlotteAward' awardsfromsuchdiversegroups
etc.Shehassix body-of-work as the CathoticLibraryAssociation,the universitiesof Min­nesotaandKeeneState,the OktahomaLibraries'andthe New 
EngLand FicfionAssociation'
Science Herwritingshavebeenmadeinto tetevisionshows'audio 
books,theatricalpresentat'ions,and onefutt-tengthmovie-
TheDevil'sAithmetic,starringKirstenDunst' 
Herstoryhereearnedhera second Nebuta' 

7A NebulaAwardsShowcase2000 
"It isn'tfairr"Darlacomplained
to hermom forthethirdtimedur_ing their bedtimereading.Shemeantit wasn'tfair thatwendy only did the houseworkin Neverlandandthatpeterpanandthe boysgotto fightCaptainHook. 
"Wbll, I can't changeiq" Mom saidin her even,lawyervoice.
"That'siustthe way it is in the book.your argumentiswith Mr. Barrie,theauthor,andhe'slongdead.ShouldI go on?,, 
"Yes.No. I don't know,"Darrasaid,comingdownon both sidesof thequestion,assheoftendid. 
Mom shruggedand closedthe book, and thatwasthe end of the . 
night'sreading. 
Darla watchedimpassivelyas her mom got up and left the room,snappingoff the bedsiderampas she went.wher, shecrosedthe door 
therewasjusta rim of light from the hail showingaroundthreesidesof 
thedoor,makingit looklike somethingout of a sciencefictionmovie. 
Darlapulled the coversup overher nose.Her breathmadethe spacefeellike a little oven. 
"Notfair atalli'Darlasaidto thedark,andshedidn'tjustmeanthe 
book.Shewasn'ttheleastbit sleepy. 
But the housemadeits comfortablenight-settringnoisesaround her:the whispersof the hot air throughth" u.r,ir, the ticking of
lleathy
thegrandfatherclockin thehall, thesoundoithe maprebranch,rlir"h­
scratchingagainstthe clapboardsiding.They were a familiar luilaby,
comfortingandsoothing.Darradidn't meanto goto sreep,but shedid. 
Either that or shesteppedout of her bedandwakJ 
throughthe 
closeddoorintoNeverland. 
Thkeyourpick. 

It didn'tfeelatall like adreamto Darra. The detailsweretooexact. And shecouldsmel/things.she'dneversmelledanythingin adreambe­fore.so Darla had no reasonto berievethat whathappe"nedto her next 
wasanythingbut real. 
One minute shehad gottenup out of bed,headingfor the bath­room,and the verynextshewasslidingdown the trunk Jf a very large,smoothtree'The trunk wasunrikeanyof the mapresin her yard beinga kind of yellowish color. It felt armostslipperyunder her handsand 
smelledlike bananasgonesrightrybad.Hei nightgownmadea sound like wftooosftassheslidalons. 
Lost Girls 77 
When she landed on the ground, she tripped over a large root and stubbedher toe. 
"Owl" shesaid. 
"Shhh!"cautionedsomeonenear her. 
Shelookedup and saw two boys in matching ragged cutoffs and T:shirts staring at her. "Shhh!yourselves,"shesaid, wondering at the sametime who they were. 
But it hadn't been those boys who spoke. A third boy, behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered,"If you aren't quiet,He will find us." 
She turned, ready to ask who Hz was. But the boy, dressedin green tightsand a greenshirt and a rather silly green hat, and smelling like fresh lavender, held a finger up to hislips. They were perfect lips. Like a movie star's. Darla knew him at once. 
"Peter,"she whispered. "PeterPan." He swept the hat off and gave her a deep bow. "Wendy,"he countered. 'Well, 
Darla, actually," she said. 
"WendyDarla," he said. "Giveusathimble." 
Sheand her mom had read that part in the book already, where Petergot kiss and thimble mixed up, and she guessed what it was he really meant, but she wasn't about to kiss him. Shewas much too young to be kissingboys.Especiallyboys she'd justmet.And he had to bemore a man than a boy, anyway, no matter how younghe looked. The copy of Peter Pan she and her mother had been reading had belonged to her grandmotheroriginally.Besides,Darla wasn't sure she liked Peter. Of course, she wasn't sure she didn'tlike him. It was a bit confusing. Darla hated things being confusing, like her parents'divorce and her dad's new young wife and their twins who were-and who weren't exactly-her brothers. 
"I don't have a thimble," she said, pretending not to understand. "l have," he said, smiling with persuasiveboyish charm. "Can I give it to you?" 
But she looked down atherfeet in order not to answer,which was how she mostly responded to her dad these days, and that was that. At least for the moment. Shedidn'twant to think anv further ahead. and neither. it seemed. did Peter. 
AwardsShowcase 
He shruggedand took her hand, draggingher down a path that smelledof moldy old leaves.Darlawas too surprised to protest.And be­sides, Peter waslotsshongerthanshe was. The two boys followed. When they got to a large dark brown tree whose odor remindedDarla of her grandmother'swardrobe, musty and ancient, Peter stopped.He let go of her hand andjumpedup on one of the twisted rootsthat were looped over and aroundone another likewoodysnakes.Darlawas suddenly re­minded of her school principal when he toweredabove the students at assembly.He wasa tall man but the dais he stood on madehim seem even taller. When you sat in thefrontrow,you could look up his nose. She could look up Peter's nose now. Like her principal, hedidn't look so grandthat way. Or so threatening. 
"Heret wherewe live," Peter said, his hand in a largesweeping motion. Throwing his head back, he crowed like a rooster; he no longer seemedafraid of making noise. Then he said, "You'lllike it." 
"MaybeI will. MaybeI won't," Darla answered, talking to her feet again. 
Peter'sperfectmouth made a small pout as if that weren't the re­sponsehe'd been expecting. Then he jumpeddownintoa dark space be­tweentheroots. The other boysfollowedhim. Not to be left behind, in case that rooster crow really had called something aw{ulto them, Darla went after the boysintothe dark place. Shefoundwhat they had actually gone through wasadoorthat was still slightly ajar. 
The door opened on to a long, even darker passagethat wound into the very center of the tree; the passage smelled damp, likebathing suits left still wetin a closet. Peter and the boys seemed to know the way without any need of light. But Darla was constantly afraid of stumbling and she was glad when someone reachedoutandheld her hand. 
Then one last turn and there wassuddenlypleniy of light from hundreds of little candlesset in holders that.were screwedright into the living heart of the wood. By the candlelight she saw it was Peter who had hold of her hand. 
"Welcometo Neverland," Peter said, as if thiswere supposed to be a big surprise. Darlatookher hand away from his. "It'ssmallerthanI thoughtit would be," she said. This time she looked right at him. Peter'sperfectmouth hrrned down again. "It'sbig enough for us," he said. Then as if a sudden thought had struck him, he smiled. "Buttoo 
Lost Girls 73 
smallfor Him." He put his back to Darla and shouted, "Let'shavea party. We've got us a new Wendy." 
Suddenly,from all corners of the room, boys came tumbling and stumbling and dancing, and pushing one anotherto get a look at her. They were shockingly noisy and all smelled like unwashedsocks.One of them made fartnoises with his mouth. Shewonderedif anyof them had taken a bath recently.They were worse-Darla thought-than her Stemple cousins, who were so awful their parents never took them any­where anymore, not out to a restaurant or the movies or anlplace at all. 
"Stopit!" she said. 
The boys stopped at once. 
"I told you," Peter said. "She'saregular Wendy, all right. She's even givenme a thimble." 
Darla'sjawdroppedat the lie. How could he? 
Shestartedto say"I did not!" but the boys were already cheering soloudly her protestations went unheard. 
"Tink," Peier called, and one of the candles detached itself from the heartwoodto flutter around his head, "tell the Wendys we want a Welcome Rast." 
TheWendys?Darla bit her lip. What did Peter mean by thatt 
The little light flickered on and off. Akind of code, Darla thought. She assumed it wasthe fairyTinker Bell,but shecouldn'treally make out what this Tink looked like exceptfor that flickering, fluttering pres­ence. But as if understandingPetert request, the flicker took off toward a black corner and,sheddingbut a little light, few right into the dark. 
"Good old Tink." Peter said. and he smiled at Darla with such practice, dimples appeared simultaneouslyon both sidesof his mouth. 
"Whatkindof food..." Darla began. 
"Everythingparents won't let you have," Peter answered. "Sticl] buns and tipsy cake and Butterfingers and brownies and.. ." 
The boysgatheredaround them, chanting the namesasif they were the lyricsto some kind of song, adding, ". . .appletarts and ginger­bread and chocolate mousseandtrifle and. . ." 
'And stomachaches
and sugar highs," Darla said stubbornly. "My dad's a nutritionist. I'm only allowed healthy food." 
Peter turned his practiced dimpled smile on her again. "Forget your father.You're in Neverlandnow, and no one need ever go back home from here." 
At that Darla burstinto tears,harf in frushationand harf in fear. sheactuallyliked herdad,asweil as loved him, despitethefactthathed 
left her for his newwife,and despitethe fact of the twins,who wereac­tuallyadorableaslongasshedidnt haveto rive with them.The thought
thatshe'dbeencaughtin Neverlandwith no wayto refurnwassoawful,shecouldn'thelpcrying. 
Petershruggedand turned to the boys."cirrs!" he saidwith real-
disgust.
'AII 

Wendys!"theyshoutedbackathim. Darla wiped her eyes,and spokeright to peter.,.My 
nameis nof Wendy,"shesaidclearly.,.It'sDarla." 
Peterlookedat her, and therewasnothing nice or laughingor youngabouthiseyes.Theyweredarkandcold,nd u.ruu.ru oid. 
Darla shivered. 
"Hereyou?ea Wendy,"he said. 
And with that,thedarkplacewhereTink haddisappearedgrewin_
creasinglylight, asa door openedand fifteen girls 
trais piledhigh with cakes,cookies,biscuits,buns, andlther"rriiing
kinds"of gooai",marchedsinglefile into thehalr.Theywereredbya tail,tr."l.ipr",ygirl with brownhairthatfell straightto her shoulders. 
The room suddenlysmelledoverpoweringlyof that sicklysweet_ nessof childrent birthdaypartiesatschoor,*he' 
th.i, mothersLro,rghtin sloppycupcakes
greasywith icing.Darlashuddered. 
"welcomeFeast"shoutedtheboywhowascrosestto thedoor.Hemadea deepbow. 
"Welcome Feast!,,they all shouted, laughing and gathering
arounda great centertable. 

Only Darla seemedto notice that not one of the Wendyswassmiling. 
The Feastwenton for ages,becauseeachofthe boyshadto stand up and givea little speech.Of course,mostof them only said,.,Wel_ 
come'wendyl" and "Glad to meetyour"beforesittingdown agairr.Afewelaborateda little bit more.But petermorethan-Jd" 
up fori witha long, ramblingtalkaboutdutyanddessert
andhowno oneiovedth.m 
out in the world Aboveas much ashe did herein Neverland,and howthe cakesprovedthat. 
Lost Girls 75 
The boys cheered and clapped ateachof Peter's pronouncements, and threw buns and scones acrossthe tableat one another asa kind of punchration. Tink circled Peter'sheadcontinuouslylikea crown of stars, though she never really settled. 
But the girls,standing behind the boys like banquet waitresses, did not applaud. Rather they shifted from foot to foot, looking alternately ap­prehensive and bored. One, no more than four years old, kept yawning behind a chubby hand. 
After a polite bite of an apple tart, which she couldn't swallow but spitinto her napkin, Darla didn't even try to pretend.The little pie had beenmuch too sweet, not tart at all. And eventhough Peter kepturging her between the welcomes to eat something, she iust couldn't.That smallrebellion seemed to annoyhim enormouslyand he stood up once again,this time on the tabletop, to rant on about how some people lacked gratitude, and how difficult it wasto provide for somany, espe­cially with Him about. 
Peter never actually looked at Darla ashe spoke,but she knew-and everyone else knew-that he meant she was the ungrateful one. That bothered her some, but not asmuch as it might have. She even foundherselfenjoyingthe fact that he was annoyed, and that realization almostmade her smile. 
When Peter ended with "No more Feasts for them with BadAtti' tudesl" the boys leapedfrom theirbenches and overturned the big table, mashing the remaining food into the floor.Then they all disappeared, diving down a varietyof bolt-holes, with Tink after them, leaving the girls alone in the big candlelit room. 
"Now seewhatyou'vedone," said the oldest girl, the pretty one with the straight brown hair. Obviously the leader of the Wendys,she worea simple dark dress- Iike a uniform, Darla thought, a school uni­formthat's badly stained. "lt'sgoing to take forever to get that stuff off the foor. Ages and ages. Mops and buckets. And nothing left for us to eat." 
The other girls agreed loudly. "Theymad,ethe mess,"Darlasaid sensibly. "Letthem clean it upl That'show it'sdone at my house." 
Therewas a horrified silence. For a moment none of the girls said a word,but their mouths opened andshut like fish on beaches. Finally the littlest one spoke. 
76 Nebula 2000
AwardsShowcase 
"Peterwon't'ike it." "Well, I don't 'ike Peterl"Darla answered quickly. "He'snothing but a long-windedbully." "But," said the little Wendy, "you gavehim a thimble." Sheactu­allysaid"simble." 
"No," Darla said. "Peterlied.I didn't." 
The girls all seemed dumbstruck by that revelation. Without a word more, they began to clean the room, first righting the table and then laboriously picking up whattheycould with their fingers before re­sorting, at last, to the dreadedbucketsandmops.Soon the place smelled like any institution after a cleaning, like a school bathroom or a hospital corridor, Lysol-fresh with an overcastof pine. 
Shaking her head, Darla just watched them until the littlest Wendy handed her a mop. Darla flung the mop to the floor. "I won't do it," shesaid."It'snot fair." 
The oldestWendycameoverto her andput her hand on Darla's shoulder."Who evertold you that life is fair?" she asked. "Certainly not a nawy,nor an upstairs maid, nor a poor man trying to feedhis family." 
"Nor my da," put in one of the girls. She was paleskinned, sharp nosed,gap toothed, homely to a fault. "He allas said lifewas a crapshoot andall usn's got was snake-eyes." 
"And not my father," said another, a whey-faced,doughyJooking eight-year-old."He usedto always saythatthe world didn'theathim right." "What I mean is that it's not fair that they getto havethe adven­tures and you getto clean the house," Darla explained carefully. 
"Who will clean it if we don't?" Wendy asked. She picked up the mop and handed it backto Darla."Notthem.Not ever. Soif we wantit done,we do it. Fairisnot the matter here." She went back to her place in theline of girls mopping the floor. 
With a sigh that was less a capitulation and more a showof soli­darity with theWendys, Darla picked up her own mop andfollowed. 
When the room was set to rightsagain,the Wendys-with Darla followingclosebehind*tromped into the kitchen, a cheerless, win­dowlessroomthey had obviously tried to make homey. There werelittle stick dollies stuck in every possible niche and hand-painted birch bark sisns on the wall. 
Lost Girls 77 
SMILE,one sign said,You ARE oN CANDIEDCAMEM.And another: wENDYSARE WONDERFUL. 
A third, in very childish script,read: WENDYS AREwtNERs.Darla wonderedidly if that was meant to be wtNNsns or wHINERS,
but she decided notto ask. 
Depressingas the kitchen was, it wasredolentwith bakery smells thatseemed to dissipatethe effectof a prison. Darla sighed,remember­ing her own kitchen at home, with the windows overlooking her mother's herb garden and the rockery where four kinds of heather flow­ered till the first snows of winter. 
The girls all sat down-on the floor, on thetable,in little bumpy, woodyniches.There were only two chairs in the kitchen, a tatty over­stuffed chair whose gold brocaded covering hadseenmuch better days, and a rocker. The rocker was taken by the oldestWendy; the other chair remainedempty. 
At last, seeing that no one else was going to claim the stuffed chair, Darla sat down on it, and a collective gasp went up from the girls. 
"Att Peter'schair," the littlest onefinally volunteered. 
"Well, Peter'snot here to siton it," Darla said. But she did not relax backagainstthecushion,justin case he should suddenlyappear. 
"l'm hungry, Wendy," said one of the girls, who had two gold braids down to her waist. "lsn'tthereanythingleft to eat?" She addressed the girl in the rocker. 
"Youarealwayshungry, Madja," Wendy said. But she smiled, and it was a smile of such sweetness, remindedof her 
Darlawasimmediately mom, in the days before the divorce and her dad's newwife. 
"Soyoudo have names, and not justWendy,"Darlasaid. 
They looked at her as if shewere stupid. 
"Of course we have names," saidthe girl in the rocker. "I'm the only one truly namedWendy.But I'vebeen here from the first. Sothat's what Peter callsusall. That's Madja,"she said, pointing to the girl with the braids."And that's Lizzy." The youngestgirl. "And that's Martha, Pansy,Nina, Nancy, Heidi, Betsy, Maddy,foAnne,Shula,Annie,Corrie, Barbara.. ." She went around the circle of girls. 
Darla interrupted. "Then why doesn't Peter- " 
"Becausehe can't be bothered remembering," said Wbndy. "And we can't be bothered remindinghim." 
'And itt all right," said Madja. He hassomuch else to worry about. Like -" 78 Nebula 2000
AwardsShowcase 
"Him!" They all breathedthe word together quietly,as if sayingit aloudwould summon the horror to them. 
"Him?Youmean Hook, don't you?" asked Darla. "CaptainHook." 
The look they gave her was compounded of anger and alarm. Little Lizzy pul her handsover her mouth as if she had said the name herself. 
"Well, isn'tit?" 
"Youare an extremely stupidgirl," saidWendy.'As well as a dan­gerous one." Then she smiled again-that luminous smile-at all the other girls, excluding Darla, asif Wendy had not justsaidsomethingthat 
was both rude and horrible. "No., darlings, how many of you are as hungry as Madja?" One by one, the hands went :up,Lizzy's first.Only Darla kept her handdown and hereyesdownas well. "Not hungry in the slightest?" Wendy asked, and everyone went silent. Darla felt forced to look up and saw that Wendy's eyes were staring ather, glittering strangely in the candlelight. 
It was too much. Darla shivered and then, all of a sudden, she wantedto get back at Wendy,who seemedasmuch of a bully as Peter, only in a softer,sneakier way. But how to do it? lnd then she recalled how her mom saidthattelling a story in a very quiet voice always made a jury lean forward to concentrate that much more. Maybe, Darla thought,I could try that. 
"l remember. . ." Darla began quietly.". . .I remember a story my mom read to me about a Greek girl who was stolen away by the king of the underworld. He tricked her into eating sixseedsandso she had to re­main in the underworld six months of every yearbecause of them." 
The girls had all gone quiet and were clearly listening. It works! Darla thought. 
"Don't be dhft," Wendy said, her voice loud with authority. 
"But Wendy,I remember that story, too," said the whey-faced girl, Nancy,in akind of whisper, as if by speaking quietly she couldlater deny havingsaid anything at all. 
"AndI," put in Madja, in a similarly whisperyvoice. 
"And the fairies," said Lizzy. She wasmuch too young to worry aboutloud or soft, so she spokein her normal tone of voice. "lf you eat anythingin theirhall, my mum allas said. . . you never get to go home again.Not ever. I miss my mum." Quite suddenlyshebegan to cry. 
Lost Girls 79 
"Now seewhatyou've gone," said Wendy, standingand stamping her foot. Darlawas shocked. She'dnever seen anyoneoverfouryears old do sucha thing. "They'll all be blubbingno1l,,rememberingtheir folks, eventhe oneswho'd been badly beaten at home or worse. And not a stickybun leftto comfort them with. You-girl-oughtto be ashamed!" 
"Well, it isn't myfault!" said Darla,loudly, but she stood,too' The thought of Wendy towering overher iust now madeher feel edgyand evena bit afraid."And my name isn'tgirl.l* Darlal" They glared at one another. fustthen there was a brilliant whistle. A flash of light circled the kitchenlike a demented firefly. "It'sTinkl" Lizzy cried, clappingher hands together. It,S thesignal.'Larm!'Larm!" "Come on, you lot," Wendycried."Places,all." She hrrned her backto Darla, grabbed up a soup ladle,andran out of the room. Each of the girls pickedup one of the kitchenimplementsandfol­lowed. Not to be left behind,Darla pounced on the only thing left,a pair of silver sugar tongs, andpounded out after them. They didn't go [ar, justto the main room again. There theystood silentguardover the bolt-holes. After a while notquite fifteen minutes, 
-Darla guessed-Tink flutteredin with a moremelodicall clear and the boys slowly slid back downinto the room. Peterwas the lastto arrive. "Oh, Peter, we were so worried," Wendy said. The other girls crowded around. "We were scared silly," Madja added. "Weepers!"criedNancy. "Kneesall knocking," added )oAnne. "Oh, this is really foo stupid for wordsl" Darla said. "All we did was stand around with kitchen tools. Was I supposed to brain a piratewith these?"Sheheld out the sugar tongs as she spoke. The hush that followed her outcry was enormous. Without an­other word, Peterdisappearedback into the dark. One by one,the [,ost Boys followed him. Tink was the last to go, fickering outlikea candle in the wind. "Now," said Madja with a pout, "we won't even get to hearabout the fight. And it'sthe verybestpartof being a Wendy." Darla stared at the girls for a long moment. "What you all need," 
AwardsShowcase 
shesaidgrimly,"isabackbonehansplant." And when no one responded, she added, "lt's clearthe Wendys need to go out on strike."Being the daughter ofa laborlawyerhad its advantages.Sheknewall about shikes. 
"What theWendys need," Wendv responded sternly,"isto give the cupboardsa good shaking-out." Shepattedher hair down and looked daggersat Darla."But first,cupsof tea all 'round."Turning on her heel, shestarted back toward the kitchen. Only four girls remained behind. 
LittleLizzy crept over to Darla's side."Whatt astrike?" she asked. 
"Workstoppage,"Darla said. "Signsandlines." 
Nancy,Martha, and |oAnne,who had also stayedto listen,looked equallypuzzled. 
"Signs?"Nancy said. 
"Lines?")oAnnesaid. 
"Hello. . ." Darla couldn't help the exasperationin her voice' "Whatyear do youall live in? I mean,haven'tyoueverheardof strikes? WatchedCNN? Enduredsocialstudies?" 
"Nineteenfourteen,"saidMartha. 
"Nineteenthirty-three,"saidNancy. 
"Nineteenseventy-two,"said|oAnne. 
"Do youmeanto say thatnone of youare. . ." Darla couldn't think 
of whatto call it, so addedlamely,"new?" 
Lizzy slipped her hand into Darla's."You are the onliest new 
Wendywe'vehad in years." 
"Oh," Darlasaid."I guessthat explains it'" But she wasn't sure' 
"Explainswhat?"they asked.BeforeDarla could answer' Wendy 
calledfrom thekitchendoorway,"Areyoulot coming? Tea'son." she did 
notsoundasif shewereincludingDarlain the invitation' 
Marthascurriedto wendyt side,but NancyandfoAnnehesitated 
a momentbeforeioining her. That left only Lizzy with Darla' 'ines?I be a "Can I help?" Lizzy asked'"For the signs.And the 
goodworker.EvenWendysaYSso." 
"You'remy only. . ." Darlasaid,smilingdownather and givingher 
little hand a squeeze."My onliestworker.Still, asmy mom alwayssays, 
Startwith one,you'rehalfwaydone'" 
Lizzy repeatedthe rhyme."Start with one,you'rehalfwaydone' 
Startwith one.. ." 
"fustrememberit. No need to sayit aloud," Darlasaid' 
Lost Girls 81 
Lizzy looked up at her, eyes like sky-blue marbles."But I 'ike the waythat poem sounds." 
"Then 'ike it quietly. We havea long wayto go yet before we're ready for any chants." Darla went into the kitchen hand-in-handwith Lizzy,whoskippedbesideher, mouthing the words silently. 
Fourteen Wendys stared atthem. Not a one was smiling. Each had ateacup unmatched, chipped, or cracked in her hand. 
'A long way to go where?" Wendy asked in a chilly voice. 
'A long way before you can be free of this yoke of oppression," said Darla.Yokeof oppression wasa favorite expression of her mothert. "We are not yoked," Wendysaid slowly. "Andweare not oppressed." "What'so-ppressed?"asked Lizzy. "Made to do what you don't want to do," explained Darla,but she 
never took her eyes offof Wendy."Tleatedharshly. Ruled unjustly. Gov­erned with cruelty." Those were the three definitions she'd had to mem­orize for her last social studies exam. She never thought she'd ever actually get to use them in the real world. If she thought suddenly, fhrs world is real. 
"No one heats usharshlyor rules us unjustly. And the only cruel ones in Neverland are the pirates," Wbndy explained carefully, asif talk­ing to someone feeblemindedor slow. 
None of the other Wendys said a word. Most of them staredinto their cups, a little-Darla thought-Iike the way I always stare down at nry shoes whenMom or Dad wantsto talk about something that hurts. 
Lizzy pulledher hand from Darla's. "l think it harsh that we always haveto clean up after the boys." Her voice was tiny but still it carried. 'And 
unjust," someone put in. "Who saidthat?"Wendy demanded,staringaround the table. "Who dares lo say that Peterisunjust?" Darla pursed her lips, wonderinghow her mom would answer such a question. She was about to lean forward to say something when JoAnnestood in a rush. 
"I said it. And it is unjust. I came to Neverland to get away from that sort of thing. Well. . . and to get awayfrom my stepfather,too," she said. "I mean, I don't mind cleaning up my own mess.And even someoneelse's, occasionally. But. . ." She sat down as quickly as she AwardsShowcase 
hadstood,lookingaccusinglyinto her cup,asifthe cup had spoken and not she. 
"WeII!" Wendy said, sounding so much like Darla's home ec teacherthatDarlahad to laugh out loud. 
As if the laughfreed them, the girls suddenlystooduP one afteran­other,voicing complaints. And aseachonerose,little Lizzy clappedher handsand skipped aroundthe table, chanting,"Startwith one, you're 
halfwaydone!Startwith one, you'rehalfwaydone!" Darladidn't say a wordmore. She didn't haveto' She iustlistened asthe first trickle of angry voicesbecameastreamand the stream turned into a flood.The girls spokeof the boys' messand being underappreci­
atedandwantinga larger share of thefood.They spokeaboutneedingto go outsideeveryoncein a while. They spokeof longingfor new stock­ings and abathingroom all to themselves, not one shared with the boys, who left rings around the tub and dirty underweareverywhere.They spokeof the long hours and the lack of fresh air, and Barbarasaid they reallycould useeveryother Saturdayoff, at least.It seemedonce 
theystartedcomplainingtheycouldn'tstop. 
Darla'smom would have understood whathad iusthappened,but 
Darla was clearly asstunnedasWendyby the rush of demands'They staredat one another,almostlike comrades. The othergirlskepton for long minutes,eachonestumblingover the nextto be heard,until the room positivelyrockedwith complaints. 
And then,as suddenly as they hadbegun,theystopped'Redfaced,they 
all satdown again,exceptforLizzy,who still caperedaroundthe room, 
but now did itwordlesslY. 
Into the suddensilence,Wendy rose'"How could you' ' '," she 
began.Sheleanedoverthe table,clutchingthe top, her entirebody 
trembling."Afterall Peterhas done for you, takingyou in when no one 
else wanted you, when you had been tossedasideby the world, when 
you'dbeencrushedandcorruptedandcanceled'How couldyort?" 
Lizzy stoppedskippingin front of Darla. "ls it time for signs and 
'inesnow?'sheasked,hermarble-blueeyeswide' 
Darlacouldn'thelp it. She laughedagain.Then sheheld outher 
armsto Lizzy, tvhocuddledright in. "Time indeed,"Darla said.she 
lookedup at wendy. "Like it or not, Miss Management,the Lost Girls 
are going out on strike." 
Lost Girts 83 
Wendysatin her rocker, arms folded,a scowl on her face. She looked like a four-year-oldhaving a temper tantrum. But of course it was somethingworsethanthat. 
The girls ignored her. They threw themselves into making signs with a kind of manic enerS/and in about an hour they had a whole range of them, using the backs of their old signs, pages torn from cook­books,and flattened four bags. 
WENDYSWON'TWORK,one read. ESUAL Pt"{YFOREQUALWORK, went another. My NAME'S Nor wENDy! said a third, andpRssHAIRIS oNLY pRIRa fourth.Lizzy's sign was decorated with stickfigures carrying what Darla took to be swords, or maybe wands. Lizzyhad spelled out-or rather misspelled out-what became the girls' marching words:wE AIN'T LOST,WE,REJUSTMIZ.PI.{YST. 
It turned out that foAnnewas musical. She made up lyricsto the tune of "YankeeDoodle Dandy" andtaught them to the others: 
Weain't lost, we'reiustmisplaced, 
Theoutsidefoewe'venewrfaced. 
Giveus a chance to fight and win 
Andwe'II be sure to keep Neverland neatasa pin. 
The girlsargued for a while over that last line, which Betsysaid had too manysyllables and the wrong sentiment, until Madia suggested,rather timidly, that if they actually wanteda chance to fight the pirates, maybe theboys should take a turn at cleaning the house. "Fair'sfair,"she added. 
That got a cheer."Fair'sfair," they told one another, and Patsy scrawled that sentimenton yet anothersign. The cheer caused Wendy to get up grumpily from her chair and 
leavethe kitchen in a snit.She must havecalled for the boys then, be­cause no sooner had thegirlsdecidedon an amended line (whichstill had too manysyllablesbut felt right otherwise)­
And you can keep Neverland neatasa pin! 
-than 
the boys could be heard comingback noisily into the dining room. They shoutedand whistledand banged their fistson the table, calling out for the girls and for food. Tinkt high-pitched cry overuode the noise,piercingthe air. The girls managed to ignore it all until Peter suddenlyappeared in the kitchen doorway. 
"What'sthisI hear?" he said, smilingslightly to show he was more 
amusedthanangry.somehowthatonly madehisfaceseembothsinister anduntrustworthy. 
But hisappearancein the doorway waselectrifying.Fora moment not one of the girls could speak.It was as if they had all taken a collec­
tive breathand were waiting to see which of them had the courageto breatheout first. Then Lizzy held up her "We're going on shesaid brightly.'i{nd 
what, little Wendy, is that?" Peter asked, leaning forward and speakingin the kind of voice grown-upsuse with children. He pointed at hersign."ls it. . ." he said slyly,"likea thimble?" 
"SillyPeter,"saidLizzy,"it'ssigns and'ines." 
"I seethe signs,all right," said Peter. "But what do they mean? WENDYS Why, Neverland counts on Wendys working. And 
woN'TWORK. I count on it, too. You Wendys are the most important part of what we have made here." 
"Oh," said Lizzy, turningto Darla, her face shining with pleasure. "We'rethe mostest important. . ." 
Darla sighed heavily. "If you aresoimporlant,Lizzy,why can't he rememberyour name? If you're so important, why do you have all the work and none of the fun?" 
"Right!" cried |oAnne suddenly,and immediately burst into her song. It was picked up at once by the othergirls.Lizzy, caughtup in the music, began to march in time all aroundthe table with her sign.The others, still singing, fell in line behindher, They marched once around the kitchen and then right out into the dining room. Darla was at the rear. 
At firsttheLost Boys were stunned at the sight of the girls and their signs.Then they,too, got caught up in the song and began to pound their hands on the tablein rhythm. 
Tink flew around and around Wendy's head, flickering on and off and on angrily, lookingfor all the world like an electric hair-cutting ma­chine. Peter glared at them all until he suddenlyseemed to come to someconclusion.Then he leaped onto the dining room table,threw backhishead,and crowed loudly. 
At that everyone went dead silent. EvenTink. Peterlet the silence prolongitselfuntil it was almost painful. At last he turnedand addressed Darla and, through her,all the girls. "What is 
Lost Girls 85 
it you want?"he asked."What is it youtruly want? Becauseyou'd better be careful what you ask for. In Neverland wishes are granted in very strangeways." 
"lt's not," Darla said carefully, "what I want. It's what they want." 
In a tight voice, Wendy cried out, "They neverwanted for any­thing until she came, Peter. They never needed or asked. . ." 
"What we want. . ." foAnneinterrupted,"isto be equals." 
Peterwheeled about on the table and stared down at foAnne and she, poor thing, hrrned gray under his gaze. "No oneisaskingyou,"he saidpointedly. 
"We want to be equalsl"Lizzy shouted. "To the boys. To Peter!" 
The damburst again, and the girls began shoutingand singing and crying and laughing all together. "Equal.. . equal. . . equal. . ." Eventheboystook it up. Tink fickered frantically,then took off up one of the bolt-holes, 
emerging almost immediately down another, her piercing alarm signal soloud that everyone stopped chanting, except for Lizzy, whose little voice only trailed offafter a bit. 
"So,"said Peter, "youwant equal share in the fighting? Then here's yourchance." Tink's light was sputtering with excitement andshe whistled non­stop. 
"Tink saysHook's entire crew is out there, waiting. And, boy! are they angry. You want to fight them? Then go ahead." He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his face away fromthe girls. "l won't stop you." 
No longer graybut nowpink with excitement, foAnnegrabbedup aknife from the nearest LostBoy."I'm not afraid!" she said. She headed up oneof the bolt-holes. 
Weaponless,Barbara, Pansy, and Betsy followed right after. "But that'snot what I meant them to do," Darla said. "l mean, weren't we supposedto work out some sort of compromise?" 
Peter turned back slowly and lookedat Darla, his facestern and unforgiving."I'm Peter Pan. I don't have to compromise in Neverland." Wendyreachedup to help him offthe tabletop. 
The othergirls had already scattered up the holes, and onlyLizzy was left. And Darla. "fue you coming to the fight?" Lizzy askedDarla,holdingout her hand. 
Darla gulped and nodded. They walkedto the bolt-hole hand-in­
hand. Darla wasn't surewhat to expect, but they began risingup asif in somesort of air elevator.Behind them one of the boys waswhining to Peter,"But what are we going to do without them?" 
The last thing Darla heardPetersay was "Don't worry. There are alwaysmore Wendys wherethey came from." 
The air outside was crisp and autumny and smelled of apples. There was a full moon,orangeand huge. Harvestmoon,Darlathought, whichwas odd since it had been spring in her bedroom. 
Ahead she saw the other girls. And the pirates. Or at leastshesaw their silhouettes. It obviously hadn't beenmuchof a fight. The smallest of the girls-Martha, Nina, andHeidi-were alreadycapturedand rid­ing atop their captors' shoulders. The others, with the exception of foAnne,were being carried off fireman-style. foAnnestill had her knife and she was standingoff one of the largest of the men; shegot in one goodswipe before being disarmed, and lifted up. 
Darlawasjustdigesting this when Lizzy was pulled from her. 
"Up yougo, little darlin'," camea deep voice. 
Lizzyscreamed."Wendy!Wendy!" 
Darla had no time to answer her before she, too,was gathered up in enormousarmsand carted off. 
In less time than it takes to tell of it, they were through the woods and over a shingle, dumped into boats, and rowed outto thepirate ship. There they werehauled up byropesand-exceptfor Betsy,who struggled sohardshe landed in the water and had to be fishedout,wrungout, and then hauled up again it was a silent and well-practiced operation.
-The girls stood in a huddle on the well-lit deck and awaited their fate.Darla was glad no one said anything. She felt awful. She hadn't meant them to cometo this. Peter had beenright.Wishesin Neverland were dangerous. "Here comethe captains,"said one of the pirates. It was the first thing anyone had said since the capture. He must mean captain, singular, thought Darla. But when she heard footsteps nearingthem and dared to look up, therewere,indeed, two figurescoming forward. One was an old man about her grand­father'sage,his white hair in two braids, a three-cornered hat on his 
Lost Girls 87 
head.Shelooked for the infamous hook but he had two resular hands, though the rightone was clutching a pen. 
The other captain was. . . a woman. 
"Welcometo Hook's ship,"the woman said. "l'm Mrs.Hook. Also known as Mother fane.Also known asPirateLil. AlsocalledThe Pirate Queen.We've been hoping we could getyou away from Peterfor a very long time." She shook hands with each of the girls and gaveLizzyahug. 
"l needto get to the doctor,ma'am,"said one of the pirates. "That little girl . . ." he pointed to foAnne". . . gaveme quite a slice." 
foAnneblanchedand shrank back into herself. 
But CaptainHookonlylaughed. It wasa hearty laugh, full of good humor."Goodfor her. You'regetting careless in yourold age, Smee," he said."Stitcheswill remind you to stay alert. Peter would have got your throat, and even here on the boat that could take a long while to heal." 
"Now,"said Mrs. Hook, "itt time for a good meal. Pizza,I think. With plenty of veggies on top. Peppers, mushrooms, carrots, onions. But no anchovies.I have never understoodwhy anyone wants a hairyfish on Iop of pizza." 
"What'spizzaT"asked Lizzy. 
"Ah. .. somethingyou will love, my dear," answered Mrs. Hook. "Things never do change in Peter's Neverland, but up here on Hook's ship we movewith the times." 
"Who will do the dishesafter?" asked Betsycautiously. 
The crewrustledbehindthem. 
"l'm on dishesthisweek," said one, a burly, ugly man with a black 
eyepatch.'And I," said another. She was as big astheugly man, but attractive in a roughsort of way. 
"There'sa duty roster on the wall by the galley," explained'Mrs. Hook."That'sship talk for the kitchen. You'll get used to it. We all take tums, A pirate shipisa very democraticplace." 
"What'sdemo-rat-ic?"asked Lizzy. 
They all laughed."Youwill havea long time to learn," said Mrs. Hook. "Time moves more swiftly herethan in the shrffy confines of a Neverlandtree.But not so swiftly as out in the world. Now let's have that pizza, a hot bath, and a bedtimestory, and thentomorrowwe'll try and answeryourquestions." 
AwardsShowcase 
The girls cheered, |oAnneloudestof them all. "l am hungry," Lizzy added, as if that were all the answer Mrs. Hook needed. "But I'm not," Darla said. "AndI don't want to stay here. Not in Neverlandor on Hookt ship. I want to go home." Captain Hook cameover and put his good handunder her chin. Gently he lifted herface into thelight."Fatherbeatyou?" he asked. 
"Never,"Darla said. 
"Motherdesertyou?" he asked. 
"Fatchance," said Darla. 
"Starving?Miserable?Alone?" 
"No.And no. And no." 
Hook turned to hiswife and shrugged. Sheshruggedback, then asked,"Everihink that the world was unfair, child?" "Who hasn't?" asked Darla, and Mrs. Hook smiled. "Thinking it and meaningit are two very differentthings," Mrs. 
Hook said at last. "l expectyou must have beenaw4ully convincing to havelandedat Peter'sdoor. Never mind, have pizza wilh us, and then you can go. I want to hearthe latest from outside,anylvay. You never knowwhat we mightfind useful. Pizzawas the last really useful thing we learned from one of the girls we snagged before Peter found her. And that-l can tell you-has been a majorsuccess." 
"Can'tI gohome with Darla?" Lizzy asked. Mrs. Hook knelt down iill she and Lizzy were face-to-face."l am afraid that would make for an awfullot of awkward questions,"she said. Lizzy'sblue eyesfilled up with tears. 
'Awkward
"My mom is a lawyer,"Darla put in quickly. questions are her specialty." 
The pizza wasgreat,with a crust that was thin and delicious. And whenDarlaawoketo the ticking of thegrandfatherclock on the hall and thesound of the maple branch scritch-scratchingasainst 
the clapboard sid­ing, the taste of the pizzawas still in her mouth.Shefelt a lump at her feet, raisedup,andsawLizzy fast asleep underthe covers at the footof the bed. 
"l sure hope Mom is as goodas I think she is,"Darla whispered. Becausethere was no goingback on this one -fair, unfair, or anywhere in between. 


Thirteen Ways to Water 
BRUCEHOLLANDROGERS 
BruceHolland Rogers haspubtishedbothpopularandliterary fiction, inctuding sciencefiction, fantasy and horror stories, mystery,and romance fiction.In atlhe has sotdmorethan sev­enty short stories. Rogershaspublishedtwopoetrychapbooks: Breathingin the U/orld (Phase& Cycle Press) and Tales ondDec-Iarotions(TroutCreekPress/DogRiverReview). 
Rogerswon the Nebuta for Best Novelette of 1996 for "Lifeboaton a Burning Sea" and a second Nebulafor this tale. Hewas a 7994 nominee for the Edgar Allan Poe Award for his mysterystory,"Enduringas Dust." In 1989 he won first prizein the Writers of the FutureContest for his dark fantasy story, 'A Branchin the Wind." 
Rogersholdsan M.A. in Engtishtiteraturefromthe Univer­sity of Cotorado. Afterhe finished hisdegree,hestayedonfor four yearsto teach ctasses in American literature, creative writing,sciencefiction,andcottegecomposition.He and his wife, Hotly Arrow now livein Eugene,Oregon,where she is a psychotogyprofessorat the University of 0regon and he de­votes his energiesfutttime to writing. He sometimesteaches seminarsin creativityand conducts privatefiction-writingwork­shops. 
1.With Btood 
When fack Salterwas seventeen, two other guys held his arms while Bull Wilsonpunchedhis face. Three times. Hard. 
"You stay away from Diane," Bull said."Don't eventalk to her." 
Later, on the riverbank,fack washedthe blood from his face and thought,I'll neverforgetthis.I will neverforgive. 

2. BecauseSheAsks IIim To 
When Diane Wilson comes to |ack this time, it isn't out of the mistsof fantasy. She comes in a BMW, and she'sher real self,a woman almost fifty. 
He'ssitting under the overhang of histin roof whenshedrives up. The blue Beemer looks shange on the gravel road that generallysees WV bugsor beat-up Hondas or more often no haffic at all. Diane wears a suit and jacket.Shegoesfrom crisp to wilted the minute she gets out of the car's air-conditioning.He puts his book down but doesn't stand. 
"lack)'shesays. He nods but can think of nothingto say that won't seem like a for­mula. Not, This is a surprise. Not, How've you been? The silence gows between them. He thinksit is shangeathisage to feel this sort of awkwardness. 
At lastshe tells him, "l need your help,fack'" 
"My help,"hesays.
'Actually,"she says, "Bull needs your help." 
He could laugh then. He could shake hishead. He could say, The son of a bitchyou maniedneeds my help? Br:/.instead he folds his hands and says, "Tell me." 
"He's down by the river," she says. "He's been there for days. I looked and looked, and when I found him, he told me it wasfor the 
water. So he could drown." 
"I don't understand,"|acksays. 
"I don'teither." She begins to cry. 
He doesn'tstand up, go to her, embrace her. He letsher stand 
there, wet-faced, hugging herself, shaking, until she is finished. She 
opensherpurse and takes out a tissue. 
"Why don'tyou call thepolice?" 
Thirteen Ways to l,Vater 9t 
"l guess you won't do it," she says. 
"l didn't saythat." 
"lf I call the police, they'll hospitalize him. We've beenthrough 
that once. The doctors can't do anything for him. The headaches come 
rightback, and he hates me for doing that, for handing him over like that 
asif he d done something." 
"Whatheadaches?" 
She tells him, then, about the cluster headaches, a dozen attacks somedaysthat make Bull Wilson stalk the floor, wail, beat his fists againsthisheador his head againstthewall. Like fire in his head, likea blade in his skull boring in, digging andscraping. 
Like guilt. 
No, not guilt. Bull Wilsonwouldnever feel guilty. 
)acksays,"Why me?" 
"He talksaboutthe war. Not to me. But to men-his friendsor evenstrangerswho find him there by the river. He tells his war stories. And you werethere." 
'A 
lot of men in town were there." "Butyou. . . I iusthavethisfeelingabout you. About the kind of per­son you are.Bull'sfriendscan'thelp him. They don't know what to do."
'i{nd I will?" 
She looks at him long and hard. "Maybe." 
facknodsthen.He wonders if she knows whathedid in the war, if she knows that she is askinghim to do it again, thirty yearslater.Al­thoughthiswon'tbe the same.This will be altogether different,if he can do it atall. He says,"I'll hy." 
3. Underthe Gottonwoods 
He finds Bull Wilson justwhere Diane says he'll be, crouched among the blackberrybramblesalong the riverbank,in the shadeof blackcottonwoods. 
Bull still wears his tie, hasn'teven loosened it, but three nightsof 
sleepingbeside the willamette haveleftmudstainson his suit. His hair isa mess. Bull'seyesare red. Veinsshow on hisblisterednose. 
Evenso,when fack makeshis waythrough the poisonoak,Bull 
AwardsShowcase 
meetshim with a blue gaze sosteady that |ackthinksfor a moment that thiswill be easy, thathe'll justsay,asif they wereold friends, Come on, Bull.I*t's go home, and reclaim him. 
But the gazeis more thansteady.Bull stares. He staresbeyondlack. If he knowswhofackis, he gives no sign. A thin chain is wrappedaroundBull's hand like a rosary. A fifty-calibershell dangles fromtheend. 
"Hey,Bull,"facksays. 
"Ghosts,"Bull whispers.Then he says,"Theywon'tleaveme." He poundshisforehead with his fist and shouts, "Theywon't fucking stop!" He grimaces,keeps hitting himself. 
|acksits down, not tooclose, and watchesthe green churn of the Willamette,waitsfor Bull's headache to pass.He waits for Bull to say the nextthing he will say. 

4. Downhill 
When |ackSalterwasa boy, hisfathershowedhim the mountains' They hikedthe rain-soakedSiskiyous,the big timber of the Cascades, thescrubbySheepshead
Mountains.Andhisfathertaughthim that if he waslost, he should gothe way that water goes.He shouldfollow a slope to a stream,follow the stream to a river,follow the riverto safety. 
5. lethe 
They werefar north of theDMZ, twofolly GreenGiantshovering 
abovethe treetops. They'dhadto waitfor their Skyraiderescortto fly up 
from Da Nang. That gave the NVA time to locatethe pilot, set a trap' 
As the Skyraiders circled,fackrode the cabledown,foundhis man 
in the underbrush,loadedhim onto the litter. when the two of them 
reachedthehelicopterdoorway,the enemy openedup.A rocket seemed 
to pass harmlesslythrough the rotors,but heary rounds clapped the 
armor,or pierced it. The folly Greenstartedto pitch androck.As she 
climbedaway,shewasburning.fackstrappedaparachuteon his injured 
man.donnedonehimself. 
ThirteenVfaysto Water 93 
When thehelicopter exploded, the blast threwfackout the open 
door.His parachute openedjustabove the trees. 
fack'searswereringingsobadly that when the Pf for the otherfolly 
Green came down to gethim, he couldn't hear what the man wassay­
ing, could barely hear the thunderingof the engines when the second 
birdhoistedhim up, carried him away. 
His crewmates were gone, alongwith the man they'd come for. 
Quick as that. 
When his headcleared,he thought, I can forgiveanything.I can 
forgetanything. 

6.Underthe Futl Moon 
The Willamettehas rolled on for a few minutes, and Bull hasn't spoken again. But now he says,"The first action I saw was on the night of a full moon." He lets that sentence rest."Wewentout on an ambush. 
The dikes of the ricepaddy were slippery. We were careful, trying not to falldown.Quiet." Bull watchesthe river,but fackthinkshe must be seeingsome­thingelse. 
"We walkedthroughthevillage. Eyes on us. I felt them.Nowand 
then, the moon appeared in the rice paddies.The sergeantwith the 'There!'And
starlightscopesaid,realsoft, hespreadus out. These guys were walking right towardus, toward the village, and when the sergeant popped offthe first rounds, therestof us joinedin." 
Bull falls silent.|ack waits.And goeson waitinguntil Bull says, "We went forward. Twobodies,anda third guy,shotup, who beggedfor 
hislife. The sergeantsaid no dice.He said, You."' 
Bull tapshischest."l dida fucking goodjob.Had to wraphim like meatto take back. We always had to take them back unless we had the lieutenant.Only officerscouldconfirm.Carryinghim back, I felt him 
Bull shakesthe chain, thedangling cartridge. 
"ln here.Therewasmudon my boots fromthe paddies. I cleaned it off, put it in here.Mud from theplacewhereit happened wouldkeep him from following me, would keep him out of my dreams. And it 
AwardsShowcase94 Nebula 2000 
worked.It worked like a charm.After every ambush, everyfirefight, I would scrape a little mud,andthey couldn't comeafter me." 

7.Names 
fack'sfathertaught him to fish. By the time he wasfourteen,fack had taken trout out of the Rogue Riverand steelhead from the Umpqua; he'd stood hipdeep in the Deschutes, fished the fohn Dayin the shadow of the Umatilla Mountains.Every kid in his class knew where the Co' lumbia was, knew the Willamette flowedthrough their town, but fack 
knew Bully Creek, the Sprague,Crookedfuver,and the Applegate.He 
could drawthem from memory, and heknew how it was to standin their 
waters. 
Namingtherivers was the first thing. Secondwas naming therocks they flowedover:granite, schist, basalt.Then he learnedthe namesof the birds that shared the riverwith him: osPrey,green heron, greatblue. 
He learned the differences betweenpine and fir, hemlockand spruce, 
could tell the Scouler willowapartfromthe Mackenzie willow. 
Nameswerepowerful,like incantations. He'd tried using them to 
weavea spell around Diane Dailey,teachingher, in walks alongthe 
river, the names of things she'd grownup never reallyseeingbecauseshe 
didn't have the names. 
Names were so important that when the C-r3o flying him to 
QuangTii came underfire,thedull dread ofhistrainingfoundits focus: 
He hadn't been in the country for two days,and PeoPleweretrying to 
kill him. He was lost.He knew thenamesof nothing. 
On his first mission, sianding in the helicopter doorway,he 
watchedrivers pass below. But which rivers? He looked out at the iungle, 
andthe only namehe had wasgreen-
He knew that he'd never find his wayhomeif he didn't know where 
he was. He studied themapin the briefing room,leamedthe shapes and 
namesof the Cam Lo River, the Ia Drang,the Mekong,andthe Ma' As 
for the jungle,no one on base could tell him the names of anythingbut bamboo.He bought booksby mail order, felt exposeduntil they came, and at lastbeganto learn: Mangrove. Rubber ttee. Banyan.Stranglerfig' He learned the difference betweenbambooandTonkin cane' 
Thirteen Ways to Water 95 
Knowingthe names was protection. When the cable lowered him into the iungle to find an iniured pilot, he'd look on the way down for somethinghe knew the name ofi Blackleaf.Scarlet banana. And some­times he'd see, coiled in the branches and staring at him asif it knew his 
name,a reticulatedpython. 
He would get home. 

8. Thunderfor Rainfatt 
Everymanwho camehomedifferentwasdifferentin his own way. 
fack tradedthe thunder of the helicopter's twin engines for the 
soundof rain rattling a tin roof. It was not sodifferentfrom where he 
might have ended up without the war, except that the spruce and pine, 
the fir and hemlock of home meantmore to him now, were more pre­
cious.He couldn't live in town orwork in town,but neededhissolitude. 
He spent most of his iime reading or looking acrossthevaleat a standof 
Douglasfir and the crows that glided over.When he needed work, he 
did oddiobs. 
Bull came home hungry,haded the jungle rainsfor the roar of 
chain saws.It was not sodifferentfrom wherehe might have ended up 
without the war, except that he was harder now, more aggressive.One 
summer,he supervised the crews thatclear-cutthatstandof Douglas fir. 

9. In a Boat 
"It wasthe monsoon," Bull says."No wayto get anywherebut boat or helicopter, sotheysentus up this river in flatbedboats,
onesquad to a boat.All charlie neededwaspatience.The ambushthat got us was from both banksof the river.And they had snipersin the trees. 
"I triedto get my rifle up,startreturningfirelike weweresupposed to do in an ambush. But I noticedthattwo guys in my squadweredead,'shit.
andthething I kept thinking was, Howam I goingto getdirt out of a fucking river?'Becauseit wasn'tjusttheenemydead.your own dead would follow you if theycould." fackwaits,then asks,"What did you do?" 
AwardsShowcase96 Nebula 2000 
'As 
soon as wewere clear, I took offmy helmet anddipped it in the river.The corporalin our boat says, 'Whatthe fuck?' But I had it. Muddy 
water. I didn't needa lot. When the lining dried, I scraped it for a few flakes." 
He shakesthe cartridge again. 
"I keptthem here, and they left me alone. Foryears.For years! But now it's wearing off. I gettheseheadaches.They want me dead. And deadisbetterthan the headaches." 
"How do you know itt theghosts?" 
"Theytell me.I hear them." 
Sofacklistens,but hears only the river. 

10.Shatl We Gatherat the River? 
|ackmettheprotestersdownbytheriver because he didn't wantto make his speech at theaccessgate.They'dbetookeyed up. He wouldn't 
have their attention. 
he said."Notice

"Rememberthat the loggers aren'tour enemies," 
what you're carryingin yourhearts." His beard wasgray.He was, by now, an elder of the movementand could say these things without seemingnaive. ,.These
menhave families. They havechildrento feed. They think of you asthe enemy becausethis is the only life they know' You may think you see only anger.You may hear only angrywords'But they're 
afraid, and they deserve yourcompassion.Evenif they hate you.Evenif 
they do hatefulthings." 
Then he led them backup the slope,ontothe loggingroad,up to 
the gate.As they chainedthemselvesby the wrist or by the neck,he 
pointedout the orangeandyellow chanterelles pushingup through the 
spongysoilin the shadowsof the old-growthDouglasfirs.It was impor­
tant,he said,to know the namesof things. 
Foralong time therewasonly the soundofthe wind in the treetops. 
"Wouldn't it be funny," someonesaid,"if they iust didn't come 
today?" But half an hour later,oneof Bull wilson's loggingcrewsarrived, 
with anescortof state police. 
ThirteenWaysto Water 97 
11.With a Gift 
fackwatchestheriver a moment longer.He gets up. He sits closer 
to Bull.Closer,but still not too close.And hesays,"You'vegot it wrong. 
You'vegot it backward." 
Bull looks at him, seems
to know for thefirsttimewho he is. ..itt
"The mud and dustyou have collectedthere,"facksays, not protection." 
Bull unclencheshis fist, drawsthecariridgeto his palm, considers. 
"The ghostsare in there,"facksays."you broughtthem with you." 
Narrowinghiseyes,Bull says,"Howwouldyou know.,'Now fackis 
surethat Bull recognizeshim, knowswho he is, who he used to be. 
"l know,"facksays."l just do." 
Bull loosenshistie./acktakesthatasa good sign, sayssoftly,,,Let 'em
go." 
so Bull wilson unscrewsthe container,the hollowed-outshell andcasing.A few flakes ofdust fall. 
"Let theriverhavethem,"facksays.He isn'tsurehe's right. In any case,he doesn't expectany immediate sign.But whenBull throwsit all into thewillamette,shell,dus! casing,andchain,]ackfeelssomething 
changein the air,as if the riverhasdrawnabreath. 
The airgets unstable. Lightmoves.Jacksmellsahint of cordite,of 
rottenfish,ofgreendecay.Then hecan see them,in black pajamasand 
uniformsoftheNVA.In u.s. fumy junglefatigues.The outiinesofdead 
men,the barest hintsof memory,standingin theriver. 
Bull seesthem,too.old buddies andold enemies, unreconciled, madeof thirty-year-old fear. 
No othermiraclehappens.|ackdoesn'texpectone,althoughhe feelshe is waitingfor something.The ghostsare waiting, too. 

12.A WomanIs aBodyof Water 
Over the years,
thewomenfackloved,thewomenwho stayed for longeror shortertimesunderhistin roof, wereof a certain ,ori. Th.y still wore tiedyed or grannydresses,
strungtheir own beads.None of themshavedtheirlegs.Theyateorganic,orvegetarian,or vegan. Some 
of them said wildly delusional things about Republicanson one hand and witches on theother. 
On somenights when suchawomansleptbesidehim, or on other nights when |ackslept alone, Diane would come to him. The Diane of seventeen,of the spring of 1968.But she'd bemixedwith the Dianehe hadsometimesseen with her husband at publichearings,a woman still trim, carefully packaged,running a business of her own. Or so he'd guessed.He neverspoketo her. He invented the details he didn't know. 
She would come, this Diane who wasmanyDianes,and offer her 
breaststo his mouth, the curve of her thighs to his hands' He would strokehimself,feeling the crisp sheets of her bed. Hot summernights, he would feelthe breeze ofair-conditioningthatmadeher shiver even as 
his penetrating fingersmadeher arch andmoan. He would glideintoher, filling her, mergingtheriver of his blood with hers. 
Wiping the stickiness from his belly with the sheet, he would al­waysfeel empowered, relieved,ashamed.The fantasyrootedhim in manythingshe wanted to be free of. Revenge. Old injuries.New enmi­
ties. Christ, evenairconditioning. 

13.Mist 
Rain drumssoloud on fack'stin roof that the first signhe has of Dianeis the soundofhercardoor closing. He opens hisdoorbeforeshe can knock. 
she'swearingbluejeansanda sweater, yellowbootssmearedwith 
the mud of his driveway. Shehasleft the carrunning, lightson, wind­
shieldwipersgliding silentlyfrom sideto side."Thank you," shesays. 
"l don'tsupposehe'saltogetherwhole'" 
"Who everis?"Dianelaughs."He'sbetter.He's so much better'" 
The rain lets up a bit and the wipersbegin to squeak'Diane 
watcheshis face,and he watchesher watching.He wantssomething, 
to know that,but hedoesn'thaveanamefor what it is that
andsheseems he wants. As she says,"If there'sanythingI can . ' . ,"facksays,"It bothersme that..." 
ThirteenWaysto Water 99 
Shewaits.He says,"l knowwhoBull is.We'll never be friends,but 
I knowwho he is." He looks at her, dropletsof rain in her hair. "I wantto 
knowwho youare.Who you havebecome." 
..Let's

Shecouldtakethis the wrongway. But shesays, gofora drive.', They follow the rain-slick highwayinto town.facktwicethinra he isaboutto say, I never stoppedwantingyou.He doesn't say it. 
"l groworchids,"Dianetellshim. "lt startedas a hobby whenthe 
girlswerelittle, but it tumed into abusinessbythe time Raewas in high 
school." 
facklaughs. 
"What?"Dianeasks. 
But he onlyshakeshishead. 
Shesays,"Rememberhowyouhied to impress mewith the names of hees?" "I remember." 
Now it'sherturn to besilent,to leave him wondering. Thereis no signon the greenhouse.|ackhasbeenby here before, seenthe glass roofs,and never imaginedthatDianeownedthem.Inside, 
the air is hot and moist.fungle air,but sweeter. Someof the flowersare spottedor shiped.one is patternedwith gold and rust and white. The ornatepetalsremindfackof lace. 
"Fascination,"
shesays."New Moon. Flirtation.peterpan."She catcheshiseye.Sheistryingnot to laugh."Madonna.Dospueblos.vir­giniaNight.Nikki." 
He laughs, andhefollowsheramongthetables,beneaththe lights 
andmistingrods,acceptinghergift. 


FromForeverPeace 
JOEHALDEMAN 
Joe Haldeman burstupon the sciencefictionscenein 1975 with 
a closety observednovelof hard times in an intersteltar war 
of vast proportions,The Forever Wor. It made his reputation, 
wonhimthe Hugo, Nebula,andDitmar awards,
(Austratia) and 
framedhiscentralconcerns.In 1997 he repeatedthissuccess vnth Forever Peacaa thematic sequelsetin 2043. The novel fot­lows"sotdierboys,"
indestructiblewarmachinesrunby remote control by soldierssafety far away. This is a logical extension of current American strategy,
casuatty-minimizing which dimin­ishesdomesticoppositionto foreignengagements
whiterelying on ever-evotvi 
ng technotogy. 
The novel is larger in its concerns thanThe Forever War, rang­ing into theoreticalphysicsand sketching in a thoroughty 
betievabteworldlessthana century hence.Writtenwith Hatde­
man'slaconicgrace,it is thoroughty enjoyabte. 
I have probabtyknown Joe tonger than anyonein the fietd, as he and I werephysicsstudentsat the Universityof 0kl.ahoma together.We never spokeof science and
fictionasI remember, Joe was soon off to MarylandandthenVietnam,wherehe was severelywounded.0nly whitestowtyrecoveringdid he begin Showcase 
writing for publication.His fiction reflects a wry insight into our 
darkerfaces, uncommon
with a shrewdness in fiction; Hatdeman has earned hisviews. 
It was not quite completely dark,thin blue moonlight threading down through the canopy of leaves.And it was never completely quiet. 
A thick twig popped, the noise muffed under a hear,y weight. A malehowlermonkeycame out of his drowse and looked down. Some­thing moved down there, blackon black.He filled his lungs to chal­lengeit. 
Therewasa sound like a pieceof newspaperbeingtorn. The mon­key'smidsection disappeared in a dark spray of blood and shredded or­gans.The bodyfell heavily throughthebranchesin two halves. 
Wouldyou lay off the goddamn monkeys? Shutup! This placeisan ecologicalpreseme.My watch,shut up, Thrget practice. 
Black on black it paused, then slipped through the iungle like a heavysilentreptile.A mancould be standing two yards away and not see it. In infrared it wasn't there. Radarwouldslitheroffits skin. 
It smelledhuman flesh andstopped.The prey maybe thirty meters upwind,a male, rankwith old sweat, garlic on hisbreath.Smellof gun oil and smokeless powder residue. It tested thedirectionofthewind and backtracked,circled around. The man would be watching thepath. So comein from the woods. 
It grabbed the man's neck from behind andpulledhis head offlike anold blossom. The body shudderedandgurgledandcrapped.It eased thebodydownto the ground and set the head between itslegs. 
Nice touch. Thanks. 
It picked up the man's rifle and bent the barrel into a right angle. 
It lay the weapon down quietly andstoodsilentfor several minutes. 
Then threeother shadows came from thewoods,and they all con­vergedon a small woodenhut. The wallswere beatendown aluminum cansnailed to planks; the roof was cheap glued plastic. 
It pulled thedoor offand an inelevant alarm sounded as it switched on a headlight brighterthanthe sun. Six peopleon cots,recoiling. "-Do not resist," it boomed in Spanish. "-You are prisoners 
FromForeverPeace 103 
of war and will be treated according to the terms of the Geneva Con­vention." 
"Mierda.'A man scooped up a shaped charge and threw it at the light. The tearing-paper soundwas softer than the sound of the man's body bursting. A split second later, it swattedthebomblike an insect and the explosion blew down the front wall of the building and flattened all the occupants with concussion. 
The black figureconsideredits left hand. Only the thumb and first finger worked, and the wrist made a noise when it rotated. 
Cood reflexes. Oh, shutup. 
The other three shapes turned on sunlights and pulled off the building'sroof and knocked down the remaining walls. 
The people inside looked dead, bloody and still. The machines began to check them, though,and a young woman suddenlyrolledover and raised thelaser rifle she'd been concealing. Sheaimedit at the one with the broken hand and did manage to raise a puff of smoke from its chest before shewasshredded. 
The one checking the bodieshadn'tevenlookedup."No good," it said.'i{l dead.No tunnels. No exotic weaponsI can find." 
'Well, 
we got some stuff for Unit Eight." They turned off their lightsandsped offsimultaneously, in four different directions. 
The one with the bad hand movedabout a quartermile and stoppedto inspectthedamage with a dim infrared light. It beat the hand against its side a fewtimes.Still, only the two digitsworked. 
Wonderful.We'll have to bring it in. 
Sowhatwouldyou havedone? 
Who'scomplaining? l'll spendpart of my ten in base camp. 
The four of them took four differentroutesto the top of a heeiess hill. They stood in a rowfor a fewseconds,armsupraised,and a cargo helicoptercamein at heetoplevelandsnatchedthem away. Who got the second kill there? thought the one with the broken hand. 
A voice appeared in all four heads."Beruymaninitiated the re­sponse.But Hogarthcommencedfiring beforethe victim was unam­biguously dead. So by the rules, they share the kill." 
The helicopterwith the four soldierboys danglingslippeddown 
Showcase 
the hill and screamed through the night at treetop total dark­ness,east toward friendly Panama. 
I didn't like Scoville having the soldierboy before me. Youhave to monitor the previous mechanic for twenty-fourhours before youtakeit over,to warm up and become sensitive to how ihe soldierboy might have changedsinceyourlast shift. Like losing the use of three fingers. 
When you're in thewarm-upseatyou'reiustwatching;you'renot jackedintotherestof the platoon, which wouldbe hopelessly confusing. Wegoin strictrotation,sotheotherninesoldierboysin theplatoon also have replacements breathingovertheirmechanics'shoulders. 
Youhear about emergencies, wherethe replacementhasto sud­denly take over from the mechanic. It's easy to believe. The lastday wouldbe the worst even without the addedstressof being watched. If you're going to crack or have a heart attack or stroke, it's usually on the tenth day. 
Mechanicsaren'tin any physical danger,deepinside the Opera­
tionsbunkerin Portobello. But our death and disabilityrateis higher 
thanthe regularinfantry.It's not bullets thatgetus,though; if's our own 
brains and veins. 
It would be rough for me or any of my mechanicsto replace peoplein Scoville'splatoon,though.They'rea hunter/killer group,and we're "harassmentand interdiction,"H & I; sometimes loaned to Psychops.We don't often kill. We aren't selectedforthat aptitude. 
All ten of our soldierboys cameinto the garage within a couple of minutes.The mechanicsiackedout and the exoskeletonshells eased 
open. Scovillet peopleclimbedout like little old menand women, even 
thoughtheir bodies hadbeenexercisedconstantlyand adjusted for fa­
tiguepoisons.Youstillcouldn'thelpfeeling as if you'd beensitting in the 
sameplacefor ninedays. 
I jackedout. My connection with Scovillewasa light one' not at 
all like the near-telepathythat links the ten mechanicsin the platoon. 
Still, it was disorienting to have my own brainto myself. 
We were in alarge white room with tenof the mechanic shells and 
ten warm-up seats,likefancy barber chairs.Behindthem, the wallwasa 
hugebacklitmap of costa Rica,showingwith lights of various colors 
wheresoldierboyandfyboy units were working.The otherwallswere 
FromForeverPeace 105 
coveredwith monitorsand digital readouts with jargonlabels.Peoplein 
white fatigues walkedaround checking the numbers. 
Scoville stretched and yawned andwalkedover to me. 
"Sorryyouthought that lastbit of violence wasunnecessar,v.
I felt the situation called for direct action." God, Scoville and his academic airs.Doctorate in Leisure futs. 
"Youusuallydo. If you'd warned themfromoutside,theywould've hadtime to assess 
the situation. Surrender." 
"Yesindeed.As they did in Ascensi6n." 
"That wasone time." We'd lost ten soldierboys and a flyboy to a nuclearbooby trap. "Well, thesecond time won'tbeon my watch. Six fewerpedros in the world." He shrugged. "l'll golight a candle." "Ten minutesto calibration," a loudspeakersaid. Hardly enough 
timefor the shell to cool down. I followed Scoville into the locker room. 
Hewent to one end to get into hisciwies;I wentto the otherend to join 
my platoon. 
Sara was already mostly undressed. "|ulian.You want to do me?" 
Yes, like most of our males andonefemale,I did, as she well knew, but that's not whatshemeant.She took offher wig and handed me the razor.She had three weeks'worthof fine blond stubble.I gently shaved offthe area surrounding the input at the base of her skull. 
"That lastone was pretty brutal," she said. "scovilleneededthe bodycount, I guess." "lt occurredto him. He's eleven short of making E-8. Good thing theydidn't come acrossan orphanage." 
"He'dbebuckingfor captain," she said. 
I finished herand she checked mine, rubbing her thumb around thejack."Smooth,"she said. I keep my head shavedoffduty,though it's unfashionablefor black men on campus.I don't mind long bushy hair, but I don't like it well enough to run aroundall day wearinga hot wig. 
Louis came over."Hi, fulian.Give me abuzz, Sara." She reached up -hewas six feet fourand Sara was small -and he wincedwhen she turnedon the razor. 
"Letmeseethat," I said. Hisskin was slightly inflamedononeside ofthe implant. "Lou, that'sgoingto be houble. Youshould'veshavedbe­forethe warm-up." 
Showcase 
"Maybe.Yougottachoose."Once you were in the cage you were therefor nine days. Mechanics with fast-growing hairandsensitiveskin, like Sara and Lou, usually shaved once,betweenwarm-upandtheshift. "It'snot the firsttimei' he said. "I'll getsome cream from the medics." 
Bravo platoon got along pretty well. That wasa partly a matter of chance,sincewewere selected out of the pool of appropriate draftees by bodysize and shape,to fit the platoont cages and the aptitude profile for H & L Five of us were survivorsof the originaldraftpick: Candi and Mel as well as Lou, Sara, and me. We've been doing this for four years, work­ing ten dayson and twentyoff. It seemslike a lot longer. 
Candi is a grief counselor in real life; the rest of us are academics of some shipe. Lou and I are science,Sarais American politics, andMel is a cook."Foodscience,"so called, but a hell of a cook. We get together a few times ayearfor a banquet at his placein St. Louis. 
We went together back to the cage area."Okay, listen up," the loudspeakersaid."We have damage on units one and seven,so we won't calibrate the left hand andright leg at this time." 
"Soweneed the cocksuckers?"
Lou asked. 
"No, thedrains will not be installed.If you can hold it for forty-five minutes." "I1l certainlyhy,sir." "We'll do the partial calibrationand then you're free for ninety 
minutes, maybe two hours, while we set up the new handand leg mod­ules for fulian and Candi's machines. Then we'll finish the calibration and hood up the orthotics, and you're offto the staging area." 
"Bestillmy heart," Sara murmured. 
We lay down in the cages, working arms and legs into stiffsleeves, and the techsjackedus in. Forthe calibration we were tuned down to about ten percent of a combat iack,soI didn'thear actual words from 
-
anybody but Lou a"hello there"thatwaslike a faint shout from a mile 
away. I focused my mind andshouted back. 
The calibration wasalmost automatic for those of us who'd been doingit for years, but we did have to stop and back up twicefor Ralph, a neo who'd joinedus two cycles ago when Richard stroked out. It was just a matter of all ten of us squeezing one muscle groupat a time, until the red thermometer matchedthe blue thermometer on the heads-up.But until you're used to it, you tend to squeeze too hard and overshoot. 
^FromForever Peace t07 
Afteranhourthey opened the cage and unjacked us. We couldkill ninety minutes in the lounge. It washardly worth wastingtime getting dressed, but we did. It was a gesture. We were about to live in each other's bodies for nine days, and enough was enough. 
Familiaritybreeds,as they say. Some mechanics become lovers, and sometimes it works.I tried it with Carolyn, who diedthree years ago, but we could never bridge the gap between being combat-fackedand beingcivilians.We tried to workit out with arelator,but the relator had never been jacked,so we might as wellhavebeentalkingSanskrit. 
I don'tknowthatit wouldbe "love"with Sara,but it'sacademic. She'snot really attractedto me, and of course can't hide herfeelings,or lack of same.In a physical way we're closer than any civilian pair could be, since in full combatjackwe are this one creature with twenty arms andlegs,with ten brains,with five vaginasandfivepenises. 
Some people call the feelinggodlike,andI think therehave been gods who wereconstructedalongsimilarlines.The one I grew up with was an old white-bearded Caucasiangentwithout even one vagina. 
We'd already studied the orderof battle, of course, and our specific orders for theninedays. We weregoingto continue in Scoville'sarea,but doing H & I, making thingsdifficult in the cloudforestof Costa Rica. It was not a particularly dangerousassignment,but it wasdistasteful,like bullying,since the rebels didn't have anythingremotelylike soldierboys. 
Ralph expressedhis discomfort.We had sat down at the dining tablewith tea and coffee. 
"Thisoverkillgets to me,"hesaid."Thatpair in the tree last time." 
"Uglyi'Sarasaid. 
"Ah,the bastards killedthemselves,"Mel said. He sipped the cof­fee and scowledat it. "Wb probablywouldn'thavenoticed them if they hadn'topened up on us," "It bothers you thatthey were children?" I asked Ralph. 
'Well, 
yeah.Doesn'tit you?" He rubbed the stubbleon his chin. "Little girls." 
"Little girlswith machineguns,"Karensaid,andClaude nodded emphatically.They'dcomein together abouta year ago, and were lovers. 
"l've beenthinking about that, too,"I said. "What if we'd known theywere little girls?" They'd beenabout ten yearsold, hiding in a tree house. 
Showcase 
"Beforeor after they started shooting?" Mel said. 
"Even after," Candi said."How much damage can they do with a machinegun?" 
"They damagedme pretty effectively!" Mel said. He'd lost one eye and the olfactoryreceptors."They knewexactly what to aim for." 
"lt wasn't a big deal," Candisaid."Yougotfieldreplacements." 
"Feltlike a big deal to me." 
"l know.I was there." Youdon't exactly feel pain when a sensor goes out. It's something asstrongas pain, but there's no word for it, 
"l don'tthink we would've had to kill themif theywereoutin the open," Claude said."lf we could seethey wereiustkids and lightly armed.But hell, for all we knew they were FOs who could call in a tac nuke." 
"ln CostaRica?"Candisaid. 
"It happens,"Karen said. It had happened once in three years. No­bodyknew where the rebelshadgotten the nuke. It had cost them two towns,the one the soldierboys werein whenthey were vaporized,and theone we tookapartin retaliation. 
"Yeah,yeah," Candi said,andI could hear in thosetwowordsall shewasn'tsaying:thata nuke on out position would iustdestroy ten ma­chines.WhenMel flamed the tree house he roasted twolittle girls, prob­ablytoo young to knowwhat they were doing. 
Therewasalwaysan undercurrent in Candi's mind, when we were lacked.Shewas a good mechanic, butyou had to wonder why she hadn't been given some other assignment.She was too empathetic, sure to crackbeforeher term was up. 
But maybe shewas in the platoonto act as our collectivecon­science.Nobodyatour level knewwhyanybodywas chosen to be a me­chanic,and we only had a vague idea why we were assignedto the platoon we got.We seemed to cover a wide range of aggressiveness, 
from 
Candito Mel. We didn't have anybodylike Scoville, though.Nobody 
who got that darkpleasureout of killing. Scoville'splatoonalwayssaw 
more action than mine, too; no coincidence. Hunter/killers-they're 
definitelymore congenial with mayhem. So when the Great Computer 
in theSkydecideswho gets whatmission, Scoville's platoon gets the kills 
andoursgetsreconnaissance. 
Mel andClaude,especially,grumbledaboutthat.A confirmedkill 
wasan automatic point towardpromotion,in pay grade if not in rank, 
FromForeverPeace109 
whereasyou couldn't count on the PPR-Periodic PerformanceRe­view-for a dime. Scoville'speople got the kills, so they averagedabout twenty-fivepercenthigher pay than my people. But what could you spendit on? Save it up and buy our wayoutof the army? 
"Sowe'regonnadotrucks,"Mel said, "Carsandhucks." 
"That'sthe wordi' I said. "Maybe a tank if you hold your mouth right." Satellites hadpicked up some IR traces that probablymeantthe 
rebelswere being resupplied by small stealthed trucks, probably robotic or remote. One of those outbursts of technology thatkept the war from beinga totally one-sidedmassacre. 
I suppose if the war went on long enough, the enemy mighthave 
soldierboys,too. Then we could have the ultimatein something: ten­million-dollarmachinesreducingeach other io funkwhiletheiropera­tors sat hundreds of miles away, concentratingin air-conditioned caves. 
Peoplehad written about that, warfare basedon attrition of wealth ratherthanloss of life. But it's always been easierto make new lives than new wealth. And economic battles havelong-established som€
venues, 
political and somenot,asoften among alliesasnot. 
Well, whatdoes a physicist know about it? My science has rules andlaws that seem to correspond to reality.Economicsdescribesreality after the fact, but isn't too good at predicting.Nobody predictedthe nanoforges. 
The loudspeakertold us to saddle up. Nine days of truck-stalking. 
All ten people in )ulian Classt platoon had the same basic weapon-the soldierboy,or Remote Infantry Combat Unit:a huge suit of armor with a ghost in it. For all the weightof its armor,more than halfof the RICUT mass wasammunition.It could fireaccuratesniper roundsto the horizon, two ounces of depieted uranium, or at close range it could hose a stream of supersonic flechettes. It had high ex­plosiveand incendiaryrocketswith eyes, a fully automatic grenade launcher, and a high-poweredlaser. Special units could be fitted with chemical,biological,or nuclear weapons, but those were only used for reprisal in kind. 
(Fewerthan a dozen nuclear weapons, small ones, had been used 
in twelve yearsof war. A largeonehad destroyed Atlanta,andalthough 
the Ngumi denied responsibility,the Alliance responded by giving 
twenty-fourhours'notice,and then leveling Mandellaville and Seo Showcase 
Paulo. Ngumi contendedthat the Alliance hadcynicallysacrificedone non-strategiccity so it could have an excuse to deshoy two important ones.)uliansuspectedthey might beright.) There were air and naval units, too, inevitably calledfyboysand sailorboys,eventhough most fyboys were piloted by females. 
All of fuliant platoonhad the samearmorand weapons, but some hadspecializedfunctions.fulian,being platoon leader, communicated directly and (in theory) constantly with the company coordinator,and 
throughherto the brigade command. In the field, he received constant input in the form of encryptedsignals from fyover satellitesas well as the commandstation in geosynchronousorbit. Every order came from two sources simultaneously,with different encryption and a different hansmissionlag,soit wouldbe almost impossibleforthe enemy to slip in a bogus command. 
Ralphhada"horizontal"link similarto fulian's"vertical"one. As platoon liaison, hewasin touch with his opposite numberin each of the othernine platoons that made up Bravo. They were"lightly jacked"­thecommunication wasn't asintimateas he had with other members of the platoon, but it was more than justa radio link. He could advise fu­lianas to theother platoons'actions morale, in a quick 
and even feelings, and direct way. It was rare for all the platoons to be engaged in a single ac­tion,butwhenthey were, the situation was chaotic and confusing. The platoonliaisonsthen were as importantasthe vertical command links. 
One soldierboy platoon could do as much damageas a brigadeof regularinfanhy.They did it quicker andmoredramatically,likehugein­vinciblerobotsmovingin silent concert. 
They didn't use achralarmedrobotsfor severalreasons.One was that they couldbecapturedand used against you; if theenemycouldcap hrrea soldierboy they would justhavean expensive piece of junk. None had ever been captured intact, though; they self-destruct impressively. 
Another problem with robotswasautonomy: the machine has to be able to function on its ownif communicationsare cut off. The image, as well as the reality, of a heavilyarmedmachine making spot combat decisionswas not somethingany army wantedto deal with. (Soldierboys had limited autonomy, in casetheir mechanics diedor passed out. They stoppedfiring andwent for shelter while a new mechanic was warmed up and jacked.) 
fromForeverPeace 111 
The soldierboyswerearguably more effective psychological weap ons than robots would be. They werelike all-powerful knights,heroes. And they representeda technology that was out of the enemy'sgrasp. 
The enemy did use armed robots, like, asit hrrned out, the two tanksthat were guarding the convoy of trucks that fulian'splatoonwas sentto destroy.'Neither of the tanks caused any trouble. In both cases they were destroyed as soon as they revealed their position by firing. Twenty-four robot trucks were destroyed,too, after theircargos had been examined:ammunitionandmedicalsupplies. 
Afterthelast truck had been reduced to shinyslag, the platoon still had four daysleft on its shift, sothey were flown backto the Portobello base camp, to do picketduty.That couldbe pretty dangerous, since the base camp was hit by rockets a couple of timesa year,but most of the timeit was no challenge. Not boring, though the mechanics were pro­
-tectingtheir own lives, for a change. 
Sometimesit tookmea couple of days to wind down and be a civil­ian again. There were plenty of jointsin Portobello willing to help ease thetransition. I usually did my unwinding back in Houston, though. It was easy for rebels to slipacrosstheborderand pass asPanamanians,and if you got tagged as a mechanicyouwerea prime target. Of course there were plenty of other Americansand Europeans in Portobello, but it's possiblethat mechanics stood out: pale and twitchy,collars pulled up to hide the skulljacks,or wigs. 
We lost one that way lastmonth. fuly went into town for a meal and a movie.Somethugspulled offher wig, and she was hauled intoan alley and beaten to a pulp and raped. She didn't die but she didn't re­cover, either. They had pounded the back of her headagainsta wall until the skull fractured and the jack cameout. They shovedthe jack into her vaginaand left her for dead. 
Sothe platoonwas one short this month. (The neoPersonnel de­livered couldn't fit fuly's cage, which was not surprising.) We maybe shorttwonextmonth:Samantha,whois Arlyt bestfriend,andalittle bit more, was hardly there this week. Brooding, dishacted, slow. If we d beenin actual combat shemight have snapped out of it; both of them were pretty goodsoldiers-betterthanme, in terms of actually liking the work-but picket duty gaveher too much time to meditate, and the truck assignment beforethat was asillyexercisea flyboy could have done on her waybackfromsomethingelse. 
We all tried to giveSamanthasupportwhile we were jacked,but it was awkward. Of course she and fuly couldn't hide their physicalat­traction for one another, but they werebothconventionalenoughio be 
embarrassed
about it (theyhadboyfriendson the outside), andhaden­couraged kidding asa way ofkeepingthe complex relationship manage­able. There wasno banternow, of course. 
She had spent the past three weeks visiting Arly every day at the convalescentcenter, where the bones ofher face were growing back, but that was a constant frustration, sincethe natureof her injuries meant they couldn't bejacked,couldn't be close.Never.And it was Samantha's nah:re to want revenge, but that was impossiblenow. The five rebels in­volvedhadbeen apprehended immediately,slidthrough the legalsys­tem, and were hanged aweeklaterin thepublicsquare. 
I'd seen it on the cube. They weren't hanged so much as slowly strangled. This in a country that hadn't used capital punishment in gen­erations,before the war. 
Maybeafter the war we'll be civilizedagain.That'sthe way it has alwayshappenedin the past. 
fulianusuallywent straight hometo Houston, but not when his ten days were up on a Friday. That was the day of the week when he had to bethe mostsocial, and he needed at least a day of preparation for that. Everydayyouspentjacked,you felt closer to the other ninemechanics. There was a terrible sense of separationwhenyou unjacked, andhang­ing around with the others didn'thelp. What you needed was a dayor so of isolation, in thewoodsor in a crowd. 
|ulianwasnottheoutdoor type, andheusuallyjustburiedhimself in the university libraryfor a day. But not if it wasFriday. He could fly anlwhere forfree,soon impulse hewentup to Cam­bridge, Massachusetts, work.It was
wherehe'ddonehisundergraduate a badchoice, dirty slush everywhereandthin sleet fallingin a constant sting,but he grimlypersistedin his questto visit every bar he could re­member. They were full of inexplicablyyoung and callowpeople. 
Harvardwasstill Harvard; the dome still leaked. People made a point of not staring at a black manin uniform. 
He walked a mile through the sleetto his favorite pub, theancient 
From Forever Peace 113 
Plough and Stars, but it waspadlocked,with a card saying BAHAMA! taped inside thewindow. So he squished back to the Square on frozen feet, promising to simultaneouslyget drunk and not lose his temper. 
There was a bar namedafterfohn Harvard, where they brewed ninekindsof beer on the premises.He hada pint of eachone, method­ically checking them off on the blotter, and flowed into a cab that de­canted him at the airport. After six hours of off-and-on slumber, he flew his hangover back to Houston Sundaymorning, following the sunrise acrossthecountry. 
Backathisapariment he made a pot of coffee and attacked the ac­cumulated mail and memos.Mostof it was throwawayjunk.Interesting letterfromhis father, vacationingin Montana with his newwife,notfu­lianbfavoriteperson.Hismother had called twice about a money prob.. lem, but then called again to say never mind. Bothbrotherscalledabout the hanging;they followed fulian's"career"closelyenough to realize that the woman who'd been attackedwasin his platoon. 
His actual career hadgeneratedthe usual soft siftingpink snowfall of irrelevantinterdepartmentalmemos, which he did haveto at least scan.He studied theminutesof the monthly faculty meeting, jusiin case something real hadbeendiscussed.He always missed it, since he was on duty from thetenthto the nineteenth of everymonth.The only way that rnight have hurt his careerwould be jealousyfrom other faculty members. 
And then there was a hand-delivered envelope,a small square underthememos,addressed"f."He saw a cornerof it and pulled it out, pink slips fluttering, and ripped openthe flap, over which a red fame had been rubber-stamped:
it was from Blaze, who fulianwasallowed to call by her real name,Amelia.Shewas his coworker, ex-advisor, confi­dante,and sexual companion. He didn't say "lover"in his mind, yet,be­cause that was awkward,Amelia being fifteen yearsolder than him. Younger than his father'snew wife. 
The note had some chat about the fupiterProject,the particle-physicsexperimenttheywere engaged in, includinga bii of scandalous gossipabout their boss,whichdid not alone explain the sealed envelope. "Whatevertime you get back," she wrote,"comestraightover.Wakeme up or pull me out of the lab. I need my little boyin the worst way. You want to come over andfind out what the worst way is?" 
Actually,whathe'dhad in mind was sleeping for a fewhours.But 
t74 NebutaAwardsShowcase
2000 
he could do that afterward. He stacked the mail into three piles and dropped one pile into the recycler. He started to call her but then put thephone down unpunched. Hedressedforthe morning cool and went downstairsfor his bicycle. 
The campuswasdesertedand beautiful,redbudsand azaleas bloom under the hardblue Texas sky.He pedaled slowly, relaxingback intoreal life, or comfortable illusion.Themoretime he spentjacked,the harderit wasto accept this peaceful, monocularviewof life as the real one. Rather thanthebeastwith twenty arms; the god with ten hearts. 
At least he wasn't menstruatinganymore. 
He let himself into her place with histhumbprint.Amelia was ac­tually up at nine Sunday morning, in the shower.He decided against surprisingherthere.Showersweredangerousplaces-hehad slipped in one once, experimenting with a fellow clumsy teenager, and he wound up with a cut chin and bruisesanda decidedly uneroticattitudetoward the location (andthe girl, for that matter). 
So he iustsatup in her bed, quietly reading the newspaper, and waitedfor the water to stop. She sang bitsof tunes, h"ppy,andswitched the shower from fine sprayto coarsepulseand back. Juliancould visual­ize her there andalmost changed his mind. But he stayed on the bed, fully clothed, pretending to read. 
Shecame out toweling and started slightly whenshesawfulian; then recovered: "Help!Theret a shange manin my bed!" 
"I thought you liked strangemen." 
"Only one." She laughed and easedalongsidehim, hot and damp. 


Genreand Genesis: A Discussion of Science Fiction'sLiteraryRole 
JONATHAN
LETHEM GORDONVAN GELDER GEORGE
ZEBROWSKI DAVIDHARTWELL BILL WARREN 
In 1998JonathanLethempubtishedintheVillaget/oiceandthe 
NewYorkReviewof Science Fidion a provocativeessayon the 
literary reputation of thesciencefictiongenre,andthe roots of 
its presentpredicament. 
Manydisagreedwith him. In my introduclion to this book I take a somewhatdifferentpath,andfotl.owingLethem'scogent 
piece,I haveaskedseveratmajorcriticalfiguresto rendertheir 
arguments. VanGelderisbothabookeditorforSt. Mar-
Gordon tin's Pressandeditorof The Mogazine of Fantasyond Science Fidion;hispieceappearedthere in sl.ighttydifferentformasan editoriat.GeorgeZebrowskiis a wetl-known writerand former editorof the Nebula Awardsvotumes.DavidHartwettis senior editorat Tor Booksandone of the most prominentanthologists in thefield'shistory;hisremarksaredrawn from hisspeechat thebanquetwherethis votume's awardsweregiven. 
Bit[ Warren is a noted criticof fitm and tetevision sciencefic­tion.Hisremarksgoto theheartofthemismatchbetweenwrit­ten SFand its visualforms.Becausewe are mostty known throughfilmsandTV produced by those whoknowLittl.eof the 
genre'sliteraryforms(exceptto lootthem for ideas, of courss a nowuniversalpractice),we shoutdunderstandthe genre,s 
uniquely schizophrenic rote in popularculture:negtectedin books,triumphantin the visual. 
Thetreatmentof science fiction hasbeen unique among genresin this century-reflecting,I think, a deepfear in the conventionaltiterary culture bothof scienceand of the future itsel.f. I hope this setection witl givea cross sectionof re­sponses,anddepicthowthe genreis understanding 
bothits ownpastandits futureprospects. 
WhyCan't We Att Just Live Together? 
A Visionof GenreParadise Lost 

LETHEM
JONATHAN 
ln ryy Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow was awarded the Nebula,the highest honor availablein the field once known as "Sci­enceFiction"-a term now mostly forgotten.From our current per­spective,the methods and approaches of the so-called"SF Writers" seem so centralto the literature of our cenfury that the distinctionhas no value, and the historical fact of a separate genreis a footnote,of scholarlyinterest at best. 
Notoriouslyshy,Pynchonsentbeloved comedian LennyBruce to acceptthe award in his place. . . 
Sorry,iustdreaming.In ourworldBruceisdead,while Bob Hope lurcheson.And, though Gravity'sRainbowreallywasnominatedfor the 1973 Nebula, it was passedoverfor Rendenous with Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke,whichcommentatorCarterScholzrightlydeemed"lessanovel thana schematicdiagramin prose." Pynchon'snominationnow stands asa hidden tombstonemarkingthe deathof the hope that sciencefic­tionwasabout to merge with the mainstream. 
That hope was born in the heartsofwriters,who,without anypar­ticularencouragementfrom the largerliteraryworld,for a little while draggedthegenreto thebrink of respectability.The "NewWave"of the sixtiesand seventies wasoften worddrunk, applyingmodernisttech­niqueswilly-nillyto theold genre motifs,addingcompensatorydollops 
of alienationand sexualityto characterswho'dbarelyshedtheir slide 
Genreand Genesis 177 
rules.But the New Wave alsomadepossiblebookslikeSamuelDelanyt Dhalgren,Philip K. Dick'sA Scanner Darkly, Ursula Le Guint The Dis­possessed,
and Tom Disch's 334,workto stand with the best American fiction of the r97os-labels,categories,and genres aside. In a seizure of ambition, SF even flirted with renaming itself "SpeculativeFabulation," a lit-crittermboth pretentiously silly and dead right. 
Forwhatmakes SF wonderful and complicated is that mix of spec­ulation and the fabulous:SF is both think-fictionanddream-fiction.For the first sixty-oddyearsof ihe century American fiction was deficient in exactlythosequalitiesSF offered in abundance, however inelegantly. While fabulists like Borges, Abe, Cortazar,and Calvino flourished abroad, a strain of literary Puritanismquarantined imaginative and surreal writing from respectabilityhere. Another typical reflex, that anti-intellectualismwhich dictatesthat novelists shouldn't pontificate, ex­trapolate, or theorize, only showandfeel,meant the novelof ideaswas for decades prettymuchthe exclusive domain of, um, Norman Mailer. What's more, a reluctance in the humanities to acknowledge the tech­nocraticimpulsethat was transforming contemporaryculture left cer­tain themes untouched.For decades SFfilledthe gap, andduring those 
decades it added characterization,ambiguity,and reflexivity, evolving towardsomethinglike a literarymaturity-or at least the ability to throw up an occasionalmasterpiece. 
But a funny thing happened on the wayto the revolution. In the sixties,justas SFt best writers beganto begthe question of whetherSF mightbe literature, American literaryfictionbeganto open to the modes it had excluded. Writers like DonaldBarthelme,Richard Brautigan, and RobertCooverrestoredthe place of the imaginativeand surreal, while others like Don Delillo andJosephMcElroy began to contend with the 
emergent technoculture. William Burroughs and Thomas Pynchon did a little of both. The result was that the needto recognizeSF'saccom­plishmentsdwindledaway.Why seekin those gaudy paperbackswhat wasreadilyavailablein reputable packages?Why tangle with claimsof legitimacyfor a legionof disenfranchised
writers when theycarriedan awkward legacy of pulpy techno.advocacy?So what followedwas mostly critical reiection, or indifference. 
Meanwhile,on the other side of the genre ghetto walls,a retrench­ment was underway. A backlash. Thoughthestakesaren'tnearlyas crucial, Showcase 
ii's hard not to see SF's attempt at selfliberation as typical of other equal­ity movements which peaked in political shen$h around the same time, thenretreatedinto identity politics.Raring theloss of a distinctive oppc. sitional identity, and bitter over lack of accessto theIvory Tower, SF took a step backward, away from its broadest literaryaspirations.Not that SF of brilliance wasn't written in the years following, but with afewkey excep tionsit was overwhelmed on the shelves (andawardballoh) by a reac­tionarySFas artistically dire asit was comfortingly familiar. 
In the '8oscyberpunkwastakenas a sign of hope,for itsverve, its polish, its sensory alertness to the way our conceptions of the future had changed. But even cyberpunk's best writers mostly peddled suryrisingly macho and regressivefantasiesof rebellionas hanscendence-and verve and polish were thin meat for those who recalled the mature depthsof the best of the New Wave. Aty*"y, cyberpunk'sbest were quickly swamped themselves, photocopies
bygelled-and-pierced of ado­lescent power fantasies thatwerealready very, veryold. 
Which brings us to today. Where, againstall odds, SF deserving of greaterattentionfrom a literary readership is siill written. Its relevance, though, since the collapse of the notion that SF should and wouldcon­verge with literature, is unclear at best. SF s literary writersexist now in a twilightworld,neitherrespectablenor commerciallyviable.Their work drownsin a sea of garbagein bookstores, while much of SF'spromise is realized elsewhereby writerstoo sawy or oblivious to botherwith the stigmatizedidentity.SF'sfailureto presentits own best face, to win proper respect, was never so hagic as now, when its stren$hsare so routinelypreempted. In a literary culture where Pynchon, Delillo, Barthelme,Coover,]eanetteWinterson,AngelaCarter,and SteveEr­ickson are ascendantpowers,isn't the divisionmeaningless? 
But the literary traditions reinforcing that divisionare only part of the story. 
Amongthefactors arrayed againstacceptanceof SF asseriouswrit­ing,noneis more plain to outsiders than this: the books are so fucking ugly.Worse,they're all ugly in the sameway,soyou can't distinguish thosemeantfor grown-ups from those meantfor twelve-year-olds'Sadly enough,that confusion is intentional, and the explanation brings us backagainto the mid-seventies. 
GenreandGenesisltg 
It's now a commonplace in film criticism that George Lucasand Steven Spielberg together brought to a crashing halt the most progres­sive and interestingdecadein American film since the thirties. What's eerieis that the same duoare the villainsin SF'stragedyas well, though youmight want to add a third-|. R. R.Tolkien. The vast popular suc­cessof the imagery and archetypes purveyedby thosethree savants of children'sliteratureexpandedthe market for "Sci-Fi"-a cartoonified, castrated,and deeply nostalgic version of the budding literature-a thousandfold.What had been a negligible, eccentric publishing niche, permitted to go its ownharmlessway, was now a potential cash cow. (Re­memberwhen Star Trekwasresurrectedovernight,amoribund TV cult suddenlyat the center of popular culture?) As stakes rose, marketers en­campedon the territory-for a handy comparison, recall the cloning of Grunge Rock after Nirvana. Books were produced to meet this vast, su­perficial new appetite, rottenbooks,millionsof them-and fine books wererepackagedto fit the paradigm. Out with the hippie-surrealist book jacketsof the sixties, with their promise of grown-up abstractions and ambiguities.In with that leaden andliteralstylesoperfectly abhorrent to the literary bookbuyer. The goldenmeanof an SF jacketsince 1976 looks, well, exactly like the original poster for Star Wars. Men of the fu­fure were once again thinking with their swords-excuse me, light-sabers.This passiveselloutwouldmake more senseif the typical writer of literarySFhadachrally made anymoneyout of it. Instead the act is still too oftenrewardedwith wages resembling those of a poet-an un­tenured poet, that is. 
Other obstacles to acceptance remain hidden in the culture of SE, ambusheson a roadno one's taking. Along with being a literary genre or mode,SF is also an ideologicalsite.Anyonewho'svisited is familiar with the "homehuths"-that the colonization of space isdesirable;that ra­tionalismwill prevail over superstition; that cyberspacehas the potential to transform individual andcollective consciousness. 
Thnglingwith this inheritancehas resulted in workof genius -Barry Malzberg tarnishing the allure of astronautics,|. G. Ballard gleefully unraveling the pre­sumption that technology extends from rationalism, famesTiptree|r. (n6eAlice Sheldon) replacing the body and its instincts in an all-too­disembodieddiscourse.But the pressure against heresy can be surpris­inglyshong, reflecting the emotional hunger for solidarity in marginalized 
Showcase 
groups. For SF can alsofunctionas a clubhouse, wheremembersshare the resentments of the excluded, and a defensive fondnessfor stories which thrived in twelve-year-old but shrivel onfirst contact 
imaginations with an adult brain. In itsunqualifiedlovefor its own junk stratumSF maybe as postmodernas Frederic fameson'sdreams,but it's also as sen­timental about itself asan Elks Lodge, or afamily. 
Marginality, it should be said,isn't always the worst thing for artists. Silence, exile,andcunning remain a writert allies, and despised genreshavebeen a plentiful source ofexilefor generations oficonoclas­tic Americanfictioneers.And sure, hipster audiences alwaysresentsee­ing theirfavoritecult itemgrowtoopopular.But an outsider art courts precious self-referentiality if it too strongly resists incorporation. The remnantsof the jazzwhich refused the beboptransformationarethose guysin pinstripe suits playing Dixieland, andtheseparate-but-unequal postseventies overits lineage and fetishizing iis reiec-
SF field, preening tion, sometimes soundsan awful lot like Dixieland-as refined, as calci­fied,assweetlyirrelevant. 
If good writing is neglected becauseof genre boundaries, so it goes-good writing goesunreadfor lotsof reasons.The shame is in what'sleft unwritten, in artistsinternalizing prefudice as crippling self-doubt.Greatart mostly occurs when creatorsare encouraged to enter­tain the possibilityof their relevance. Might a Phil Dick have learned to revise his first draftsinstead of flinging them despairinglyinto the marketplaceif The Man in the High Castle had beenrecognizedbythe literary critics of 1964?Might anotherfiveor ten fledglingPhil Dicks haveappeared shortly thereafter? We'Il neverknow.And therearear­tistic costs on the other side of the breach as well. Consider Kurt Vonnegut,who,in dodgingtheindignitiesofthe SF label, apparently re­nounced the iconographicfuel that fed his best work. 
What would a less-preiudiced 
model of SF'srelation to the larger enterpriselooklike? Well, nobody likes to be labeledan experimental writer,yetexperimentalwritingf ourishes in quiet pockets oftheliterary landscape-and,however little read,isgranteditsplace.When claims are made for the wider importance of this or that experimental writer­DennisCooper,say,or Mark Leyner-those claimsaren'trebuffedon groundsthat are, quiteliterally,categorical.SFcouldask this much:that 
GenreandGenesis721 
its more hermetic or hardcore writers be respectedfor pleasing their small audience of devotees, that its risingstarsbe given a fair chance on the main stage.What'smissing,too,is a "GreatBooks" theory of post­r97o SF-one which asserts a shelf of Disch, Ballard, Dick, Le Guin, Delanyand Russell Hoban, )oannaRuss,GeoffRyman, Christopher Priest, David Foster Wallace, plus books like Pamela Zoline'sThe Heat Death of the Universe,Walter Tevis'sMockingbird,D. G. Compton's Thz Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe, Lawrence Shainberg's Memories of Amnesia,TedMooney'sEasyTiavelto Other Planets, Margaret Atwood's Handmaid'sTaIe,and Thomas Palmer'sDreamScienceas the standard. Suchatheorywouldalso have to push alot of the genre's self-enshrined 
but archaic"classics"onto the junkheap. 
Tomorrow's readers, born in dystopian cities,educated on com­puters, and steepedin media recursionsof SF iconography, won't notice if the novels they read areset in the future or the present. Savvythem­selves,theywon't care if certaincharactersbabbletechno-jargonand othersdon't.Someof thosereaders,though,will graduate from a craving 
for fictions that flatter and indulge their fantasiesto that preciousap 
petite for fictions that provoke, disturb,and complicateby a manipu­
lation of those samenarrativecravings.They'll learn to appreciate the 
difference,say,between Tery McMillan and Toni Morrison,between 
Tom RobbinsandThomasPynchon,betweenRogerZelaznyandSam­uel Delany-distinctionsforevertoo elusiveto be made in publishers' categories,or on booksellers'shelves. 
Of course,shortof a utopianreconfigurationof the publishing, bookselling,andreviewingapparatusthebarrier-though increasingly contestedandabsurd-will remain.Still, we can dream. The 1973 Neb­ula Award shouldhavegoneto Cravity'sRainbow,the1976award to Rcf­ner'sStar.Soon after, thenotionof "sciencefiction"oughtto have been gentlyand lovingly dismantled,andthe writers dispersed:children'sfan­tasistshere,hardware-fetishthriller writershere, novelizers of films-
both-real-and-imaginaryhere. Most important, a raged, handful of heroicallyenduringand ambitiousspeculativefabulatorsshouldhave embarkedfor the rocky realmsof midlist, out-of-categoryfiction. And 
there-don't wakeme now, I'm fond of this one-they shouldhave beenwelcomed. 
Respectability 
VAN
GORDON GELDER 
Unlike a lot of SFfans I know, I'm neither a first nor an only child. 
My older brother had beenaroundfor three and a half years when I came along, and he neverlet meforgetthatfact. As per the rules of The Official Older SiblingHandbook (I'm sure that sucha book exists, I iust know it, but rule number one is that youngersiblingscannevereversee it). Nothing I did everimpressedmy brother.WhateverI said or did, my brotherhadalreadyseenor done better. 
As I grew up, I recognized that I couldn't win this game,so I stoppedtrying so hard to impress him. And that,of course' waswhen I discoveredhe'd been impressedall along. 
various critics credit the birth of science fiction to Mary Shelley, EdgarAllan Poe,fulesVerne,H' G. Wells,or HugoGemsback,but no' that SF is older than realistic,"mainstream"fic­
boJyyet has suggested tion.fu RobertKillhefferpointsout in his column thismonth, SF islike 
manyothercontemporarygenresin that it matured in the pulpsduring the earlypart of this century. when is it ever goingto realizeit can'twin the gameof trying to impressthe mainstream? My lament this month is brought on by an article in the |une VitlageVoiceLiterarySupplementby fonathanLethem.In "CloseEn-
The SquanderedPromiseof ScienceFiction,"fonathanar­"orrnl"rr'
gues that sciencefiction missedits opporhrnity in the r97osto bring 
downth. genrewallsand mergewith the mainstream.He usesthe fact 
that futhur C. Clarke's Rendepouswith Ramabeatout ThomasPyn­
chon'sGravity'sRainbowfor the 1973NebulaAwardas a tombstoneto 
markthe point wheresciencefictionblewitschance' 
I consider fonathanoneof the mostwidelyandwell-readpeopleI 
know-it's scarcelya coincidencethathe contributes thismonth's"Cu-
metowardgoodbooksforriosities"column,sincehe hasbeensteering 
years.But I think he's off targethere. 
fonathan'smain argumentisthat SFs rg6osNew wave produced masteqpiecesin the early rgToslike Dhalgren, A scannerDarkly, The 
Dispoisessed,and 334,and asa result of thesebooksit stood poisedon 
the brink of literaryacceptability.Then: Genreand Genesis 723 
iustas SF's bestwriters began to beg thequestionof whether SF might be literature, Americanliteraryfiction beganto open to the modesit had excluded. Writers like Donald Barthelme,Richard Brautigan, and RobertCooverrestored theplaceof the imaginative and suneal, whileothers like Don DeLiIIo andlosephMcElroy beganta contend with the emer­genttechnoculture.William Burroughsand Thomas Pynchon did a little of both. The resultwas that the need to recosnize 
SF'saccomplishmentsdwindledaway. 
The result,says|onathan,is that 
SF's literary writersexist now in a twilight world, neither re­spectablenor commercially viable.Theirworkdrowns in a sea of garbage in bookstores, 
whilemuchof SF'spromiseis real­izedelsewhereby witers too savvy or obliviousto botherwith itsstigmatizedidentity. 
fonathangoes on to wish that: 
thenotionof"sciencefiction" ought to havebeen gently and lovinglydismantled,and thewritersdispersed:childrensfan­tasistshere,hardware-fetishthriller writers here, novelizersof 
films-both-real-and-imaginary
here.Mostimportant,a ragged handfulof heroicallyenduringand ambitiousspeculativefab_ ulatorsshouldhaveembarkedfor the rocky realms of midlist, 
out-of-c
ategoryfiction. 
Okay, let me say now that aesthetically I'm very sympatheticwith fon­-
athan in fact,I proposedsomethingsimilaron a convention panerin 1992,only to have BarryMalzberglectureme for iwenty minutes.,,1 furned my backon science fiction in 1976,,,declaredBarry,..andI was 
wrong.The genreisbiggerthanus;we are herebecauseof it." 
Having spentfour yearsin ivy-coveredacademichalls and ten yearsat a mainstreampublishereditingbooksin this so-called twilight world,I agreemostlywith Barrynowadays. 
Todaythe term "sciencefiction" encompasses
somuch that I'm leeryof generalizingaboutit, but indulgeme. of all the genres, SF 
is fundamentallythe most radical-unlike mysteriesor romancesor 
Showcase 
westerns,it canrewriteall the rules,ormake up therulesasit goesalong. (lndeed,JonathanLethem'sAm nesia Moon isa good example of abook thatplays fair with the reader but changesthe rules in midstream.) As fohn W. Campbell always argued, it has the widest scope and the most freedom of any literaryform,and consequently it intimidates manyread­ers.A science fiction novel can challengea reader in ways no other novel can. 
In a New Yorker review circa r99o, fohn Updikearguedthat SF re­lies on spectacle for its entertainment value, and as Aristotle taught us, spectacleisthemostbase of all ariistic goals. Personally,I think it's fool­ish to deny thespectacularnature of SF.This genre isaform of populat literature;its inherent goal is to entertain (unlike much mainsheamfic­tion). Somepeoplewill forever adopi the attitude espoused by fohn Updikeandlook down on SFbecauseit remains astory-drivenandpri­marilypopularartform. 
Thosepeopleseemtobetheoneswhoserespectfonathanseeks,if I understand him correctlywhen he refers to "literaryrespectability." When I hear those words,I think of greenpastureson theotherside of thefence.Theymark the exact spotwhereI disagree withfonathan.For onething,as I've statedmany times in manyplaces,thingsarenot bet ter in the mainsheamthantheyarein the genre.Indeed,they'regen­
erally worse:"the rocky realms of midlist, out-of-categoryfiction" are theoneplacewhere books getignoredmost.I once sat on a panel with William Tiotter, whose first novel Winter Fira was publishedhand­somelyin thoserockyrealms."How many reviews did you get?"I asked. "Well, we got the trade reviews,andthe Timesreviewwas okay." When 
I askedif he gotany other reviews,he said,"Yes,therewasoneother­
inDeathrealm." 
are even worse.It would be improper 
The commercialprospects forme to cite sales figures and such,butI believe thatthecareersof such novelistsasfackWomack,]onathanCarroll,and|ackCadywouldhave founderedon those rocky shoresaftertwo or three novels each were it notforthe genre andgenre editors. I could goon.I couldcite the careers of mainstreamnovelistsIhathave petered out becausenobodywould publishtheir third orfourthbooks,buttokeepthisshort I'll limit myself to pointingouttheironicfact that someof the writersfonathannamesas 
Genreand Genesis 725 
"ascendantpowers" in our "literaryculture"don'tsellnearlyas well as 
dofonathan'sownbooks. Tiust me.I've seen the figures. 
Enough about thegrass-is-greenersyndrome;everywriteris prone 
to some envy. It's an occupational hazard.what I really want to address 
isthisnotion of "literaryrespectability."I havegrave problems with it. 
Perhapsin ry73it meant somethingdifferent,butherein rgg8, it's more 
than forty yearsaftersuch American masterpiecesas A Canticlefor I*i­
bowitz and Fahrenheit 45twereborn in ihe SF genre, thirty-plusyears 
sinceDanielM. Keyes illuminated the human condition with help from 
a mouse namedAlgernon,morethana quarter of a century after J.G. 
Ballardcrashedintotheliteraryfieldand Harlequin let loose thosejelly 
beans.The sciencefictionfieldhasfosteredandgrown numerous such 
workswhose literary meritsare,to my mind, incontrovertible.In lightof 
the evidence theyprovide,I think that anycritic who summarilydis­missessF is guilty of literary bigotry,prejudgingthefictionbythecolor of its cover.(PleasenotethatI'm not questioninganyone'srightto read whateversuitstheirtastes.
But, I think thata critic whodismissesan en­
tirecategoryof fiction -any category -shouldn'tkeepa closed mind.) 
And who really needs ArchieBunker'srespect?At leastmy older 
brotherkeptanopenmind, but people like someeditorsat theNewyork 
TimesBookReviewobviouslydon't,and I seeno virtuein seeking their approval. 
I do think /onathanLethem'sright in pointingout that the SF 
genreno longer meanswhat it usedto mean. The sF publishingcate­goryhasn't entirely kept pacewith the iastes of Americanreaders.
A Iot of writers and readersarestuckin the iwilight becausepublishing doesn'tknowtherightwayto put thetwo together (and the few effortsat doingso,such as Dell's"cutting Edge"tradepaperbackline aboutfour 
years
ago'neverreallygotachance).But I thinkthe answer liesin shift­ing the boundariesof the genre, not in knocking themdown. 
Letme end with one briefanecdote.In college,I studiedwith nov­elistStephenwright (M3t, GoingNative)andI still run into him occa­sionally.Lasttime I sawhim, we goton the subjectof how nice it was 
that stevenMillhauserwon the Pulitzerprize, andstephen-who is wonderfullyopinionated-startedsoundingoff about the pulitzers. 
"Did youknowthat those bastardsat columbia wourdn'tgivetheprize Showcase 
to Cravity'sRainbow?The iudgesall wantedit to win, but the award ad­ministratorswereafraidof it, so they gaveit to something safe. , . some Civil Warnovel,I think." In point of fact, Michael Shaara's lovely novel The Kller Angels won the Pulitzerin 1975 (EudoraWelty'sThe Optimist's Daughterwon 
in 1973,and no award was given in 1974).But if there'sany huth to Stephen'sclaim,and I believethereis, are weto concludethat the main­streammissedits opportunity to merge with SF?Or should we iustde­cidethatwe'redifferentfrom our big brotherandget on with life? 

GatekeepersandLiteraryBigots 
ZEBROWSKIGEORGE 
, The community of science fiction writers and readers can take 
pridein two things. One is the bodyof novels and shortfiction, now goingbackmore thanacentury,which is considered of permanent value(we'llcallit the 
canon). Anotheristhe claim that SF isa literatureof ideas,and that think­
ing,bothscientificandphilosophical,is the centerof it' 
Lett considerthe "canon"ideafirst.In order to havesucha body of work,in which a novel likeThe StarsMyDestinationbyAlfredBester, to take an examplethat is agreed upon by even the most oppositely 
one of the perma­
mindedindividualsin the field,maybe considered nent works,one muststartwith a set of measuringsticks,accordingto 
which the work succeedsor fails.Thesemeasurescan clearlybe dis­cernedin theagreed-uPoncanon. But one might startwith a different set of valuesfor great science fiction-ones of thoughsrlness and ideas,and aboveall the demand comeup with a perhapsun­
that..thinking,'be present in a work-and familiarcanon.One mightevengoon to ask whichvalues"should"one hold,andevenwhetherthisquestioncanbe usefully asked' 
I have often attemptedto make such a "canon of ideas and thought"and been quitesurprisedto realizethatthe accepted canonex­
istsaspart of a literarysocialsystem,which we arefree,if we think for 
ourselves,to reiect. 
GenreandGenesis 727 
More on the above later. 
Criticismand reviewing alsoexist as partof a socialconvention of 
comment,commercialstruggle,and cultural shuggle over turf-who 
will say whatis what andwho iswho-and that these gatekeeperswork 
topreventfreeandindependentjudgmentamongboth readers andwrit­
ers(thoughthey may denyit), by putting forwardcertain kinds of value-
modelsto beadmiredandcopied,justasan organismt DNA strivesto 
projectitself into thefuhrre. 
At the endof these considerationsonemay come to the conclusion 
that one is freeto follow not "what is" but "what shouldbe," and that 
"whatshouldbe" is a diversityof things. 
How much of a field of actionis therein all fiction, in the SF 
novel;how much possibility,howmanyvalue-modelsyetundiscovered, 
how manyone-of-a-kindmodels?All these kindsof searchingquestions 
shouldbe necessary to the sciencefiction reader,and to the writer 
engagedin the enterprisethat is perhaps moreambitiousthan anyone 
realizes,so important that its still wide-openwaycannotb. ,deq,rately discussedwithoutserioustheorizing.certainly the purelyliterary"p­
proachmustfail,becauseit will holdup aesthetics over the demandsof originalityand thought,and it almostalwaysrefusesto discussthe ..ex­
perience"of reading an individual author,whosefleetingmagicmayes­capeone readerand not another,and whose,,way,,mayoutweighall otherconsiderations
fora large groupofreaders. 
Nabokovoncesaid that he dividedalrnoversinto thosehewished he'dwrittenandthosehe had written.At firstthisseemssilly,but whyshouldanywriteradmitto thevirtuesof a bookhe knowsisgreat,a part 
of the canonaccordingto law, but which he cannotappreciate?There arethosewho seemto casta wide net andappreciategreatvariety,but theydo recallthe "girl wholikedall the boys," or the "boywho chased 
anythingin skirts." 
A good theoreticianwill carveup themapinto thevarietyof goodbooks,as they existevenin territoriesforeignto him. He canthei saythatthesearethediscovered
waysof beinggoodandgivethem asalute; but, if he is ambitious,he will headoff for partsunknown.He will in­clude,buthewill also searchthefrontier. RecentdiscussionsaboutSF haverostthe simplicityof truthful observationand statement,and appearto justifywhatever'aparticular 
authoror reader happensto bedoingin the marketplace. But in fact the theoreticalquestionsabout SF's possibilities,especiallyits critical poten­tial,wereansweredsuccessfully
a long time ago, but are simply being ig­
noredby people unwilling to think rigorously.DiscussionsaboutSF have lost theirsenseof reality-both of SF'sproper subiect matter and 
itsmannerof publication. Youcan learnthe insights achievedby SF'sbesttheoreticiansby 
rote, and evenfind that the catechism is supremely flexible and open whenyou encounter the difficultiesof practicingit. "Sciencefictionis aboutthe human impaciof futurechangesin scienceandtechnology," Asimovwrotewith cogency,echoingthe conclusivethoughtof camp-bell, Blish, Tenn, and later taken up by Lem to greatoutcry by the 
,,humanimpact"makesit fiction,the"changes,"whether
damned.The theybestrictlyofscienceor technolory, makeit SF Youcaniustgowith the changesand the human impact,if you like, which broadensit all 
inclusively. 
The questionI oftenaskis:if one is going to write Sfl why not go 
why waierit down?why notlearnall theneededscience,

ihe distance? 
technologr,andthinkingto do thework?Well,youdon'thaveto doall 
thatto ','iil ,"ie.tcefiction,a colleagueoncetoldmewith asmile'and 
behindtheideafilledmewithhorror,becausecontent

theassumptions 
andactuaithoughtarethe heartof SF.Think aboutthe human impact 
ofscience, ou,humanexperienceofscienceandits philosophical 
"bo.,i

(and philosophical meansnothingmorethantheeffortto 
actuallythink abouisubiectmatterin a rigorousway-the birthright of

consequences 
everyhumanbeing:youeitherthink successfullyor you don'tisall that 
means).
thewordphilosoPhical 
Thinkofthemassivebodyofscienceanditsphilosophyasagreat attractoraroundwhich wewordsmithscircle,thinkingof the dramatic, 
humanpossibilities.suddenlythereis an expansion,aswiththeearlyin­flation of the universe,or the iump to blastocystin an organism-and 
from theretheworkbeginsto growandacqtrirecharacter' 
-

FreemanDysonhaswrittenthatgreatworksof science Einstein's 
equations,Goedelt Proof,thedescriptionofblackholes-are alsoworks 
of art, becausetheypossessthe qualitiesof uniqueness'beauty'and un­andbecausetheyareconshuctionsdescribinganimagina­
expectedness, tiongreaterthanourown_nafure's'Heisdescribingthewellspringofall GenreandGenesis729 
greatS[ thegrowingbodyof knowledge andtheoryin a hundreddiffer­
entarenasthatis the propercenhalsunof S[ about which we should 
thinkcriticallyandwrite of hopefuland fearful possibilitiesfor our kind. 
That'sall there is to if but try to do it. Discussions of S[ because 
they rarelystariai genuine "firstthings,"exhibita poverty of assump­
tions,makingthe speakers havelerswho plan theirdeparturefrom the 
middleand then attemptthejourneywhosestartingpointis impossible andthechanceof arriving nil. 
The agonyis thatwell thoughtand well writtenbeatsbrilliantly writtenandbadlythought.Isthe content moreimportant?yes-but try not to ignore the literary graces;
onewould notwishto eatthe efforts of a great chefoffthefloor.Butsignificancedoesnotlie in amandarincul­
tivationof grace overcontent.we don't haveto deliberatelyignorethe 
literaryvirtues;but there will bewritersof great thoughtanj -inor liter­
ary skills. fughtnowwe have moreof the skilledov"i thethouehful. 
So how to getthere?Avoidfashionsandthink for yourJerf,a-"y
fromthehomogenizedfictionofworkshopsandcredentials.To start one 
musttry,thenonemustworkat it. one mustthink,not onlybea eood 
writer.one must be readyto hold the loveof sF'sposibiliiies 
complishmentabovepopularity.A hard road-which "r,L"­
is why all the 
otherroadsaretakenso often. This is not advicethatfinancialsurvivo^ 
wishtohear.It is a call toaccomplishment

thatwasmadebyJamesBlish andothersin pasttimes,andwhichtheydidnotalwaysheedthemselves. "Did youeveradmirean empty-headedwriterfor hisstyle?"Kurt Vonnegut
onceasked.we do it all thetime,unfortunately;but thenew 
wrinklein SF'sdiscussiongroupsisthatwenowhaveempty-headedthe­oreticianswho fail to startat the beginningbeforetheygropethe ele­phant. 
The theoreticalanswersto the confusions
of criticslike fonathanLethemor the exhaustion
of ThomasDisch havebeenstateddefini­tivelybyGregoryBenford:"... the quantityof fine writtenSF has never 
beenhigher..."Toknowihisonemustgooutandexaminethe produc_ tion of severalyears,somethingthai manycriticsdo not seemto do; in­
stead,ihey rely on their unscholarlyimpressions,which maybe years old. Benford continues,
"The advanceof hard sF afterthem (the New Waveofthe'6osand'7os)
usedweaponrytheyhaddevised.. .,'But_,At the of SF the experienceof science.This makesthe genre Showcase 
finally hostile to. . . fashions in criticism, for it valuesits empirical ground.. . . SF novelsgiveusworldswhich are not to be taken as meta­phors, but asreal.We are asked to participate in wrenchingly shange events,not merelywatchthem for clues as to what they're reallyabout. SF pursuesa 'realismof the future' and so does not takeits surrealism neat,unlike much avant-garde which is easily confusedwith it. The social-realistfollowersof fameshaveyet to fathom this. The Mars and starsand digital desertsofour best novels are,finally,to betaken as real, as if to say:life isn't like this, it is this." 
That Gravity'sRainbowlost to Rendeoous with Rama in the ry77 Nebulavotingis significant today only if we understandthat the sub­tletiesof eachnovellay in vastly differentworlds,andthattheyeachres­onatedwith a very differentdatabasewithin theirsupportivereaders.Yet 
the proponentsof Pynchonreactedwith literary bigotry,ignoring the factthat Pynchon's verynominationwasa tribute (quitesomethingto an outsiderto SF circles), and spokeof Clarke with the derisivenessof French criticsreferringto British Cinema as an oxymoron. Clarke's 
rich subtletiesthat belongto SF and to science, butnovelpossesses 
which existbehinda screen to the insufficienily prepared(whosimply 
do not know how to read Clarke). It is a graceful pieceof writing, and 
bearsrereading.	It tries notto exist in its time, butlooksbeyondtemporal 
as does all of clarke'swork."Throughoutthiscentury,

provincialisms, 
conventionalliterahrrepersistentlyavoidedthinking aboutconceptually 

alteredtomorrows,and retreated into a realistpostureof fiction of ever-
smallercompass,"writesBenford.It is to this degreethatwatereddown 
letters,and

SEoftensowell written, continuesto emulatecontemporary by which it fails,alongwith its theoretical defenders,to be a matchfor thewritersandthinkersof hard S[ who unliketheirdetractorshave will­inglylearnedfromall the examplesaroundthem,whodo not repudiate 
the past but seeinto it (we are all time travelers,arewe not?)question­
ingly,askingwhatit was thatmade sense to the readersof the time, rather 
than reducingit to nonsensewith present-blindedeyes' 
Thereis another canonof SF in thiscentury,outsidetheterritories 
of today'sgatekeepersand literary bigots,whosefirst aim is to hold the 
powerof sayingwho'swho and what'swhat,with moneyor with insistent 
iordr. It is a c"r,on that speaksonly from itspages,to readerswho read and think for themselves, freeof critics and reviewerswho PresuPPose GenreandGenesis131 
everythingand thus skewunfetteredreactions.Unknownto eachother, these readers, manyof them writers,havemadea list, to which they add yearly.Itcannotbe collated into onelis! exceptby Borges, who cannot 
andwould not showit to us.And I wish I had that list. 
I showed thisessayto a sci-fiwriterwho lives downthesheetfrom 
me,figurativelyspeaking.
'Well, 

whatdo you think?" 
'Are youkidding?It's too hardto do,whatyou'reasking." 

"Sowhatdoyoudo instead? Whatdo you use?" 

He shrugged. "OtherSf;,whereit,sall predigested.,' 
"Don't youfeelanyshame?" 
"Nah,it's all rockand roll. I'm a star. I get the moneyandthegirls." 

1\nd you'rehrppy with that?" 
"Yeah,I am." 
"Really?"I asked. 

"ltt all I learnedto do." 
'And 

it'stoolatenow?" 
"Yeah,it'stoolate.Look,you,rea nice guy.But what do youwant from me,anyway?To makemelookbad?"
'Well, 
no,I'm sorry.youdothatyourselfin theeyesofpeoplewho think." 
"Look,my readersreadwith theirgut,notwith their brains.I know it looks bad.. . somakemesomenewreaders." "who madethemthatway?"rasked.when he failed to answer,I said,"Of course,you'refreetowritewhateveryouplease,exceptthatyou maynot bedoingthat.Youmaybewritingwhatsomeoneunknownto you, or the marketplace's
demandfor entertainment,hastaughtyou,without you eventhinking aboutit. And when you makea toke' effort to think aboutit, you startyourargument
sofaralongthatyourpremiseisvirtuallyyourconclusion.That'snotthinking.It'srepeating
ttreprem­ise,followinga recipe, beggingthequestion." "Sciencefiction is not about thinking. It's about fiction-and style.Ideasarea dime a dozen,andthinkineis a bore." "well, thenall isgivenaway,ail isrostlrhe lootersfrom themedia are at thegatesof SF city, but it hasarreadydestroyeditserffrom within,havingfeditselftoolongon its owninheritance.New sF citv canrise 
Showcase
only by reflectingan ever-expandingknowledgebase,not weavingever 
more	finely spun versionsof hand-medownideas and themes." "fueyoufuckingserious?"heasked. "Look.Imaginingsare like lines of credit.Theycangoon for some 
time by borrowingfrom each other.But somewhere in the activity there must be an inflow of real money. In scienceandsciencefiction that in­flow comes in the form of new observations and experiments-or the imaginingsgrow and areshored up only within their own frames of ref­erence, with diminishinghold on the worldoutside.The result is bank­ruptcyin thefinancialworld,failedtheoriesin science,andtrivialityin 
sciencefiction." "Butit sells!" "Only becausenot enoughreadershaveseenwhat'sbeendone' 
That'saccomplishedbyabolishingbacklists." "So?A bookyouhaven'treadis new to you." "Fine, if money is all you want.How aboutthe accomplishment? 
It's the sameevenif it's neverpublished,justlike the high iump record 
no one canever take awaYfrom You'" "Yeah,yeah,yeah.Getreal." ,,Getreal?Literature'sgreatcreativegenrehasto get real and give 
away	everythingto getpublished?" "Youforceme to say yes. T. S. Eliot, I think, oncesaidthatman 
can'tstandtoo much reality'I need a drink. Happynow?" 
And I knewthatit hadcosthim to writeagainstthe grain' 


GoodNewsabout$Fin BadPubUshingTimes;or, Growth,Change,andthe Preseryationof Quatity in the Literatureof Genre 
DAVIDG.HARTWELL 
and we have
This eveningis a celebration of many successes' ih. futureof science fiction andfantasyoptimistically.
causeto "ppro".h
I remindboth thenomineesandthosewhowishthey'dbeennominated thattherearemoreawardsfor SF and fantasythaneverbeforein the late '9os,and in moreplacesin the world too, evenone recentlyheld in 
the Eiffel Tower-and accordingto Norman Spinrad,we might havea 
Genreand Genesis 133 
Nebula ceremony thereoneday. And even outside thegenre,we have had some pleasant surprises in recent years-a PEN-West best novel award to Molly Gloss'sThe Dazzle ofDay, surely the mostprestigiouslit­erary award yet given in the United Statesto an SFnovel.We have also in our community a Macfuthurgrant winner, Octavia Butler. So to re­verseJerryPournelle'sfamous line, delivered when acceptingan award for another writer, awardsand award nominations will help get you 
through times of no money. 
Books After the 1995 consolidation of North American whole­sale distributors, whichwasthe biggest distributiondisastertohit United Statesmagazinesandpaperbackbooks since ihe demiseof the Ameri­can New Company in 1957,thereare SF and faniasy genre lines at fewer companies,and even fewer sales forces. While a great deal of time and energyhasso far been spentdevelopingelectronictextretrievalsystems andbookselling,thesearenot yei significant economic forces in SF and fantasy,exceptin selling used and rare books it seems there is a great 
-demandfor out-of-print material. Also, little or no editing occurs with originalmaterialpublishedthroughthe Internet, so that readers may 
experienceonline the delights and horrorsof the slush pile, without 
the intervention of editors, copy editors, or even tlpe designers. How­ever,nearlyevery SF line now has a hardcover component that isessen­tial to its publishing program. While fewer books in our genres will be published in mass marketpaperbackthis year thanlast,a trend acceler­ating since 1995, morefantasy and SF is appearing in hardcover than ever before, evenmorethan in the boom years of the r98os. 
I havebeen working for the last decadeor so to help Tor,my em­ployer, build the largest SF and fantasyhardcoverline in the history ofSF publishing,and now Tor alonepublishesmorehardcoverSFin a season than the whole indushy did a little over a decade ago.Thistrend began in the early r98os and has now changedthe field so completely thatSFis no longer principally drivenbymassmarket sales. This is the biggest eco­nomic and publishingchange since the late r95os, whenthedominance of the magazines gaveway to the paperbacks.The lion's share of thebest booksin SFeachyearisnowpublishedfirstin hardcover. 
This is good for the field. Hardcovers are"realbooks"-they get re­viewed, preserved on library shelves,arenot disposablethe way maga­zinesand paperbacks are, or at least the way they areoutside of the genre. Hardcovers aresold in bookstores, mainly,andarekept on book­store shelves for months, sometimes years, until they are sold or remain­dered. Paperbacks have a shortsales life in bookstores,and an even shorterone on racks in aiqports and drugstores and newsstands. They regularlyget used up and discarded after only a few readings. And most magazinesare sold for a week or a month and, if sold, are thrown away after a month or two. People outside the field perceive SF and fantasy as more adult, more serious, and higher class if it is in hardcover. 
Meanwhile the ScienceFiction Book Club is expanding, buying more titles per month, adding more money into the profit calculations in SF and fantasy publishing, and the club selects primarily from the pool of hardcover titles. The chief beneficiaries maybeyounger readers, who do not otherwise buy many, or any, hardcovers. 
Of course a large number of new books andreprints of older books are now releasedin tradepaperback.The contractionof the backlistin massmarket paperbacks hasbeengoingon for more than twenty years, atthe same time asthe frontlist has been growing,but thatcombination of trends is slowing considerably as the superstores stock backlist in depth while the frontlist shrinks. Tiade paperbackshave come to the forefront as the economicalway to reprint after a hardcoveredition and enlarge the readership,andto makea profit on a sale of a few thousand copiesin caseswhereyou cannotprint a massmarket edition-either becauseyou have no mass market slot or because the proiected distribu­tion in massmarket is not profitable. Of courseyou can also reprint a classicwork. (At leasttwo new classics lines in hade paperback are ap pearingthis year,one in the United Kingdom and one in the United States.)Or youcanlaunch a newwriterin hade paperback,and that is happeningwith someregularitynow The trade paperback isperceived as the moreliterary form of paperback publishing,themediumin which the cutting-edge literaryfiction of the mainsheamispublished. 
The covers of the hardbacls and trade paperbaclaare on thewhole 
sophisticatedanddeliberatelyliterary,not the traditional illushationwe 
in the genrehavebeen used to for decades.This strateryseems to be 
working well, in part because it is aimedat adults, and adults, not teen­
agers,buythemaiorityof hardcovers andtrade paperbacks. In the face of 
Gallup polls and other publishedmarketresearchin the r99os, no one 
can support the claim that SF is still a literature for kids. Most SF and 
GenreandGenesis135 
fantasytodaysellsto an adult audience;the tlpical buyer is over thiriy, andgetting older. This is why so much effort in recent years hasbeenput into Reading for the Future,andinto publishingspecificallyyoungadult SF-we want to regain the youngSF audience that the field outgrew in the r97os and r98os. It is ironic that thetrade paperbacks of today in SF 
look more like the Ballantine books of the r95os,when fuchard Powers did all the covers, than they look like contemporarymassmarket SF. 
Andyetto the best of my knowledgeevery SF line is experiencing continuingsuccesswith their lead books in mass market. The huge com­paniesthat now domassmarket distribution wanttosellleadseffectively, withoutthe distraciionsof smaller books. So there is an upside to the mass distribution consolidation, namely that the top books by estab­lished writers can be distributed more efficiently and often in greater numbers than ever before. We may disagree with this principle, and nearly every editor I know does,becauseit so limitswhat else can bepub. lished in the massmarket,but it certainly benefits the top writersin all fields and their publishers. 
Soif you are a first novelist and you manage to sell yourfirst novel, you are much more likely to be publishedin hardcover,which meansa more enduring book,morereviews,and so on. If you are an established writer whose books are publishedaslead titles, more copies of them will be sold. Andif you are a writer in midcareerwhose books were published in the midlistbut who was shaken out in the recent shakeouts in the marketplace,thereisan increasinglycompetent small-press movement that has increasinglysophisticatedtechnologicaltoolsandis looking for good books to publish. 
Many of you are readersof theNerll York Review of ScienceFiction, which I publish, whoseeditorialpolicyis to discussthe strengthsand weaknessesof good books. We ai the NYRSF find six to ten booksa month to discuss,anddo not feel we succeed in covering all the good booksavailableto review, soit is clearto me thatthe field is producing an abundance ofgoodbooks. 
Short Fiction In recentyears I havebeendoingan annual Year's BesfSF volume for HarperPrismand so havehad a chance to read widelyin short fiction.I can say confidently that the newsis good there. In the majormagazinesthequalitycontrolisexcellent;competent pro­fessionaleditingis nearly universal,whateverthe editorial taste. While 
Showcase 
the original anthologies areusuallynot asgood as the averageissue of oneof the magazines, they still constitute a significant market and have supportedan abundance of genrewriting this year. 
So a lot of short fictionisgetting published professionally, 
making writers' reputations and growing name recognition for them. A signifi­cant though smaller proportionof the short fiction is getting published in reprint anthologies,aformthat has always underpinned thefield.Al­though generally avoided by the major housesthesedays, reprint an­thologiescrop up frequently in the late r99os,thanks to book clubs, small presses that have benefited enormouslyfrom the new electronic technologies,and book chains (someof which arenowinstant remain­derpublishers).There are fewercopies of fewer professional genre mag­azines than ever, but more SFand fantasy anthologies andcollections arebeing published in more places. 
It is in short fiction that the small press is making a particularly sig­nificant contribution in recent years, both in the growth of semipro' fessional magazines such asInterzone, On Spec, andEidolon and in the continuing publication of single-auihor collections,a form that was taken over in the r98os by small-presspublishersfrom fukham to Ziesing,someofwhomare actually thriving. We will all feel the absence of |im Turner, whose nearly thirty years of editorship at fukham and then Golden Gryphonshowed what a fine editor could accomplishin the smallpress.|im's tasteand professionalism put many to shame, and gave his peersa standard to live up to. 
Postmodern Pubtishing anat SD Speculativefiction-at least 
that part of it attempting to escalate out of genreinto the mainstream-has never been healthier,althoughmuch of it ispublishedcompletely outside genre markets by publishersandeditors who areunderthe im­pressionthatthey are publishing contemporary nongenrefiction. And perhapsthey are. Examplesare Mary Doria Russell'snovels,|onathan Lethem's recent work, and the Four Walls Eight Windows publishing program.But speculative fictionis subiect to the upsanddownsof the coldworldof the mainstreamliterary midlist, whereamuchhigherper­centageof books lose money than in genre. 
The hallmark of such publishingprograms(andI supposeI should 
include the trade paper reprints from Vintage) is that, somewhat like 
Hollywood,they make little effort to distinguish betweenfantasy and SE, 
Genreand Genesis 737 
in part becausethey see no difference. This meansquality control is based entirely upon the prose style andliterary marketing signalsgener­ated by the text.Postmodernis the cool thing to be justnow. So a lot of writersof real talentwho are more comforiable outsidegenrepublish-ing-for example,Karenfoy Fowler, William Gibson,famesMorrow, fackWomack,Paul Di Filippo, and Octavia Butler-are findinghomes in nongenre lists and yet still sticking with the social fieldof Sfl appear­ing at conventions and so forth. Some of them are in the room today. Genrevirtuessuchas consistent world building or scientific verisimili­tude are somewhat irrelevantto the marketingof their worksnow,but genresubculturesupportstill underpins much of their careers' 
The important thingfor us is that they do not reiect genresupport. From Tennessee Williams to Kurt Vonnegutto Donald E. Westlake, writershavestarted out associated with genreSF and fantasy and then left-that's not new.Theser99oswritersare sticking around.Wealways knew that top-notchscientistsin the mainsheam(Eric TempleBell, Norbert Wiener, Sheldon Glashow, Marvin Minsky, and many others) paid attention to Sfl,and still do-Freeman Dysonis going to be Sci­enceGuestof Honor at a convention (VikingCon)nextyear-but now some of our more ambitious writers are getting mainstreampublication and attention withouthavingto deny us (in the Biblical sense). 
The mainstream, at leasta little bit, isjoiningus. Sure, there are someself-consciouslypostmodernwriters who appropriate SF as iustan­other pop culture repository of collage-making material, but they are not terriblyimportanton the literary scene or relevant to SF and fantasy. Moresignificant,there are a lot of literary writers whose work,hadit paid a little more attention to genre attitudes and virfues such as verisimili­tude and plotting, wouldhave fallen solidly in the genre. And sometimes does-Russell'sfirst two novels, The Spanow and Children of Cod, are more closely related to genre S[ without being labeled so by the pub­lisher, than some worksthat appear wearing the genretrademark.Last yearfohn Updike,Gore Vidal, and others published novels that were by every useful standard SF. And Vintage Contemporaries, the leading lit­erary trade paperback line in the United States, having reprinted almost all of theworksof Philip K. Dick is now doingAlfred Bester, Theodore Sturgeon,andThomasM. Disch's SF-as literature. As a consequence less academic attention is paid to SF and fantasy as a discrete genrein Showcase 
the late r99os than there wasin the r97os or r98os, but the attention is of higher quality. The genre label is less stigmatizingthanit used to be, and more works are talked about for their ideas and execution. There is now an academic establishment,severaljournals,manyseriousSF courses, andfewer shallow courses that merely use our genre to teach science or religion or whatever. Many academics do not share the goals and atti­tudesof SFwriters or of the SF community, but they nowrecognizethat thosegoals exist and often take them into account when discussingwrit­ersandworks.And the SF community hasspawneditsown academics: SamuelR. Delany,foannaRuss,Brian Stableford, fohn Kessel, Kim StanleyRobinson,DamienBroderick,F.BrettCox,and Andy Duncan. In differing ways these critics are influencing the wayour literatureis taught and studied. 
But that's a topic for another day. Tonight we have considered growth and change and the preservation of quality in the marketplace as apreludeto celebrating high excellence and achievement in the SF and fantasy literahrre of the recent past. Tonight is the eve of the greatest mediaeventof the decadein SE, whether that invokes the new StarWars film, theYzKproblem, orthe tum of the millenniumitself,and while we all anticipate riding the next big wave into the future, it is fitting that we stop for amomentandhonorthe literature that is the source of all the cul­tural spinoffsand the wellspring of images that feeds the media. 

the Truth about Sci-FiMovies, Revealed at Last BILL WARREN 
Growing up in a small town on the Oregoncoast, I felt isolated from the peoplearoundme, and immersed myself in sciencefiction. I loved the books (though rarely read the magazines, since, or so I thought,all the good stuffwould wind up in anthologies), I lovedcomic bools-and I loved the movies, too.Later,I encountered sciencefiction fandom,andthen "prodom" as well, assuming that I would meet others who loved all three of those sources of my great childhood and adoles­cent joy.I was puzzled thatwhile I oftenmet people who liked comic books and movies,or books and comics, or sometimesevenbooks and movies,I virtually never encountered anyone who loved all three.The 
GenreantlGenesis139 
movieswereoftenviewedwith contemptandscorn'sometimesbecause 
theyweren'tlike written sciencefiction' asfar asI was concerned'it wasakin to 
That baffiedme,because 
complainingthat watermelonwasn'tlike pizza' Both food' to be sure' bothfun to eat-but sodifferentin theirverynaturethatI wasmystified 
;;il evenbotheredto comparethem' I neverdid' They wereboth in one broadcategory:popular entertainmentin the form of sciencefic­iJr,, ,r,d that was about it. Even when plots were similar, I never 
.r'""gt,.oftheclich6..thebookisbetterthanthemovie.''Themovie 
be likethebook,but it wasn'tto me a matter of thebookbeing
*"yl* 
betier,irtstthatthebookwasintendedfor aparticular'rathernarrowau­dience,and the moviewasintendedfor a different'moregeneralaudi­ence.I still feelmuch the sameway'which cansometimesdrivefriends 

todistraction.Sure,IknewthalTheDaytheEarthstoodStillwasbetter 
thanTheDaytheWorldEnded,butlwantedtoseebothofthem.Ididn't 
expecteitheito be anymore like eachotherthan eitherwerelike writ-

if TheDaytheEarth StoodStill wasbasedon a published
ten SE even 
SFstory.It wasbetterthanthe Cormanmoviebecauseit was bettercin­
it was morelikewrittenSF'
ematically,notbecause 
Somepeopleconsiderthat attackingSF moviesfor failing to be 

likeSFbooksisaholycrusade;whilevictorymayneverbeachieved'the battlehasto be continuedfor the honor of sciencefiction' To me' this 
impliesthattheythinksciencefictionfans/readersandwriterssomehow 
own sciencefiction. It's lessa matter of being upsetthat Holly'rvood 
makesbadsciencefictionmoviesnowandthen,but moreof a senseof 

indignation,moraloutrage:howdarelheyuseour stuffandnot useit in 
waysthatwe aqProve. 
While therearemanypeoplein thesciencefiction field' bothfans 

and pros,who understat'dmouits and who iudgesciencefiction films 
o., ah. samebasisthey iudgeothermovies,ratherthanbooks'too many 

simply don't get this distin:tion at all' "The book wasbetter than the 
*oui"," th.y .lri--and they don't meanthat asa book' the bookwas 
amovie,They think thetwo canbedirectly

betterthanthemoviewasaS compared. Butexceptinaverylimited,essentiallypointlesssense'theycan't be.It'snotjustamatterofthebasicdifferencesbetweenthetwomedia (abookdoesn'thavea musictrack,for example)'but of howwerespond 
Showcase 
to the two. Foronething,readinga book is generallya solitaryexperi­ence; watching a movie, under ideal circumstancesanyway,isa group experience,and this distinction not only affectshowwe respond to the work itself,but how the creators are able to evoke responses.Eventhe greatest comedies work better-are funnier-when viewed with a re­sponsiveaudience than while alone. The sameistrue of thrillers,mys­teries, musicals, etc. Suspense can be heightened when you'rein a groupthat is respondingin much the same mannerasyou. 
In a book,we can readback over earlier material without any trouble; except onhome video, movies are perceived linearly; wehaveto take them as theycome, or not at all-and thisis built intohow movies are constructed. It makes notless narrative complexity, but complexity of adifferent order. Also, with movies, it's (usually)not a matterof reaching for the lowestcommon denominator, but broadening the experience, makingit accessibleto most of theaudience.Sometimes,thisisthesame thing; it's hard to find subtlety in Armageddon-but Dark City issophis­iicatedand intelligent, while still satisfyingmostof theneeds of the ac­tion crowd. 
Movies are not the same as books, but theyare not inhinsically in­ferior to books, unless you tautologically believethatwritingistheulti­mate art form. Movies are not intendedto competewith or to supplant books,noteven the onesthey're based on. A friend once asked |amesM' Cain how he could let Hollywood ruin his books. Cain saidthat the booksweren'truined; there they were, right there on the shelf... . 
There are some who want, almost desperately,to believe that Hollywood makes"sci-fi" but, say, Larry Niven writessciencefiction. The trouble is that this"sci-fiis bad science fiction" definition existsex­clusivelywithin SF fandom,andnot even everyfan goes along with it. To the world at large, "sci-fi"Ineans"sciencefiction,"goodand bad, plausibleand im-, space operaand diamond-hard sciencefiction. But still,onthe Internet, in letters,somefanzines,andelsewhere,you'llfind the narrowerdefinition of "sci-fi"offeredasRevealedTiuth, not justan 
opinion.(Youcan makethe eyes of ihesepeopleturn into little pin­wheelsby pointing out thattheterm was aPParently coined twice, quite independently:onceby Forrest|. Ackerman,and once by Robert A. Heinlein,whousedit in correspondence. 
AndiustlikeAckerman,when heusedthe term, Heinleinmeant"sciencefiction.") 
GenreandGenesis741 
Sometimes,thisshiftsinto a belief that it's the scientific implausi­bilities that make science fictionmovies bad (even though, for example, "Cavorite"doesn'tmakeWells'sThe First Men in the Moon a bad novel). At leastonecompanywasstarted that, for a fee, would vet scriptsfor sci­entificblunders and offer alternatives of greaterscientificverisimilitude. The founders of the company were genuinely surprised,evenhurt, that Holllwood didn't give a damn.Even bad screenwriters 
anddirectorsare awarethatbeingscientificallyaccuratewon'tmakea movie better-ex­cept for a tiny segmeni of the population, who, if they all stayed away from the movie,wouldn't make the tiniest dentin the box-officeresults. On the other hand, with some movies-in rygS,Soldierwas a goodex-ample-the lack of scientific accuracy underscores the fact that the movie is bad in most other ways, too. 
The bottom line in Hollywood is, of course, money. This isn'tevil, it'sa simple fact of economic life; those who rail against Hollywood are tryingsomehowto holdit to a higherstandardthanotherbigbusinesses. But that's what it is: a big business. A newversionof WhenWorldsCol­Iide,based on the novel rather than the George Palmovie,might well haveresulted in a very good film-but would it have made as much money as the god-awfulArmageddon?Armageddonwas a much more surefire bet, with Bruce Willis playing his usual smart-ass, tough-as-nails role, a director whose last film (The Rock)had done very well, and a loud, noisy approachthat included far more specialeffectsthanWhen WorldsCollide would have. Deep Impact, which was more like When WorldsCollide than it waslike Armageddon, didn't do as well as Ar­mageddon.And the idea is to makemoney. 
To understand why Hollywood ends up making the choices it does, you have to think like a Hollywoodexecutive. Not only doesthis mean deciding on theprojectmostlikely to make the most money-to hell with any considerations of quality but there are aspects of pissing 
-contests,too.As a "suit"you want your movieto make money, but also moremoneythanyour rival makes. 
And there's more, too. I once askeda screenwriter (TerryRossio) who'sverysawyabout written science fiction -readit all the time grow­ing up -justwhyit is that movies aresorarelybasedon written science fiction. He saidthat it wasa very good question, and there was a very 
142 Nebula AwardsShowcase
2000 
long answer, but the short answerwasthatthe kind of people who grow up readingscience fiction don'tbecome shrdio executives. Theymight well become movie writers, directors,special effects experts,even pro­
ducers sometimes-but they don't run the studios. 
And it's the peoplewho do run the studios who decide what gets filmed. They don'tgefout-of-the-ordinarymaterial,and assume the au­diencesdon't, either,so they don't producemusicals or Westerns any­more. They don't understand the appeal of science fiction or horror (beyond"boo!"),so they financespoofsof S{ horror, superhero adven­tures,etc., because they do understandcomedy, and can't quite under­stand why anyone would take this kind of thing seriously. (Warngrs executives understood foel Schumacher'sapproachto Batman, but nevercouldfigureoutthemoreseriousdirection.) So budget consider­ations,lackof familiarity,and ignorance combine to cut back on the number of SFmovies. 
Don't think sciencefiction novels are being singledout to be ig­nored. The movie business haschangedoverthe years. In the r93os and '4os,people over twenty-one made up mostof the moviegoingaudience. Movies were oftenbased on books and plays not so much because the ticketbuyerswere familiar with them, but because they appealed to the samedemographics. astelevision
Astime passed, camein,andas people under twenty-one got more disposable income,those movies aimed at kidstendedto make more money-sometimes alotmore money-than thoseaimed at adults. Movies based on novels and plays declined in number; when a novel is filmed today, often it's something along the lines of a Tom Clancy thriller, while the rest of even the best-sellerlist goes unfilmed (thoughsome of themendup asTV miniseries). 
In short, hardly anybooksare being filmed these days,becausethe targetaudience doesn't read books, and because thebooks that are writ­ten don't tell the stories that thisaudiencewants to see. Like many gen­eralizations,this is, of course, only generally true. 
In the last twenty years,sciencefictionbecameredefinedasasub­setof the action thriller. The audience doesn't make amajordistinction between,say, Lethal Weapon 4 and Armageddon; they're both action thrillers, and thatonehappensto be science fiction simply means it will havemorespecialeffects in it. Which, of course,is anotherproblem: specialeffectsaregoddamnedexpensive.Why, they cansometimescost Genreand Genesis 143 
as much as halfof JimCarrey's salary-maybe even more-for a movie 
on the scale of the SF/action thrillers today. 
So a filtering process isbuilt in: even if you're one of the rare suits who readsand likes science fiction and who wants to film Heinlein or AsimovorGibsonorNiven or Bear orwhoeverwon the lastNebula, you still have to answer to your bosses.Your movie is going to cost some­where between eighty and a hundred million dollars;either you go the star route (likeArmageddon)or the wow-look-at-these-effects
route (like Deep lmpacf), but you have to be sure you're going to havea return on that money, or you'll be out of work a week after the movie flops at the box office. (And "flop" is a relative term; despite making about two hundredmillion dollars worldwide, Armageddonwas a bit of
considered 
a financial disappointment,in ratio of costto profit.)And you reluctantly 
put aside your dream project of filmingVernor Vinge, and, sighing,hy 
to figure a way to fit Leonardo DiCaprio into a big splashy space adven­
ture-short on brains but long on actionand thrills. 
Of course, studiosshould take biggerchancesonsciencefictionas well as in other areas, and like anyonewho loves S$ I have my own list of booksI think would make entertainingandprofitablemovies. This ar­ticle isn't a defense of Hollywood;it'sa regrettableexplanation. 
On the other hand, in the last few years, there has beenan in­creasingnumber of attempts at filming sciencefiction "the right way" (i.e.,like any other serious drama or adventure).Sometimes,the results aren'twhat SF fans and readers wanted-SfcrshipTroopersisa case in point. I happento like the film but many others didn't, and the film was a box-office failure-not becauseit didn't"liveup to Heinlein," but be­causethe intentionsof director Paul Verhoevendidn't matchthe expec­tationsof the general audience. The Postman,basedon the novel by David Brin, has become the latestbad-moviewhipping boy,although, likeTroopers,it'sa much bettermoviethan itsdetractorsclaim. (ln this case,it would have to be.) 
AndContact,while morehighly regarded thanthosetwo,alsowas felt to be lacking in some regard, although it was extremely faithful to Carl Sagan'snovel.BobZemeckisclearly understands sciencefiction­hisapproachto time havel in the Back to the Future movieswas as strin­gentas any hardcoreSF fan could want-and he knew exactlywhat 
kind of movie he wasmakingin contact.lt wasmade in a moredirect 144 NebulaAwards 2000
Showcase 
stylethan StarshipTroopers(which tried a Europeanapproach of play­ing it straightand satiric at the same time), and waslessclutteredand ambitious thanThe Postman,andyetthere was a lack here, too. 
But despite the claimsof some,in these cases, whatever'swrong 
with the movies has little or nothing to do with theirbeing science fic­tion. Any mistakes that were made werethe same kind you'd find in non-sciencefictionmovies-and actually,thesethree films were more honestlyconceivedthan an audience-manipulating Iike, say, 
melodrama Stepmom, Today, there are very few obstacles in Hollywoodto filming science fiction, aslong as aprofitisvisible. And as computer graphic ef­fects improve, they'llbecomecheaper,which will allow slightly more marginal projects to be tackled. 
But don't expectthemembersof SFWA to suddenly becomesquil­lionaires;mostwritten SF is still too "esoteric"in the eyes of the people guarding the big stacks ofmoney. The door hasbeen cracked justalittle; Asimoy's Bicentennial Man is beginning production as I write. And Hollywood does recognizethe nameof Philip K. Dick. (He seemsan unlikely choice, since so manyof his stories consist of internal action
-the thought processes of the hero but hedealtalotwithparanoia,and
-that'san attitudeHollywood not only understands,but is proficient at translatinginto movie terms.) I suspect thatonthe average,SFWAmembersarea bit more hip to themoviejivethananequivalentsectionof thegeneral populace might be, but still they're mostly aware of the big-scale pichrres-simply be­causethosearetheprojectsneeding the biggestpublicitypushes. Even so,how many recognized The Truman Show as science fiction? (Fans 
did, as it wasnominatedfora Hugo.) And how many had even heard of Dark City?These were thetwo bestandmostintelligentsciencefiction moviesof 1998;what it lacked in originality,The Truman Showmore 
thanmade up in style, wit, and compassion, and such a thorough devel­opment of its theme that it practically seethes with metaphoricalinter­pretations.(Thosewho think the movie should have continued after Tfuman goes through the door simply don'tunderstandwhatthemovie wasabout.) 
Dark City wasa PKDick-like tale of paranoia, carefullyworked out; initially, things are very weird, but the movie offersone revelation afteranother,until by the end, what hasseemedto be a wildly stylized 
Genreand Genesis 745 
fantasyis revealed asa pretty shaighforward sciencefiction tale. Yes,it's verypulpish,like a book Dick mighthave done as half of anAceDouble Novel, such as Dr. Bloodmoney.Bd itt honest,it sticks to its own premisesvery carefully,and is a very satisfying production all the way 
around. 
The year had a few TV tie-ins, from alow of Losf in Spacethrough an okay StarTiek: lnsunectionto a modesthigh o{TheX-Files. And there wasthe usual junk-some really bad (DisturbingBehavior),someokay 
for what itwas(DeepRising,TheFaculty),most of it, aswith all creative endeavors,in themiddle(Phantoms).The great hugehulkingmegaPro­ductionsin the SF arena were no better than thoseoutside;Arm ageddon wasthe worst of thelot, while Godzilla,cursedwith a moronic script, did manage to feature a few impressive monster-on-the-loose Soldier
scenes. wasjustanother hackneyed attempt to retell Shanein anothervenue, with a particularlyfoolishbackground. 
Until the suits who neverreadsciencefiction,and have a hard time getting it now, are out of the way, or producers and directorsknowl­edgeableaboutsciencefictiongeta lot more clout than they currently have, there simply isn'tgoing to be filmed science fiction with some of the sophistication and intelligenceof the best written SE,at least not amongthe big-budgeted films. If you want to enioy thesemovies,follow QueenVictoria'sadvice:lie there and think of England. 
But things are gradually changing. Gattaca,in rgg7, wasn't exactly hard Sfl but its science fictional premise wastightly linked to the char­acters the story was all of a piece. Stylistically, writer/directorAndrew
-Niccol blundered,but he's an especially good writer, shown again in his well-structured,very thorough script for The Truman Show. David Twohy is another writer/director to pay attentionto;he had nothing new outin 1998, buthis The Anival oftheyearbefore, while familiar and rou­tine in its SF elements, treatedthem with respect and even wit. Dark City playswith classic SF themeswith respect,authority,and intelligence.Yes, this sort of thinghas been done in written SF foryears, but theret no reasonto expect filmedSF not to head down somewell-trodden paths. SF readershave no right to expectmovies to leap ahead to the place written SF has reached at the turn of the millennium. Changes take place, but they iake place slowly, and sometimes in unex­pected venues. TheMatrix of rygg is an action-adventure movie that, 
746 Nebula Awards 2000
Showcase 
whenall trappingsarestrippedaway, is about a band of superheroes out 
to savetheworldfrom itself.The sciencefiction elementsarefamiliarto SF readers,but new to SF moviegoers, and again, writer-directorsthe wachowskibrothersknowtheliteratureas well as the movies andcomrc books. 
Moviesare a mass medium;writtenSF-forthe most part-is not, andneverwill be. To hold mass entertainmentuptothe standards set by literaturecreatedfora smaller groupisa mistake, whetherit's science fic­
tion, iazz,or commercial art.Therearealot of goodmoviesthat are sci­ence fiction; don't make the mistakeof demanding that they also be goodscience fiction -orrather,don't assume that"goodsciencefiction" isanythingmorethana perspective, a viewpoint, one that works for you, but doesn'tnecessarilywork for those who buy movie tickets. 

Winter Fire 
A. LANDIS
GEOFFREY 
Dr. Geoffrey Landis works for NASA. He hetpedbuildthe 5o­journerroverthat exptored Mars in 7997. I haveworkedwith him,co-authoringapaperon how to find wormho[es, 
andin re­centresearchonthedynamicsof sendingsails driven by micro­wave beams out into the solar system. He is a wide-ranging intelligenceand an adroit storytetter,with awards to his credit. Thestory to fottowisarathersternlookat our species and what witl al.l too probabtyoccurin the next century-more conflict that increasingtylooks, up ctose, worsethan meaningtess. 
I amnothing and nobody;atoms that have learned to look at them­selves;dirt that has learned to seethe awe and the maiesty of the universe. 
The daythe hover-transports arrivedin the refugee camps, huge windowlessshells of titanium floating on elechostaticcushions,the day facelessmen took the ragged little girl that was meawayfromthenarrow, blastedvalleythat had once been Salzburgto begin a new life on an­other continent: that is the hue beginning of my life. Whatcamebefore then is almostirrelevant,a sequence of memoriesetched as with acid into my brain,but with no meaningto real life. 
SometimesI almost think that I can remember my parents. I re­member them not by what was, but by the shape of the absence they left Showcase
behind.I remember yeaming for mymother'svoice, singing to me softly in 
I cannot remember her voice, or whatsongsshemighthavesung,
|apanese. but I remember so vividly the missing of it,theholethat she leftbehind. My fatherI remember as the loss of somethinglargeand warm and 
infinitelyshong, prickly and smelling of-of what?I don't remember. Again,it is the loss that remainsin mymemory,not the man.I remember rememberinghim as moresolid than mountains,somethingeternal;bui in the end he was not eternal, he was not even as strong asavery small war. 
I livedin the city ofmusic,in Salzburg, butI remember little from beforethe siege.I do remembercaf6s(seenfrom below,with huge tablesand the legs of waiters and faces looming down to ask me if I would like asweet).I'm sure my parents musthave been there, but that 
I do notremember. 
And I remember music. I hadmy little violin (althoughit seemed solarge to methen),andmusicwas not my second languagebutmyfirst' I thought in musicbefore ever I learnedwords.Evennow,decadeslater, whenI forget myselfin mathematicsI ceaseto think in words,bui think 
directlyin concepts clearandperfectlyharmonic,so that a mathemati­calproofisno more than the inevitablemaiestyof a crescendoleading 
to a final, resolvingchord. 
I havelong since forgottenanythingI knew aboutthe violin' I 
havenotplayedsincethe da,v, whenI was nine,I tookfrom the rubbleof 
ourapartmenttheshatteredcherry-woodscroll.I kept that meaningless 
pieceof polished woodfor years, sleptwith it clutchedin my hand every 
night until, much later,it was taken awayby a soldierintent on rape' 
ProbablyI wouldhavelet him, hadhe not been so ignorant as to think 
my one meagerpossessionmight be a weapon. coitus is noihing more 
than the naturalact of the animal. From songbirdsto porpoises,any 
male animal will rape an availablefemalewhengivena chance. The ac­
tionis of no significance except,perhaps,as a chanceto contemplate the 
impersonalmaiestyof thechain of life and the meaninglessnessof any 
individual'swill within it. 
When I was finally takenawayfrom the city of music,threeyears 
later and a cenhrryolder,I owned nothingandwantednothing.There 
wasnothingof the cityleft. As the hoveriettookmeaway,iustonemore 
in a seeminglyendlessline of ragged survivors,only the mountainsre­
mained,hardlyscarredbythebombcratersandthe detritus thatmarked WinterFire 149 
wherethe castle had stood, mountains looking downon humanity with thegaze of eternity. 
My real parents, I have beentold, were roustedout of our apart­ment with a tossed stick of dynamite,and shot as infidels as they ran through the door, on the very first night of the war.It wasprobablyfa­naticsof the New OrihodoxResurgencethat did it, in their firstroundof ethniccleansing,althoughnobodyseemedto know for sure. 
In the beginning,despitethe dissolutionof Aushiaandthefall of 
thefederation of free European states,despitethe hatetalkspread by the disciplesof Dragan Vukadinovi6, the violent cleansingof the Orthodox church,andthe rising of the Pan-Slavic unity movement,all the events that covered the news-netsall through zro8,few people believed there would be a war, and those that did thought that it might last a few months.The dissolutionofAustriaandeasternEuropeinto a federation of free states was viewed by intellectuals of the time asa good thing, a recognitionof the impending irrelevance of governments in the post-technologicalsociety with its burgeoningsky-citiesand prospering free-tradezones.Everyonetalked of civilwar,but as a distant thing; it was an awful mythical monster of ancient times, one that had been thought dead,a thing thatate people's hearts and turned them intoinhumangar­goylesof stone.It would not come here. 
Salzburg had had a largepopulationof Asians, once themselves refugeesfrom the economic and political turmoil of the twenty-firstcen­fury,but now prosperouscitizens who had lived in the city for over a cen­hrry. Nobody thought about religion in the Salzburgof that lost age; nobody cared that a person whose family once came from the Orient mightbea Buddhist or a Hindu or a Confucian.My own family, as far 
as I know, hadno religiousfeelingsatall,but that made little difference 
to the fanatics. My mother, suspecting possiblehouble that night, had 
sentme overto sleep with an old German couplewho lived in a build­
ing next door.I don'tremember whether I said good-bye. 
fohann Achtenberg became my foster-father, a stocky old man, bearded and forever smelling of cigar smoke. "We will stay," my foster-father would often say, over and over. "It is our city;the barbarianscan­not drive us out." Later in the siege, in a grimmermood, he might add, "Thev cankill us.but thev will never drive us out." 
Showcase 
The next few months were full of turmoil, as the Orthodox Resur­gence tried, and failed, to take Salzburg.They were still disorganized, morea mob than an army, still evolvingtowardthekilling machine that they would eventually become.Eventuallythey were driven out of the city,dynamiting buildings behind them, to ioin up with the Pan-Slavic fumy rolling in from thedevastationof Graz.The roads in and out of the city were barricaded,and the siege began. 
For that summer of zrog, the first summer of the siege, the life of the city hardly changed. I was ten years old. Therewasstill electricity, and water, and stocks offood. The caf6s stayed open, although coffee be­camehard to obtain, and impossibly expensive when it wasavailable, and at tirnes they had nothing to serve but water.I would watch the pretty girls, dressed in colorful Italian suede and wearing ornately carvedLadakhiiewelry,sholling down the streetsin the evenings, stop­ping to chat with T:shirted boys, and I would wonder if I would ever 
grow up to be as elegant and poised asthey.The shellingwas still mostly 
far away, and everybody believed that the tide of world opinion would 
soon stop the war.The occasional shell that wastargetedtoward the city 
causedgreatcommotion,peoplescreamingand diving under tables 
evenfor a bird that hit many blocks away.Later,when civilianshad be­
come targets, we all learned to tell the caliberand the traiectory of a 
shell by the sound of the songit made as it fell. 
Afteranexplosionthereis silence for an instant, then ahubbub of 
crashingglassand debris as shatteredwallscollapse,andpeople gingerly 
touch eachother,iustto verify that ihey arealive.The dust would hang 
in theairfor hours. 
TowardSeptember,whenit becameobviousthattheworldpowers 
werestalemated,and would not intervene,the shelling of the city began 
in earnest. Tanks,evenmodernones with electrostatichover and thin 
coilgunsinsteadof heavy cannons, could not maneuver into the narrow 
alleys of the old city andwere stymied by the steep-sidedmountain val­
leys.But the outersuburbsand the hilltopswereinvaded,crushedflat, 
andleft abandoned. 
I did not rcalize it at the time, for a child seeslittle, but with an­
tiquated equipment and patched-togetherartillery, my besieged city 
clumsilyand painfully fought back. For everyfifty shells thatcamein, 
one was firedback at the attackers. 
WinterFire 75t 
Therewasaninternational blockade against sellingweaponsto the Resurgence,but that seemed to make no difference. Their weaPons may not have had the most modern of technolory, but they werefar better than ours.They had superconductingcoilgunsfor artillery, weaPons that fired aerodynamically shapedslugs-we called them birds-that maneuveredon twisted arcs as they moved.The birds were small, barely largerthan my hand, but the metastable atomichydrogenthat filled them held an incredibleamountof explosivepower. 
Our defendershad to rely on ancient weapons,gunsthat ignited chemical explosives to propel metal shells.Thesewere quickly disas­sembled and removed from their position after each shot, because the enemy's computers could backtrail the trajectory of our shells, which hadonly crude aeromaneuvering, 
to directa deadly rain of birdsat the guessedposition.Sincewe were cut offfrom regular supply lines, each shell was precious.We were supplied by ammunition carried on mules whose trails would weave through the enemy's wooded territory by night and by shellscarriedone by one across dangerousterritoryin backpacks. 
But still, miraculously, thecity held. Over our heads the continuous shower of steel eroded the skyline. Our beautiful castle Hohensalzburg wassandpaperedto a hill of barerock; the cathedraltowers fell and the debrisby slowdegreeswaspounded into gravel.Bells rang in sympathy with explosions until at last the bells were silenced. Slowly, erosion soft­ened the profilesof buildings that once defined the city's horizon. 
Evenwithout looking for the craters, welearned to tell from look­ingat the hees which neighborhoodshad had explosions in them.Near a blast, the city's hees had no leaves. They were shakenoff by the shockwaves.But noneof the treeslasted the winter anyway. 
My stepfather made a stoveby poundingwith a hammer on the fendersand door panelsof a wrecked automobile, with a pipe madeof copper from rooftops andinnumerable softdrink cans.Floorboardsand furnifure were broken to bits to make fuel for us to keep warm. All through the city, stovepipes suddenly bristled through exterior walls and through windows. The fiberglass sidesof modern housing blocks, never designed for such crude heating, became decorated with black smoke trailslike unreadable graffiti, and the city parks becameweirdly empty lotscrossedbywindingsidewalksthat meandered pastthe craters where the hees had been. 
Showcase 
fohann'swife, my foster-mother, a thin, quiet woman, died by beingin the wrong building at the wrong time. She had been visiting a friend across the city to exchange chat and a pinch of hoardedtea.It mightjustaseasily have been the building I wasin where the bird de­cided to build its deadly nest. It took some of the solidityout of )ohann' "Do notfall in love,little Leah," he told me, many months later, when ourliveshadreturned to a fragile stability. "lt hurtstoo much." 
ln addition to the nearlyfull-time iob of bargainingfor thosene­cessitiesthatcould be bargainedfor, substituting or improvisingthose thatcouldnot, and hamsteringawayin basementsandsheltersanystor­ablefood that could befound, my stepfather)ohannhad another iob,or perhapsan obsession.I only learned this slowly.He would disappear, sometimesfor days. One timeI followed him as farasanenhancetothe ancientcatacombsbeneaththebird-peckedruinsof the beautiful castle Hohensalzburg.When he disappeared into the darkness,I dared not 
follow. 
When he returned, I asked him about it. He was shangely reluc­
tantto speak. When he did, he did not explain, but only said thathe was 
workingonthemolecularstill,andrefusedto say anythingfurther,or to 
letme mention it to anyone else. 
As a child I spoke a hodgepodge of languages;the Englishof the foreigners,theFrenchof the EuropeanUnion,thefapanesethatmypar­entshad spoken athome, the book-Germanofthe schools, andtheAus­
trianGermanthatwasthedominanttongueof thecultureI livedin.At 
homewe spokemostlyGerman,and in German, "Still" is a wordthat 
meansquietude.over theweeksandmonthsthatfollowed,theideaof a 
molecularstillgrewin my imaginationinto a wonderfulthing,a place 
thatis quiet evenon the molecularlevel,far different from the booming 
soundsof war. In my imagination,knowingmy stepfatherwasa gentle 
man who wantednothingbut peace,I thought of it asa reversesecret 
weapon,somethingthat would bring this wonderful stillnessto the 
world.Whenhedisappearedtothe wonderful molecularstill,eachtime 
I would wonderwhetherthiswouldbe thetime thatihe stillwouldbe 
ready,andpeacewould come. 
And thecityheld."salzburgisanidea,little Leah,"my stepfather 
|ohannwouldtell me,"andall the birds in the worldcouldnever peck 
it awav.for it livesin our mindsand in our souls.Salzburgwill standfor WinterFire 153 
aslong as any one of us lives. And, if we ever abandon the city, then Salzburghas fallen, even if the city itself still stands." 
In the outside world, the world I knew nothing of, nations quar­reled and were stalemated with indecisionoverwhat to do. Our city had beenfragilelyconnected to the western half of Europe by precarious roads, with a series of tunnelsthrough the Alps and longarcingbridges acrossnarrowmountainvalleys. In their terror that the chaos might spreadwestward, they dynamited the bridges, they collapsed the tun­nels. Not nations, butindividualsdidit.Theycut us offfrom civilization, andleftus to survive, or die,on our own. 
Governmentshadbecomeincreasinglyunimportantin the era fol­lowingthe opening of the resources of space by the free-tradezonesof the new prosperity, but the hading consortia that now ruled America andthe far east in the place of governmentshadgainedtheir influence onlybyassiduouslysigning away the capacity to make war, and although the covenants thathad secured theirformationhaderoded,that one pro­hibition still held. Only governments could help us,and the govern­mentstried negotiation and diplomacy as Dragan Vukadinovi6 made promises for the New Orthodox Resurgence andbroke them. 
High above,the owners of the sky-citiesdidthe only thing that they could, which was to deny access tospaceto either side. This kept thewar to the ground, but hurt us more than it hurt the armies surrounding us. They, after all, hadno need for satellitesto find out where we were. 
To the east, the Pan-Slavic fumy and the New Orthodox Resur­gence were pounding againstthe rock of the Tenth Crusade; farther south they were skirmishingoverborders with the IslamicFederation. Occasionallythe shelling would stopforawhile, and it would be safe to bring hoardedsolarpanels out into the sunlight to charge our batter­
-
ies the elechic gridhadgone long ago, of course -and huddle around an antique solar-powered televisionset watching the distantnegotiating teamstalk about our fate.Everybodyknewthat the war would be over shortly; it was impossible thatthe world would not act. 
The worlddid not act. 
I remembertakingbatteriesfromwreckedcarsto usea headlight, if one happened to survive unbroken,or a taillight, to allow us to stay up past sunset. Therewas a concoction ofboiledleavesthatwe called "tea," althoughwe had no milk or sugar to put in it. We would sit together, enjoyingthemiracle of light, sipping out "tea,"perhapsreading,perhaps justsittingin silence. 
With the destruction of the bridges, Salzburghad becometwo cities,connectedonly by narrow-beammicrowaveradio and the occa­sionalforayby individuals walkingacrossthe dangerous seriesof beams stretchedacrossthe rubbleof the Old StoneBridge.The two Salzburgs were distinct in population,with mostlyimmigrantpopulationsisolated 
in the modernbuildingson the east sideof the river, and theoldAushi­
ans on thewest. 
It is impossibleto describe the Salzburg feeling,the aura of a so­phisticatedancient city, wrappedin a glisteningly pure blanket of snow, under siege,facedwith the daily onslaughtof an unseen army that 
seemed to have an unlimited supplyof coilguns and metastablehydro­gen.We wereneverout of range. The Salzburgshidewasrelaxedonly when protectedby the cover of buildingsor specially conshuctedbarri­
cades,breakinginto a jaggedsprintovera stretchof open ground,a cobbledforecourtof crossroadsopen to the rifles of snipers on distant hills firing hypersonicneedlesrandomlyinto the city. From the deadly 
steelbirds,therewasno protection.They could fly in anywhere,with no warning.By the time you heardtheir high-pitchedsong,you wereal­
readydead,or, miraculously,still alive. 
Not eventhe nights werestill. It is an incrediblesightto see a city 
cloakedin darkness suddenlyilluminate with the blue dawn of a fare sentup from the hilltops, dimming the starsand suffirsingcoruscating 
light acrossthe glitteringsnow.Thereisa curious, ominousintervalof 
qui.t, th" buildingsof the city draggedblinking out of their darknessand 
displayedin a fairy glow,nakedbeforethe invisiblegunnerson theirdis-
ta'i hilltopr.Within thirty seconds,the birds wouldbeginto sing. They 
might land a good fewblocksaway,the echo of their demiseringing up 
do*n thevalley,or they mightlandin thestreetbelow,theexplosion "rrJ
sendingpeopledivingundertables,windowscavingin acrossthe room. 
They could,I believe, havedestroyedthe city atanytime,but that wasa prize.Whetherthe build-
did not servetheirpurposes.Salzburg 
ings were wholeor in partsseemedirrelevant,but the city wasnot to be, 

simplyobliterated. in April, as buds startedto bloom from beneaththe rubble,the city woke,rp, a.rd we discoveredthat we had survivedthe winter. The 
WinterFire 755 
diplomats proposed partitioning the city between the Slavs and the Germans-Asiansand other ethnic groups, like me, being conveniently ignored and the termswere set, but nothing came of it excepta cease­
-fire thai was violated before the day was over. The secondsummerof the siege was a summer of hope.Every week we thought that this might be the lastweekof the siege;thatpeace mightyet be declaredon terms that we could accept, that would let us keepour city. The defense of thecityhadopened a corridor to the out­side world, allowing in humanitarianaid, black-market goods, and refu­geesfrom otherpartsof the war. Some of thepeople who had fled before the siegereturned,althoughmanyof the population who had survived the winter used the opportunity to flee to the west. My foster-father, though,sworethat he would stay in Salzburg until death.It is civiliza­tion, and if it is destroyed, nothing is worthwhile. Christiansof the Tenth Crusade and Turks of the Islamic Federa­tion foughtsideby side with the official troops of the Mayor's Brigade, sharing ammunition bui not command,to defend the city. High above, citiesin the sky looked downon us,but, like angels who see everything, theydid nothing. 
Cafbs opened again, even those without black-market connections that could only serve water,and in the evenings therewerenightclubs, the music booming even louder than the distant gunfire. My foster-
father,of course, would never let me stay up lateenough to find out what wenton in these, but once, when he was away tendinghis molecular still, I waitedfor darknessand then crept through the sheets to see. 
One barwasentirely Islamic Rderation Tirrks, wearinggreenhrr­bansanduniforms of dark maroon denim, with spindly railgun-launchers slungacrosstheir backs and knives and swords strung on leather straps acrosstheir bodies. Each one had in frontofhim atiny cup ofdarkcoffee anda clear glass of whisky. I thought I wasinvisiblein the doorway,but one of the Turks, a tall man with a pocked face anda dark mustache that droopeddown the side of his mouth, lookedup, and, without smiling, said,"Hoy,little girl, I think that you are in the wrong place." 
In the next club, mercenaries wearingcowboy hats, with black uni­forms and fingerlessleathergloves,had parked their guns against the wallsbefore settling in to pound downwhisky in a bar where the music was so loud that the beatreverberatedacrosshalfthe city. The one closest 
Showcase156 Nebula Awards 2000 
to the doorhad a shaven head, with a spider webtattooedup his neck, and daggers andweirdheraldic symbols tattooedacrosshis arms. When he looked up at me, standing in the doorway,he smiled,andI realized thathe had been watching me for some time, probablyever since I had 
appeared.Hissmilewas far morefrighteningthanthe impassive faceof 
the Tirrk. I ran all the wayhome. 
In the daytime,the snap of a sniper'srifle might prompt an ex­changeof heavymachine-gunfire, a wild, rattlingsoundthat echoed crazilyfrom the hills. Small-arms fire would sound,tak, tak, tak, an­sweredbyihe singing of small railguns,tee,tee.Youcan'ttell the source of rifle fire in an urbanenvironment;it seemsto come from all around. All you can do is duck, and run. Later that summerthe firstof the om­
niblastersshowedup,firinga beam of pure energywith asilencesoloud 
thattiny hairsall overmy bodywould standup in fright' 
Cosmetics,babymilk, andwhiskywerethe mostprizedcommodi­ties on theblackmarket. I had no idea what thewarwasabout.Nobodywasableto explain 
it in termsthatan eleven-year-old could understand;few evenbothered to try. All I knew wasthat evil peopleon hilltopsweretrying to destroy 
everythingI loved,and good men like my foster-father weretrying to 
stopthem. I slowlylearnedthatmy foster-fatherwas'aPparently,quite impor­tant to the defense.He never talkedaboutwhathe did, but I overheard othermen referto him with termslike "vital" and "indispensable,"and 
thesewordsmademe proud. At first I simply thoughtthat they merely meantthattheexistenceof menlike him, proudof thecity and vowing neverto leave,werethe core of whatmadethe defenseworthwhile.But laterI realized thatit must be morethanthis.Therewerethousandsof 
menwho lovedthe citY. Towardthe end of the summerthe siegeclosedaround the city again.The armyof the TenthCrusadearrivedandtookovertheridgetops 
;Jrt or,. valleyto the west;thePan-Slavicfumy andtheOrthodoxResur­
genceheld theridgesnextto thecityandtheterritoryto the east. All that 
I,rtr*. theshellsof theTenthCrusadearcedoverour headstowardthe pan-slavs,andbeamsofpurplefirefrompoPup robotswith omniblasters 
wouldfire back. It was a goodautumn;mostlyonlystrayfire hit the civil­
ians.Butwe were lockedin place, andtherewasno wayoul Winter Fire 757 
Therewasno place to go outside, no place that was safe. The sky 
hadbecome our enemy. My friendswere books. I had loved storybooks 
whenI had been younger, in the part of my childhood beforethesiege 
thateventhen I barely remembered. Butfohannhad no storybooks;his 
vastcollection of books wereall forbiddingthings, full of thick blocks of 
densetextand incomprehensible diagramsthat were no picture of any­
thing I could recognize. I taught myself algebra,with some help from |o­
hann, and started workingon calculus. It was easier when I realizedthat 
the mathematics in the bookswasjustan odd form of music, written in 
a strangelanguage.Candleswere precious, and so in order to keepon readingat night, fohannmadean oil lampfor me, which would burn vegetableoil.This was nearly as precious ascandles,but not so precious as my need to read. 
A still, I had learned from my reading-and from the black mar-ket-was a device for makingalcohol,or at least for separatingalcohol fromwater. Did a molecularstill make molecules? "That'ssilly,"fohann told me. "Everythingis made of molecules. Yourbed,the air you breathe,even you yourself,nothingbut molecules." 
In November, the zoo's laststubbornelephantdied. The predators, thelions,the tigers, even the wolves,werealreadygone,felledby simple lackof meat. The zebras and antelopes had gone quickly, somefrom 
starvation-induced somekilledandbutcheredbypoachers.Theillness, 
elephant,surprisingly,hadbeen the lastto go, a skeletal apparition stub­bornly surviving on scraps of grass and bits of trash, protectedagainst ravenouspoachersby a continuous guardof armed watchmen.The watchmenprovedunable,however,to guard against starvation.Some peopleclaim that kangaroosand emusstill survived, freedfrom their 
hutchesby the shelling,and couldbe seenwanderingfree in the city lateat night. sometimesI wonder if theysurvivestill,awkwardbirdsand boundingmarsupials,hiding in the foothills oftheAustrianAlps,thelast survivorsof the siege of Salzburg. 
It was a hard winter. We learnedto conserve the slightestbit of heat,soas to stretcha few sticksof firewood out over a whole night.Ty­phus,dysentery,andpneumoniakilled more than the shelling,which had resumedin force with the onset of winter. )ust afterNew year,a feverattackedme,and there wasno medicineto be had atany price. Jo­hannwrappedme in blanketsand fed me hot water mixed with salt and Showcase
a pinch of precioussugar.I shivered andburned,hallucinatingstrange 
things,now seeingkangaroosand emusoutsidemy little room' now imaginingmyselfon the surfaceof Mars,stranglingin the thin air,and theninstantlyonVenus,chokingin heatand darkness, andthenfoating 
in interstellar space,my body growingalternatelylargerthan galaxies, then smallerthan atoms,floatingsofar awayfrom anythingelse that it 
would takeeonsfor any signal from meto ever reach the world whereI hadbeenborn. Eventuallythe feverbroke,and I was merelyback in my room' 
shiveringwiih cold,wrappedin sheets thatwerestinkingwith sweat,in a city slowlybeingpoundedinto rubbleby distantsoldierswhosefacesI had neverseen,fighting for an ideologythat I could neverunderstand. 
It was afterthis, at my constant pleading,that |ohann finally took the city, il­
me to see his molecular still. It wasa dangerous walk across 
luminatedby the glowof the Marionette Theater,setafireby incendiary 
bombstwo d^y,b.fot.. The stillwashiddenbelowthe city, fartherdown 

eventhanthebombshelters,in catacombs thathadbeencarvedout of 
rockovertwo thousandyears ago. Thereweretwo men there,a man my 
agewith a white mustache,and an even olderVietnamese­
stepfather's 
Germanmanwith oneleg,who saidnothingthe whole time' 

TheoldermanlookedatmeandsaidinFrench,whichperhapshe thoughtI wouldn't understand,"This is no placeto bring a little one'" replied in German, "She asksmany questions'"He 
loh"nn 
shrugged,andsaid,"I wantedto showher'"

*The 
othersaid,still in French, "she couldn'tunderstand."Right 
then I resolvedthat I would makemyselfunderstand,whateverit was 
thattheythoughtI could not.The manlookedat me critically,takingin, 

no doubt,my straightblackhair andalmondeyes'"She'snot yours'any­
way.What issheto You?" 
"Sheismy daughter,")ohannsaid' 
The molecularstillwasnothingto lookat.Itwasaroomfilled with 

curtainsof black velvet,doubledbackand forth, thousandsand thou­
sandsof metersof blackness."Hete it is," )ohannsaid."l,ook well, little 
Leah,for in all theworld,youwill neverseesuchanother'" 

Somewheretherewasafanthatpushedairpastthecurtains;I couldfeelit on myface,cool,dampairmovingsluggishlypast'The foor 
of the room wascoveredwith white dust,glisteningin the darkness'I WinterFire 759 
reacheddownto touch it, and|ohannreachedout to still my hand. "Not 
to touch," he said. 
"What is it?" I asked in wonder. 
"Can'tyousmellit?" 
And I could smell it, in fact, I had been nearly holding my breath 
to avoid smelling it. The smell was thick, pungent,almost choking. It 
mademy eyeswater."r\mmonia,"I said. 
fohann nodded,smiling. His eyes were bright.'Ammonium ni­hate," he said. 
I was silent most of the way back to the fortified basement we 
shared with two other families. There musthave been bombs, for there 
were always the birds,but I do not recallthem.At last, justbeforewe 
came to the river, I asked, "Why?" 
"Oh, my little Leah,think.We are cut offhere. Do we have elec­trical generators to run coilgunslikethe barbarians that surround us? We do not. What canwe do, how canwe defend ourselves? 
The molecular 
still sorts molecules out of the air. Nitrogen,oxygen,water; this is all that 
is needed to make explosive, if onlywe can combinethem correctly. My 
molecular still takesthe nitrogen out of the air, makes out of it ammo­
nium nitrate,which we use to fire our cannons,to hold the barbarians away from our city." 
I thought aboutthis. I knew about moleculesby then, knew about nitrogenand oxygen, althoughnot about explosives. Finally something occurredto me, and I asked,"But whatabout the energy?Wheredoes theenergycomefrom?" 
)ohannsmiled,his face almostglowingwith delight. "r\h,my little Leah,you know the right questionsalready.Yes,the energy. We have de­signedour still to workby using a seriesof reactions,eachoneusing no more than a gnat's whisker of energy.Nevertheless,you are right, we must needs stealenergyfrom somewhere.We draw the thermalenergy oftheair.Butold manentropy,hecannotbecheatedso easily. To dothis 
we need a heat sink." I didn't knowthenenoughto follow hiswords,so I merelyrepeated hiswordsdumbly:'A heatsink?" He waved his arm,encompassingthe river, flowingdarkbeneath a thin sheet of ice.'?{ndwhata heat sinkl The barbariansknowwe are manufacturingarms;we fire the proofof that back at them everyday, 
Showcase
buttheydo notknow wherel And hereit is, right beforethem,themo­
tive power forthegreatestarmsfactoryofall ofAustria,andtheycannot see it." Molecular still or not, the siegewent on. The Pan-Slavicsdrove 
backtheTenthCrusade,and resumed theirattackon the city.In Febru­ary the armiesenteredthe city twice,and twice the raggeddefenders 
drovethem back. In April, oncemore,the flowersbloomed,andonce more,wehad survived anotherwinter' It had been monthssinceI had hada bath;therewasno heat to wasteon mere water,andin any case'therewasno soap'Now,atlast, we could wash,in waterdrawndirectlyfrom the Salzach,scrubbingand 
diggingto getrid of thelice of winter. we stoodin line for hourswaitingfot a day'srationof macaroni, into the city,andhauled
the humanitarian aidthathadbeenair-dropped enormousdrumsacrossthe city to replenishour stockpileof drinking water. 
Summerrain fell, and we hoardedthe waterfrom rain guttersfor 
later use.All that summerthe smell of charredstonehung in the air. andfragmentsof concrete 
Bullet-riddledcars,glitteringshardsof glass, 
and cobblestonecoveredthe streets.Stoneheadsand gargoylesfrom 
blastedbuildingswouldlook up atyou from oddcornersof the city. 

Basementsand tunnelsunderthe city werefilled out with mat-and campbedsasmakeshiftliving quartersfor refugees,which
tresses becamesweatyandsmellydurlngsummer'forall thattheyhadbeenicy 
cold in winter.Aboveus,the groundwould shakeas the birdsflew in, andplasterdustfell fromtheceiling' 
I was growinguP.I had readaboutsex,andknewit was a nahrral partof thep"rtt.r'lf iif., theurgingof chromosomesto divideandcon­querthe *oda. I tried to imagineit with everybodyI saw' from |ohann to prrring soldiers,bui couldn't evermakemy imaginationactuallybe­
lievein it. Therewasenoughsex going onaroundme-we werepacked copulateout of desperation'
togethertightly,and humansunderstress o,it of bor.dom, andout of pure instinctto survive'There wasenough to see, but I couldn't applyanythingof whatI saw to myself' 
I think, whenI *", u"ryyoung,I had some beliefthathumanbe­ingswere special,somethingmore than iust meat that thought' The ,i""g., unielenting tutor, taught me otherwise'A woman I had been 
" WinterFire 761 
with on oneday,cuddled in her lap and talking nonsense, the next day 
was out in the street,bisected by shrapnel,reduced to a lessonin anat­
omy. If there was asoulit was somethingintangible,somethingso frag­
ile that it could notstandup to the gentlest kiss of steel. 
Peoplestayedaliveby eating leaves, acoms,and, when the hu­
manitarianaidfrom thesky failed, by grinding downthehardcenters of 
corncobsto make cakes with the powder. 
There weredevelopmentsin the war, although I did not know 
them. The Pan-Slavicfumy, flying their standard of a two-headed 
dragon,turned against thetriple cross of the NewOrthodoxResurgence, 
andto the east thousandsof squarekilometersof pacifiedcountryside 
turnedin a day into flamingruin,as the formeralliessavagedeach other. 
We could see thesmoke in the distance,a huge pillar of blackrising kilo­
metersinto the sky. 
It madeno differenceto thesiege.On the hilltopsthe Pan-Slavic Army droveoff the New Orthodox Resurgence,and when they were done,the guns turnedback on the city. By the autumnthesiegehadnot lifted,andwe knew we would haveto face anotherwinter. 
Faroverour heads, throughthe everpresentsmokewe could see the lights of freedom,theglimmeringof distant cities in thesky, remote from all of the troubleof Earth."They haveno culture," fohannsaid. "Theyhavepower,yes, but theyhaveno souls, or they wouldbe helping 
us. Aluminum and rock, what do they have? Life, and nothing else. when they haveanotherthousandyears,theywill still not havea third of therealityof our city.Freedom,hah.Why don't theyhelpus, eh?" 
The winterwasslowfrozenstarvation.one by one,the artillery pieces that defendedour city failed, for weno longer had the machine shopsto keepthemin repair,nor thetoolsto makeshells.One by one theviciousbirdsfiredfromdistanthilltopsfoundthehomesof our guns andrippedthemapart.By the middleof Rbruary we were undefended. 
And thebirdscontinuedto fall. 
sometimesI accompanied)ohannto themolecularstill.over the 
longmonthsof siege theyhadmodifiedit so that it nowdistilledfromair andwaternot merely nitrate,but finishedexplosivereadyfor theguns, tonsper hour. But whatgoodwasit now, whentherewere no guns left 
for it to feed? of the eightmenwho had given it birth, only two still sur, vivedto tend it, old oneJeggedNguyenandfohann. 
Showcase
One day Nguyen stoppedcoming.The placehe lived had been hit, or he had beenstruckin transit. There wasno wayI would ever 
find out. There wasnothing left of the city to defend,and almostnobody ableto defendit. Eventhosewhowerewilling werestarvedtooweakto 
hold aweapon. AII throughFebruary,all through March, the shellingcontinued, 
despitethe lack of returnfire from the city.They musthaveknown that wasover.Perhaps,fohann said,they had forgottenthat
the resistance therewas a city hereat all, theywereshellingthe city now for-noother reasonthanthatit had becomea habit. Perhapstheywereshellingusas 
a punishment for havingdaredto defy them' Through April, the shelling continued' There wasno food' no heat,no clean water,no medicine to treatthewounded' When fohann died it took me four hours to removethe rubble ftom his body,pulling stonesawayasbirds falling around me demol­
ishedabuildi.jrta.ding a block to theeastandtwoblocksnorth.I was surprisedat how light he was,little more than a feather pillow. There *", .,o placeto b,r.yhi-; thegraveyardswere all full' I placed him back wherehe hadlain,crossedhishands,andleft him buriedin the rubble wherewehadspentourlivesentwined'
of thebasement I moved to a new shelter,a tunnel cut out of the solid rockbelow 
theMtinchsberg,anartificialcavernwherea hundredfamilieshuddled in the dark,*"iting for an end to existence' It had oncebeena parking moisturefrom threehundredlungscondensedon the stone 
garuge.The ceilinganddriPPeddownon us' At last,atthe endofApril, the shellingstopped'Fora day therewas 
quiet,and then the victoriousarmycamein' There wereno alleysto 
baffletheirtanksnow.Theycamedressedinplasticarmor'facelesssol­their backs;
dierswith railgunsand omniblastersthrown casuallyacross they cameflying the awful standardof the Pan-Slavicfumy' the two' headeddragonon a field of blue crosses'One of them musthavebeen 
DraganVufadinovi6,Draganthe Cleanser,the Scorpionof Bratislava' butin their armorI coulJ not knowwhich one.with them werethe 
diplomats,explainingto all who would listenthatpeacehadbeennego­
tiated,the war rv", ou"r, and our part of it was that we would agreeto leaveour cityandmoveinto camPsto be resettledelsewhere' Winter fire 163 
Would the victors write the history? I wondered.Whatwould they 
say,to justifytheir deeds? Or would they, too, be left behindby history, a 
minor faction in a minor event forgotten against ihe dramaof a destiny 
working itself out far away? 
It was a living tide of raggedhumansthat met them,dragging the 
crippledand wounded on improvisedsledges.I found it hard to believe 
that there could be so many left. Nobody noticeda dirty twelve-year­
old girl, small for her age, slipaway.Or if theydid notice, wherecould 
she go? 
The molecular still was still running. The darkness,the smell of it, 
hiddenbeneatha ruined, desertedSalzburg,was a comfort to me. It alonehad been steadfast.In the end the humans who tended it had turnedout to be too fragile,but it had run on, alone in the dark, pro­ducingexplosivesthatnobodywouldeveruse, filling the caverns andthe dungeonsbeneath a castlethathadoncebeen the proud symbolof a proudcity. Filling it by the ton,bythe thousands of tons, perhaps even 
tensof thousands of tons. 
I brought with meanalarmclock,andabattery,and I sat for a long 
time in the dark,rememberingthe city. 
And in the darkness,I could notbring myselfto become the angel ofdestruction,tocall down the cleansing fire I hadso dreamed ofseeing broughtuponmy enemies.In orderto survive youmustbecometough, )ohannhadoncetold me; you mustbecomehard.But I could not be­comehardenough.I couldnotbecomelikethem. 
And so I destroyedthemolecularstill,and fed the pieces into the Salzach.Forall its beautyandpowerit was fragile, andwhenI had done therewas nothing left bywhich someonecouldreconstruct
it, or even 
understand
what it hadbeen. I left thealarmclockandthebattery,and tenthousandtonsof explosive, behindin thecatacombs. Perhapstheyaretherestill. 
It was,I am told,themostbeautiful,themostcivilizedcity in the 
world. The manypeoplewho told me that areall deadnow,and I re­memberit onlythroughtheeyesof a child, lookingup frombelowand understandinglittle. 
Nothingof that little girl remains.Like my civilization,I have re­mademyselfanew.I live in a worldof peace, a world of mathematics 2000164 NebulaAwardsShowcase 
But,like thefirstre­naissance,ihisone was birthedin fireandwar' I will nevertell thisto anybody. To people whowerenot there, the 
storyis only words,andtheycouldneverunderstand'And to thosewho werethere,wewholivedthroughthelongsiegeof Salzburg andsome­howcameoutalive,thereisno needto speak' 
In a verylonglifetime,wecouldneverforget' andsky-cities,the opening of the newrenaissance. 

Iethe 

JON WILLIAMS 
WALTER 
writermost of his [ife, and had written historical novets eartier in his career. His talents in setting and character haveserved him wettin both sciencefiction and fantasy, and his imagination in such novets as Hardwired showeda prodigiousrangeof sheerinventionin thinkingabout the near future. 
He looks tike the heroof a historica[novel himsetf-talt, mus­cular,beardedin a handsome Walter Jon Wittiams has been a professional 
way. He [ives south of Atbuquerque andhasan unfuitingty sunny l/ilitliams tiked
disposition. is widety in the 5F community,andonewonderssometimes
whyhe did not becomea potitician-except,ofcourse,that he has goodtaste. 
His story here caught my attention because its discussionof ctoningparticutartygoesfar beyondthe ctich6d discourseof mainstream upon even the 
thinking, and indeed, rings changes advancedideasthat have been depictedin the SFliteraturefor decades.Asanidenticaltwin,I have watched the fervent mor­alizing about ctoning with a skepticaleye; many do not seem to reatizethat twins are a commonbiotogicalstrategyamong mammats,and coutdbe an instructivecase for the earnest "ethicists"of the present.In any case, Williams'sdramais grip­pingin its own right. 
Showcase
for the return iourney.He had alreadybeen torn in half, he felt: the remainder,the dumb beast still alive,did not matter.The Captain had ruled,andKatrinwould not be broughtback. Davout did not want to spendtheyearsbetweenthestars in pain, confronting the gaping absence in his quarters, surrounded by the quiet sympathy of the crew 
Besides,he wasno longer needed. The terraforming team had doneits work, andthen,but for Davout,had died. 
Davout lay down on a bed of nano andletthelittle machinestake him apart piece by piece, turn his body, his mind, andhis unquenchable longinginto long strings of numbers. The nanomachinescrawledinto his brain first,mapping,recording, and then shut downhismind piece by piece,sothat he would feel no discomfortduring what followed,or suffera memory of hisownbody being takenapart. 
Davout hoped thatthe nanos wouldshutdownthe pain before his consciousness 
Davouthad himself disassembled 
failed, so that he could rememberwhatit was like to live withoutthe anguish thatwas now a part of his life, but it didn'tworkout that way. When his consciousnessebbed,he was aware, even to the last fadingof the light, of the knife-bladeof loss stillburiedin his heart. 
The pain was therewhenDavout awoke, a wailing voice thatcried, a pure contralto keenof agony, in his first dawningawareness.He found himselfin an early-Victorianbedroom,blue-stripedwallpaper,silhou­ettesin ovalframes,silk flowers in vases. Crispsheets,lightstreamingin the window.A stranger-shoulderlen$hhair,blackfrockcoat, cravat 
carelesslytied-looked at him from a Gothic-revival armchair.The man 
helda pipe in the right hand and tamped downtobaccowith the pre­
hensilebigtoeof his leftfoot. 
"I'm noton the Beagle,"Davoutsaid. 
The man gave a grave nod. His left hand formedthe mudra for 
<correct>."Yes." 
"Andthisisn'tavirtual?" 
<Correct>again."No." 
"Then somethinghasgone wrong." 
<Correct>"Yes.A moment,sir,if you please."The man finished tamping, slippedhis foot into a waiting boot, then lit the pipe with the anachronisticlighter in his left hand. He puffed,drew in smoke, 
Lethe 167 
exhaled,putthelighterin his pocket,and settled backin the walnut em­braceof hischair. "l am Dr. Li," hesaid.<Stand by> said theleft hand,theold fin­gerpositionfor a now-obsoletepalmtopcomputer,a finger positionthat as(correct> had oncemeantenter,enterbe­
had once meantpause, 
causeit wascorrect."Pleaseremainin bed for a few moreminuteswhile the nanos double-check their work. Redundancyisfrustrating,"puffing smoke,"but goodfor peace of mind." 
"What happensif they find they've madea mistake?" 
<Don't be concerned> "lt can't be a very large mistake,"saidLi, "orwewouldn'tbe communicating sorationally.At worst,youwill sleep fora bit while things are corrected." 
"May I takemy hands out from under the covers?"he asked. 
"Yes." 
Davout did so.His hands, he observed, werebrownandleathery, handssuitablefor the hot, dry world of Sarpedon. They had not, then, changedhis body for one more suited to Earth,but given him some­thing familiar. 
If, he realized, they were on Earth. 
His right fingers made the mudra <thank you>. 
<Don't mentionit> signed Li. 
Davoutpasseda hand over his forehead, discovered that the fore' head, hand, andthe gesture itself were perfectly familiar. 
Strange,butthe gesture convinced him that he was,in a vital way, still himself. Still Davout. Stillalive,he thought.Alas. "Tell me what happened," he said. "Tell mewhy I'm here." Li signed <standby>,made a visible effort to collect himself."We 
believe,"he said,"that the Beagle was destroyed.If so, you are the only 
survivor." 
Davout found his shock curiously veiled.The loss of the other 
lives-friends, most ofthem-stood muted by the precedent of his own 
earlier, overriding grief. It is as if the two losseswereweighedin a bal­
ance, and the Beagle found wanting. 
Li, Davout observed, was waiting for Davout to absorbthis infor­
mation before continuing. 
<Go on> Davout signed. 
Showcase168 NebulaAwards 2000 
"The accidenthappenedsevenlight-yearsout," Li said. "Beagle began to yaw wildly, and both automatic systems and the crew failed to correctthe maneuver. Beagle's automatic systems concluded that the shipwasunlikelyto survive the increasingoscillations,and began to use itscommunicationslasersto download personality datato collectors in Earth orbit. As the only crew member to elect disassembly during the re­turn journey,youwere first in the queue.The others, we presume, ran to nano disassembly stations,but communication was lost with the Beagle before we retrieved any of their data." 
"Did Katrink come through?" 
Li stirred uneasily in his chair. <Regrettably>"1'mafraidnot." 
Davout closed his eyes. He hadlost her again. Over thebubble of hopelessness "Howlonghasit been since my data 
in his throat he asked, arrived?" 
'A little over eight days." 
They had waited eight days, then, for Beagle-for the Beagle of sevenyearsago -to correctits problem and reestablishcommunication. lf Beagle had resumedcontact,the mass of data that was Davoutmight have been erased asredundant. 
"The governmenthasannouncedtheloss,"Li said. "Thoughthere is a remote chance that the Beagle may come flying in or through the systemin eleven years as scheduled, we havedetected no more trans­missions,and we've been unable to observeany blueshifted deceleration torchaimed at our system.The government decidedthat it would be un­fair to keep sibs and survivorsin the dark any longer." 
<Concur> Davout signed. 
He envisioned the last moments of the Beagle, the crew being f ung back andforth as the ship slammed throughincreasingpendulum swings,the desperateattempts,fighting wildly fluctuatinggravityandin­ertia,to reach the emergencynanobeds.. . no panic, Davoutthought, CaptainMoshweshwehad trained his people too well for that.|ust des­peration,and determination, and, as the oscillationsgrewworse,an in­creasingsenseof futility, and impending death. 
No one expectedto die anymore.It wasalways a shock when it 
happenednear you. Or fo you. 
"The causeof the Beagle'sproblem remainsunknown," Li said, 
Lethe 169 
thevoicefar away. "The Bureauis working with simulatorsto try to dis­coverwhathappened." 
Davoutleanedback against his pillow. Painthrobbedin his veins, painand loss, knowledgethat his past, his ioy,wasirrecoverable."The wholevoyage,"he said,"wasa catastrophe." 
<l respectfully conhadict> Li signed. "You terraformedand ex­plored two worldsi' he said."Downloadsarealreadyliving on these worlds,hundreds of thousandsnow, millions later.Therewould have beenathird world added to ourcommonwealthif yourmissionhad not beencut short dueto the, ah, first accident. .." <Concur> Davout signed, but only because hiswords would have comeout with too much bitterness. <Sorry>, a curt ierkofLi's fingers. "Thereare messages 
fromyour sibs,"Li said, "and downloadsfrom them also. The sibs and friends of Beagle'screw will try to contact you, nodoubt.You need not answer any of these messages until you'reready." 
<Understood> 
Davout hesitated, but the words were insistent;he gave them 
tongue."HaveKatrin's sibs sent messages?"
he asked. 
Li's grave expression scarcelychanged."l believeso." He tilted his 
head."IsthereanythingI cando for you? Anything I can arrange?" 
"Not now, no," said Davout. <Thank you> he signed."Can I move 
from the bed now?" 
Lit look turned abstract ashe scannedindicatorsproiectedsome­
wherein hismind.<Yes>"Youmay," he said. He rose from his chair, 
tookthe pipe fromhis mouth. "Youare in a hospital, I shouldadd," he 
said,"but you do not have the formal status of patient, and may leave at 
anytime. Likewise, you may stayhere for the foreseeable future,as long 
asyou feel it necessary." 
iThank you> "Where isthishospital, by the way?" 
"Westfava.The cityof Bandung." 
Earth, then. Which Davout had not seen in seventy-seven years. 
Memory'sgentle fingers touched his mind with the scent of durian,of 
ocean, of mace, cloves, andturmeric. 
He knew he was never in )avabefore, though, and wondered 
whencethe memory came. Fromone of hissibs,perhaps? 
Showcase170 Nebula Awards 2000 
<Thank you> Davout signedagain, putting a touch of finality, a kind of dismissal,into the twist of his fingers. 
Dr. Li left Davout alone, in his nedold body, in the room that whisperedof memory and pain. 
In a dark-wood armoire Davout found identification and clothing, and a record confirming that his account had received seventy-eight years'backpay. His electronic in-box contained downloadsfrom his sibs andmore personal messages wouldhave
than he could cope with-he to construct an electronic personalityto answer most of them. 
He dressed and left the hospital. Whoever supervisedhis reas­sembly-Dr. Li perhaps-had thoughffi.rllyincludeda completeEarth atlasin his internal ROM, and he accessedit ashe walked, makingran­domhrmings but never getting lost.The furious sun burned down with tropical intensity, but his currentbodywasconstructedto bear heat, and a breeze off the mountains made pleasant even the blazingnoontide. 
The iofil metal music of the gamelansclatteredfrom almost every doorway. Peoplein bright clothing, agileasthe siamangof near Sumatra,sped overhead alongtreeways and ropeways,arms and hands modifiedfor brachiation. Robots, immune to the heat,shimmeredpast on silent tires.Davout found it all strangely familiar, asif he had been herein a dream. 
And then he found himself by the sea,and a Pangof familiarity knifed through his heart. Home!criedhisthoughts.Otherworldshe had built, other beautieshe had seen, but he had neverbeheldfhisblue, this 
perfection,anlwhereelsebut on his nativesphere.Subtledifferencesin 
atmosphericshad rendered this color unnaturalon any other world. 
And with the cry of familiarity came a memory: it had been 
Davoutthe Silent who had comehere, a century or moreago, and Ka­
trin had been by his side. 
But Davout's llatrin wasdead.And as he looked on Earth's beauty, he felt his world of ioyturn to bitter ashes. 
<AIas!>Hisfingersformed the wordunbidden.<Alas!> 
He livedin aworld where no one died, andnothingwaseverlost. 
One understoodthat such thingsoccasionallyoccurred,but never-
hardly ever-to anyonethat one knew.Physicalimmortalitywas cheap 
and easy,and was supported by so manyalternatesystems:backingup 
Lethe 177 
or
themindbydownloading,ordownloadinginto a virtual realitysystem into a durable machine.Nanosystemsduplicatedthebodyor improved it, adaptedit for differentenvironments.Dataslumberedin secure stor­age,awaitingthe electronkiss that returnedit to life. Bringinga child to termin thewombwasnowtherarestformofreproduction,andbringing 
a child to life in a machine wombthenextrarest. It was so much easierto have the nanosduplicateyou as an adult' Then, atleast, you hadsomeoneto talk to. No one died,and nothing is everlost,But Katrin died,Davout thought,andnow I am lost, and it was not supposed to bethis way. <Alas!>Fingerswailedthe grief thatwas stopped up in Davoutt throat.<Alas!> Davout and Katrin had met in school, membersof the lastgen­
erationin which womb-breedingoutnumberedthe alternatives.Im­mortality whispered its covenant into their receptiveears. On their first meeting,attendinga lecture(Dolphuson "Reinventingthe Humbolt 
Sea") at the College of Mystery, theylookedat eachother and knew,as if angelshad whispered into their ears, that therewasnow one lessmys­teryin theworld,thateach served asananswerto another,that each fit­tedneatly into a hollowthatthe other had perceived in hisor her soul, droppinginto place asneatly as a butter-smoothpiecein a finelymade teak puzzle -or,consideringtheirinterests,aseasilyas a carbolic func­tional group nested into place on an indole ring. 
Their rapport was, they freely admitted, miraculous.Still young, 
they exploded intothe world, into a universe that welcomed them. 
He could not bear to be away from her. Twenty-fourhours was the 
absolutelimit before Davout'snervesbegan to beat a frustratedlittle tat­
too, and he found himself coniuring a phantomKatrin in his imagina­
tion, iustto have someoneto share the world with -heneeded her there, 
neededthis human lens throughwhich he viewed the universe. 
Withouther, Davout foundthe cosmos veiled in a kind of uncer­
tainty. While it waspossibleto apprehend certainthings(theusefulness 
of a coenocytic arrangement of cells in the transmission of information-
bearingproteinsand nuclei, the historical significanceof theYucatdn as 
trobleme, the limitationsof the Benard cell model in predicting thermic 
instabilitiesin the atmosphere), these things lacked n6esis, existed only 
as a series of singular, purposeless RefectedthroughKatrin,
accidents. 
Showcase 
however,theworld took on brilliance,purpose,and genius. With Katrin hecouldfeastupontheuniverse;withouther the world lacked savor. 
Their interests were similar enoughfor each to generateenthusi­asm in theother,diverse enough thateach was able to addperspectiveto theother'swork. They workedin cozy harmony, back-to-back, two desks set in the same room. SometimesDavout would return from a meeting, or acoffeebreak,andfind that Katrin had added new paragraphs, some­times an entire new direction, to hislatesteffort. On occasion hewould returnthefavor.Their early work-eccentric, proliferatingin too many directions, toward too many specialties-showed life and promise and more than a hint of brilliance, 
Too much, they decided, for justthe two of them.Theywanted to do too much, and all at once, and an immortal lifetimewasnot time enough. 
Andso, as soonas they could afford it,Red Katrin, the original, was duplicated-with a few cosmetic alterations-in Dark Katrin and later Katrin the Fair; and nanomachines read Old Davout,bloodand bone andthe long shandsof numbers that were his soul, and created perfect copiesin DangerousDavout,later called the Conqueror, and Davout the Silent. 
Two had become six, and a half a dozen, they now agreed, was aboutall the universecould handle for the present. The wild tangle of overlappinginterestswas parceled out between the three couples, each taking one of the threemost noble paths to understanding. The eldest couple chose History as their domain, a part of which involved chroni­cling the adventures of their sibs; the secondcouple took Science; the third Psyche,the explorationof the human mind.Any developments, anyinsights,on the part of one of the sibs could be sharedwith the oth­ers through downloads. In the beginning they downloaded themselves almost continually, sharing their thoughts and experiences and plans in a creative frenzy. Later, as separatelives and more specializedcareersde­veloped,the downloads grewless frequent, thoughthere were no inter­ruptionsuntil Dangerous DavoutandDarkKatrin took their firstvoyage to another star.They spent over fifty years away, thoughto them it was less than thirty; and the downloads from Earth, pulsed overimmense distancesby communications lasers,werelessfrequent,and less fre­
Lethe t73 
quentlyresortedto.The livesof the other couples,lived at whatseemed speeded-uprates,wereofdecreasingrelevanceto their ownexistence,as if they were lives that dwelledin a half-remembered dream' <Alas!>thefingerssigned.<Alas!>for the dream turnedto savage nightmare. The sea, aperfectterrestrialblue, gazedbackinto Davout'seyes, indifferentto thesadnessfrozen into his fingers. 
"Your doctorsknew that to wake here, after such an absence, wouldresultin afeelingof anachronism," saidDavout'ssib,"sothey put you in thisVictorianroom,whereyou wouldat leastfeel at easewith 
the kind of anachronismby which you aresurrounded."He smiledat 
Davoutfrom the neo'Gothicarmchair."If you were in a modernroom, 
youmight experience a sensation ofobsolescence. canfeel
But everyone 
superiorto the Victorians,and besides oneis always more comfortable 
in one'spast." 
"Is one?"Davoutasked,fingerssigning<irony>.The past andthe 
present,he found,werealike a place of torment. 
"l discover,"he continued, "thatmy thoughts strayfor comfort not 
to the past, but to the future." 
'Ah." A smile. "That is why we call you Davoutthe Conqueror." 
"I do not seem to inhabit thatname,"Davoutsaid,"if I ever did." 
Concern shadowedthe faceof Davout'ssib' <Sorry> he signed, 
and then made anothersignfor <profoundly>, the old multiply sign, 
multiplesof sorrowin his gesture. 
"l understand,"he said. "l experiencedyour Iastdownload.It 
was... intensely disturbing.I have neverfelt such terror,such loss." 
"Nor had I," said Davout. 
It was Old Davout whoseimage was proiectedinto the Gothic-
revivalarmchair,the original, womb-bornDavoutof whom the two sibs 
were copies. When Davoutlooked at him it was likelookinginto a mir­
ror in which his reflection hadbeenretardedforseveralcenturies,then 
unexpectedlyreleased-Davoutremembered,severalbodiesback, once 
possessingthattall forehead,the fair hair, the smallearsflattened close 
to theskull.The gray eyeshe had still, but he could never picture him­
self wearing the professorial little goatee. 
"How isour other sib?" Davout asked. 
The concern on Old Davout's face deepened. "Youwill find Silent Davoutmuch changed. You haven't uploaded him, then?" 
<No> "Due to the delays, I'm thirty years behind on my up­loading." 
"Ah." <Regret> "Perhapsyou should speak to him, then, before you upload all those years." 
"l will."He looked athissibandhopedthelonging did notburnin hiseyes."Pleasegivemy bestto Katrin, will you?" 
"l will give her your love," said Old Davout, wisest of the sibs. 
The painwastherewhen Davout awoke nextday,fresh as the mo­mentit first knifed through him, on the day their fifth child, the planet Saqpedon,was christened. Sarpedon had been discoveredby astron­omers a couple of centuries before, and named,with due regard for tra­dition,after yet another minor character in Homer;it had been mapped and analyzedby robotprobes;but ii had been the Beagle'sterraforming team that had made the windswept place, with its barren mountain rangesand endless deserts,its angry radiation and furious dust storms, into a place suitable for life. 
Katrin was the headof the terraforming team.Davoutled its re­searchdivision. Between them, raining nano from Sarpedon'sblack skies,they nursed the planet to life, enrichedits atmosphere, filled its seas,crafted tough, versatile vegetation capable of withstanding the angryenvironment.Seededlife by thetens of millions,insects, reptiles, birds,mammals,fish,andamphibians. Re-created themselves,with dark, leatheryskin and slit pupils, as human forms suitable for Sarpedon's en­vironment,so that they couldexaminetheplace they had built. 
And-unknown to the others-Davout and Katrin had slipped bitsof their own genetics intoalmostevery Sarpedan life-form.Bits of re­dundantcoding,mostly,but enough so that they could claim Sarpedon's entireworldof creatures astheir children. Evenwhenthey were junior 
terraformerson the Cheng Ho's mission to Rhea, they had, partly as 
a joke,partly as something more calculated, populatedtheir creations 
with theirgenes. 
Katrin and Davoutspent the last two years of their proiect on Sarpedonamongtheir children, examining the different ecosystems, 
Lethe t75 
differentinteractions,tinkeringwith newadaptations.In the endsaqpe­don was certifiedassuitablefor human habitation.Preprogrammed 
nanosconstructedsmalltowns,laid out fields,parks,and roads'The first human Sarpedanswould be constructed in nanobeds,and their minds filled with the downloadedpersonalitiesof volunteersfrom Earth.Therewasno need to goto the expenseandtroubleof shipping out millionsof warmbodiesfrom Earth, runningthe risks of traveling 
for decadesin remote space.Not when nanoscouldconstructthem all new on site. 
The first Sarpedans-bald, leather-skinned,slit-eyed-emerged blinking into theirnewred dawn. Any further terraforming,anyattempts to fine-tunethe planet and makeit more Earthlike,would be a long-term proiect and up to them. In a splendid ceremony'Captain Mosh­weshwe formally turned the future of Sarpedon over to its new 
inhabitants.Davouthada few lastformalitiesto perform,handingcer­
tain computer codes and protocolsoverto the Saqpedans, but the restof 
the terraformingteam,most fairly drunk on champagne,filed into the 
shuttlefor the return iourneyto the Beagle.As Davout bent overa ter­
minal with his Sarpedan colleaguesand the Beagle'sfirst ofEcer, he 
couldhear the roar of the shuttleon its pad, thesustainedthunderas it 
climbed for orbit, the thud as it crashed throughthe sound barrier,and 
then he saw out of the corner of his eye the suddenred-goldflare. . . 
When he racedoutsideit was to seethe blazingPoPpyunfolding 
in the sky, a blossom of fire and metal falling slowlyto the surface of the 
newly christened planet. 
There she was -her imageanyway -in the neo-Gothicarmchair; 
Red Katrin, the green-eyed lady with whom he in memory,and Old 
Davout in reality, had first exchanged glancestwo cenhtries agowhile 
Dolphus expanded on whathe called his"lunaforming." 
Davouthad hesitated aboutreturningher call of condolence' He 
did not knowwhetherhis heart could sustain twoknifethrusts,both Ka-
trin's death andthe sight of her sib, alive, sympathetic, and forever be­
yond his reach. 
But he couldn't not callher. Even when he was hying not to think 
abouther,he still found Katrin on the edge of his perceptions, drifting 
throughhisthoughtslike the persistent traceof somefamiliarperfume. 
Time to get it over with, he thought. If it was more than he could stand,he could apologizeandend the call. But he had to know . . . "Andthereare no backups?" she said. A pensivefrown touched her lips. 
"No recentbackups," Davout said."We always thought that, if we were to die, we would die together. Space havel is hazardous, after all, andwhencatashophestrikesit isnot a small catastrophe. We didn't an­ticipateone of us surviving a catastropheon Earth, and the otherdying light-yearsaway."He scowled. 
"Damn Moshweshweanyway! There were recent backups on the Beagle,but with so many dead from an undetermined causehe decided not to resurrectanyone,to cancelour trip to Astoreth,return to Earth, andsort out all the complicationsonce he got home." 
"He made the right decision," Katrinsaid."lf my sibhad been res­urrected, you both would havedied together." <Better so> Davout's fingers began to form the mudra, but he thought better of it, made a gesture of negation. 
The green eyes narrowed. "There areolder backups on Earth, yes?" 
"Katrin's latest surviving backup dates from the rehrrn of the ChengHo." 
"Almostninety years ago." Though$ully. "But she could upload the memories shehasbeen sending me.. . the problem does not seem insurmountable." 
Red Katrin clasped her hands around one knee.At the familiar ges­ture, memories rang through Davout's mind like change-bells.Vertigo overwhelmedhim, andhe closed his eyes. 
"The problemis the instructionsKatrin-we both-Ieft," he said. "Again,we anticipated that if we died, we'd die together. And sowe left inshuctionsthat our backups on Earth were not to be employed. We rea­sonedthat we hadtwo sibs apiece on Earth, and if they-you-missed us,youcould simply duplicateyourselves." 
"I see."A pause, then concern. "Areyouall right?" 
<No> "Of coursenot," he said. He openedhis eyes. The world ed­died for a moment, then stilled, the growing calmnesscenteredon Red Kahin'sgreeneyes. 
"I'vegot seventy-odd years'backpay,"hesaid."l supposethatI could hire some lawyers, try to getKatrint backup releasedto my custody." 
Lethe 777 
Red Katrin bit her nether lip. "Recentcourt decisions arenot in yourfavor." "l'm verypersistent.And I'm cash-rich." Shecockedherhead,looked at him. "Areyouall right talking to me? Should I blank my image?" <No> He shook hishead."lt helps,actually,to seeyou." 
He had feared agony in seeingher, but insteadhefound a growing joy,a happinessthat mountedin his heart.As always, his Katrin was helpinghim to understand,helping him to make senseof the bittercon­
fusionof the world. An idea began to creepinto his mind on stealthyfeet. "l worrythatyou'realone there," RedKatrinsaid'"Wouldyoulike to come stay with us?Would youlike us to come to fava?" <No, thanls> "I'll come see you soon," Davoutsaid."But while I'm in the hospital,I think I'll have a few cosmeticprocedures."He looked down at himself, spread his leatheryhands."PerhapsI should look a little more Earthlike." After his talk with Katrin ended, Davoutcalled Dr. Li and told him thathe wanted a new body constructed. Somethingfamiliar,he said, already in the files. His own, original form. Age twenty or so. 
"lt is a surprise to see you.. . asyou are," said Silent Davout. 
Deep-voiced,black-skinned, and somber,Davout'ssib stood by 
his bed. 
"lt wasa useful body when I wore it," Davout answered. "I take 
comfortin. . . familiar things. .. now that my life is so uncertain." He 
looked up. "It was good of you to comein person." 
'A holographicbody,"taking Davout's hand, "howeverwelcome, howeverfamiliar, is not the same asa real person." 
Davoutsqueezedthe hand. "Welcome,then,"hesaid.Dr. Li, who 
had supervised in person through the new/old body's assembly, hadleft 
after saying thenanosweredone, so it seemed appropriate for Davout to 
standandembracehissib. 
The youngest of the sibs was not tall, but he was built solidly, as if 
for permanence, and his head seemed slightlyoversizedfor his body. 
Showcase 
With his older sibs he had always maintained a kind of formal reserve that had resulted in his being nicknamed "the Silent."Accepting the name, he remarked that the reason he spokelittle when the others were around is that his older sibs had already said everything that needed say­ing beforehe got to it. 
Davoutsteppedback and smiled."Yourpatientsmustthink you a tower of stren$h." 
"I have no patients these days. Mostly I workin the realm oftheory." 
"I will have to lookup your work.I'm so farbehindon uploads-I don't have any ideawhat you and Katrin have been doing these last decades." 
Silent Davout stepped to the armoire and opened its ponderous mahoganydoors."Perhapsyou should put on some clothing," hesaid."l amfeeling chill in this conditioned air, and so must you." 
Amused, Davout clothed himself, then sat across the little rose­woodsidetable from his sib. Davout the Silent lookedathim for a long moment-eyesplacid and though$rl-and then spoke. 
"You are experiencing something that is very rare in our time," he said."Loss,anger, frustration, terror. All the emotionsthat in their total­ity equalgief;' 
"Youforgotsadnessand regret," Davoutsaid."Youforgot memory, andhowthe memorieskeep replaying. Youforgotimagination,andhow imagination only makesthosememoriesworse,becauseimaginational­lows you to write a different ending,but the world will not." 
SilentDavoutnodded."Peoplein my profession,"fingers forming <irony>, "anywaythoseborn too late to rememberhow common these thingsonce were, must view you with a certainclinical interest. I must commendDr. Li on his restraint." 
"Dr. Li is a shrink?" Davout asks. 
<Yes> A casualpress of fingers. "Amongother things. I'm sure he's watchingyou very carefullyandmaking little notes every time he leaves the room.' 
"I'm happy to be useful." <Irony> in his hand,bitternesson his tongue."l wouldgive those people my memories, if theywantthem so much." 
<Of course> "You can do that." Davoutlooked up in something 
likesurprise. 
Lethe 179 
"You know it is possible," his sib said. "You can downloadyour memories,preservethem like amber, or simplyhandthem to someone elseto experience. Andyou can erasethemfromyour rnind completely, walk on into a new life, tabularasaandfreeof pain." 
His deep voice was soft.It was a voicewithout affect,one he no doubt usedon his patients, quietly insistentwithout beingofficious'A voice that madesuggestions,or presentedalternatives,but which nevel, ever,gaveorders. 
"l don't want that," Davout said. 
SilentDavout'sfingerswere still setin <of course>. "Youarenot of thegenerationthatacceptssuchthingsasa matter of course," he said. "But this, lhismodularapproachto memory, to being, constitutesmuch 
of my work these days." Davoutlooked at him. "lt must be like losing a piece of yourself,to give up a memory. Memories are whatmakeyou." 
SilentDavout'sfaceremainedimpassiveashis deep voice sounded throughthevoid between them. "What forms a human psyche is not a memory,wehave come to believe, but a pattern of thought. When our 
sib duplicated himself,he duplicated hispatternin us; and whenweas­semblednew bodies to live in, the pattern didnotchange.Have you felt yourselfadifferentperson when you took a new body?" 
Davoutpasseda hand over his head, felt the fine blond hair cover­
ing his scalp. This timeyesterday,his head had beenbald and leathery. 
Now he felt subtle differencesin his perceptions-his visionwasmore 
acute,his hearing less so-and his muscle memorywas somewhat 
askew.He remembered havingashorterreach,aslightlydifferentcenter 
of gravity. 
But as for himself, his essence -no,hefelt himself unchanged' He 
was still Davout. 
<No> he signed. 
"Peoplehavemore choices than ever before," said Silent Davout. 
"They choosetheir bodies, theychoosetheir memories. They can up­
load new knowledge, new skills. Ifthey feel a lack ofconfidence, or feel 
that their behavior istoo impulsive, they can tweak their body chemistry 
to produce a different effect.If theyfind themselves the victim of an un­
forhrnateor destructive compulsion,the compulsion can be edited from 
their being.If they lack the powerto change their circumstances,they 
Showcase 
can at least elect to feelhappier about them.If a memorycannotbe overcome,it canbeeliminated." "And you now spend your time dealing with these problems?" Davoutasked. "They are not problems,"his sib said gently. "They are not syn­dromesor neuroses. They are circumstances.
They are part of the con­dition of life as it existstoday. They are environmental." The large, impassiveeyes gazed steadilyat Davout. "Peoplechoosehappinessover sorrow,fulfillment over ftustration. Can you blame them?" 
<Yes> Davout signed. "lf they deny the evidence of their own lives,"hesaid."We defineourexistencebythechallengeswe overcome, or those we don't. Even our hagedies define us." 
His sib nodded."That is an admirablephilosophy-for Davout the Conqueror, But not all people areconquerors." Davout shove to keepthe impatience ftom his voice. "Lessonsare Iearned from failures as well as successes.
Experienceis gained, life's knowledgeisappliedto subseguent occurrence.If we denythe usesof experience,whatisthere to make us human?" 
His sib was patient. "sometimestheexperiencesarenegative,and so are the lessons.Would you have a personlive forever under the shadowof great guilt, say for a foolish mistakethatresultedin injury or deathto someoneelse; or would you have them live with the conse­quencesof damage inflicted by a sociopath,or an abusive family mem­ber?Thaumaslike these can cripple the whole being. Why should the damagenot be repaired?" 
Davoutsmiledthinly."Youcan't tell methatthesetechniquesare 
usedonly in cases of deep trauma,"he said. "You can't tell me that peoplearen'tusing these techniquesfor reasons thatmight be deemed trivial.Editing out a foolish remark made ata party,oreliminatingabad vacationor an argument with the spouse." 
SilentDavoutreturnedhis smile. "I wouldnot insult your intelli­
genceby suggesting thesethings do not happen." 
<Q.E.D.> Davout signed."So how do such people mature? 
Change? Grow in wisdom?" 
"They cannot edit out everything. Thereissufficientfriction and 
conflict in thecourseof ordinary life toprovide everyone with their allotted 
Lethe 181 
portionof wisdom.Nowadaysour lives are very,verylong, and we have along time to learn,however slowly. And after all,"smiling,"the average person'scapacityforwisdomhas never been so large as all that.I think you will find that as a species weare far less prone to folly than we once were." 
Davoutlooked at hissib grimly. "Youare suggesting that I undergo this technique?" 
"It is called Lethe." 
"That I undergoLethe?Forget Katrin? Or forgetwhat I feel for her?" 
Silent Davout slowly shook his grave head."I make no such sug­gestion." "Good." The youngest Davoutgazedsteadilyinto the eyes of his oldertwin. 
"Only you know what you can bear. I merely point out that this remedy exists,should you find youranguishbeyond what you can endure." 
"Katrindeservesmourning," Davout said. 
Anothergrave nod. "Yes." 
"She deservesto be remembered.Who will remember her if I do not?" 
"l understand,"said Silent Davout."I understandyour desireto feel,andthe necessity. I onlymention Lethe because I comprehend all too well what you endure now. Because," he licked his lips,"I, too, have lostKatrin." 
Davout gaped at " he stammered. "Sheis-she was killed?" <No> His sib's faceretained its remarkable placidity."Sheleft me, sixteenyearsago." Davout could only stare.The fact, stated soplainly, was incom­prehensible. "I-" he began, and then his fingers found another thought. <What happened?> "We were together for a cenhrry and a half. We grew apart. It 
Nof fo us it doesn't!Davoutt mind protested.Nof to Davout and Katrin! Not to the two people who make up a whole greater than its parts. Not to us. Not ever. 
But looking into his sibt accepting, melancholyface, Davout knew that it had to be true. And then, in a way he knew to be utterly disloyal, he began to hope. 
"Shocking?"said Old Davout."Not to us, I suppose." 
"It was their downloads," saidRedKatrin."FairKatrinin particu­lar was careful to edit out some of her feelingsandiudgmentsbefore she let me upload them, but still I could seeher attitudes changing.And 
knowingher, I could make guesses by what sheleft out. . . . I remember tellingDavoutthree years before the splitthat the relationshipwasin jeopardy." 
"The Silent One was still surprised, though,when it happened," Old Davoutsaid."sophisticatedthoughhe maybe about human na­ture,he had a blind spot where Katrin was concerned."He put an arm aroundRed Kahin and kissed her cheek. 'As I suppose we all do," he added. 
Katrin accepted the kisswith a gracious inclination of her head, thenaskedDavout,"Would you like the blueroom here, or the green roomupstairs?The greenroom has a window seat and afine view ofthe bay,but it's small." 
"I'll takethe green room," Davout said.I do not needsomuch 
room,he thought, now that I am alone. 
Katrin took him up the creaking woodenstair and showedhim the 
room,the narrow bed of the old house.Through the windowhe could 
look south to a storm on ChesapeakeBay,blue-graycloud, bright erup 
tionsoflightning,slantingbeamsof sunlight that dropped throughrents 
in thestorm to teasebright winking lightfromthefoam. He watchedit 
for a long moment,thenwasstartledoutof reverieby Katrin's handon 
hisshoulder,and a soft voicein his ear. 
"Arethere sights like this on other worlds?" 
"The storms on Rhea were vast,"Davoutsaid,"like nothing on this 
world.The oceanareaisgreaterthanthat on Earth, andlies mostly in the 
tropics-the planetwasalmostcalledOceanuson thataccount. The hur­
ricanes built up around the equatorialbeltswith nothingto stopthem, 
sometimesmore than a thousand kilometersacross,andtheycameroar­
ing into the temperate zoneslike multi-armed demons,sometimesone Lethe 183 
afteranotherfor months.They spawned waterspotsandcyclonesin their vanguard,inundatedwhole areas with a storm surge the size of a small ocean,dumped enough rain to flood an entire province away. .. . We thoughtseriouslythat the storms might make life on land untenable." 
He went on to explain the solution he and Katrin had devised for theenormousproblem:hugestringsof tall,rocky barrier islandsbuilt at a furious rate by nanomachines,awallforwind and storm surgeto break against;a species of silvery, tropicalfloating weed, a flowery girdle about Rhea'sthick waist, that radically increasedsurfacealbedo,refecting moreheatbackinto space. Many species of deeprooted,vinelike plants to anchor slopesandprevent erosion, other species ofthirstytrees,adap­tations of cottonwoods and willows, to line streambeds and break the power offlash foods. 
Planetaryengineeringon such an enormous scale,in sucha short time,hadneverbeen attempted, not even on Mars, and it hadbeendif­ficult for Katrin and Davout to sell the project to the proieci managers on the ChengHo. Their superiorshad initially preferred a different ap proach,huge equatorial solar curtains deployedin orbit to refect heat, squadronsof orbital beam weapons to blast and disperse storms as they formed,secure underground dwellingsfor the inhabitants, complex lock and canal systemsto control flooding.... Katrin and Davout had arguedfor a more elegant approach to Rhea's problems, a relianceon or­ganicsystemsto modify the planeti extreme weather insteadof assault­ing Rheawith macro-tech and engineering. Theirs was the approach that finally won the support of the majority of the terraforming team, and resulted in their subsequentappointment as heads of Beagle's tena­formingteam. 
"Dark Katrin's memories werevery exciting to uploadduring that time," said Kahin the Red. "That delirious explosion of creativity! Watchinga wholeglobe take shape beneath her feet!" Her green eyes lookup intoDavout's."We werejealousof you then. All thatabundance beingcreated, all that talent going to shapingan entire world. And we were confined to scholarship, which seemed so lifeless by comparison." 
'iA,re
He looked at her. <Query> you sorry for the choice you made? You two were senior: you could havechosenour path if you'd wished. You still could, come to that." 
A smile drifts across her face. "You tempt me, truly. But Old 
Showcase 
Davout and I are hrppy in our work-and besides,you and Katrin needed someone to provide a proper record of your adventures."She tiltedher head, and mischief glittered in her eyes. "Perhapsyou should ask Blonde Katrin. Maybe shecoulduse a change." 
Davout gave a guilty start: she was, he thought, seeing too near, too soon."Do youthink so?" he asked. "l didn'tevenknowif I shouldsee her." 
"Her grudgeis with the Silent One, not with you." 
"Well."He managed a smile. "PerhapsI will atleast call." 
Davout called Katrin the Fair,received an offer of dinner on the followingday,accepted.Fromhisroom he followedthesmellof coffee into his hosts' office, and felt a bubble of grief lodge in his heart: two desks,back-to-back, and books 
two computer terminals,layers of papers and printout anddust. . . he could imaginehimself and Katrinhere, sip pingcoffee, working in pleasantcompatibility. 
<How goesit?> he signed. 
Hissiblooked up. "I iustsenta chapterto Sheol," he said."l was makingMaxwellfar too wise." He fingeredhis little goatee."The temp tationisalwaysto view the past solely as a vehiclethatleadsto our pres­entgrandeur.Thesepeople'ssolefunctionwas to produceus,whoareof course perfectly wise and nobleand far superiorto our ancestors. Soone 
assumesthat these people had us in mind all along, that we were what they wereworking toward. I have to keepremindingmyselfthat these peoplelivedamid unimaginable tragedy,diseaseandignoranceand su­perstition,vile little wars, terriblepoverty,and death. .." 
He stopped, suddenlyawarethat he'd said somethingawkward-
Davoutfelt the wordvibratein hisbone,asif he were strandedinside a 
bell that wasstillsinging after it had beenstruck-but he said, "Go on." 
"I remindmyself,"his sib continued,"thatthe fact that welive in a 
modernculturedoesn'tmakeus better, it doesn't makeus superior to 
thesepeople-in fact it enlargesthem,becausetheyhad to overcome so 
much more than we in order to realizethemselves,in orderto accom­
plishasmuch as theydid."A shy smile driftedacrosshis face. "Andso a 
iathe. s*ug chapteriswipedout of digitalexistence'" 
"Lavoisieris looming," commentedRedKatrinfromher machine' 
"Yes,tlat too," Old Davout agreed. His Lavoisier and His Agehad 
won the McEldowney Prize and been shortlistedfor other awards. 
Lethe 185 
Davout could well imaginethat bringing Maxwell up to Lavoisi ef s mag isterialstandardswould be intimidating. 
Red Katrin leaned backin her chair, combed her hairbackwith her fingers. "l madea few notes about the Beagle project," she said. "l have other commitments to deal with first, of course." 
She and Old Davout had avoided any conflicts of interest and in­terpretation by convenientlydividinghistory between them: she would write of the "modern"world and her near-contemporaries, 
while he wroteof thosesecurelyin the past.Davoutthought his sib hadthe ad­vantage in this arrangement, because her subjects, as time progressed, gradually entered his domain, and became liable to his reinterpretation. 
Davout cleared away some printout, sat on theedgeof Red klatrin's 
'A
desk. thought keeps bothering me," he said."In our civilization we recordeverything.But the lastmomentsof the crew of the Beagle wenl unrecorded.Does that meantheydonot exist? Never existed atall? That death was alwaystheir state, and they returned to it, like virtual matter dyingintothe vacuum fromwhich it came?" 
Concern darkened Red Katrin's eyes. "They will beremembered," she said. "I will see to it." 
"Katrindidn't download the last months, did she?" 
<No> "The lasteight months were never sent. She was very busy, and-" "Virtual months,then.Gonebackto the phantom zone." "Therearerecords.Other crew sent downloads home,and I will see 
if I cangainaccesseitherto the downloads,or to their friendsandrelations who haveexperiencedthem.Thereisyour memory, your downloads." He looked ather."Will youuploadmy memory, then?My sib has everythingin his files, I'm sure." Glancing at Old Davout. 
She pressed her lips together."Thatwouldbe difficult for me. Me viewing you viewing her . . ." She shook her head."I don'tdare.Not now. Not when we're all still in shock." 
Disappointmentgnawedathis insides with sharp rodentteeth.He didnotwant to be so alonein his grief; he didn't wantto nourish all the sadnessby himself. 
He wanted to share it with Katrin,he knew, the person with whom he shared everything. Katrincould help him makesenseof it, the way she clarified all the world for him. Katrinwould comprehend the way he felt. 
<I understand>hesigned.Hisfrustrationmusthave been plainto RedKatrin,becauseshe took hishand,lifted her green eyes to his' "lwiII," she said. "But not now. I'm not ready." "I don't want fwowrecksin the house," called Old Davouioverhis 
shoulder. Interferingold bastard, Davoutthought.But with hisfreehandhe signed,again,<I understand>, 
Katrinthe Fair kissed Davout'scheek,then stood back, holdinghis hands,andnarrowedher gray eyes. "I'm not sure I approve ofthisyouth­ful bodyof yours," she said."Youhaven'tlookedlike this in-what­overa century?" 
"PerhapsI seek to evoke happiertimes,"Davout said. 
A little frown touched the cornersof her mouth . "That is always 
dangerous,"sheiudged."But I wish you everysuccess."Shestepped backfrom the door, flungout an arm."Pleasecomein." Shelived in a small aparhnentin Toulouse,with a view of the All6e Saint-Michelandthe rose-redbrick of the Vieux Quartier.On the iconsof Usil andTiv, the Ehuscan
whitewashedwallshung terra-cotta 
godsof the sunandmoon,anda well coverwith a figure of the demon 
Charun emergingfrom the underworld.The Ehuscan deitieswere con­
fronted,on anotherwall, by a bronzefigure of the Gaulish Rosmerta, 
consortof theabsentMercurius. 
Her little balcony was bedecked with wrought iron and a gay 
stripedawning.In front of the balcony a tableshimmeredundera red 
anJ white checkedtablecloth:crystal,porcelain,a wicker basketof 
bread,a bottle of wine. Cooking scentsfoated in from thekitchen. 
"lt smellswonderful,"Davoutsaid. 
<Drink?>Lifting thebottle. 
<Why not?> 
waspoured.They settledontothe sofa,chattedof weather, 
wine crowds,fava.Davout'smemoriesof the trip that Silent Davoutand his Katrin hadtakento the islandweremorerecentthanhers' Fair Katrin tookhishand."I have uploaded DarkIGhint memories, sofar as I have them," shesaid."Shelovedyou,you know-absolutely, deeply."<Tbuth>Shebit her netherlip. "It was a remarkablething'" 
<Tiuth> Davoutanswered.He touchedcoolcrystalto his lips,took 
a carefulsip of his cabernet. Painthrobbedin the hollowsof his heart. 
Inthe 187 
"Yes."he said,"l know." 
"I felt I shouldtell you about her feelings. Particularlyin view of whathappened with me and the Silent One." 
He looked at her. "l confessI do not understand that business." 
Shemadea little frown of distaste."We and our work and our sit­uationgrew irksome. Oppressive.You may upload his memories if you Iike-l daresayyou will be able to observe the signs that he was deter­mined to ignore." 
<l am sorry> 
Clouds gathered in her gray eyes."1,too, have regrets." 
"Thereis no chance of reconciliation?" 
<Absolutelynot>, accompanied by a brief shakeof the head. "lt was over." <Finished> "And, in any case, Davout the Silent is not the man he was." 
<Yes?> 
"He tookLethe.It was the only wayhe had of gettingover my leav­ing him." Pure amazement throbbed in Davout's soul. Fair lGtrin lookedat him in surprise. 
"Youdidn't know?" 
He blinked at her. "I should have. But I thought he was talking about me, about a wayof getting over. . ." Aching sadness brimmed in his throat. "Overthe way my Dark Katrin left me." Scorn whitened the fesh about Fair Katrint noshils. "That'sthe Silent One for you. He didn't have the nerve to tell yououtright." "l'm not sure that'shue. He may havethought he was speaking plainly enough-" 
Her fingers formed a mudra that gavevent to a brand of disdain that did not translate into words."He kncws his effects perfectly well," she said. "He wastrying to suggestthe ideawithout making it clear that this was his choicefor you, that he wanted you to fall in line with his theories." 
Anger was clear in her voice. She rose,stalkedangrily to the bronze of Rosmerta, adjustedits place on the wall by a millimeter or so. Turned, waved an arm. 
<Apologies>,flung to the air. "Lett eat. Silent Davout is the last person I want to talk about right now." "I'm sorryI upsetyou." Davout was not sorry at all: he found this 
Showcase188 NebulaAwards 2000 
displayfascinating.The gestures, thetone of voice,wereutterlyfamiliar, ringinglike chimes in his heart; but the style,Ihe wayFairKatrin avoided the issue,was different. DarkKatrin never would havefleda subiect this 
way:she would haveknit her brows and confrontedthe problem directly, engagedwith it until she'deitherreachedunderstandingor catastrophe. Eitherway,she'dhavelaughed,and tossed herdarkhair,andannounced thatnow she understood. 
"It's peasantcooking,"Katrin the Fair saidasshe bustled to the kitchen,"which of courseis the best kind." 
The main coursewas a rago0tof vealin a velout6sauce,beans 
cookedsimplyin butter and garlic,tossedsalad,bread.Davoutwaited 
until it washalf consumed, and the bottle of wine mostly gone, before 
hedared to speakagainof his sib. 
"You mentionedthe SilentOne and his theories," he said'"l'm 
thirty yearsbehind on his downloads, and I haven't read his latest work-what is he up to? Whatb all this theorizing about?" She sighed, fingers ringing a frustrated rhythm on her glass' Lookedout the window for a moment, then conceded'"Has he men­
tionedthe modular theoryof thepsyche?" 
Davouttried to remember."He saidsomethingabout modular 
memory,Iseemto recall." 
,,That's

<Yes> a part of it. It'sa fairlyradicaltheorythat statesihat 
peopleshouldedittheirpersonalityand abilities atwill, as circumstances 
dictate.That one morning, say,if you'regoingto work,you uploadap­
propriatememories,and work skills,alongwith a doseof ambition, of 
resolution,and someappropriateemotionslike satisfactionand eager­
nessto solveproblems,or enduredrudgery,asthe casemay be'" 
Davoutlookedathisplate."Like cookery,then,"he said. "Like this 
dish-veal,carrots,onions,celery,mushrooms,parsley." 
FairKatrinmadea mudra thatDavoutdidn'trecognize'<Sorry?> 
he signed. 
'harde-har-har'"'Fin­"Oh. Apologies.That one means'roughly, 
gerformed<laughter>,then <sarcasm>,then slurredthem together' 
"See?" 
<Understood>He pouredmorewineinto her glass' 
Sheleanedforwardacrossher plate."Recipesarefine if onewants 
lobeconsumed,"shesaid."survival is anothermatter.The human mind 
Lethe 189 
is more than justingredientsto be tossed together. The atomistic view of thepsyche is simplistic, dangerous, andwrong.You cannot wil/ a psyche to be whole, no matter how many wholeness modules are uploaded. A psyche is more than the sum of its parts." 
Wine and agitation burnished her cheeks. Conviction blazed from her eyes."It takes time to integrate new experience, new abilities. The modular theorists claimthis will be done by a 'conductor,'anartificial intelligencethat will be able to judge between alternate personalities and abilities and upload whatever's needed. But that's such rubbish, I-" She looked at the knife she was waving, then permitted it to return to the table. 
"How far are the Silent One and his cohorts towardrealizingthis ambition?" Davout said. 
<Begpardon?>She looked at him. "I didn't make thatclear?" she said."The technologyis already here. Itt happening. Peopleare frag­menting their psyches deliberatelyand trusting to their conductors to make sense of it all. And they're hoppywith their choices,becausethat's the only emotionthey permit themselvesto upload from their supply." She clenched her teeth,glancedangrily out the window at the Vieux Quartier!sunset-burnished
walls.'Allhaditional psycholory is aimed at integration,at wholeness. And now it'sall to be thrownaway ..." She flung her handout the window. Davout'seyesautomaticallyfollowedan invisibleobject on its arc &om her fingers toward the street.
'And 
how does this theory work in practice?" Davoutasked."fue thestreetsfilledwith psychologicalwrecks?" 
Bitternesstwisted her lips. "Psychologicalimbeciles,more like. Executingtheir conductors'orders,docile as well-fed children, hrppy as clams. They upload passions-anger,grief, loss-as artificialexperi­ences,secondhandfromsomeoneelse,usually so they can tell theircon­ductor to avoid such emotions in the future. They are not people anymore,they're..." Her eyestumed to Davout. 
"You saw the Silent One," she said."Would you call him a 
person?" 
"I waswith him for onlya day," Davout said."I noticedsomething of a. . ."<Standby> he signed, searchingfor theword. 
"Lack of affect?" sheinterposed.'A demeanormarkedby an ex­treme placidity?" 
Showcase
<Tfuth> he signed. "When it was clear I wouldn't comebackto him, hewroteme out of his memoryi' Fair Katrin said."He replacedthe memorieswith 
facts-he knowshe was marriedto me, he knowswewent to such-and­sucha placeor wrotesuch-and-sucha paper-but there'snothingelse there.No feelings,no realmemoriesgoodor bad,no understanding, 
nothing left from almosttwo centuries together."Tearsglitteredin her -
eyes."I'd ratherhe felt anythingat all I'd ratherhe hatedmethanfeel 
thisapathy!" Davoutreachedacrossthe little tableandtookher hand."[t is his decision,"he said, "andhisloss." ,,his allour loss,"shesaid.Reflectedsunsetflavoredher tearswith the color of roses."The man we loved is gone.And millions are gone for happiness
with him-millions of little half-alivesouls,programmed and unconcern."Shetippedthe bottle into her glass,receivedonly a sluicingof dregs. 
"Let'shaveanother,"shesaid. 
When he left,somehourslater,he embracedher,kissedher,let 
hislipslingeron hersfor perhaps anextrahalf-second.Sheblinkedup at 
andthenhe took hisleave'

him in wine-muddledsurprise, 
"How did you find my sib?" RedKatrin asked' 
"Unhappy," Davout said."Confused' Lonely, I think' Living in a 

little apartmentlike a cell, with iconsandmemories'" 
shesigned,and turned on him a knowing green-eyed

iI kno*t 
look. 
"Areyou planningon taking her awayfrom all that? To the stars' 

perhaps?"
-
Davout'ssurprisewasbrief. He looked awayand murmured, "l 
didn't know I was sotransParent." 
A smiletouchedherlips.<Apologies>shesigned."l've livedwith 
Old Davoutfor nearlytwo hundredyears'Youandhe haven't grownso 
very far apart in that time. My fair sib deserveshappiness'and so do 

you. . . if you canprovideit, so muchthebetter'But I wonder if you are not moving toofast,if you havethoughtit all out'" Mouingfast,Davoutwondered'Hislifeseemedsoveryslownow' eachmovea lifetime' 
a creeping dancewith agony, Lethe 191 
He glanced out at Chesapeake Bay,sawhis second perfect sunset in only a few hours-the same sunset he'd watched from Fair Katrin's apartment, now radiating its red glories on the other side of the Atlantic. A few water-skaters sped toward home on their silver blades. He sat with Red Katrin on a porch swing, Iooking downthe long green sward to the bayfront,the old wooden pier, and the sparkling water, that profound, deep blue that sangof home to Davout's soul. Red Kanin wrapped her­self against the breeze in a fringed, autumn{olored shawl. Davout sipped coffee from gold-rimmed porcelain, set the cup into its saucer. 
"I wondered if I was being untrue to my Katrin," he said. "But they are really the same person, aren't they? If I wereto pursue some other woman now, I would know I was committing a betrayal.But how can I betrayKatrin with herself?" 
An uncertain look crossedRed Katrint face."I've downloaded them both," hesitantly,"and I'm not certain that the Dark and Fair Ka­trins are quite the same person. Or ever were." 
Not the same-of course he knew that. Fair klatrin was not a per­fect copy of her older sib-she had flaws, clearenough. She had been damaged,somehow. But the flaws could be worked on, the damage re­
paired.Conquered.Therewas infinite time. He would see it done. <Question>"Andhowdo your sibs differ, then?" he asked. "Other thanobvious differences in condition and profession?" She drew her legs up and rested her chin on herknees.Her green eyeswere pensive. "Mattersof love," she said, "and happiness." And further she would not say. 
Davouttook Fair Katrin to Thngier for the afternoonand walked with her up on the old palace walls.Belowthem,white in the sun,the curvedmolebuilt by Charles II cleaved the Middle Sea, a thin crescent moonlaidupon the perfect shimmeringazure.(Home!home!,thewa­ters cried.) The seabreeze lashed her blond hair acrossher face. snappedlittle sonicbooms from the sleeves of his shirt. 
"l havesampledsomeof the Silent One'sdownloads,"Davout said."I wishedto discover the natureof this artificial hanquillity with which he has endowedhimself." 
FairKahin'slips twistedin distaste, and her fingers formeda scat­ologue. 
"lt was... interesting," Davoutsaid."Therewasa shange' uncom­plicatedquality of bliss to it. I remember experiencingthe downloadof a master sitting zazenonce,and it wasan experienceof a similar cast." 
"It may have been the exact samesensation."Sourly."He may havejusicopiedthezen master's experienceandslottedit into hisbrain. That's how mosfof the vampires do it-award themselvesthe ioy they haven'tearned." 
"That'sa calvinisiicpoint of view,"Davoui offered'"That happi­nesscan'tiusthappen,thatit has to be earned." Shefrownedout atthe sea. "There isa difference betweenrealex­perienceandartificialor recapitulativeexperience.lf that'scalvinist,so 
beit." 
<Yes>Davoutsigned."Call me a calvinistsympathizer,then' I havebeenenoughplaces,doneenoughthings,so that it mattersto me thatI wasactuallythereandnotlivingoutsomeprogrammeddreamof life on otherworlds.I'veexperiencedmy sibs'downloads-livedsignif­
icantpartsof their lives, momentbymoment-but it is not the sameas 
my liie, as being me.I am," he said,leaningelbowson the palacewall, 
"l am myself,I am the sum of everythingthathappenedto me,I stand 
on this wall, I am watchingthis sea,I am watchingit with you, and 
no oneelsehashadthisexperience,nol evelshall,it is ours, it belongs 
tous..." she lookedup athim, straw-hairflyingoveran unreadableexpres­
sion."DavouttheConqueror,"shesaid. 
<No> hesigned."l didnotconqueralone'" 
Shenodded,holdinghiseyesfora long moment."Yes,"shesaid."I 
know." HetookKatrintheFair in his arms andkissedher.Therewasamo­
ment'sstiffsurprise,andthenshe began to laugh,helplesspealsbursting 
againsthis lips. He held her for a moment,too suqprisedto react,and 
th.r, 	,h. broke free. She reeledalong the wall, leaning for support 
againstthe old stones.Davout followed,babbling,"I'm sorry,I didn't 
mean	to-" Sheleanedbackagainstthe wall. Wordsbursthalf-hystericalfrom 
her lips,in between burstsof desperate,unamusedlaughter."So that's 
whatyou were after!My Godl As if I hadn'thadenoughof you all after 
all theseyears!" 
Lethe 193 
"I apologize,"Davoutsaid."Let'sforgetthis happened. I'll take you 
home." 
She looked up at him, the laughtergone,blazingangerin its place."The SilentOne and I would have beenall right if it hadn't been for you-for our sibs!" She flung herwords like daggers,her voice break­
ingwith passion. "Youlotweretheeldest,you'dalready parceled out the worldbetweenyou. You wereonly interested in psycholog,becausemy damnedRed sib and your Old onewanted insight into thecharactersin their histories, and because youand your dark bitch wanted a theory of the psyche to aid you in buildingcommunitieson other worlds.Weonly got created becauseyauweretoo damned lazyto do your own research!" 
Davoutstood,stunned.<No> he signed,"That'snot-" 
"We werethird," she cried."We were born in thirdplace.We got the jobsyou wanted least,and while youoldersibswere winning fame 
and glory, we were stuck in work that didn't suit, that you'd east off, 
awardedto us as if we were charitycases-" Shesteppedcloser,and 
Davoutwas amazed to find a white-knuckled fist being shakenin his face."My husbandwas called The Silentbecausehissibshadalready usedup all the words! He wasthird-rateandknew rl.lt destroyedhiml Now he's pluggingartificialsatisfactioninto his headbecauseitt the onlyway he'll everfeel it." 
"If youdidn't like yourlife,"Davoutsaid,"youcouldhave changed it. People startover all the time-we'd havehelped."He reached toward her."I canhelp you to the stars,if that'swhatyou want." 
She backed away."The only help we ever neededwasto get rid of you!"A mudra, <harde-har-har>,echoedthesarcasticlaughteron Fair Katrint lips."Andnow thereb anothergap in yourlife,andyouwantme to fill it-not this time." 
<Neyer>her fingers echoed.<Never>The laughter bubbledfrom herthroat again. She fled, leavinghim aloneand dazedon the palace the boomingwind mocking his feeble protests. 
"l am huly sorry," Red Katrinsaid.She leaned closeto him onthe porch swing, touchedsoft lips to his cheek."Eventhoughshe edited her downloads,I could tell sheresented
us-but I truly did not know how 
shewould react." 
Davoutwasfrantic.He could feel Katrin slippingfartherandfar­ther away,asif shewereon the edgeof a precipiceandher handholds werecrumbling awaybeneathher clawed fingers' 
.,Iswhatshesaidtrue?"heasked."Havewebeenslightingthemall 
these	years?Usingthem,assheclaims?" :'P.rh"psth" hrd somejustificationonce,"RedKatrinsaid'"I do 
notrememberanythingof the sort whenwe were young,whenI wasuP­loadingFairKatrinalmosteveryday.But now,"her expressiongrowing .,theseare mature people,not without resourcesor intelli­
severe, 
gence -I can,t help but think thatsurelyafteraPersonisa century old, 
anyproblemsthatremainarcherfatll." 

Ashe rockedontheporchswinghe couldfeela wildness risingin 
him. My God hethought,I am goingtobealone' 
His brief daysof hope weregone'He staredout at the bay-the choppy water was too rough for any but the most dedicatedwater­
sk"t ir-"nd feltthepainpressingonhisbrain,likethe two thumbsof a 
practicedsadistdiggingintothebackof hisskull' 
"I wonder,"he said."Haveyou givenanyfurther thought to up 

loadingmy memories?" 
Shelookedathim curiously."lt'sscarcelytimeyet'" 
"I feela need io share.. . somethings'" 

"Old Davouthasuploadedthem'Youcouldspeakto him"' 
Thisperfectlyser,riblesuggestiononlymadehim clenchhisteeth' 

He neededs ensemadeofthings,he neededthingsputin order'andthat 
wasnot the iob of hissib.Old Davoutwouldonlyconfirmwhathe al­
ready	knew. 
"I'11talktohim, then,"he said. 
And thenneverdid' 

The painwasworstat night. It wasn'tthesleepingalone'or merely 
Katrin'sabsence:it was theknowledgethatshewould alwaysbe absent, 

thattheemptyspacenexttohimwouldliethereforever.Itwasthenthe horror fully struckhim, andhe would lie awakefor hours'eyes staring 
into the terrible void that wrappedhim in iis darkcloak.Fits of trem­blingspedthroughhislimbs. 
I will go mad, he sometimesthought'It seemed somethinghe 
couldchoose,as if he werea characterin an Elizabethandramawho 

Lethe 195 
turns to the audienceto announce that he will be mad now, and then in 
the next sceneisfound gnawing bones dug out of the family sepulchre. 
Davoutcould see himself beingfoundoutside, running onall fours and 
barking at the stars. 
And then, as dawn crept across the windowsill, he would lookout 
the window and realize, to his sorrow, thai he was not yet mad,that he 
was condemned to anotherdayof sanity, of pain, and of grief. 
Then, onenight, he did go mad. He found himself squattingon 
the floor in his nightshirt, the room aruin around him: mirrors smashed, 
furniture broken. Blood was running down his forearms. 
The door leapt off its hinges with a heave of Old Davout's shoul­der. Davout realized,in a vague way, that his sib hadbeen trying to get in for some time.He saw Red Katrin'ssilhouettein the door, an aureate haloaround her auburn hair in the instant before Old Davout snapped on the light. 
AfterwardKatrin pulled the bits of broken mirror out of Davout's hands, washed anddisinfectedthem,while his sib tried to reconstruct the green room and its antique furniture. 
Davout watchedhis spattersof blood stainthe water,threadsof scarlet whirling in Coriolisspirals."I'm sorry," he said."I thinkI may be losingmy mind." 
"I doubtthat."Frowningatabit of glas in her tweezers. 
"l wantto know." 
Somethingin his voicemadeher look up."Yes?" 
He could see his staringreflectionin her green eyes. "Readmy 
downloads.Please.I wantto knowif . .. I'm reacting normallyin all this. If I'm lucid or just..." He fell silent. Do if, he thought. lustdo this one thing. "I don't upload other people.Davout can do that. Old Davout, I mean." No, Davout thought.His sib would understand all too well what hewas up to. 
"But he's me!" hesaid."He'dthink I'm normall" 
"SilentDavout,then.Crazy people arehis specialty." 
Davoutwanted to makeamudraof scorn, but Red Katrinheld his handscaptive.Insteadhe gave a laugh."He'd wantme to take Lethe. Any advice hegavewouldbe. . . in thatdirection."He made a fist of one 
Showcase196 NebulaAwards 2000 
hand,sawdropsof bloodwell up through thecuts."l needto knowif I canstandthis,"he said."If-something drastic isrequired'" 
Shenodded,lookedagainat the sharplittle spearofglass,pui it de­liberatelyon the edgeof theporcelain.Hereyesnarrowedin thought-Davoutfelt hisheartvaultat that look,at the familiarlinesformingatthe cornerof RedKatrin'srighteye,eachoneknownandadored' 
Pleasedo it,he thoughtdesperately. 
"If it's that importantto you," she said, "l will'" 
"Thankyou,"he said. 
He benthis head overherthebasin,raisedherhand,andpressed hislips to thefleshbeadedwithwaterandstreakedwith blood' 
It was almost like conductingan affair,all clandestinemeetings 
and whisperedarrangements.RedKatrin did not want old Davoutto 
knowshewasuploadinghis sib's memories-"I wouldiustassoonnot 
dealwith his disapproval"-and sosheandDavouthadto wait until he 
wasgonefor a few hours,atrip to record a lecturefor Cavort serieson 
IdeasandManners. Shesettledontothesetteein thefrontroomandcoveredherself with her fringed shawl.closed her eyes.Let Davout'smemoriesroll 
throughher. 
He satin a chair nearby,hismouth dry'Though nearlythirty years 
had passedsinceDark Katrin'sdeath,he had experiencedonly a few 
weeksof thattime;andRedKatrinwasfoating throughthesememories 
atspeed,tastinghereandthere,skippingredundanciesormomentsthat 
seemedinconsequential.. .. He tried to guess from herfacewherein his life shedwelt.The ex-ofshockandhorrornearthestartwasclearenough,theshuttle
pression Lurstinginto flames.Aftertheshockfaded,herecognizedthediscomfort a strange mind, and flickeringacrossher
thatcamewith experiencing facecameexpressionsof grief, anger'andhere and thereamusement; but graduallyth.r" wasonly a growingsadness,and lasheswet with 
theroomtokneelbyherchairandtakeherhand.Herte"rJHe "rorr"d
fingerspressedhis in response... she took a breath, rolled her head 
,*ry .. he wanted to weepnotfor his grief, but for hers' 
The eyesflutteredopen.Sheshookherhead'"l hadto stop"'she 
said..,Icouldn'ttakeit-" Shelookedathim, akind of awein herwide 
Lethe 797 
green eyes. "My God, the sadness! And the need. I had no idea.I've neverfelt such need. I wonder what it isto beneededthat way." He kissed her hand, her damp cheek. Her arms wentaroundhim. He feltaleapof joy,of clarity.The need was hers, now. Davout carried her to the bed she sharedwith his sib, and together they worshiped memories of his Katrin. 
"I will take you tlere," Davoutsaid. His finger reachedinto the night sky, counted starc, one, two, three... "The planei'scalledAtugan. It'sboiling hot, nothing but rock and desert, sulfur and slag.But we can make it home for ourselvesandourchildren-all the species of children we desire, fishand fowl." A bubble of happinessfilled his heart. "Di­nosaurs,if you like," he said. "Wouldyou like tobe parent to a dinosaur?" 
He felt Katrinleave the shelter of his arm, step toward the moonlit bay.Waves rumbled under the oldwooden pier. "I'm nottrainedforter­raforming,"she said. "I'd beuselesson such a trip." 
"I'm decadesbehind in my own field," Davout said. "Youcould learnwhile I caught up. You'll have Dark Katrint downloadsto help.It's all possible." 
Sheturned toward him. The lights of the house glowed yellow off herpale face, off her swift fingers as she signed. <Regret>"I havelivedwith Old Davout for nearly two centuries," shesaid. His life, for a moment,seemedto skip offits internal track;he felt himselfsuspended,poisedat the top of an arc justbeforethe fall. 
Her eyes broodedup at the house, whereOld Davout pacedand sippedcoffee and pondered his life of Maxwell.The mudras at her fin­gertipswereunreadablein the dark. 
"I will do as I did before," shesaid."I cannotgo with you, but my otherselfwill." 
Davoutfelt his life resume."Yes,"he said, because he was shadowand could not sign."Byall means."He stepped nearerto her. wouldratherit be you,"he whispered. 
He saw wry amusementtouchthecornersof her mouth . "Itwillbe me,"she said. Shestoodon tiptoe, kissedhischeek."Butnow I am your sisteragain,yes?"Her eyes looked level into his. "Be patient. I will anangeit." 
Showcase
"I will in all things obeyyou, madam," he said,andfelt wild hope singingin his heart. 
Davoutwaspresentat her awakening,and her hand wasin his as 
she opened her violet eyes,the eyesof his Dark Kahin. Shelookedat him in perfect comprehension,lifteda hand to her black hair;andthen theeyesturnedto the pairstandingbehindhim, to Old DavoutandRed 
Katrin. "Youngman,"Davoutsaid,putiinghishandon Davouttshoulder, 
"allow me to presentyou to my wife." And then (wisestof the sibs)he bent overand whispered,a bit pointedly,into Davout's eat,"l hust you 
will do the samefor me,one daY." Davout concluded,through his surprise,that the secret of a mar­
riagethat laststwo hundred yearsisknowingwhen to turn a blind eye. .,1confessI amsomewhatenvious,"Red Katrin said as sheand Old Davouttooktheirleave."l envymy twin her new life'" "lt'syourlife as well,"he said."Sheis you'" But shelookedathim 
soberly,andher fingersformeda mudra he could not read' 
He took her on honeymoonto the Rockies,used someof his 

seventy-eightyears'backpayto rent a sprawling cabin in a high valley 
abovethe headwatersof the Rio Grande,wherethewind rolledgrandly 
through the pines, hawksspunlazyhigh circleson the afternoon ther­-als, andthebrilliant clearlight blazedon whitestarflowersandIndian 

paintbrush.They went on longwalksin the high hills,cookedsimplyin 
kitchen, sleptbeneathscratchytradeblankets,madelove

ih" "r"-p"d
on crispcottonsheets. He arrangedan office there, two desksand two chairs, back-to­herselfto learningbiology,ecolory,nanotech,and
back.Katrin ,plti.a alreadyhada good grounding,but a specialist's
quantumphyri"r-the kno*l.dg. waslacking.Davouttutoredher, and workedhard at catch­ing up *itt tt . latestdevelopmentsin the field. She-they did not have 
for her yet, though Davout thought of her as"New Katrin"­
, i"-" 
would reviewDark Katrin'sold downloads,concentratingon her work, 

thewayshe visualized a Problem. Once,openingher eyesafteran upload, shelookedat Davoutand 
shookher head."It'sshange,"shesaid."lts me,I knowit'sme' but the 
wayshethinks-" <I don't understand>shesigned."lt'snot memories 
Lethe 199 
that make us, we're told, but patterns of thought. We are who we are be­
causewe think using certain patterns. . . but I do not seem to think like 
her at all." 
"It'shabit,"Davout said. "Yourhabit is to think a different way." 
<Possibly>she conceded, brows knit. 
<Tiuth> "You-Red Katrin-uploaded Dark Katrin before. You 
hadno difficulty in understanding her then." 
"I did not concentrate on the technical aspects of her work, on the wayshe visualized andsolvedproblems.Theywere beyond my skill to in­teqpret-l paid more attention to other moments in her life." Shelifted her eyes to Davout. "Her momentswith you, for instance.Which were very rich, and very intense,andwhichsometimesmade me jealous." 
"No need for jealousynow." <Perhaps>she signed, but her dark eyeswere thoughful, and she turned away. 
Hefelt Katrin's silence after that, an absence thatseemedto fill the cabin with the invisible, weighty cloud of her somber thought. Katrin spent her time studying by herself or restlessly paging through Dark Katrin'sdownloads.At meals and in bed she was quiet, meditative-per­fectly friendly, and, he thought, not unhappy-but keeping herthoughts to herself. 
She is adiusting,he thought. It is not an easy thingfor someone two centuriesold to change. 
"I have realized," shesaid ten days later at breakfast, "thatmy sib ­that Red Kahin-is a coward. That I am created-and the other sibs, too-to do what she would not, or darednot." Her violet eyes gazed lev­elly at Davout,"Shewanted to go with you to Atugan-she wantedto feelthe powerof your desire-but something held her back. So I am createdto do the job for her. It is my purpose. . . to fulfill her purpose." 
"lt's her loss, then," Davoutsaid,though his fingers signed <sur­prise>. 
<Alas!>she signed, and Davout felt a shiver caress his spine. "But I am a coward, too!" Katrin cried."I am not yourbraveDark Katrin, and I cannot become her!" 
"Katrin,"hesaid."Youarethe same person-you aII are!" 
She shook her head. "l donot think like your Katrin. I do not have her courage. I do not know what liberatedher from her fear, but ii is 
Showcase200 Nebula Awards 2000 
somethingI do not have. And-" Shereachedacrossthetableto clasp hishand."l do not have the feelings for you thatshe possessed. 
I simply 
do not-I have hied, I have had that world-eatingpassionreadinto my mind,andI compare it withwhatI feel, and-what I haveis as nothing' I wish I felt asshedid, I truly do. But if I love anyone, it is Old Davout. And. . ." She let gohis hand, androsefrom the table."l am a coward, andI will takethe coward'swayout. I must leave." 
<No> his fingersformed,then <please>."Youcanchange that," he said.He followed her into the bedroom."lt's iusta switchin your mind, Silent Davout can throwit for you,we canlove each otherfor­
ever.. ." Shemadeno answer. As she beganto pack,griefseizedhim by 
the throatandthewordsdried up. He retreatedto the little kitchen,sat atthe table, held his headin his hands.He lookedup whenshepaused in the door, andfrozelikea deer in the violet lightof hereyes. 
-
"FairKatrin was right," she said."Our eldersibsare bastards they useus,and not kindly." A fewmomentslaterhe hearda car driveup, then leave'<Alas!> hisfingerssigned.<Alas!> He spent theday unable to leave thecabin,unableto work, terror 
shiveringthroughhim. After dark he wasdrivenoutsideby the realiza­
tion that he would haveto sleepon sheetsthat weretouchedwith Ka-
trin'sscent.He wandered by starlight acrossthehighmountainmeadow, 
dry soilcrunchingbeneathhisboots,andwhenhislegsbeganto ache 
he sat downheavilyin thedust' 
"l dmwearyof my groaning...:'he thought. 
It was summer, but the high mountainswerechill atnight,andthe 
deep cold soakedhis thoughts. The word l*the floatedthrough his 
mind. who would not chooseto be happy?he asked himself. It is a 
switchin yourmind,andsomeonecanthrowit for you' 
Hefeltthe slow, achingdropletsofmourningbeingsqueezedfrom 
hisheart,oneafterthe other,andwonderedhowlong he could endure 
them,the relentlessmoments,eachstrikingwith the impactof a ham­
mer,eachasfunning,percussiveblow. .. 
Throwa switch, hethought,and the hammerblowswouldend' 
,,Katrindeservesmourning,"he had told Davoutthe Silent,and 
nowhehad so manymoreKatrinsto mourn, DarkKatrinandKatrinthe 
Fair.KatrintheNewandKatrintheOld. All the Katrinswebbedbyfate, 
Lethe 2Ol 
alive or deador merely enduring. And sohe would, from necessity,en­dure... . So long lives this, and thisgives life to thae. 
He lay on his back, on the cold ground, gazed up at the world of stars,and tried to find the worlds, amongthe glittering teardrops of the heavens, where he and Katrin had rained from the sky their millions of children. 




The Mercy Gate 
MARK J. McGARRY 
MarkJ. McGarry pubtishedhis first story in 1.978, at the age of twenty,fottowed by two novetsand many shorterworks.He has pubtishedinfrequentlyin thelastdecade,a timewhen he buitt ajournatismcareerat threeof thenation'stop ten newspapers, Newsday,the New YorkTimes,and the Washington PosCwhere he currenttyis an assistant newseditor on the business desk. Healso served as editor of the Bulletin of the Science Fiction and FantasyWriters of America from 1995 through 1998. He lives in Georgetown. 
0f his novelette, he writes: 
The Merry Gate stafted with two questions:"What'sthe worst thing that ever happened to you?" and "What'sin Pharaoh's tomb?"Despitethe story's tortureddevelopment,
I stayedclose to the oiginal concept, answeing both questions:to theJirct, the death of a lovedone; to the second, treasures and tenors both. 
Althoughmyprotagonistsond I usually start out with lofly goak and high ideak, beforelongall wewant is to getto the end in one piece.Evan Bergstrom had his problems,and I had mine. 
Forme, writing is always a wrutling match, and I get thrown nine fallsout of ten.I did my firctworkon TheMerry Gate in early1989 and Jinishedit six yeorslater.It wasn't a continuous effort-I m not that slow-but beforeit wasoverI had more thon 100,000wordsof droftsand nota. I dont recommendthis method, but I seemto be stuck with it. 
Thisworkremindsme of high-techZelazny-sharpandquick andstytishtybrutat. 
Anyonecdn stop a man'slife, 
but no one his death; 
a thousand doorsoPen on to it. 

Seneca 
1 
They cameto the world thathad diedin a single night,the kur­tikutt pentad,the Proteus, andthe human pair,to the city thathad lain undisturbedfor a dozen cenfuries. 
A handful of days was all the kurtikutt tomb robberswould aliow Bergshomfor his work. At the end of that time the lastof his remotes coursedlonelythroughpaleyellowskies,a cold methanewind whistling acrossits wings. Throughtherobot'sfacetedeyes,he lookeddownon a paintedin X-rays and infrared,sonarand radar, gravimetric gra­
canvas dientsandthevisible spectrum, to rendera cityscapeof gracefultowers, and parklandsrun riot. This was a preindushial 
vastamphitheaters, world,lesspromisingihan mostBergshomhad visited in the pasteight years;still,he couldhavespenta lifetime in the city the Hand of God hadtouched. "Timeto go home now,Eran." 
The voicewassmallanddistant,a bit of noisein the datastream, but it drew him down.He tippedonegraphitewingandspiraledin, to­ward the plazaat the city's heart, and the black pearl set there-the 
place where lines of elechomagnetic force were drawn tight and the eravitationalwell becameinfinitely deep,a gateto otherworlds. 
TheMerqJGate 205 
He swept along streets filled with evidenceof the final hours' tor­ment,past smashed merchants'stalls;rune-etchedrubysteles, toppled and broken; draftanimals'skeletonsyokedto overturnedcarts;crude barricades;a pyramidal gallows, itsvictimt mummified remainscurled beneaththe open hap. Across a hundred worlds, the progressionhad been the same: the sudden onslaught,virulentpanic,scatteredepisodes of compassion or heroism, the swift descent into chaos,the unending silence. 
"Evdn?"Carat voice again,this time a bit more insistent.Berg­stromtriggered the remote'srudimentary intelligence, instructingit to complete the descent, and slid regre6:lly from the interface. The virtual realityfolded in on itself, bright colors smearing to gray, the world spin­ning about him, but strong hands bore him up beforehe could fall. 
"steadyno% comrade," the kurtikutts' SecondBorn rumbled frombehindhim. 
"All right,lover?"CaraAusten said, hervoicemadehollowbyher helmet and his. "Youweredeepinto it." Hermitt brushed the thick hide of his sleeve. Like his, her environmental suit was much patched,a centuries-old salvage job.Through her helmet's scarred visor, Bergstrom saw the fine-boned face and long,butteryhair,thoseelectric blue eyes, and he smiled a bit. 
'All rightnow,"he said hoarsely.And,overhis shoulder: "Thanks." 
The kurtikutt let him go, his vibrissaetwitchingwith some in­scrutablesentiment."Sure thing, comrade," he said, righting Berg shom's camp chair. The brute wasroughlyanthropoid,two meters of densebone and muscle wrapped in a thick hide. His glittery metallic robesstirredin the methane breeze; the small, enameledshieldstrapped to the small of hisbackindicatedbirth rank in the Ruhk'thmar Clutch. The SecondBorn needed no environmental suit, only a transparent mask tailored for its broad mtszzle and a flask of oxygen-argonmix hang­ing from a knitted sash. Like the Vandals and Visigoths, the kurtikutts wererugged. 
"Chief sayswe're almost ready to go," Cara said."He wants to pull out in fifteen minutes." Bergshom nodded, and beganpeeling the VR system'sinductionpatchesfromhiswristsealsand helmet. 
The wind picked up, whistling through the broken doorsand empty-eyedwindowsof the towers fronting theplaza. It set dust devils to Showcase 
capering among the ruby obelisks placedat intervals along the perime­ter of the square and brushed cleanthe groovescut into its alabaster paving stones. The pattern grewmore complextowardthe center of the square,where bands of untarnished metal bound the Portalto the face of the dead world. Thll as a three-story building,sharp-edgedand seem­ingly solid, the blackhemisphere hummed faintly. 
Though the plaza was largelyunscarred,sootblackenedthe stone walls of a low, circular building not far from the stargate. Its door was smashedand burned, thepavementoutsidebuckledfrom the fire'sheat. The Portals themselves, existinglargelyoutsideconventionalspace, were virtually indestructible,but the mechanismsthatalignedonegate 
with another weremore delicate.Neither they nor their operators had long survived on worldstheHand had touched. One of the kurtikutts'sledgessatnearby,runners bowed under 
the weight of a battered antimattergenerator.The youngestkurtikutt perchedatopthe vintagepower plant, thick fingersstrokingthe control surfacesof his hand-built tuningrig. Cables sproutedfrom the device, snakingacrossthe pavement and passing seamlesslyinto the Portal.Re­
constructingthe Outstepper technolory wasan arcanecraft, synchro­nizingtwo gatesan art. Once the Fifth Born was done, a singlestep would returnthem to Chimerine. 
"Evan?"Concernedgedher voice. "How aboutit, love?" 
Bergshomtooka deep breath,the air thick in his throat. It was as 
if he could tastesomelingeringpoisonthrough all the layers of his en­
vironmentalsuit, could feel its chill, its holocausttaint. Foolish,per­
haps... but then,iheseplacesalways got to him. 
"My last bird is on its way in," he said,stoopingto collecthis bat­
ar­teredrecordinggear.Twentykilos of telefactoringsystems,iosephson 
rays,and bubble storage-a modestcontainerfor a decade'swork. 
"Allow me," said funior, taking the pack and Bergshom'schair 
underonearm.He grinned, displayinga grealmanyshaqpteeth,andset 
offtowardthe tower wheretheyhad made camp. 
"His big brotheris grumbling aboutour sharesagain,"Carasaid 
afterhe had gone. "He'sdisappointedwith the takeand wantsto make 
up for it on our end.I think I canhold the line,though." 
"That damnedpirate." 
"lt wasworsewith the last bunch," Cararemindedhim. 'At least 
we can be reasonablysurethesepirates won't hy to kill us in our sleep." 
TheMercy Gate 2O7 
"Yes,"he said flatly,"they'regraverobbers,cheats, and barbarians, but they'renot murderers." 
He knelt to collect hisremotes,a half-dozenrobotshe hung from his hip belt like gamebirds."There'snever enough time,Cara. Reisner had a decade justfor Nubia." 
"But youhavealot of good data, Evan." 
"Not enough, and I haven't found any written records at all -iust carvingsthat seem purely ornamental.This city is assophisticatedas ClassicalAthens, but you don't reachthatlevel without somesystem of writing-you need it fortrade, taxation, if nothing else." 
"Evan,"she said quietly, "we've been through this before.You get a glimpse of a new civilizationand you want to study it down to the bones.Every one of them hasahistoryasrich asours. They eachhad a Parthenon,a Great Wall, a fesusChrist,and a Genghis Khan.Mostof themhad their Neil fumstrongs and Harold Mawsons. Spaceplaforms. Starships.Technolog, we couldonly guess at.Itt all out there, waiting for you to dig it up, And you're a good archaeologist, lover. . . but we can't do that kind of work on our own. We can look at oneproblem-the most important one,asit happens-and justdo the best we can." 
"SometimesI wonderif it's worth doing."He looked around. "We don'thavea place to stand, Cara. Our own recordsare in pieces,and halfthepieces are gone, either destroyed orlocked up on worlds still hid­ingbehindquarantine.The Portals themselves. . . We can use the tech­nology but we don't understand it, and the Outsteppers havebeendust 
-
for ten thousand yearsormore. All wehavearetheories,Cara not even that. Guesses. Hunches." 
"You'vedonegood work," sheinsisted. 
"We needto do more. There should be some sort of commission, an agency, to send expeditionsto every world the Hand smashed... and somekind of policecorps, to keepthe vandals out of places like this." He exhaledloudly. "Maybe in another thousand years, when we've built everything up againand people aren't so afraid of the dark." 
"We'll goout again in a few months," she said. 
"Maybe."Then, his voiceflatter:"Youdid all right,then?" 
"Yes..." She paused, thinking. 'A few hundred kilograms of the 
usual bangles and art objects, including some intricate stonecarvings I'm sure I havea buyer for. Four sets of mummified remains-" "I need those for my work,"Bergstromsaid sharply. 
Showcase 
"And we'll have ihem recorded beforewe let them go. I know Findlay Broz will make a bid for those. We'll lelhim pay for the record­ing-full spectrum.Then there's the heary earthenware and one of those ruby pylons. . . . After the Chief's cut, we'll haveenoughleft over to buy our way onto anotherexpeditionand,say,six months' living ex­penses." 
Bergstrom only nodded.The silence betweenthem len$hened. 
"Do you want me to put it all back?"Carasaidfinally. 
"Of coursenot." 
"Do you want to go back to living on your PaPersand my teaching?" 
"Youknowwe can't.Not and do fieldwork." 
'We'd
"l do know," she said. "l wanted to be sureyou did." Then: betterget moving. The Chief isn'tin a mood to wait. And I, for one, wantto gethome again." 
HomewasFlanders.Carat world had been sparedthe plague, but not the chaos following the collapseof interstellartrade,the refugee hordes and quarantinewars,famine and revolution.It wasthe work of 
generationsto rebuild, and Flanders'sone universitywasnot veryold when Bergstromcameto it. 
Caraturned away,her back stiff; Bergstromopenedhis mouth to speak,then winced as his suit radio awakened with a crash of static. "Homeagain,home againl'theProteus said acrossthelink, the emission modulatedto a crude counterfeit of Bergstrom'sownvoice.He scowled. 
It swooped down from the saffronsky,took a furn around the 
squareand plunged toward Bergstrom,buffeting him with the wind 
from its feathered wings. The pinions flowedlike wax, two becoming 
four, an eagle's wings transformingto a honeybee's.The metamoqph 
hovered,for now about a meter across, an amalgamof practical attri­
butessewedup in a scalyskin.From its limitless catalogit had selected 
asleek, sinuous body,talonedfeet,anda narrow headringed with slitted 
eyesandless readily identifiablesensors. 
"Carry?"it askedfrom a vaguelyhuman mouth. 
"You, no." But Bergstromtook a bulging sackfrom its claws' 
"This,yes." 
"Gratitude,"the Proteussaid, fattening its lips to a sweetly smiling 
cupid'sbow."Kindly refrainfrom pilferage."It flew off in aflurry of trans­
mogrification. 
The Merry Gate 2O9 
"Anotherpirate,"Bergstrom said under hisbreath. 
"More of a magpie, I think," Cara said."But whoknows?Maybe the little monster is a top archaeologist, 
too, back where he comes from." 
Smiling sourly, Bergstrom hefted the pouch and loosenedthe drawstring.Nesiled inside was a clutch of ruby eggs, finely polished, in­tricately etched, and glowingwith some soft internal light. The same material as theobelisksringing the plaza, the same runes. Theywould, he knew, fetch a fair price on the black markets of a dozen worlds. 
Throattight,helooked away and saw the squareas it had been, the towersgleaming in the sun, the ruby steles glittering, standing tall above the throngs milling about theplaza. The people weresmallandfragile, with smooth, translucent skin, long arms and long, many-fingered hands, huge, dark eyes widely set in elongated skulls,slitted noshils, small,Iiplessmouths. He heard their voices on the wind, a gentlekeen­ing,like the sound ofcicadas acrossadistance. 
"The creature does have a weakness for shiny things," he said, handing the bag to Cara."I haven'tseenthese before." Shelookedinside."I have,"shesaid."ln someof thetowers.The uppermostrooms." 
They hadgoneinto the towers to die, most of them-foor after foor of withered,childlikecorpses,fleshsosoured by the Hand that it was toxic evento corruptingmicroorganisms.A thousand towers, a mil­lion rooms, legions of carcasses 
in this one city, and the same all across the planet-across a hundred planets. 
"l leftthem," she said dully. "I justdidn'twant them." 
Bergstromtookthe pouch from her."It'sall right,"he said. 
He followed her acrossthe plaza, frowning. 
Tiash lay scatteredaround the tower where they'd lived the past week, a tapered cylinder two hundred meterstall, its weathered fa­cadethe colorof old bone. A portable airlock was cementedroughly acrossthe entrance; rubbery fabric sealed the windows on the ground floor.The othertwo sledges were drawn up outside, one piled high with Ioot,the other with their equipmentandtheremainingstores. 
funior lookedup as they approached, then wentback to lashing down their gear.Without a word,Cara walked over to supervise. Berg­strom watched her a moment, his mouth set, before he cycled throueh the airlock. 
Showcase 
The room on the other side tookup mostof the firstfloor.Beneath the rubbishscatteredunderfoot,inscribedtiles created complexpat­terns;thin, graceful columnspouredupwardinto a vaulted ceiling.A dozenlamps floated aboutthe chamber, proiectingwanheat and a dull 
red luminescence. The bloody glowfell across two of the kurtikuttsas theybrokedownthe atmosphere plant.Theyworkedsideby side and in silence,perfectlycoordinated,stoicallyefficient.CaracalledthemThe Thins, though the Third Born outweighedhis youngerbrotherby at least twenty kilograms. 
The pressurized shelterBergstromhadsharedwith Carasatin the far corner,Collapsedandrolledinto a neat bundle.He settledontoit, 
cracked open his helmet faceplate,and took a shallow breath:healy, shockinglycold,stinkingof methane and the kurtikutts'vinegarreek. A shadow fell across him. "Yourmateher treasure found, and we oursas well," said a voiceso deephe felt it in his bones."And you, Beergstromm?" 
"l found whatI waslookingfor," he saidfatly' "Cluesto how the 
Handcame,andwhy.Whetherit will comeagain." 
The FirstBorntoweredoverhim, awall of scarred leather draped 
in elaborate robes.A ieweledscabbardhungfromthesilver sash knotted at his waist;onebig,seven-fingeredhandrestedidly on the bladeh hilt. His thick armswerebare,corded with muscleandold scars. More scar thehollowright
tissueranlike a riverdownonesideof hishead,across 
eye socket andalonghisthroat.His remainingeyewaslike an opal,un­
blinking,unreadable. 
"Dustywords,anddust,"theFirstBorngrowled'"Yourmate'strea­
sureis more of my liking." 
"When the Hand reachesfor you,"Bergstromsaid,"seeif it will 
takea bag of gold instead." 
Thekurtikuttglared,thenthrewbackhisheadandlaughed,acoy­
otehowlthatsentshiversdownBergstromtspine."lf the Handcomes," 
the First Born said,"I will sendit to you, your sharptongueto cut it, 
Beergstromm." He grimaced.cara had wanted to buytheirwayontoone of the 
kurtikuttsiexpeditionsfor years.The Ruhk'thmarpackhad been work 
ing the fringesofthe shadowtradefor decades,buyingcoordinatesand 
Poital from corrupt operators,moving their loot through the """.rs 
The Mercy Gate 277 
blackmarkets of a dozenworlds,and staying clear of both the syndicates andlocal authorities. They had no backers, no brokers, no permanent base of operations. Carahad finally caught up with the Chief a month ago,in a dive called The CadaverDog, not far from the stargate on Chimerine.Sooneror later,all the piratescame to Chimerine. 
Behindhim, theairlock cycled with a wheeze and a gasp of cold methane. Cara came through, then)unior. "Yourmate knows of value,"the First Born said. "The Hand may comeagain-but sheand I will be ofwealthin themeantime,hey?" 
Cara pulled off her helmet, gavethe brute a sourglance,and barkeda handful of wordsin the kurtikutts' language.The FirstBorn glowered. 
"Private joke," Cara explained to Bergstrom. She smiled up at the kurtikutt."You'rein a bighurry-up,Chief,but your littlestbrotheristak­ing all day to alignthe Portal. How about a remedy?" 
The First Born considered."His ass I will kick."he decided. He lumberedtoward the airlock. Cara touched Bergstrom's arm."This won't take long," she said. "Shortyjustdoesn't know whento stop fussing." "Betterthat than we end up scattered acrossthe Arm. Teams dogo out and never come back." 
"That'snot us,lover." 
He tookherhand."I amanidiot,sometimes." 
"Oh, youare not. Sometimes." 
The Fourth Born brushed past, pushing a cart stacked with com­ponentsof the atmosphere plant. His brother followed,carrying their shelter. After they had cycled through the airlock, Caralookedaround the emptyroomandsqueezedBergstrom'shand."Be a gentleman, sir, andwalkme home?" 
Shorty was still working at the tabs and levers of his homebrew de­vice as funior stoodwatch over the generator. The First Born paced alongsidethe Portal, then stalkedup to theyoungestkurtikutt.His bel­low echoed from the towers. Eyes wide, Shorty ducked his head and steppedawayfrom the apparahrs. The First Born gesturedsharply and The Thins dragged up the sledges,one brother yoked to each. 
funior movedforward,but the eldest kurtikutt put a hand to his brother's chest. Their conversation waslike the rumbling of a waterfall. Whenit wasover,funiorstartedback toward thetowerthey had occupied' 
"Nowwhat?" Cara demanded. 
The First Born cocked his one eyein their direction."Yourttea­surewe cany," he growled. "Youwedo not." He pointedto the gate. 
Carashrugged."Lastonehome,lover." 
Bergstromhesitated."I stillhave a remoteon itswayin. I could-" 
"We can'taffordto write it off." She gave him a quick grin' "It'sall 
right-you waithereuntil it finds its way back-" 
He watched her walk toward the Portal.Evenbundledup in ihat clumsy suit, he could see the way shemoved,the way sheheldherself' He remembered the nights on Flanders,and the warmth of her in the mornings,andhe, too, wantedto behome again. 
Staticsurgedfrom hissuitradio'"|ustme,love," Cara said across the link. Shelookedoverher shoulder,smiling."Wantedto tell you not to wait foo long. .. and rememberI'll be waitingfor you on the otherside."He grinned. 'And I wanted to tell you what I'd like to do when-" 
The transmission cut off as she crossedthe Portal'sinterface,the 
darknessclosingaroundher. 
,.Tease,"
Bergstromsaid under his breath, but he was stillsmiling. He lookedup into the pale yellow skies.Horizon to horizon, they 
stretchedemPty."Comeon,damnit." "Beergstromm!"the FirstBorn thundered. "Time marches!"He raisedonescarredarmandTheTwinsstartedforward,sledgesgroaning, 
theirrunnersgougingthealabastertiles.The Proteusfuttered overhead, 
squawkingin the pirates'language. The Portalloomedbeforehim, a cut of nightframedagainstthe jasminesky,a black sodeepandformlessit hurt to lookat it forvery long. 
A glove reachedfrom it, fingers clutching.An arm' And Carastag­
geredfrom the Portal. 
Bergstromcaughther andwent downwith her to the cold stone. 
Her eyeswerewide, her face ashen and sheenedwith sweat;blood 
hickledfromher nose,smearingher visor. Her mouthworked."Evan," 
shesaid,thewordfaintbeneathraspof labored breath' 
,,lt'll be all right,sweetheart.Everything'sall right."He checkedher 
suit'sseals,thetelltalesonthe environmental pack:temperature,integrtty' 
radiationcount,pressure,power."There'snorhingwrong,damnit'" 
The Mercy Gate 273 
She coughed, brightredbloodsplashingtheinside of her helmet. "Oh, lover,"shegot out. "Oh, Evan,it wasworsethanyou thought." 
"Cdra?" 
He lookedoverhis shoulder.The SecondBorn stood over him, hands working at his sides, but the other kurtikutts had drawn back. 
'And themed
"We haveto getthe shelter riggedagain,"Bergstrom said. 
kit-" The words tumbled from him. "First-get thatfirst,beforethe 
shelter, while we can still- " 

None of them moved. Then ]unior knelt ponderously. "She is dead, comrade." He touched her helmet with one finger. Bergshomslapped his handaway."Get awayfrom us, you fucking monster."he said. his face wet."Getthehell away or I1l kill youall." 
2 
"The answermustbeours," the Second Born said in alow rumble. "Whathappened,we must know it." 
In the ruddy glow of a single foating lamp, dried blood painted black Cara's parted lips. Her eyes were closed, their lashes delicatetraces againstivory skin. Golden hair spilled unruly across the blanket folded beneathherhead. 
It wasthe moment between one breath and another. Bergstrom had lived it before,with the sun coming up over the hills of Flanders,the light of dawnpouring through the bedroomwindow, as he waited for Cara to open her eyes and smile. It was the momentbetween sleeping and waking. He sat close by, and waited for her next breath. 
"The Portal has murdered your mate," said the First Born, "and may yet us all." He sat on a crateawayfrom the lamplight. "One exit thereis, Beergstromm, and in time we must take it or wait for air and foodto be exhausted." The otherkurtikuttsstirred,muttering. 
"Weare none of us chirurgeons, and we know little ofyour people," said|unior,hisvoice almost gentle. "Canyoudiscoverthemeansof her death?" 
Bergstrom'seyes squeezed shut."fustleave her alone." 
The box creakedasthe First Born stood. "The answerwithin her lies," he said,coming out of the darkness. Red light poured alongthe blade of his knife."PerhaosI will search for it." 
funior reachedfor Bergstrom as he leaped,but his brotherwas quicker.The First Born's free hand clamped on Bergshom'shead, temples,andcrown.Bergstromgruntedas the visesqueezed;his boots 
kickedat empty air. 
"Time marches," the kurtikutt hissed, his vinegary breath washing acrossBergstromtface. "Murdering.. . bastdrd,"he forced out. "The murdererI amnot,"said the FirstBorn."ButhuntedI have, 
and you arefrail prey, Beergstromm." 
The Second Born spoke asingleharsh syllable. Blacknessflooded Bergstrom'ssightastheeldesttightenedhisgripandlet loose a stream of wordsheavy as a hammer blow. lunior spokeagain, vibrissae fanned 
stiffy from hiswrinkled muzzle,andbaredneedleteeth. 
The FirstBorn snarled-this time somethinglessthan words-and spreadhis fingers wide. The foor came up at Bergstromand smashedthebreathfromhim. He lay there, hischest caught in bands of steel,hisface to the icy flagstones.Hewincedat a hot,sweetstink,but it wasJuniorwho came closeandsaid,"Youare notthe sixthbrotherof our clutch,but you are our comrade of the hunt." He helpedBergstrom fromthefloor, set him on his feet asif he weighed nothing,andsteadied 
him with one hand."No harm will cometoyou,orfurtherharmto your 
mate." 
"Sheis dead," ihe First Born snarled. "We mustfind the reason'" 
"In yout own way, comrade, will youtry?" 
"He will," saidthe First Born,"s1-" 
"Or he will not," said funior."Comrade?" 
Bergstromlooked down the long, wavl bladeof the First Born's 
kris. Remember l'Il be waitingfor you on the other side,shehadsaid'He 
tooka shallowbreath-all he could manage-and measuredthe dis­
tance.Then the First Born shovedthe daggerinto its scabbard and 
foldedhisarmsacrosshischest:themomenthad passed. 
"Weakprey," the kurtikutt grunted."Too weakevento savehim­
self." 
"lf wefind the way,it will be a scholarwholeads,nota hunter'" fu­nior turnedto Bergstrom. "Later,comrade?"he saidquietly'"But not much later." 
The Mercy Gate 2t5 
From the darknessat the back of the room,the atmosphereplant 
wheezedand grumbled.Near it, the remaining storesformeda small, 
untidy pile. And in the shadows a few metersaway,a still form lay be­
neatha weathered taqpaulin.Bergstromsank back. 
The kurtikuits sat in a circleon the otherside of the room, speak­
ing in low voices.funior glancedup as Bergstromstirred, murmured a 
fewwordsto the First Born, thenstoodandcameover."we discussthe 
pathswe may take,"hesaid."My brotherinvites you to ioinus.,' 
Bergshomlookedup, his faceblank.Juniorstudied him for a few 
momentsbeforesettlingontohishaunchesalongsidehim. "This time 
youhavespentwith her, comrade-for youthishourwasfleeting,but 
forusit sketched. Do youseemy meaning?" 
"I hearyou." 
"Come, then." He put a heavy hand on Bergstrom,s arm. ,,On 
chimerine, no onewaitsfor us. In thistrap we are alone.No one will 
saveus unless it isweourselves." 
Bergstromshruggedhim off."It shouldhavebeen you, youknow. 
You were goingin first, the chief stoppedyou, and it was her instead." 
Junior'snostrilsfared."Therewere,here, lengths of gold clothmy brotherremembered,a part of our treasure.I was sentto retrieve it. Therewas nothing morethanthat." 
"Then showmethe cloth." 
"Youarehunting,comrade,but thereisno prey here." 
"Showmethe cloth," Bergstrom repeated.,,Wemaybeyourcom­
radesof the hunt, but we'renot partof the clutch.your little brother 
doesa fair job on thePortal,but there'salwaysa risk.The chief let her 
takeit." 
"YouknowI mourn her,"Juniorsaidheavily..,Inall the journey_ ingsof the Ruhk'thmar,nothing of this like hashappened.Always,all amongus,kin and strangerboth,returnedsafelyhome." "Not this time," Bergstromsaid. She waited forhim in theshadows.
Hewentto her. 
Bergshomkneltby her sideand slowly pulledbackthe tarp.He didnotmoveagainforalongwhile;then,whenhedid,it wasto brusha fewshandsof hairfrom her face. Her skin wascoldandhardasstone, but he did not pull away. 
After a time he drewhis fingersalongher cheek,then acrossthe 
Showcase216 Nebula Awards 2000 
ceramichelmet seal, to the suit's hearry,quiltedfabric,theenvironmen­tal pack.The status lights glowed wanly underhis outstretched hand. The suit still lived, storage cells near capacity,aircanisterscharged,pres­sureregulatorsandrecycling systems in readiness. He brought up the di­agnosticdisplaysin sequence:all green. 
He paused, thenliftedher nearer arm from the floor, wincing atits weightand stiffness, then finched againas the mitt flopped looselyat thewrist.He fumbled at the wrist seal. . . and it slippedfrom his nerve­less fingers, her arm hitting the floor with a dull thud. A small sound camefrom thebackof his throat. 
"Comrade."funiorcameover."The glove?" 
Bergstromonly nodded. 
funiorworked silently at the seal. Soonthemitt came free,rough 
clothraspingon smoothskin.Her hand was pale, almostluminescent; thin fingersclutchedatnothing.Bergstrommotioned,and the kurtikutt passedhim the mitt. "Now the other one,"Bergstromsaid."Wait. .. the helmetfirst, over there." 
The SecondBornreachedacrossCara'slegs,liftedthe helmet eas­
ily with onehand, and put it in Bergstrom'sarms. 'AretheretoolsI will 
need?"thekurtikutt asked, not looking at him. 
Bergstromstared at the helmet,the smear of blood insidethevisor, 
thedozenorso long, blondhairs caught in the convolutionsofthe foam 
padding."l won'tlet you cut her,"he said. "You'llhave to kill mefirst." 
His fingers trembledagainst the chill metal,the faceplate'scrystal,the 
roughnessof scrapesand scratches left by generationsof explorers,and 
uncountedexplorations.He knew them all. . . but for one, fresherthan 
therest. 
funior reachedfor her otherhand."lf therewerea thing to find 
withinher, we wouldnotseeit," the kurtikuttsaid."l will tellmy brother 
this."He unfastenedthe cuffseal, then grasped her tightly clenchedfist 
and,gently.openedit. 
A sullenfire burnedin her palm.The kurtikutt inhaledsharply, 
thebreathwhistlingihroughhisteeth-"Comrade" 
'" The iewel fell free, watery red light pouring along its smooth 
curves,glitteringon the etchedpatterns,gatheringwithin its heart. 
Bergstromcaughtit as it fell, hissingas the cold stone burnedhim. He 
closedhis fist around it, holding thehurt. 
TheMercyGate 2t7 
The kurtikuttshrankback."My brothertooka few of these,"he 
said."But for me,there is a stink to them." 
"Shethoughtso,too." The rubyeggwarmedslowly in his hand. 
"But it is, I know,nothingbut deadstone." 
"Yes." 
"Do youthink thereare spectres, comrade?"thekurtikutt saidsud­denly. Bergstromlookedup,thebloodpoundingin his head. 'A spirit that wearsthe body,"the SecondBorn said,his eyes on 
Bergstrom's.'A thing thatliveson after thebodydies." 
Lookingaway,Bergstromshookhishead.,,No.But I wishI did." 
The FirstBornstalkedoverto them.")bu did not digdeeply,"he growled. 
funiorglidedto his feet. "Therewas no need,"hesaid."The scent. 
I thinkwe have it now." 
"This?"The FirstBorntookthejewerfromBergshomand held it uptothelight.'A bii of treasure it is,andnothingmore.I have manylike 
it." Blacklipsskinnedbackfrom yellowedfangs. "you wouldsellthis, 
Beergstromm?Soon,perhaps,forairto breathe." 
"Shedidn'thaveit whenshewentthroughtheportal,"Bergstrom said."Shehad it whenshecameback." 
TheFirstBornglared."Fools,bothof you, and I trappedwithyou.""Her suitis intact," Bergstromsaid."operational.No sign of radi­ation,pressure,acceleration,electricalshock,tidal forces. Nothing." "Thiswealreadysuspected.Thesewould have lefttheirmark.But insideher?In the mouth thereisblood." "Shebit her tongue," Bergshomsaid.,,Hernoseis bloody.She hurt herself.Herfacehit theinsideof the helmet." "what reason
for this?"the FirstBornsnapped."rf shestumbled, wheredid she fall? If shewasput to ground, whathuntedher?"He snarled. "What remainsismeat.She is gone,Beergstromm.
Toomuch time havewe wasted, respecfulof meat."He swungtowardfunior. "you 
saidit shouldbeso. she ishis,yes,butif there isanswerin her,it is ours.,,
"Shehadtimeenoughto rearizewhatwas happening," Bergstrom said."lt mighthavebeena heart attack.Or shoke." 
"And of this therewould be no sign?"the FirstBorn demanded. 
"To a medician, yes,"Bergshomsaid.,,Tous, no. The damaee 
Showcase218 NebulaAwards 2000 
wouldbe too subtle.For a stroke, a burst blood vessel somewherein the brain.For a heart attack . .. I don't knowif that producesanyvisiblesign at all. Maybe a change in the blood chemistry'" 
"Youmaydeceive us in this,"the FirstBorn said. "Yes,"Bergstromsaid."Does it matter?Youwouldn't find any­thing,andI won't look." "There isa strength in you, Beergstromm,"the kurtikutt growled, "thoughit isburieddeep."funior openedhismouth, but the eldest cut 
him offwith a snarl. "We areashatchlings,eyesstill closed!Wedo not knowthe meansof her death-whether from within her, or of the Por­tal, or by some hunter on the other side. We must learn the truth of it, 
andsetright the Portalif we can." 
"lt may be operatingasintended,"Bergstromsaidflatly' "On my world, an ancient civilization constructedmagnificenttombsfor their royalty.Their treasurewasburiedwith them,sotheywouldhaveit in the 
traps,and sorcererscursesafterlife.And thick walls,hiddenPassages, 
protectedtheirtreasurefrom thievesin this life." 
"Youbelievewe areaccursed,Beergstromm?" 
"Thesepeopleknewtheir world wasbeingmurdered'Maybethey 
seta trap for the murdererandit caught us,instead'" 
"Fanciful."The whisper driftedfrom thebackofthe room' Behind 
it camewet,meaty sounds, growinglouder.Somethingmovedtherein 
the darkness, half-seen,unfoldingitself until it stood closeto three meters 
tall. "Their technologywasvastlyinodequate,"saidthe graveyardvoice' 
"Holy Father,"Bergstromwhispered. 
It came out of the shadows,musclessquirmingbeneatha scaly 
its massive hide,red lamplight glintingfrom the spikesthatfared across 
shoulders.one largeeye, black and moist,gleamedfrom beneatha 
thick ridge of bone. The wide mouth partedslightly,revealingrowsof 
thornsp"int"d with faintly luminescentdrool.The thornsrustled,pro­
ducingwords:"We must explore thePortal." 
Distantly,Bergstromheardfunior make a sound not far from a 
whine,barelyaudibleandquicklystilled.Behindhim, the youngerkur­
tikuttsbackedaway. "Youweara hunter'sskinnow,"the FirstBorn said,"but I remem­berwhenyou were but a small bird."His nostrilsfared. 'A brainlessbird, 
andill-spoken.Yourform is not all that changes'" The Mercy Gate 279 
Toweringover the kurtikutt, theProteus smiled with itsmouth full of thorns. Beneath his battered hide,the First Born's muscles were rigid with tension.But he kept hishand well away from the hilt of hisknife. 
"If we are to live, we need more informatton," said the Proteus. It in­dicated one of The Twins, who cowered. "This one is not yitdl. It wiII enter the Portal." 
funior took a step forward."No one of my brothers will be sacri­ficed."He glanced at Bergstrom, then quickly away. "No one else will be sacrificed." 
The Proteus hissed. "Do not challengeme in this," it said. "I move to sayeusdll." It spread its hands, steelyserrated claws gleaming in the lamplight.junior crouched and moved slowly to one side, flanking the monster. The First Born fell back, the kris suddenly appearing in his hand. 
"Becarefulwith him," Bergshom said,his mouth dry, "but he's not all he seems to be." The Proteus swung its ridged skull towardhim. A faint reek of ozone wafted from the creature. 
Bergstromlooked up into its faceted eye. "Thatt a frightening package,"he said,"but you can't mass more than fifteen or twenty kilo­grams. Stick him with your knife, Chief, and he'll pop like a balloon." 
"Beergstromm,what is your tongue after now?" He did not look away from the shapeshifter. "How much would you say he weighs?" Bergstrom asked."Twice whatyou do?" "Perhaps,"said the kurtikutt, "but I havetaken larger prey." 'And 
when he wore wings and feathers, how much did he weigh then?" Bergstrom saidsteadily."He can't create mass, justredishibute it. Keepwatchinghim, though.He may not be in your weight class, but he'sgot the reach." 
funior's muzzlewrinkled. His tonguelolled from his mouth and he raisedone hand to cover it. l,aughter,Bergstromrealized. 
The First Born glared at the Proteusfor a moment more, then shoved the kris into its scabbard. "Tlickery," he growled."And as time runs from us." 
The Proteusshrugged,a quite humangesture."Werequirestronger 
lt was already shrinking, the spikes and 
ridgeswithdrawinginto its oily hide. "Our statusremainsunchanged. One must enterthePortal." |uniorlooked at Bergstrom."Comrade,what of your robots?Send onemachineinto thePortal, and look through itseyes." He shookhis head. "Not once it crosses the interface.Nothing 
can-" "Tiansmissionof informationacrossthe Portal would violaterela­tivity,"the Proteus saidin avoicenowblurredandvaguelyfeminine. The creature'shide had smoothed.Its trunk narrowed;armsand legsthinned.The headbecamean ovoid, feahrreless
exceptfor a narrow, 
liplessslitfor a mouth. 
"That includesnerveimpulses,"Bergstromsaid,hisheartracing as the Proteustransformeditself. "Otherwise I'd suggestyou stick your headin andlook around, Chief." The Proteussmiledat Bergstrom with white,eventeeth'The skin stretchedacrossitsskull fell in, leaving two round holes.Eyessurfaced 
from within them,blackpupilsringed by electricblue irises.The head tilted back; gaceful fingers caressed golden hair. Delicate laughter 
echoed. "ls this form more to your liking, Bergstrom?"it saidwith her voice.Her eyesstaredat him; her hands roamedoverher throat,her her stomach."Or do you still find me frightening?"
breasts, Bergstromlookedaway'"Not now,comrade,"|unior saidquietly 
from behind him. "But later.Yes,later." The First Bornsighed."Thesegamesgo on too long," he said'"l 
amthinkingnowof your ancientkings,Beergstromm'" 
'A pretty theory,"the Proteussaidin her voice,"but thesepeople 
did not have the means." 
"They may havehadedfor the technology,"funior said,"in the 
timebeforetheHand.Or a visitor mayhavelaidthehap,if trapthereis." 
"Tfap or accident," the First Born said,"the answerwe mustfind, 
and quickiy."He knuckledthe scartissuearoundhis empty eyesocket' 
"We put aside air, water,and food to lastthe spanof the hunt and 
little more.Eventhe powergoes,tooquickly.The motesatitsheart,the 
light and shadow.. ." Histeethclashed."Beergstromm,yourtonguebe 
damned!" 
TheMercyGate 2Zt 
"The antimatterwithin thegeneratordecaysata constant rate,,'fu­nior explained' "we cantapitspower,but not conserve
it.And whenit isgone,wecannottamethePortal." "How longdowe have?" Bergshomasked. funior lookedacrossthe chamberand spokea few wordsof kur­tikutf shorty'sreplywas barely audible."Twelvehoursremainto us be­
forethe powerhasgrowntoo weak,"funior said.,,Evenbeforethat,my
brothertellsme,graspingthe portarat chimerine growsdifficult." 
"Then perhapsyou'll finally acceptthewisdomof my advice,,,the 
Proteussaidto Bergshom,runningher hands overher hips."you know 
I'm right,lover.Tell them." 
_ 
The FirstBom sprang,silen! andput hiskristo the sideof the pro-
teus'sneck.Blueeyeswidened,but otherwise thecreaturerernainedmo­tionless. 
"This gametiresme,"the kurtikutt saidlow in his throat.,,Endit. 
or yourheadI will take." 
The Proteussmiledthinly. "you mustknowthatwouldn'tkill me.', 
"It wouldbe of an inconvenience," 
the FirstBom said.It pressed 
knifeto skin,drawinga thin rivuletof blood. Despiteeverythinj,Berg
strom'seyesstungto seeit. 
"Why do youtakehispart?,'theproteusaskedmildlv...He
isuse_ 
lessto us." 
The kurtikutt'sknife arm trembled."He is our comradeof the 
hunt " he said."End it, now." 
The Proteusshrugged."rf it will pleaseyou."without moving its 
head,themonstershifteditseyesto Bergstrom's.Itssmilebroadened,be­
coming sadand sweetasthe familiarcurvesflattened,the pink skin bleachedwhite,and the long,butteryhairwithdrewinto thescarp.
The lipswentlast,leavingthe mouth a narrow sritwith endsupturned'. When it was over,the metamorphstooda meterand a half tall,fragileandchildlike,itstranslucentskintautoverthin bones.The lipless
mouthsmiled,theslittednostrilsflaredslightly,andthefiendIookedat him with eyesthathadthroughthe metamlrphosisremainedwarmand wideandblue. Bergstromlooked into Cara,seyesand said:.,There
may be an­otherway." 
The wind blew along the streetsof the dead city, rushing in through all its gaping windowsand running out through all its empty doors.It rtol" acrossthemerchants'stallsand whispered throughthegal­
lows' open hap. In the plaza,it lifted a shroud of dust and setthe motes to glittering againstthe stargate's starlessnight. Bergstromsatcloseby, andfelt in him the Portal's vastemptiness. 
A dozen metersoff, shorty's fingersmovedslowlyacrossthe con­
trol surfaces of his handmade tuning rig. The First Born toweredover him, one hand on hisieweledscabbard.shortyhadbeenat work forthe betterpartof an hour,but the FirstBorn stayedsilent' Thisting a coiledrope,|unior settledalongsideBergstrom'scamp 
chair."ls therea thing I can do?"the kurtikutt asked,hisvoicemuffied 
only slightlyby the transparent breathingmaskhe wore'
' sunlight glinted from Bergstrom'svisor as he looked into the 
emptyr"ff ol sky. "There'sonestill out there," he said half to himself."l 
was waiting for it, and shewentthroughfirst'It never cameback'" 
"Later,comrade.l,ater." 
"She'dbe angry.Half our profitsto replaceit'" He closed a panel 
in the robot'sbreast.The devicewasinert for afew seconds, then shook 

its graphite wings.Itsheadbeganto hrrnon itsthin neck,backandforth, 
scanning. 
"It will rememberfor us now?"thekurtikutt said' 
,,ltwasbuilt to relaydatato my recordingrig in real time,"Berg 

"but it has someonboardstorage.I'vereconfigured
stromsaidtonelessly, 
mostof the memory disabledhalf the sensors'steppeddownthe resolu­-

antion of the others.It won'tsee much, but it'll remember whatit sees 
hour'sworth,atleast,which ismorethanweneed."standing,he looked 
towardthe FirstBorn. 
TheeldestsquattedbesideShortyandspokewithhimforafew moments,then gotto hisfeetagainandcameover'"My brothersaysthe Portal is seeminglyas it wasbefore,"he said,"as if it would lead to Chimerine."He glanceddown."l tireof smallbirds'" 
"This one maysaveyour miserablehide'" Bergstromhandedthe 
remoteto |unior, who shookfreeafew meters of rope'Workingquickly' 

TheMercyGate 223 
he fashioned aharnessthatslippedoverthe robot'swingsandwasdrawn 
tight acrossitsbreast.He finishedit with asquareknot andpassedthe re­
motebackto Bergstrom. "It will notescapeus,"thekurtikuttsaid. 
The FirstBornsnatchedthe bird from Bergstrombeforehe could 
react."Youhavea shen$h, Beergstromm,but it is not in yourarm.,'He 
loopedthefreeendof the ropearoundhiswaist,knottedlt,thenbegan 
whirlingthe robotoverhis head,payingout moreline with eachrevo­
lution. 
Bergstromsteppedback."Be carefulwith it, you bastard."The 
FirstBorn wrinkledhis muzzleand let the remotefly free,It arcedto­
wardthe Portal, ropetrailing,andmetthe ebonydometwo-thirdsof the 
way up. The robotseemed
to hangtherefor an instant,thenwas gone. The rope fell afterit, the firstdozenmetersor so disappearing intl the interface,theresthittingthepavingstones
with ,n,rm.a,Upl
"
"Give it fifteen minutes,"Bergshomsaid,settlinginto his chair. His heart pounded. 
The FirstBorn tooksomeof the srackout of the rope andbegan
loopingit aroundhis scarredforearm."If thereisa huntei on the other 
side,"hesaid,"I am ready shouldyourlittle bird it takeforbait."He slid 
his kris from itsscabbard,set it on the groundbeforehim, and settled 
ontohishaunches,waiting. 
Bergstrompresseda switch.And remembered:a carouselof im_ 
ages.The Portal,an arcof night. Bone-whitetowers,yellow skv.The 
plaza,threefiguresstandingon the dustystones,falling away (the kur_ tikutts, lambent in infrared, the First Born'shand still open,arm out­shetched,and alongsidethem theenvironmentalsuit'scooiersignature).The Portalagain,awall thatgrewto closeouteverythiingelse.A shock,
a surge,a deeper night,a time unending. 
Then: the rush of air againacrossgraphitewings,a sensation of falling,impact,anddarkness 
But this wasmerelythe absenceof light. Obeyinga deeplygrainedsubroutine,
theremoterighteditselfandlookedarornd. Paintedin shadesofsonar,thegaileryshetchedbeyondhissensors, 
range.Ranksof willowycolumnsflowedfromthe etchedfoor andinto the barrelceiling high overhead.Elaboratepatternsfloweredalongthe 
2000
224 NebulaAwardsShowcase 
stonework	to frame row on row of shallow niches,makingthem partof Andwithineachnichearubyegg,finelypolished,intricately
the design. inscribed.A thousand rows,millionsuPonmillionsof stones' The sceneslid left, then right as the remote'sheadpanned,the imagerepaintingitselfin radar, in infrared,then againin the visible 
spectrumbefore cycling back to sonar-Nothing moved' Nothing changed. 
Long minutespassed.Then the view iuddered,swayingctazlly, thewallsof the galleryslowlyslidingpastas the remotewasdrawnback­ward.Againthe shockof translationacrossthe infinite, the surge,and utter darkness.Now light again,the blackwall stretchingupwardand 
thepale yellow skyaboveit, a mitted hand reachingdown,andbeyond it a crystalvisorframing a drawnface:Bergstromtown' The playbackended,thevirtualrealityshattering,the sense of the 
deadworldpouringin on him, theweightof his own meatandbone, stinkof sweat, the sourtastein his mouth, and everythingspinning, 
splnnlng. 
"Comrade.. . ?" )unior squattedbeforehim, his handsonBerg 

strom'sshoulders,his facetoo near.Weakly,Bergstrompushedhim 
away. 
"No hunter,"he saidthickly."No threat.A room,vast, somewhere 

near."Heshookhisheadto clear it,thenforcedhimselfto his feet."Like 
onthisworld,maybein this city."He

a church, dark,empty.Somewhere 
swayedandput a hand on the backof the chair,steadyinghimself.His 
suitwasawashin sweat. "underground,"he said."I'm 
"rruirorr-"rrial 

sureof it. It mayberightunderus." 
The First Born staredat him, his teeth setin a carnivorerichrs. 

"Nothingto havemurderedyourmate?" 
"lt'sanemptyroom,damnit. No onethere'No enemv for vouto 

fight." 
Thekurtikuttlookedathimamomentlonger,thenstalkedoff... 
not towardtheir camp,but acrossthe sguare,andaway')unior watched 

himgo...Nowweknownomorethanbefore,''hesaid...Yourmatemay havelross.dinto a placewherethe hunterlives,but you sawanother land. Or the hunter mayhavegonefrom it' What you sawmay have 
beenatrick,adreamputintothemachine'Or perhapsthisismy dream' 
He lookedup at the soundofwingbeats."Or nightmare."

comrade." 
TheMercyGate Z2S 
The Proteussweptdown from the yeilowsky,circling the portal oncebeforealightinga few metersaway.Itsheadwas human, or nearly so-stylized, glossy,a mannequint headwith high cheekbones,
blue eyes,
andlongblondhair.The bodywasmonstrous,anamalgamof ray 
torandreptile,with a thick, snakeliketorsoandclawedfeet. 
"Youdidn't listento me,"the proteussaid,its voicecara'sonce 
again."Now you'velostvaluabletime.And for you, time hasnearrv run out." 
"But notforyou,"Bergstromsaid. 
The Proteustwistedits lips into a parodyof a smiJe. "you knowI 
am veryadaptable,"it said. 'iA,ndverypatient.If you do not find a way 
out,in timeotherswill come.one ofthemwill find theway."The crea­
ture fexed its harpy'swings."r wishyou could stayand keepme com­
pany,Evan,but I'm afraidyou won,tlastlong.you mayhaveenough 
water,heat,andair for a while, butthefoodwil gomorequickly-if not 
yours,thenthekurtikuits'.And whentheygrowhungry,tver, ihey *ill 
forgetyouare their comradeof thehunt." 
"My brothershouldhavetakenyour head,,,funior snarled.His eyesslidto Bergstrom."Comrade,youknowwewouldnever_,,
"of courseyou would," Bergstromsaid."The monsteris right
aboutthat... about a lot of things." 
walkedslowly-across
thepavingstones,eachstepraisingalittle 
cloudof dust. Theblackwalloftheportalloomedouerhim, clolingout 

the city and thesky.He fert againitsdepth,itsvastemptiness,andthen 
a subtle vibrationas he passed
betweenthebandsof smooth,graymetal 
thatheld fastthestargate. 
"Comrade!" 

The kurtikuttt voiceechoed,theechoes
lostasBergstromsteppedintothePortal.Darknessenfoldedhim. utter lightlessness.
unspeakablecord.silence,unmarked
evenbybloodor sough of breath.Time stretched,
ffrS._of time enoughto be_lievehe would neverdrawbreathagain.A pressure,a straining,as if he werebeingpulledin a hundreddifferentdirections.Shapesior-"a within the darkness,patternsof night and shadow,takingo' forrn,b"_
comingthewallsof the vaultstreamingpasthim, theunlnding cavern litby thefoxfireglowof a millionjewels.ih"r, n sudden surge,
Jburstoflight,andBergstromwasthroughto theotherside... 
Showcase
226 NebulaAwards 2000 
fruitvines,andnorth­' ' ' 
And hewasa merchanisellingsweetbeetles, 
lands succulents from his stall alongthe radianof the philosophers And she wasa chancellordrinkingup thevernalsunandthelov­ingtouchof her husbandsin a parklandon theeasternverge' ' ' And he was a sculptorshapingmelancholyin his studionot far 
fromthe assembly of souls.. . And shewasa wright hrrning the shape of the outsteppers'gate, 
and from her station watchinganotherparty of visitorsstreaminto the world.. . And he wasa missioner falling to hiskneeson the bright alabaster 
stones. "Comrade?" Stronghandsput him on his feet. He looked up, into the hard 
stonesof a kurtikutt'seyes,and readin them not concernbut merecu­yetmarbledwith a primal
riosity-an almostpredatoryinterest,abstract 
tastefor blood. More intriguing, though,wasthe undercurrent of pro­
foundloneliness. 
..Yourkind doesnot often hunt alone,"the missionersaidin the 

kurtikutt'sown language,barksandgruntsthatcameawkwardlyto him' Beneath its transparent breathing mask, the animal's mtszzle 
twitched.,,Ihunt herefor trade,while my brothersawaitword." 
..Passage

is dear," themissionersaid.The kurtikutt'slip curled, but 
he said nothing. "Our worldispoor,"themissionercontinued,"but I wishyou good 
hunting." He felt in the kurtikutt'sgazea vaguebut growingsuspicion' "Good hunting," he repeated,and turned away' The tideof new arrivalssurgedaroundhim, molegsandYaenites' 
a smallmob of kappans,a simonswood in itsarticulatedrambler,tow­eringaboveall the others-a dozenor more breeds,andeverywherethe all the worldsof the Outsteppers'net' His
humans,who roamedacross 
wasa backwater planetto all their races,but still theycamein searchof ' ' ' or to try to satisfythevaguebut powerful
trade,knowledge,adventure needihat gnawedat so manyof them' Their unruly personaespread 
,.td alongthe city'sradians,carryingwith them subtle across
the ilrr, disorder. The missionerclosedhis eyesand pushedhimselfoutward'em­bracing the city, and it welcomedhim with its gleamingtowersand 
TheMercyGate 227 
windsweptstreets,theplacesof assemblyandsun-warmedcommons,all suffirsedbythe presence ofhisbrothersandsisters,
eachsoulathreadin the tapestrythat wrappedthe world:the Bonding.Ftresenthimselfout alongthe design,castingafter the threadthat bound him here most tightlyand,findingit, hefeltthatsoultremblebeneaththetouchof his. She bore him up in warmthandlove,andheknewhewashomeagain. 
And felt, only distantly,the vibrationof heavyfootsteps,his wife's quickeningalarmasthe rambler boredownon him. He steppedback, meetingup againstrough,unyieldingfabric.A hand on his
"lr-ped
shoulder,holdinghim fastthoughhestruggled.Ventingsteamand stink, the machinet metalforelegsweptpast,closeenoughto ,ti, his tunic, 
thentherearlegin turn.The sirnonswoodrookedbackfromitsthrone, leafyochersensorsrustlingwith agitation. The handfell from his shoulder. "you could havebeenkilled." The tonewasoneof indifference. The missionerturned,andshivered.It wasa human, sealedup in 
the rude secondskinthatcarriedherenvironment.Lipspressedto a thin line,shestaredathim throughthebubbleenclosingi,"i n.ra. Lookinginto hercoldblueeyes,hesaw.. . nothing. Hehadfallenagainsther,he hadnotknownshewasthere,closeby,becausetherewas i' he, no life or though! only a cold emptiness.Nothing. 
The ihing tilted its head,as if listeningto somethingin the dis­tance."Youarefrightened,"it said,anditsvoicewasa hundred voices."What are you frightenedof?,' "You."Hisgatheringfearseta strain on the fabric;in answer
hefelt vagueconcern,and one bright chord of alarm from his wife. .,stay 
awaf,"themissionersaid,asmuch to herasto the monster. 
It gripped his hand in its heavymitt, and smiled. The crowd streamedpast,heedless,the wide-eyedkappanspointingat the fine,
gleamingtowers,the Yaenitemob grumblin! and mutterlng,a pair of humanslookingall around them and.u.r1*h.r" at once.iro_ th._hefeltanxietyandanticipationand determination andwariness:life. 
The creaturetgrip tightened.Musclebruised,bonecreaked;
the 
missioner
nearlycriedout,butdidnol "youfeelit coming,"it saidin its teniblechorus."I seeit in you.,, "What areyou?"hegasped. 
"Youknowwho I am,"it said."r washere long beforetheseothers, Showcase
longbeforeevenyourkind. I have alwayswalkedamongthem,thesever­
min, and since last we met, I havewatchedtheir numbersgrow,their The Bondingput a uame to melongago,speakingit
contagionspread. only in the darkerplaces.",,No."He recoiledasthemonsterreachedwith itsothermiti, but it 
merelycaressedthe sideof his face,the roughcloth oddlygentleon his skin."We destroyedyou." 
"Youtried,you andthe Outsteppers.But you only woundedme' you drove me from the light of all your suns,into the shadows."lt paused,seemingto listenagain,and itssmilebecamea snarlingrictus' lI restedthere,gatheringstren$h, watching.Learninghow to extermi­
nateyou,asI did the Outsteppers." 
It beganto change,the curves andfoldsof the environmentalsuit 

softening.The lines of its face melted,the eyesfell in. The helmet puffed o-".rtrnd then collapsed,flowing into the streaming flesh.cloth and meatfell awayfrom the hand that still brushedhis face,baring a 
clawof gleaming bone.He bit back a screamasthe talonssankinto 
hisflesh. fuound him, the crowdtwitchedas if stung'A cry went up; a shriek;confusionand fright rushedoutward,diminishingasit rippled through the mob, thosedim intelligencesevena few metersawayre­
mainingoblivious. The missionercastacrossthe Bondingand it strained, it tore,as brightpointsoffearblossomedin the fabric.It waseverywhere;whatever 
it was,it waseverywherein his world at once' A big hand'lashedout,slappingtheclawawayin a sPrayof black muck and flecksof the monster'sbrittle bone, and the missionerfell. 
The kurtikutt stoodoverhim, nostrilsflared,shaking'He snarled'the soundcuttingthroughtherushandrumbleof the mob' 
In the suddensilencethe demonlaughed,a wet, bubbling sound thatwelledfrom itsdepths.It raiseditsarms,stretchingitselfagainstthe rky.Itt skingrewtaut and smooth,paled,turning smoky,then transpar­entas the monsterspreadiiselfon the wind. TallerthantheOutsteppers' 
gate,then higher than any of the towers,barelyvisible now' a-stain' gfrortty,billowing,stillgrowing,stilllaughing-a thin' vaPorouslaugh' 
a memory, a nightmare. Th" sho,-,iittgbegan.The screams'The mobbuffetedhim' visitors running from the tquri.. A human femalebrushedby him' andhe saw 
TheMercyGate 229 
in her bright, metallic fear. An omblegenna cameafter, its foursnakelike arms flailing. The Simonswood'sramblerstampededbacktoward the 
gate; one of the kappans fell underthe churning metal legs, its high-
pitchedscreamsquickly silenced. The missioner felt its pain only dis­
tantlybeforethat,too,was extinguished. 
The missionerput one hand to his face and it cameawaywet with 
blood.The kurtikutt pulled him roughlyto his feet. "Youwill live," he 
said,"but notif we stay here." 
The sky had turned gray,the sun dim behind it. It was, he knew, 
thesameall across hisworld. 
"Comrade..."the kurtikutt rasped,thefearboilingoffhim. "This 
hunter-we mustfind a place awayfrom it." 
"lf you can,"saidthe missioner,and laid his handon the beast's 
head.Thekurtikuttflinchedatthe contact, butsomeof the fear slipped 
fromhim. "My brothers-" "I think you will be with themsoon." 
The demon'sshapefilled half the sky, the vaguestof shadows,a breathof night, nearlyimperceptible.It continuedto shetch, shaftsof safton sunlight pushing through.. . then it burst,becominga cloud of gray dust thatdrifteddown,dreamlike. 
On the windshehearditslaughter. 
He closed his eyes. The clamorof the mob receded, andthe kur_ tikuttt nextwords,thesoundsof hisownheartandbreath.He foundhis wifewaiting,filledwith fear and love andlonging.He wrappedhimself 
in her,thencasthimselffurtherout,acrossthe fabricof the Bonding. It wasthe same all over:a hundred soulless,lightles monsters; theirtransformation;twilight everywhere;nowa rain of dust. 
The missioneropenedhiseyesagainasa stillness settledoverthe square.The kurtikutt stoodcloseby,breathinghard,watchingthe dust drift down.It stainedthe alabaster pavingstonesanddrewa film acrors 
thetowers.It settledonthemissioner'soutstretchedhands,blackagainst his white skin, fading to gray, vanishing.Burrowing.Leavingtrails of whiteheatthroughhisflesh. The kurtikutt howled,slappingat himself.,,Comrade..
.,' Eyes fierce,it turned on him. The missionerbracedhimself... but ihe kurtikutt shookhimselfonceall overandsprintedinto the crowd,leav­
inga trail of dazedandfallenvisitors. 
Showcase 
The Outsteppers' gate stoodimpassiveabove the mob, dark and empty,a hole cut through the universe,humming faintly. 
Thitching, the missioner hugged himself. Screams echoedfrom the towers. The wind carried to him the stinksof smokeandgore. A kap­panblunderedinto him, bleeding from a dozen cuts.An omblegenna clutched at him with itstentacles, then was carriedaway. The missioner turned, and stared into the face of one of his brothers.One eye, nearly closed,wept blood; the other was wide and wild. The missionerheld him for a moment, the pain washing over him, drowning him, then pushedhim away. So much pain, a world of it. He sent himselfinto it, covered himself with it, to find the one he loved. 
I am coming. 
He went out into the city. 
Smoke and chaosfilled its radians.A team of helpbeasts dragged 
an overturned cart. A gray-muzzledkurtikutt crouchedin a doorway, 
pawing at anything thatcame near. Merchants'stallswereupended.A pack of kappansstoned a human;helmetbroken,shechoked on bitter air before her skull was crushed.Guidepostswere toppled; lost and frightened,newlyreleasedsoulscircledthe ruins of their blood-redlat tices.The missionerhurried past a gallows, wherebrothersmurdered brothers. 
Throughsmoke and overbarricades,sometimesseekingtheshad­owswhileviolencepassed,down streets wherebloodranfree'Then he was home, stumbling over the corpse in the doorway,up the stairs, 
higher and higher,to where shewaited.He took her in his arms and 
heldher,taking up her love andwarmth,andput his handstoher throat. 
Her soul was freed, flying above the city,the smoke, the deathandmad­
ness,hurryin gaway, to the other side' 
He could not follow. Insteadhe climbed higher,into the tower's 
uppermostreaches,and then outward,acrossthe torn and burning fab­
ric of theworld.. . 
And he was a merchant,the life seeping from him in a smashed 
stallalongthe radian of the philosophers.. . 
And shewas a chancellor,givingher husbands release a park­
landon the easternvergebeforeturning the blade on herself ' ' ' 
And he was a sculptor,shapingrage and tormentin his studionot 
far from the assembly of souls,ashis blood ran from half a hundred 
wounds.. . 
TheMercy Gate 237 
Andshewasa wright, turningthe shape of the Outsteppers'gate 
so deathcouldnot escape,asthe mobscreamedoutsideherstation'sdoor andfireblackenedherskin.. . 
And hewasa man, standingin thegallery,a chamber big enough 
to hold aworld, column upongracefulcolumn,lineuponfinelyetched 
line, rowupon row ofrecessescarved into livingstone, in each a ruby 
egg, millions uponmillions,polished,glittering,glowing,warm.Souls. 
. , . and he fell to his kneeson thedustystones.He lay there,face 
pressedto the inside of hishelmet,chestheaving,stale, recycled air saw­ing his throat, until big handsturnedhim gentlyonto his back.funior 
lookeddownathim. "Youlive,"hesaid."Comrade,you live.,, 
Bergstromswallowedbile and coughed,spatteringhis faceplate 
with filmy blood.Histonguewasthick in his mouth; soundscameout, 
but no words. His left handclutchedatJunior'srobes;his right arm was 
deadweight.Thekurtikutt helpedhim situp,cradlingBergstromagainst hischest. The FirstBornlookedon, and behind him the proteus,still wearingits harpy's wings. 
"Beergshomm,"saidthe eldest,"thatstrengthyou have,I think it 
is not in yourhead,either."He bared yellow teeth. "Mon. . . ster," Bergstromslurred."Bass.. . tard." /uniortensed."Comrade,thereisno need -" 
The Proteusfolded its wingsand staredat him with hard eyes. A 
smilesplit its mannequin'sface. 
*Kill. 
.. if," Bergshomgotout."KIII itf' 
sunlight flashedon the First Bornt kris,but the proteuswas sud­denlyelsewhere,its form blurring as it moved. Leathery wingsstretched andthinnedin an instant,becominganestof lashingtentacles.Its skull 
lengthened,becomingleanand predatory,
its mouth agape.The kur_ tikutt backedaway,knife extended.A tentaclebriefy wrappedhis fore­arm, coming awaywitha sucking sound.Bloodsprayed
fromfleshmade ragged;bone shonebright white deepwithin the wound. Silent,the FirstBornpassedthekristo his otherhand. 
He circled,the blade movingslowlyback and forth.Bloodsheamed downhisarm andontothepavingstones."Beergstromm..."he hissed. "His kind..." Bergstromfoughtto make the words...They... broughtthe plague. Theyare... theHand.,' The FirstBorngrinned."when youwerea small bird,"hetoldthe 
Proteus,"l shouldhavetakenyourheadthen."He lunged, andmissed. 
Showcase
A tentacle shot out, slappinghisleg.Flesh ripped, blood gouted, and the FirstBornwentdown,rollingin thedust. The Proteus'sneck telescoped, the head lunging forward,iawswide,fangsgleamingwetly-snapping shut on nothingas the First Born rolled underneath, thekris slashing up­ward, cutting throughthescaly neck. 
Black sap fountainedfrom the stump.The headrolledfor meters. 
The First Born struggled to his feet, the blood running from him. Tentacleswhippedblindly.He gripped themoneafter the other, sever­ing each.The trunk lay at his feet, inky slimepulsingfrom itswounds. 
"Not dead,"the First Born said raggedly."But inconvenienced." 
He swayed, the kris slippingfrom his fingers to clatteron the pavement. Blood drenched his tunic. |uniorwenttohis side, then lookedacrossthe plazaand called his brothers with a howl that made Bergstrom shiver. 
Bergstromgot his legs under him and stood. 
"Comrade,"funiorsaid,"youarehurt." 
"Nervedamage,"Bergstromsaid,thewordsstillindistinct."Stroke, 
maybe.Like her." He started toward the kurtikutts,his right foot drag­ging. "We both are battle-scarred,Beergstromm."The First Born's mtzzletwitched."l coulddie now,l think." 
The other kurtikutts ran uP, their gnarls and growls filling the 
square.funior cut them offwith a roar, thenloweredthe First Bornto 
theground.He rippedhis own tunic into stripsandbeganbindinghis 
brother'swounds.The FirstBorn grunted, hiseyeclosing. 
"Youwill not die,"Bergstromsaid,the barks andgruntsstrangein 
hismouth."Not unlessyou are too much amiserto pay a chirurgeon on 
Chimerine." 
)unior gapedat him. The First Born's good eyefluttered open' 
"Youdidnotknowourtonguebefore," he said. 
"l knowit now." Bergstrom'sfacetwisted."l rememberit'" 
"If a trick ihisis. . ." The First Bornhied to rise."No, it is madness 
uponyou.A woundin thebrain,yousaid,it mayhavemurderedyour 
mate,andnowin you. . ." He fell back,breathinghard''And madwasI 
to listento you." 
|unior put his hand on his brother'shead."Comrade'Comrade!" 
Bergshomlookedat him, hying to focus."What is thisthing in you?" 
He shookhishead.A thousandvoicesfilled his ears, a million re­
TheMercyGate 233 
membrancescrowdedin on him, filling him. But already they were fad­
ing, slipping from him one by one. 
'Answers."
"Memories,"he said. He staggered, but the Fifth Born 
steadiedhim beforehe could fall."Thesepeople.' . the Bonding.What it was like to be here when the Hand came down'To die. . . to feel a mil­lion deaths, all at once. How they twisted the Portal,so it led iust one way.How to get home. How wecanget home." 
"Madness,"the First born muttered. 
"Or not,"funior said."We canfollow him, or wait herefor death. Foryou it will come sooner, withouta chirurgeon, but it will come for all of us soon enough."To Bergstrom:"Youcanfind the way to Chimerine?" 
'With 
Shorty'shelp. But first, there's something elsethat needs doing."He turned to The Twins."Bring the shapeshifterto the Outstep 
pers'gate,"he said in their language. "Now." They lookedto Junior,who barked his assent. They hurried off. ShortyhailedBergstrom as he followed unsteadily. 
When he reached The Thins, they were standing well back ftom the Proteus's head.One kurtikutt held its trunk, which writhed slug­gishlyin its grasp; the other held the tentaclesfar from its body. 
The Proteus's teeth clashed as Bergstromknelt in front of the sleek skull.It was metamorphosing, but haltingly. Buds formed on its under­side-the start of legs,perhaps.Bony ridges thickened, the Proteus's eyes burning ftom beneath them. The teeth snappedagain, then short­ened,withdrawinginto the jaw.Lips formed, wrinkled, spat out "Death to you.Deathto you." 
He grasped the skull behind its ferocious mouth, its oily hide writhing under his hands.'i{nd you'regoingto live forever," Bergstrom said,"in the roomwhere all yourvictimsare waiting." 
Grunting, he threw the Proteus toward the wall of night. 
Its scream was cut short,leaving only silence. 
4 
The sun came up over the western hills and set the morning mist aglow.The fog wrappedwooded slopes and green valleys,a turquoise lakeburningwith dawn's light. High clouds streakeda delicate blue sky. 
Showcase 
Not Flanders's sun or sky, but Chimerine's; still, it made his throat ache to see it. Bergshom hadthe bed raise him up, and held the fewelto the light. The sunlight poured like molten fire along thelines and channels etched into it, formingpatterns he could no longer read. 
The door opened tentatively."Comrade?")uniorlookedin. "It was a long hunt to find you, the hospitalis so large." 
"It needsto be," Bergshom said.'A lot of people get hurt out there." He slippedthe ruby egg under the covers."Come in." 
"Surething."He held the door open andthe FirstBom hobbled in, one arm and one leg wrapped in sleek green bandages. funiorpulled a chair away from the wall and his brother settled into it. 
"I wondered if you could bear to paya medician,"Bergstromsaid. 
"Thieves,all of them," the First Borngrowled."But, goodforfune, they don't know how to bargain. And you, Beergstromm?A damageto the nerves, theytell me." 
"They'rerepairingit, but it takestime." 
"And heasure,"the First Bom said, "but that hunts for you now. The knowledge of that placegatheredahigh price." 
"We shouldn'thavesold it." 
"Make of it a charity?" the First Born rumbled. "And for charity they would heal both of us,andgiveyou means to live until you are well enough to go out again? This is the way of it, Beergstromm:To every­thing thereisa price.Better than most,youknow that." 
'Acrossall the Silencefell across the room. Into it funior said, 
worldswehunt them." 
"Andhow many of us have they killed?" 
The eldest's look turned sour. 'Able hunterstheyare.The fight will 
belong." 
"It'll never end," Bergstrom said. "They'reall pieces of thesame or­
ganism,like a cancer-leave onepiece alive and it will all grow back. 
Next time it will be stronger,smarter.Its hate will be shonger,too. It 
wantsthe universeto itself again." 
"My hate also isstrong,"the First Born said. 
Bergstromsat up with a muffled groan."We're like animals to 
them-vermin. The warprobablystartedwhenmy ancestors werestill 
in the trees. The Outsteppen fell first, but the Proteuswerebeatenback. 
When the shapeshifters returned,it was as the Hand,makingthemselves 
into new shainsfor each species.Then the Bondingfell ' . . along with a 
The Mercy Gate 235 
hundred other races. Now we're the only onesleft to stand against 
them-the survivors." 
"The Bondingwerea gentlepeople,"|uniorsaid. 
"Yes."Bergstrom'slook was distant. Their memorieswere gone 
from him, but he recalled their flavor. Each of his brothersand sisters, their experiences storedin crystal matrices-not dead histories, but undyingsouls.The gallery-not a dusty library, or a monument, but a temple."You have to be gentle, when you can readanother'sthoughts andfeel another's pain." 
'i\nd
"We arenot a gentle people," funior said. we do not have to learn how to be hunters." 
The First Bornshiftedin his chair, wincing."Forthe hurt both we took," he said,"for the death of Cara Ausstenn, we will kill them each. There is abounty,andI will be of wealth from it. You will visit me in the house they build for the Ruhk'thmar." 
Bergstromfrowned."Not if you get any slower,Chief'" 
The First Born barked a laugh. )unior triedto help him to his feet, but the eldest shrugged him off "I am not so feeble as believes our scholar."Suddenly he took Bergstrom'shand in his; the kurtikutt'sskin waswarmandcoarse."Comradesof the hunt, Beergstromm-and sixth brotherof theRuhk'thmar,if youwill honor me." 
Bergstromlooked into the obsidian eye, fat and dead."Brothers," he said. 
The First Born grippedhis hand more tightly,then released him. He glanced over his shoulder. "My stomachis hollow! The food here is of a garbageheap, and there's little of it." 
"We will search out something fit,"funiorsaid.He watched as his brother limped from the room, then turned back to Bergshom. "He will not hunt again, but he will keep his promise. From his bed he began gatheringteamsof hunters. Theywill be his claws and teeth." He came up to the bed.'?{ndwhere does the hunt bring you?" 
"l'm going to take Cara home," Bergstrom said.'After that. . . I don't know. I've spent my whole life sifting the ruins for bits of the past. For a few moments, I knew it all. I livedit.I could spendthe restof my life trying to get that back again." 
"lt would be a goodlife, I think," |unior said."Afteryou take her home, comrade, come and find us." When he had gone, Bergstrom lookedout over the greenhills and 
2000236 NebulaAwardsShowcase 
blueskies,somuch like home's. He put his hand aroundthejewelagain andfelt in it a familiar warmth, and a longin g. I'm waitingfor you on the othorside. 
"l'm sorry, sweetheart," he said asthe dawn'slight poured through the window. "You'llhave to wait a whilelonger." 

The1998AuthorEmeritus 
WILLIAM TENN 
ZEBROWSKI
GEORGE 
A Swift andKlassicMan 
To knowPhil Klass is to be powerlessto prevent humorouscon­ceitsfrom falling out of one's head into one'smouth-or slipping throughone'sfingersif you're trying to writeabouthim. Thinking about him makes this happen to a writer trained in his ways (makethat influ­enced by his ways). It's inevitable, so bear with me in this brief personal appreciationandfirst-time-everrevelationsaboutthis Swift' and Klassic man (proofreadersbe warned thatit'sa big S and a big K), who as Author Emeritusis now the Klass of r998-all by himself' 
William Tenn, the well-known pseudonymof the equally well-known Phil Klass (the ignorantaredivided from the faithful when they mistakehim for the UFO writer Philip f. Klass),is the SF satirist who came to prominencein the r95os,'6os,and'7os(andwhoisstill promi­
nencing), and the onegreat source from which all such SF flows.He wasthe most trenchant of all who chosethispath, and precedednearly all American writerswhocan be spoken of with respectin this century, andis likely to outlast all who havethrownthemselvesinto thisscolding flame(and having been burned, theycontinueto draw soothing 6re­water2fromhis well). 
'JonathanSwift, who wrote Culliver'sTravels. 2"Firewater!"Astounding Science Fiction, February r95z 
Showcase 
He has been writingsatirical science fictionsince his first story was publishedin the March 1946 issueof )ohn W. Campbell's Astounding. Most of Tenn's stories havebeen reprinted in many anthologiesand best-of-the-year
collections,in more than a dozen languages; they have been gathered into six often-reprintedcollections.Histwo well-regarded novels, one science fiction and one fantasy, are Of Men and Monsters (1968)and ALamp for Medusa(1968).The first has been at leasttwice imitated.s Two new novelsare soon to be published, and one of them will win a Nebulaandall the other awards (Phil knowswhich novelwill win) he so clearly deserves. 
Tennalsoedited the infuential early theme antholoryChildrenof Wonder(1951),which was a first offeringof the Science Fiction Book Club. Tenn the essayist has published both scholarlyand popular non­fiction,and holds the title of ProfessorEmeritusof English and compar­ative literahrre at Pennsylvania StateUniversity,wherehe taught courses in writing, sciencefiction,and the literafure of humor, as well as an hon­orscoursein scientificprediction and prophecy.ln ry76he received the LindbackAll-UniversityAwardfor distinguishedteaching. He now lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. 
Althoughhe is describedby manyasa satirist, his best science fiction, "Firewater!"and "BrooklynProject," to name two early stories, feahrresa level of verisimilitudenot usually associated 
with the "iustkid­
ding" school of satire.These are plausibly worked out, seriously pre­sentedstories."Firewater!" has the distinction of having made |ohn Campbellrelax his ban on stories in which human beings are bested by aliens. 
Tenn is SF'sultimate"straightman,"and sohypothetical verismo maybe justoneof his masks;truth telling is another, but he only wears it when he's lying. I suspect that William Tennt unmaskedgaze,which I have glimpsed and since carefully avoided,would either make the suh jectexplodeinto divine laughteror implodeinto a personal blackhole.a 
I have one anecdote (entirelyfictionalizedfor his own protection) to tell about Phil. He has told me, in complete confidence,which I now behayin agood cause, thathe has correctly guessedthatAlphaCentauri 
lBy two unnamed writers of novels­aReadStephen Haw}<ing. 

The1998AuthorEneritus 239 
B has six planets, and thatthe one Earthlike world hastwo smallmoons 
thatorbit aroundthe planet in the wrong way,5 
Pass it on. 
With this entirely fortuitous discovery our own Author Emeritus hasachievedthe virhre of being doubly,if not hiply, unmistakable'So many of us, in so manymoments,flowftom his wit andintelligence,that wecan only hopethathe continues in his Klassicway. 
A classicwriter.6 
My typing fingers are too short to have pun with "Tenn'" Believe me, I tried to have Tenn footnotes, but perfectionis not mine. 
sFollowingSwiftt example in his blind discovery of the moons of Mars. 6Iwas going to say Massic,butthatwould get me in a pickle. 


MyLife andHard Timesin SF 
WILLIAM TENN 
Thankyou. Thank you. 
This businessof givingtheAuthorEmeritusAwardto peoplewho areno longer quiteso active: I amfinishinganovel for St. Martint Press. I have written fiveshortstoriesin the pastfew years. I get into my pants everymorning(withtheaid of a cane). Who thehell's"notactive"? 
All right, perhaps I'm not as violently active as I used to be. 
Now, when I got up to make this speechmy wife pulled at my sleeveandsaid,"Don't mention Harlan Ellison."I honor my wife, and I usuallygivein to her requests-but whatthehell kind of speechwould thatbe?A speech withouteven one anecdote about Harlan Ellison-Migod! 
Well, truth to tell, I did originally hy to be a bit different about this talk. 
I called the president of SFWA, Paul Levinson,a coupleof days ago, and I said thatin my speech-my acceptancespeech,I guessyou might call it, for the Emeritus award-l wouldlike to make a large state­ment. I wanted to sum up what I think sciencefiction is, what it has 
been, where it isgoing.He said, "No. We have|. Michael Straczynski. We have David Hartwell. They are going to make the statements. Keep it short. Keepit light." Well, some of you knowme: you know I don't keepthingsshort.Tonight,however, I'll try. 
Showcase242 Nebula Awards 2000 
But-how canyougive a short, light speech at a moment like this? Firstof all, I have not everbeena member of SFWA.I won't say that itt beenmy loss; I will saythatit hasbeen SFWAT loss.(Notice,please,I'm keepingit shoriandkeeping it light.) 
I bought the issueof Locusthat the announcement of my new statuswouldbe in. I was curious, of course,about what the announce­mentitselfwouldbelike.I was also curious aboutwhat the picture of me thatillushated the announcement wouldbe like. I know what Charlie Brownhas done to pictures of me in the past. 
I didn't think thatthis time he would absolutelysurpasshimself. There is a picture of me in this issue of,I"ocus, announcingthe award, that makes me look like I am a refugee from flood-ravagedAtlantis.Ab­solutelylibelous! I got away two full weeks before the flood. 
But I pickedup thisissue and I said,I must find out what's doing with SFWA-this organizationto which I don't belong, but into which, they tell me, I am being forced. . . permanently! 
SoI openthe issue to read about SFWA and thereis a headline: 'SFWA President Sawyer Resigns."I read the articleand SFWA Presi­dent Sawyer says,in his resignation speech, "Enough is enoughlNo morel" And Paul Levinson becomes president,and it hrrns out that Nor­
man Spinradimmediatelyannouncesthat he is goingto attackhim 
publicly. 
So this is the organization I've stayed out of. And they are now makingme a permanent memberl And they want me to makea short andlight speech-and notmentionHarlanEllison,even! 
Well,let me tell you something: This isnot the faultof Old Presi­
dent Sawyer, nor the faultof PresentPresidentLevinson,nor the fault evenof Charlie Brown (thoughthere are manythings that are Charlie Brownt fault). All that I have iust mentioned-all I've read from I-,o­cus-has to dowith The Essenceof ScienceFiction. 
Now,whatisThe Essenceof Science Fiction?(Remember,I'm not 
givingyou the longspeech-thisisthe short, lightone.)Is The Essence 
of Science Fiction prediction?Isit, asI've often triedtobelieve,PrePara­
tion for a brave new world a<oming?Is it, asI used to tell my classes at 
Penn State (lying in my very dentures), the new form of literature for 
modernindustrialman?No.That is notThe Essenceof Science Fiction. 
fu I sat and thought aboutit and went throughas much literahrreas I My life and HardTimesin SF 243 
could in preparation for this talk, I concluded that The Essenceof Sci­enceFiction is-quarrelsomeness.Sciencefictionis the most quarrel­some genre that ever hasbeenseen, on land or sea or in intergalactic 
sPace. 
You know, mystery writers don't argue with each other. Westem writersdon't argue. Romance writers-well, I won't tell you what they do, but at least theydon't argue when they do it. But SF writers? Most of them were once science fiction fans, and they are the ugliest bunch of irritating, argumentative bastardsyou ever want to see. They always fight-becauseas fans theyhavealwaysfought. 
I am going to give you a very brief run-through of the quarrels of sciencefiction. Very brief. Very short. Yery light. And after that, I am goingto come to my place in it, and then I am goingto look at the essenceof it Why does this occur? And what might weatleast hope for in the future? 
Look.Way back in the forties there was something called the East­ern Science Fiction Association, and the Queens Science Fiction League,as well as something else calledthe Fuhrrians. And they en­gagedin battle: titanic, never-ending battle, from borough to shell-shockedboroughin NewYork City.SamMoskowitzwas with, I believe, theEasternScienceFiction Association, with itsheadquartersin Newark, New )ersey.From time to time, he crossed the Hudsoninto New York and. when he did, he carried howitzersandmortarswith him. 
Sam Moskowitz? He had the loudest, shongest, yellingest voice everheardon amortal man. When he called fora cab in Newark, New there was a trafficjam on Market Street in San Francisco,Cali­
fersey, fornia. When he stood up at a rivalsciencefiction club meetingand shouted,"Mr. Chairman,point of order!"-the very windows cracked and the very housebeams splintered. At the first science fictionconventionI attended (thePhilCon,in either1948or'4g),I met a verybright young manand we talked about many things-history, science, logic,... I wasvery impressed with him andI told him so. I said,"What'syourname?" And he said thathis name was not important.He said, "I am merely a satrapof Sam Moskowitz's." And that was all he wanted to beknownas. SamMoskowitzfoughtWill Secora of the QueensScienceFic­tion League. He would show up-with his Eastern Science Fiction 
2000
244 Nebula AwardsShowcase 
fusociationcohorts-at a QueensScienceFictionLeaguemeeting and he and his followers would start a riot. They would point out that the story under discussionhadnotbeenpublishedin September r9z9;it was publishedin November1929,as any dumb son-of-a-bitchslob would know.And the hall would erupt in beer-steinthrowing and screamsand soforth. According to Harry Warnerjr., in his history of fandom, AII Our 
Yesterdays,at one of theseto-dos Will Secoratwifelost a very good purse 
whensherepeatedlybangedit on Sam Moskowitz'shead.The Pursewas ruined.It wasa very expensive purse, and shesaidthathis head hadru­ined it forever. 
The Futurians, who wereorganized by DonaldWollheim,were a Marxistgroup, unlike the Queensbunch and Moskowitz'sbunch who were extremely devoutcapitalists.The Futuriansfollowed the theoreti­
cal Marxian lead of fohn Michel and called themselvesMichelists. They and Moskowitzand Secora foughtvery complicated battles.They fought them in beer hallsand subway cars and ConeyIsland beaches. 
They fought them in mimeographed broadsidesand the letter columns of sciencefiction magazines. And they also fought battlesin smeary,ink-stainedpublications 
calledfanzines.These fanzines, devotedto convention announcements, 
analysesof storiesin science fiction periodicals, andprofilesof science 
fiction authors,later came under the astonishedscrutinyof RichardB. 
Gehmanin the New Republic.Afterdigestingthemfor several pages,he 
attemptedto capture their specialqualityfor his readers by saying they 
wereabsolutely"the damndestmixtureof Screen Romancesand Partisan 
Review." Besidesthat, they were the damndestmixhrreof shrill polemic, 
hurled anathema,and iustificationof violence yet to come. 
SamMoskowitzwrote all of this up. He wrote all of the history of 
thesefightsin a book calledThe Immoftal Storm.It was a sort of follow-
up to another history of sciencefictionwrittenby a fellownamed Spear 
andentitledlJp to Now.It has been saidof Up to Nowthatit setan un­
forhrnateprecedent:overemphasison the fans and organizations who 
engagedin the most quarrels andhad the leasteffect on sciencefiction. 
Saml\{oskowitzthen wroteTheImmortal Storm,andof thatit has 
been said that it covereda yearor two moretime andquarrelslhan up 
fo Now, at more than tentimesthelen$h. In r95r, I think, the book was 
MyLife and HardTimesin SF 245 
publishedin mimeograph form-l have it somewhereathome, dissolv­ing in a cellulose mist in my bookcase, andit is an enormouswork.In about'5r or'52, SamMerwin, the editor of ThrillingWonderStories,re­viewed it. He said of it that "if read immediately after the history of WorldWarII, it does not seem like an anticlimax." 
It was at about this time that manyfans became professionalwrit­ers.The Futurians were the most notable group. Donald Wollheim or­ganizedagroupof young fans, much younger than he (hewasnineteen, they were seventeen).He calleda meeting,I have been told, and he 
raisedhis hand and said,"We will now have a science fiction group called the Fuhrrians, of which I will be president."And it wasmorning, and it was evening of the first day. 
The Futurians lasted I don't know quite how many years-through battleswith Moskowitz, battles with Secora,and extremely bloodybattleswith dirty pacifists. Many of the Futuriansbecamepro­fessionalschieflybecauseWollheimwaspublishinga real professional magazine with a wonderful idea: having his membership write stories for the magazine for no money whatsoever. 
And then Fred Pohl, one of the Futurians-he had finally reached 
the magisterial age of nineteen-sold a publisher on the creation of a magazinecalledAsfon i shingStories and another magazine called Sup er Science Stories (ofwhich Damon Knight many years later was editor, and after him my brother, Morton Klass, waseditor).But the idea behind SuperScienceandAstonishingwasoriginallya version of Wollheimt, an idea basic to thepulp magazines of theday:Yougetwritersand you don't pay them much -if possible, you don't paythemanything.The youngest writer of all was Cyril Kornbluth, and, according to one wild legend, be­cause of his exheme youthfulness,Cyril wasexpected io paysmall sums 
justfor the honor of getting publishedat his age. He wrote some of his 
beststuffin that period, as did the rest of them, including, I believe, Ike 
Asimov. Cyril and Ike both told me they keptcardfiles on different ways 
to murder Fred Pohl,eventhough they both agreed,later in life, that he 
wasthe best editor they had ever encountered. 
In any event, the Futurians evenhrally broke up because the rank and file got into a violent quarrel with their president, Donald Wollheim,and,muchto his astonishment, expelledhim from theorga­nization-something he claimed was constitutionally impossible. He thereuponsued them for something like $35,ooo.This event isknownin sciencefictionas The SevenAgainst Wollheim. He claimed thathisex­pulsion from the Futurians had damagedhis professional reputation and income permanently.The rank-and-file Futuriansmanagedto win the battle in open court, but it costthem moneyto pay their attorney­$5ooapiece,which wasmore money than any of them had at the time. I spoke to my agent Virginia Kidd today (she and |udy Merril and DamonKnightandfim Blish were four of the seven), andshe told me that Fred Pohl, who was the only one makinga living then, paid the lawyer'sfees for most of them out of his own savings account. 
All right, you say, these were fans,sciencefiction fans. You might expectanything of fans.Fans are nasty and noisykoublemakersandare completelyoutsidethe law. What has this to do with science fiction pros? 
Look:I was once a member of a sciencefictiongroupmyself, a clubfull of professionals, writer or illustrator
everyonea well-published 
or editor.It was called the Hydra Club. It was organized in the late for­tiesandit flourished for several years.We had a permanentmembership committee of nine. Permanentmembershipcommittee?Well, you see these were all sciencefiction ex-fans, exceptfor me. They'd had a lot of unpleasant experiencewith sciencefiction organizations. And they wantedto make sure thatno one would ever be able to take overthis or­ganization,so the nine of us who met that firstnightwere established as 
the Permanent MembershipCommittee. 
The constitution specificallyread:"No member of thePermanent 
MembershipCommitteecan ever beexpelledor suspendedforanyrea­
sonwhatsoever,no mdtter what they do." The PermanentMembership 
Committee,or PMC as it wasknownin the club, wasto be the nucleus 
of the organization, and we were to vote on all new members-one 
blackball meantyou were rejected. My brother, Morton Klass,wasthe 
firstto ioin. He had arrived at the firstmeetinga half hour late-iust 
thirtyminutes too late to become a memberof the PermanentMember­
ship Committee. He was thereforealwaysreferred to asThe FirstGen­
uineMember. 
Tho of the membersof the PermanentMembershipCommittee 
wereFredPohl and fudy Merril,and they helped organizeit in their 
apartment.They were marriedat the time.When the marriagebroke 
up, Fred and |udy chose opposite sidesandbecamethe leadersof the My Life and Hard Times in SF 247 
antagonistic factions. The organization then met in a very unusualses­sion-a rump membership meetingto which half of the PMC wasnot invited. And the constitution was destroyed-it disappeared 
completely. A new constitution was written on the spot, despite vigorous protests, and various people were expelled fromthe organization. 
I want to tell you who was expelled, and why. As I said, Fred and fudy were on opposing sides, most bitterly opposing sides: It was a mar­riagemade, after all, not in heaven,but in the lowestlevelof hell. fudyt side lost. fudywasexpelled because she"didnot show sufficient respect." That wasii-that was the reason given.I was expelled because I was a notorious friend of fudy's.My brother,Morton Klass, was expelled be­cause he was my brother. Harry Harrison was expelled because he wasa friend of my brother's. Larry Shaw was expelledbecause he was a friend of Harry Harrison's. And a writer by the name of Larry Harriswas ex­pelled (Lany later changed his name to Lawrence fanifer and wrote many stories with Randall Garrett)-l,arry Harris was expelled because hisfirst name was Larry, the same as Larry Shaws,andhis last name was Harris.. . . 
Somuch for quarrelsomefans and even quarrelsome writers.But editorsTNe they like that? Were they likethat? The reallygreat,towering editorsof our field-editors like |ohn W. Campbelland Horace Gold and Tony Boucher? 
Only one anecdote about editors-because I've iust received a notetelling me I have five minutes left, and I'd better close up shop and goaway. 
I was in Horace Gold's apartment in r95z or rg1,i, going over a rewriteof a story Id written for Galary-l think it was "Betelgeuse Bridge."The telephone rang,and Evelyn, Horace's wife, answered it. The voice that boomed out of the receiverand filled the entire apart­mentwasimmediately recognizable to me. I didn't needto hearEvelyn call out to Horace, "fohn Campbell. For you." 
Horace picked up the phone acrossthe roomfrom me, and said, "Hi, )ohn.What's up?" 
"Horacel" camethe voice of the editor of the competingmaga­zine,Astounding,nowmany angry decibe lslouder."Whatisthis vicious slander I hear you have beencirculatingabout me?" 
"Which particular vicious slander?"Horace asked. 
"Youhave been tellingpeoplethatyou considerme a dogmatic 
person." 
"And,if I have?" 
Campbell'svoicenow made the wallsquiver.There wasa loud 
clangashis fist apparentlycame down on the tablefrom which he was calling."That'salie, arotten, ugly, filthy lie' t e'u Nor DoGMATICI" 
So.Wheredowecomefrom?Howdid we get thisway?Isquarrel­somenessendemicto sciencefiction?Well, this is my favoritestory aboutour field. 
ConsiderGeorgeOrwell'GeorgeOrwellandH. G. Wells' GeorgeOrwellhad a tremendousadmirationfor H. G' Wells' He had always wantedvery, very much to meet Wells-this wasall back in theearlyrg4os,duringWorldWar II. Wells refusedto meethim. Wells calledhim a Tiotskyist withbigfeei.(Whichis still, perhaps,a way ofin­
dicatingsomemild affection.)orwell refusedto give up.And finallyor-well,pulling all kindsof shings, managedto get invitedto a dinnerat which Wells waspresent.And he satnext to Wells.And he charmed 
him. He told him how great he, Wells, was.He told him how he had reallycreatedan entire new generation of thinkers. Howhe was thefirst andleft feeling
realtwentieth,centuryman.And Wellswasimpressed, 
quitewarmandfriendlytowardOrwell. 
And Wells got home and turned on the radio,and there was a 
speechthat Oruell hadforgotten about-he had made it twoweeksbe­
forefor the BBC about H. G. Wells-in which he said thatwells was 
"an uncriticalapostleof scientific progress"andthe "Wellsianutopias 
weremerelyparadisesof technology." He said thatWellsbelieved-and 
thatthiswasfundamentalto the entirecorPusof Wellst writings-that 
sciencecansolveall the ills that manisheirto. 
H. G. Wellssathimselfdownandwrotea single postcardbackto orwell -aone-linepostcardwhich still is in existence. Hereisthe line: "l don'tsaythatat all. Readmy early works, youshit!" 
with this asourbackgroundandwith theseasourforebears,what thehell hopedowehave? 


TheGrandMasterAward 


HAL CLEMENT 
POULANDERSON 
Fifty-seven years since Hal Clement first shone like a novaon the sciencefiction universe? Can't be! I don't mean that's a ridiculously long time for usto wait before openly honoring one of our greatest, thoughit is. We have done so all alongin our hearts. But "Proof"standsbefore me asfreshandvivid asifl read it yesterday. 
And why not? If it's unfamiliar to you-and chances are you weren't bom when the )une ry42Astounding came out-seek it among the anthologies. You'll be delighted. Time does not tarnish fine work. The idea of intelligentbeings who live in the stars isadmittedlyfanciful, but what we have since learned aboutthe physics of plasmoids may makeit a little more plausible, andin any case it is brilliant. 
From there Hal Clement went on to the possibilitiesin known lawsof nature and well-grounded hypotheses, creating world after world, life-formafter life-form, utterly strange and yet believable. Today, as our spacecraftand instruments reveal more and more about the universe, humankind in generalhasbegun to appreciatehow variousit is, how magnificentlyfull of surprises. Hal Clement's mind rangedfarahead,far earlier, to showhisreadersthis. 
In consequence, his infuence on science fiction has been much largerand more profound thanmostpeople realize. He set the standard for the"hard"kind, which is of coursenot the only legitimatesort but is 
Showcase250 NebulaAwards 2000 
certainlybasicto the field. I hope he, a modest man, won't think it pre­tentiousif I callhim a maker in the old and true sense of that word-a seer of marvelsandmightinesses,who brings them home to us. 
And he's always moonlighted at it! When "Proof" appeared,Harry Clement Stubbs was an undergraduate at Harvard,maioring in astron­omy.He adopted a semipseudonymbecausehe was afraid that publish­ing a science fiction story would be disreputable. Laterhefound out that a distinguishedprofessorof his had hied unsuccessfullyto do the very 
samething. 
Wartime military service interrupted' Afterwardhe continued in the Air ForceReserve until he retired with the rank of colonel.On the civilian side,he took master'sdegreesin education and chemistry, be­
camea science teacherat a prestigious academy,and hasremained a devotedhusband,father, and now grandfather.He has been activein teachers'organizationsand civic affairs,including regularblood dona­tion; last I heard, he was up to eighteengallons,and that was two decadesago.This hasnot in the least affected hisrobusthealth.He was, I believe, the first science fiction writer to addressa convention of lhe AmericanAssociationfor the Advancementof Sciencein that avowed capacity,in 196r.The growth in respectability andrecognitionof our lit­eratureowesmuch to the intelligenceand integrityevidentin his con­
tributionsto it. 
As for those, you'll probably agreethat they are essentiallyin the 
traditionof fulesVerne,the extraordinaryvoyageand the exploration of 
ideas.Not that he neglectsthe human element.His characters of what­
everplanetandspeciesareinterestingandusuallylikable,peopleyou'd 
enjoymeeting.He was amongthe first of our writersto consistentlyput 
strong,capablefemalesinto stories. Many of his colleagues share these 
virtues.However,whereit comes to depictingthewonderfulnessof the 
cosmosand effortsto understand and dealwith it, Hal Clement is un­
rivaled.I submitthatthisisas noble and challenginga themeasany. 
His tales arefewer than we'deagerlyread,but eachisoutstanding 
and someare -well, "classics"is an overworkedword,but "foundation stones"seemsaboutright. Let me offer iusttwo ratherearlyexamples. 
Needledisprovededitor|ohn Campbell'sassertionthata science fiction 
detectivestoryis impossible becausethe author canpull anything out of 
a hat. Hal cameup with a marvelouslyconceivedalien police ofhcer TheGrandMasterAward 257 
and criminal, and all the clues to the solution are honestly set forth. Campbellwas pleased no end. Subsequentlywe haveseena number of science ficiion mysteries. Hal opened the way.For Mission of Gravity anditsgigantic,furiouslyrotatingworldMesklin, he worked out the de­tails so richly that hisreaderswerethere.lf discoveries andtheoriesin re­cent yearshave made such bodiesappearunlikely, that could not be known at the time; and maybe in the future the astronomers will change their minds again. No matter. Mission of Gravity abides as a towering achievement. 
I'd loveto go on about the rest of his oeuvre, but space hereis lim­ited,unlike the space of his knowledge and imagination.Let me simply add that healso paints astronomicalscenes,whichhe exhibits under yet anotherpseudonymsothatthey will be iudgedstrictlyon their ownmer­its.This is typical of the man. You'll find him to be personally soft-spoken,congenial, the best of company. 
At lastwe are making some small return forall thathehasgivenus. 

UncommonSense 
HALCLEMENT 
"Soyou've left us,Mr. Cunningham!" Malmeson's voicesounded rougherthan usual, even allowing for headphone distortion and the ever-presentDenebianstatic."Now, thatt too bad. If you'd chosen to stickaround,wewould have putyou off on some world where you could live,at least. Now you can stay here and fry. And I hopeyou live long enoughto watch ustakeoff-without you!" 
LairdCunningham did not bother to reply. The ship'sradiocom­passshould still be in working order,and it was justpossiblethat his erst­whileassistants
might start hunting for him, if they were given some idea of the proper direction to begin a search. Cunninghamwastoo satisfied with his present shelterto be very anxious for a change. He was scarcely halfa mile from thegrounded ship, in a cavern deepenoughto afford shelter from Denebt rayswhenit rose,andlocatedin the side of a small hill, so that he couldwatch the activitiesof Malmeson and his compan­ion withoutexposinghimself to their view. 
In a way,ofcourse,the villain was right. If Cunningham permitted theship to take offwithout him, hemight as well open his face plate;for, whilehe had food and oxygen for severaldays'normalconsumption,a 
planetscarcely larger than Luna, baked in the rays ofone ofthe fiercest radiatingbodiesin the galaxy,wasmostunlikelyto provide further sup­plieswhen these ranout. He wondered how longit would take the men Showcase
to discoverthedamagehe had done to the drive unitsin the fewminutes thathad elapsed betweenthe crash landingand their breakingthrough the controlroom door, which Cunninghamhad welded shutwhenhe haddiscoveredtheir intentions.They might not noticeat all; he hadsev­ereda number of inconspicuousconnectionsat odd points.Perhapsthey 
would not even test the driversuntil they had completedrepairs to the crackedhull. If theydidn't,somuch thebetter. Cunningham crawledto the mouth of his caveand looked out theshallowvalleyin which theshiplay.It was barely visiblein the
across starlight,and there was no sign of artificial luminosity to suggestthat Malmesonmight havestartedrepairsatnight.cunningham hadnot ex­
pectedthat they would, but it was well to be sure.Nothing morehad ou", hissuitradiosincethe initial outburst,whenthemenhaddis­"o-" he decidedthattheymustbe waiting for sunrise,
coveredhis departure; 
to enablethem to take more accuratestockof the damagesufferedby 
thehull. 
He spent the .nextfew minutes looking at the stars,trying to 
afiangetheminto patternshe couldremember.He hadno watch,andit 
*oulJ helpto have somewarningof approachingsunriseon succeeding 
nights.It would not do to be caught awayfrom his cave,with the fimsy 
protectionhis suit could affordfrom Deneb'sradiation.He wishedhe 
couldhavefilched oneof the heavier worksuits;but they werekeptin a 
compartmentforwardof the control room, from which he had barred 
himselfwhenhe hadsealedthedoorof thelatterchamber' 
He remainedatthe cavemouth,lying motionlessandwatchingal­
ternatelytheskyandtheship.once or twice he may havedozed;but he 
was awake andalertwhenthe low hills beyondtheship'shull caughtthe 
firstraysof the rising sun.Fora minute or two theyseemedto hang de­
tachedin a blackvoid, while the flood of blue-whitelight crept down 
theirslopes;thenoneby one, theirbasesmergedwith eachotherandthe 
groundtelow to form a connected landscape.The silveryhull gleamed 
f,rilliantly, the refection from it lighting the cavebehind Cunningham 
andmakinghis eyes waterwhenhe tried to watchfor the openingof the 
airlock. 
He was forcedto keep his eyes elsewheremostof the and 
look only in brief glimpsesat the dazzlingmetal;and in consequence' 
he paid moreattentionto the detailsof his environmentthan he might Uncommon
Sense 255 
otherwise have done. At the time, this circumstanceannoyedhim; he has since been heard to bless it ferventlyandfrequently. Although the planet had much in common with Luna as regarded size, mass, and airlessness, 
its landscape was extremely different. The daily tenific heatings which it underwent, followed by abrupt and equally intense temperafure drops each night, had formed an excellent substitutefor weather; and elevations that might at one time haverivaled the Lunar ranges werenowmere rounded hillocks, like that containing Cunningham'scave.As on the Earth's moon, the productsof the age-long spalling had taken the form of fine dust, which lay in drifts every­where. What could have drifted it, on an airless and consequently windlessplanet, struck Cunningham as a puzzle of the first magnitude; and it bothered him for sometime until his attentionwas taken by cer­tainother objects upon and betweenthe drifts. These he had thoughtat first to be outcroppingsof rock;but he was at last convinced that they were specimens of vegetable life-miserable,lichenousspecimens,but nevertheless He wonderedwhat liquid theycontained, in an
vegetation. environmentat a temperaturewell above the melting point of lead. 
The discoveryof animallife-medium-sized,crablike things, cov­eredwith jet-blackintegument,that began to dig their way out of the driftsas the sun warmedthem-completed the job of draggingCun­ningham'sattentionfrom his immediate problems.He was not a zoolo­gist by training, but the subjecthadfascinatedhim for years; and he had alwayshad money enough to indulge his hobby.He had spent years wanderingthe Galaxyin search of bizane life forms-proof, if anywere 
needed,of a lackof scientific haining-and terrestrialmuseumshadal­ways been more than glad to accept the collectionsthat resultedfrom eachtrip and usually to send scientists of their own in his footsteps. He had been in physical dangeroftenenough,but it had always been from the life hestudiedor from the forces which make up the interstellartrav­eler's regular diet, until he had overheardthe conversation which in­formed him that his two assistantswere planning to do away with him 
andappropriatethe ship for unspecifiedpu{posesof their own.He liked to think that the promptnessof his action following the discovery at least indicatedthat he was not growing old. 
But he did let his attentionwanderto the Denebian life forms. 
Showcase
Severalof the creatureswere emergingfrom the dust mounds within twentyor thirty yardsof Cunningham'shidingplace,givingrise to thehope that theywouldcomenearenoughfor a close examination. 
At that distance,the,rzwere more crablike than ever,with round, flat bodiestwelveto eighteen inchesacross,andseveralpairsof legs.They scuttledrapidlyabout,stoppingat first one of the lichenousplantsand 
ttren another,apparentlytaking a few tentativenibblesfrom each,as though they had delicatetasteswhich neededpampering.once or twice therewerefightswhen the sametidbit athactedthe attentionof wasdoneon either
morethanoneclaimant;but little apparentdamage side,andthe victor spentnomore time onthemealhe won thanonthat whichcameuncontested. 
Cunninghambecamedeeplyabsorbedin watching the antics of 
thelittle creatures,andcompletelyforgotfor a time his own ratherpre­carioussituation.Hewasrecalledto it bythesoundofMalmeson'svoice 
in hisheadphones.
,,Don'tlook up, you fool;the shieldswill saveyourskin,but not 

your eyes.Get under the shadow of the hull, and we'll look overthe 
damage." bunningham instantlytransferredhis attention to the ship'The airlockonthesidetowardhim*the port-was open,andthe bulky fig-
werevisiblestandingon thegroundbeneath it. Theywerecladin the hearyutilitysuitswhich cunninghamhadre­uresofhistwo ex-assistants 
greitedleaving,andappearedto be suffering little or no inconvenience irom theheat,thoughtheywerestillstandingfull in Deneb's lightwhen 
he looked. Heknewthathardradiationburnswouldnot appear forsome time,but he held little hopeof Deneb'smoredeadlyoutputcomingto for the suitsr,veresupposedto afford protectionagainstthis
hisassistance; dangeraswell. Betweenheatinsulation,coolingequipment'radiation wetesoheav,vand
shiJldi'g, andplain mechanicalarmor,the garments burdenon anymajorplanet'They
bulkyasiobean almost insufferable 
weremoreoftenusedin performingexteriorrepairsin space' 

Cunningham watchedandlisienedcarefullyasthe men stooped underthe lowercurveof the hull to makean inspectionof the damage. 
It seemed, fromtheirconversation,to consistof a dentaboutthreeyards 
longandhalfas wide, aboutwhich nothingcouldbedone'andaseries of ,lai"lly arrangedcracksin the metalaroundit' Theserepresenteda UncommonSense 257 
definite threai to the solidity of the ship,and would have to be welded alongtheir full lengths before it would be safe to apply the stresses in­cident to second-orderflight.Malmeson was too good an engineer not to realize this fact, andCunninghamheardhim layplans for bringing powerlinesoutside for the welder and jackingup the hull to permit ac­cessto the lowerportions of the cracks. The latter operation wascarried out immediately,with an efficiency which did not in the least surprise thehiddenwatcher.After all, he hadhiredthemen. 
Everyfew minutes, to Cunningham'sannoyance,one of themen would carefully examine the landscape; firston the sideon which he was working, and then walking around the ship to repeat the performance. Evenin the low gravity, Cunningham knew he could not cross the half mile that lay between him and that invitingair lock, betweentwo of those examinations; and even if he could, his leaping figure,cladin the gleaming metal suit,would be sure to catch even an eyenot directed at it. It would not do to make the attemptunless success were certain; for hisunshieldedsuitwould heat in a minute or two to an unbearable tem­perature,andthe only place in which it waspossibleeither to remove or cool it was on boardthe ship. He finallydecided,to his annoyance, that the watch would not slackenso long as the air lock of the shipremained open. It would be necessary to find some means to distractor-an un­pleasantalternativefor a civilizedman-disable the opposition while Cunninghamgotaboard,lockedtheothers out, and located aweaponor otherfactorwhich would put him in a position to givethem orders. At that,he reflected, a weapon would scarcely there was a per-
benecessary; fectly good mediumtransmitteron board, if the men had not destroyed ordischargedit, and he need merelycall for help and keep themen out­
sideuntil it arrived. 
This, of course, presupposedsomesolutionto the problem of get­ting aboardunaccompanied.He would, he decided, have to examine theshipmore closely after sunset. He knew thevesselas well as his own home-he hadspentmoretime on her thanin any other home-and knew that there was no means of entry exceptthrough the two main locksforwardof the control room,and the two smaller, emergencylocks nearthe stern, one of which he had employedon his departure. Al1 thesecould be dogged shutfromwithin; and offhand he wasunableto Showcase
258 NebulaAwards 2000 
conceivea plan for forcinganyof the normalentrances.The viewports weretoo smallto admita man in a spacesuit,evenif the panes could be 
broken;andtherewasliterallyno other wayinto the shipsolong as the hull remainedintact.Malmesonwouldnot have talked so gliblyofweld­
ing them sufficientlywell to stand flight, if any of the cracks incurredon the landinghadbeenbig enough to admitahuman body-or eventhat ofa respectablyhealthygartersnake. 
Cunningham Savea mental shrug of the shouldersas these thoughtscrossedhis mind, andreiteratedhisdecisionto take a scouting sortieafterdark.For the rest of the dayhe dividedhisattentionbetween the workingmen and the equallybusylife forms that scuttledhereand 
therein front of hir cave; andhe would havebeenthe firstto admitthat he found the lattermoreinteresting. He still hoped that one would approachthe cave closelyenoughto permita reallygoodexamination,but for a long time he remained-unsat­
isfied.Once,oneof the creatures camewithin a dozenyardsandstood 
risingmorethana foot from thegroundon its slender legs,

,,ontiptoe"-
while apairof antennae terminatingin knobsthe sizeof human eyeballs 
extendedthemselvesseveralinchesfrom the blackcarapaceand waved 
slowlyin all directions.cunningham thoughtthattheknobsprobablydid 
serveaseyes,though from his distancehe could seeonly a feah:reless 
blacksphire.The antennaeeventuallywavedin his direction, andaftera 
few sefondsspent,apparentlyin assimilatingthe presenceof the cave 
mouth, the creaturesettledbackto its former low-swungcarriageand 
scuttledaway.cunningham wonderedif it had been frightenedat his 
presence;but he felt reasonablysurethat no eyeadaptedto Denebian 
daylightcould seepastthe darknessof the threshold,and he had re­
-air,.d motionlesswhile the creaturewasconducting its inspection. 
to fearcaves,or merelydarkness.

More probablyit hadsomereason 
ihnt it had reasonto fear somethingwasshownwhen another 
creature,also of crustaceanaspectbut considerablylargerthan those 
fromamongthedunesandat-Cunninghamhadseento date,appeared 
tackedone of the latter.The fight took placetoo far from the cavefor 
Cunninghamtomakeoutmanydetails,butthelargeranimalquickly 
overcameits victim. It then apparentlydismemberedthe vanquished' 
and either devouredthe softerflesh inside the black integument or 

suckedthebodyfluidsfromit'Thenthecarnivoredisappearedagain' Uncommon
Sense259 
presumablyin search of new victims.It had scarcely gone when another 
being, designed along the lines of a centipede and fully forty feet in 
len$h, appeared onthescenewith the graceful flowing motionof its ter­
restrialcounterpart. 
For a few moments the newcomer nosed around the remains of the carnivoret feast, and devoured the larger fragments.Then it ap­peared to look around as though for more, evidently saw the cave,and camerippling toward it, to Cunningham's pardonablealarm. He was to­tallyunarmed, and while the centipede hadjustshowed itself not to be above eating carrion, it lookedquite able to kill its own food if necessary. It stopped, as the other investigatorhad, a dozenyards from the cave mouth; and like the other, elevated itself as though to get a better look. The baseball-sizedblack"eyes"seemedfor several secondsto stareinto Cunningham'smore orthodoxoptics;then, like its predecessor, and to the man's intense relief, it doubled backalong its own len$h and glided swiftly out of sight.Cunningham againwonderedwhether it had de­tected his presence, or whether cavesor darknessin general spelleddan­gerto these odd life forms. 
It suddenly occurredto him that,if the latter werenot the case, theremightbesometracesof previous occupantsof the cave;andhe set about examining the place more closely, after a lastglancewhich showed him the two menstill at workjackingup the hull. 
Therewasdrifteddusteven here, he discovered, particularlyclose 
to the walls and in the corners. The place wasbright enough, owingto the light refected from outside obiects,to permit agood examination-shadowson airless worldsare not soblack as many people believe-and almostat once cunningham found marks in the dust that could easily havebeenmadeby some of the creatures he had seen. There were enough of them to suggestthatthe cave was a well-frequented neighbor­hood;and it beganto look asthoughtheanimalswere staying away now 
becauseof the man's presence. Nearthe rear wall he found the empty integumentthathadonce 
covereda four-iointed leg. It was light, and he saw thatthe flesh hadei­therbeeneaten or decayed out,thoughit seemed oddto think of decay in an airless environmentsufferingsuch extremesof temperature­thoughthe cave was less subiect to this effectthan the outerworld. 
Showcase
Cunninghamwonderedwhethertheleg had beencarriedin by its right­ful owner, or as a separate itemon the menuofsomethingelse.If the for­mer,theremight be morerelics about. There were. A few minutes' excavationin the deeper layers of dust producedthe complete exoskeletonof one of the smaller crablikecrea­tures;andCunninghamcarriedtheremainsoverto the cave mouth,so as to examinethem and watch the ship atthe same time. The knobshehadtakenforeyeswerehisfirstconcern.A closeex-revealednothing,sohe carefullytriedto de­
aminationof their surfaces tach onefrom its stem. It finally crackedraggedlyaway,and proved,as he had expected,to be hollow. Therewasno trace of a retina inside,but therewasno flesh in anyof the otherpiecesof shell,so that provednoth­ing.As a sudden thoughistruckhim, cunningham heldthefront part of 
andsureenough,when
thedelicateblackbit of shell in frontofhiseyes; he looked in the directionof the brightlygleaminghull ofthespaceship, a spark oflightshowedthroughan almost microscopichole.The sphere wcBar eye, constructedon the pinholeprinciple-quite an adequate designon a world furnishedwith such an overwhelmingluminary. It 
wouldbe uselessat night,of course, but sowouldmostothervisualor­ganshere;andCunninghamwasonceagainfacedwith theproblemof 
f,o* rrry of the creatureshad detectedhis presence in the cave-his 

originaibelief,ihat no eye adiustedto meetDenebt glarecould look 
into its relatively total darkness,seemedto be sound' 

Heponderedthequestion,asheexaminedtherestoftheskeleton in a half-ieartedfashion.Sightseemedto be out,asa resultof hisex­amination;smellandhearingwereruledoutby the lackof atmosphere; 
tasteandtouchcouldnotevenbeconsideredunderthecircumstances. 
as

He hatedto fall backon sucha time-honored refugefor ignorance 
"extrasensoryperception,"but he was unable to see anywayaroundit' 
ltmayseemunbelievablethatamaninthepositionLairdCun­ninghamo"cupi.d could let his mind becomesoutterly absorbedin a 
probl"-unconnectedwith his personalsurvival.Suchindividualsdo 
whohasshownsometraceof

exist,however;mostpeopleknowsomeone 
sucha trait; andCunninghamwasa well-developed example'He had a 
single-trackmind, andhad intentionallyshelvedhispersonalproblem 

for the moment. 
Uncommon
Sense261 
His musings were interrupted, before he finisheddissectinghis specimen,by the appearanceof one of the carnivorous creafuresat what appearedto constihrte a marked distance-a dozen yardsfrom his cave mouth, where it rose up on the ends of itsthin legs and goggled around at the landscape. Cunningham,half in humor and half in honest cu­riosity,tossed one of the dismembered legsfrom the skeleton in his hands at the creature. It obviously saw the flying limb; but it made no ef­fort to pursue or devourit. Instead,it turned its eyes in Cunningham's di­rection, and proceededwith great haste to put one of the driftsbetween it andwhat it evidentlyconsidereda dangerous neighborhood. 
It seemed to have no memory to speak of, however; for a minute or two later Cunningham saw it creep into viewagain, stalking one of the smaller creatures which still swarmed everywhere, nibbling at the plants. He was able to get a better view of the fight and the feast that followed than on the previous occasion, for they took place much nearer to his po­sition; but this time there was a rather different ending. The giant cen­tipede, or another of its kind, appeared on the scene while the carnivore was still at its meal, and cameflowing at a truly surprising rateover the dunes to fall on victorandvanquishedalike.The former hadno inkling of its approachuntil much too late;and both black bodies disappeared into the maw of the creature Cunningham had hoped was merely a scavenger. 
What made the whole episode of interest to the man was the fact that in its charge, the centipede loped unheeding almost directly through a group of the plant-eaters;and these, by common consent, brokeand ran at top speed directly toward the cave. At first he thought theywould swerve aside when they saw what lay ahead; but evidently he wasthe lesser of two evils, for they scuttled past and even over him as he lay in the cave mouth, and beganto bury themselvesin thedeepest dust they could find. Cunninghamwatchedwith pleasure,as an excellent group of specimens thus collected themselves for his convenience. 
As the lastof them disappearedunder the dust, he tumed back to thescene outside. The centipedewasjustfinishing its meal. This time, insteadof immediatelywandering out of sight, it oozed quickly to the top of one of the larger dunes, in full sight of the cave, and deposited its length in the form of a watchspring,with the head resting above the coils. Cunningham realized that it was able, in this position, to look in 
nearly all directionsand, owing to the heightof its position, to a consid­erabledistance. 
With the centipedeapparentlysettledfor a time, andthe men still working in full view, Cunningham determinedto inspect one of his specimens.Going to the nearest wall, he bent down and goped cau­tiously in the dust. He encountereda subjectalmostat once, and 
draggedasquirmingblack crab into the light. He found that if he held it 
upside down on one hand,none ofits legs could geta purchase on any­thing;andhe was able to examine the underpartsin detail in spite ofthe wildly thrashinglimbs.The iaws,now openingand closingfutilely on 
a vacuum, wereequippedwith a setof crushersthat suggestedcurious thingsaboutthe plants on which it fed; theylookedcapableof fattening the metalfinger of Cunningham'sspacesuit,and he kepthis hand well 
out of their reach. 
He becamecuriousas to the internal mechanismthatpermittedit to existwithout air,andwas faced with the problemof killing the thing withoutdoingit too much mechanical damage.It wasobviouslyableto surviveagoodmanyhourswithoutthe directradiationof Deneb,which wasthe mostobvioussourceof enerry, althoughits body temperature washigh enough to be causing the man somediscomfortthrough the 
glove of his suit; so "drowning' in darknesswas impractical.There 
might, however,be somepart of its body on which a blow would either 
shrnor kill it; and he lookedaroundfor a suitable weaPon' 
There wereseveraldeepcracksin the stoneat the cavemouth, 
causedpresumablyby thermal expansionand contraction;and with a 
little efforthe wasableto break loosea pointed,fairly heavyfragment' 
with this in his right hand, he laid the creatureon its back on the 
ground,andhopedit had somethingcorrespondingto a solarplexus. 
Itwastooquickforhim.The legs,whichhadbeenunableto reach 
his hand when it was in the centerof the creature's carapace,proved 
suppleenoughto get a purchaseon the ground;and before he could 
strike,it wasright side up and departingwith a haste that put to shame 
itspreviouseffortsto escaPe from the centipede' 
Cunninghamshrugged,anddug out anotherspecimen'This time 
heheld it in his handwhile hedrovethepointof his rockagainstitsplas­
hon. There wasno apparenteffect;he had not daredto striketoo hard, 
Sense263
Uncommon 
for fearof crushing the shell. He struckseveralmore times, with identi­cal results and increasingimpatience; and at last there occurred the re­sulthe had feared. The black armor gave way, and the point penetrated deeply enough to insure the damage of most of the interior organs.The legsgave a final twitch or two, and ceased moving, and Cunningham gave an exclamation of annoyance. 
On hope, he removed the broken bits of shell, and for a moment lookedin surpriseatthe liquid which seemed to have filled the body cav­ities.It was silvery, even metallic in color;it might havebeenmercury, except that it wet the organs bathedin it and was probably atatempera­tureabove the boiling point of that metal. Cunningham hadjustgrasped this fact when he was violently bowled over, and the dead creature snatchedfrom his grasp. He made a complete somersault, bringing up againstthe rearwall of the cave; and as he came upright he saw to his horror that the assailant was none other than the giant centipede. 
It was disposing with great thoroughness of his specimen, leaving at lastonly a few fragments of shell that had formed the extreme tips of thelegs; and as thelastof thesefell to the ground, it raised the forepart ofits body from the ground, as the man had seen it do before,and turned the invisible pinpoints of itspupils on the spacesuited human figure. 
Cunningham drew a deep breath, and took a firm hold of his pointedrock, though he had little hopeof overcoming thecreature.The jawshe had iustseen at work had seemedevenmoreefficient than those of theplant-eater,and they were large enough to takein a human leg. 
For perhaps fivesecondsboth beings faced each other without mo­tion; then to the mant inexpressible relief,the centipede reached the sameconclusiontowhich its previous examinationof humanity had led it, and departed in evident haste. This time it did not remainin sight,but was still moving rapidly when it reached the limit of Cunningham's 
The naturalistreturned somewhat shakily to the cave mouth, seated himself where he could watch his ship, and began to ponder deeply. A number of points seemed interesting on first thought, and on further cerebration became positively fascinating. The centipede had not seen, or at leasthad not pursued, the plant-eater thathadescaped from Cunningham and run from the cave. Looking back,he realized thatthe only times he had seen the creature attack were after"blood" had been alreadyshed-twice by one of the carnivorousanimals,the third time by Cunningham himself.It had apparently madeno differ­encewhere the victimshad been-two in full sunlight, onein the dark­ness of the cave. More proof, if any were needed,that the creatures could seein both grades of illumination. It was not strictly a carrion eater,however;Cunningham rememberedthat carnivorethat had ac­companiedits victim into the centipede'siaws.It wasobviouslycapable of overcomingthe man, but had twice reheatedprecipitatelywhen it had excellentopportunitiesto attackhim. What wasit, then, that drew the creatureto scenesof combatand bloodshed, but frightenedit away from a man;that frightened, indeed,all of these creatures? 
On anyplanetthat had a respectableatmosphere,Cunningham 
-
wouldhavetakenone answer forgranted scent.In hismind,however, organsof smell were associatedwith breathingapparatus,which these creaturesobviouslylacked. 
Don't askwhy he took so long. You may think that the terrific adaptabilityevidencedby those shangeeyeswould be clue enough;or perhapsyou may be in a mood to excusehim. Columbusprobablyex­cusedthoseof his friends who failedto solve the eggproblem. 
Of course,he gotit at last, andwasproperlyannoyedwith himself 
for takingsolong about it. An eye,to us, is an organfor forming images 
of the source of such radiationasmayfall on it; and a nose is a gadget 
thattellsits owner of the presenceof molecules. He needshisimagina­
tion to pichrrethesourceof the latter.But whatwouldyoucall an organ 
thatformsa pictureof the sourceof smell? 
For that wasiustwhatthose"eyes"did. In the nearly perfect vac­
* 
uum of this little world'ssurface,gasesdiffusedat high speed andtheir moleculeshaveledin practically straightlines.Therewasnothingwrong with theidea of a pinhole cameraeye, whose retinawascomposedof ol­factorynerveendingsratherthan the rodsand conesof photosensitive 
organs. 
That seemedto account for everything.Of coursethe creatures 
wereindifferentto the amount of light reflectedfrom the obiecttheyex­
amined.The glare of the openspacesunderDeneb'srays, and the rela­
tiveblacknessof a cave,wereall one to them-provided somethingwas 
diffirsingmoleculesin the neighborhood.And whatdoesn't?Everysuh' 
Sense 265 
Uncommon 
stance, solid or liquid, has its vapor pressure;under Deneb's rays even somerather unlikely materials probably evaporatedenough to affect the organs of these life forms metals, particularly. The life fluid of the crea­
-tures was obviously metal-probably lead, tin, bismuth, or some similar metals, or still more probably, several of them in a mixture that carried the substances vital to the life of their body cells. Probably much of the makeup of those cellswasin the form of colloidal metals. But that was the business ofthe biochemists. Cunninghamamused himselffor a time by imagining the analory between smell and color which must exist here; light gases, such as oxygen and nitrogen, must be rare, and the tiny quantities that leaked from his suit would be absolutely new to the creatures that intercepted them. He must have affected their nervous systems thewayfire did those of teneshial wild animals. No won­dereven the centipede had thought discretion the better part ofvalor! 
With his lessessentialproblem solved for the nonce, Cunningham turned his attention to that of his own survival; and he had not pondered many moments when he realized that this, as well, might be solved. He began slowly to smile, as the discrete fragmentsof an ideabeganto sort themselvesout and fit properly together in his mind-an ideathat in­volvedthe vapor pressureof metallic blood,the leaking qualities of the utility suits worn by his erstwhile assistants, and the bloodthirstiness of his many-legged acquaintances of the day; and he had few doubts about any of thosequalities. The plan became complete, to his satisfaction; and with a smile on his face, he settledhimselfto watch until sunset. 
Deneb had already crosseda considerable arc of the sky. Cun­ningham did not knowjusthow long he had, as he lacked a watch; and it was soon borne in on him that time passes much more slowly when thereis nothing to occupy it. As the afternoon drew on, he was forced awayfrom the cave mouth; for the descending star was beginning to shinein.|ustbeforesunset,hewas crowded against one side; for Deneb's fierce rays shoneshaightthrough the entrance and onto the opposite wall, leavingvery little space not directly illuminated. Cunningham drew a sigh of relieffor more reasonsthan one when the upper limb of the deadly luminary finally disappeared. 
His specimens had long since recoveredfromtheir fright, and left the cavern; he had not tried to stop them. Now, however,he emerged Showcase 
fiom the low entryway and went directly to the nearestdust dune, which was barely visiblein the starlight. A fewmoments'search was rewarded with one of the squirmingplant-eaters,which he carried back into the shelter; then, illuminating the scene carefullywith the smalltorch that 
wasclipped to the waist of his suit, he made a fair-sized pile of dust, gougeda long groove in the top with his toe;with the aid of the same stone he had used before, he killed the plant-eaterand poured its "blood"into the dust mold. 
The fluid was metallic, all right; it cooledquickly,and in two or threeminutes Cunningham had a silvery rodabout as thick as a pencil andfive or six inches long.He had been a little worried aboutthe cen­tipedeat first; but the creaturewaseithernot in line to "see"into the cave,or had dug in for the night like its victims. 
Cunninghamtookthe rod, which was about as pliable asa strip of solder of the same dimensions,and, extinguishing the torch, madehis wayin a series of short, carefulleaps to the stranded spaceship.There was no signof the men,andtheyhad taken theirweldingequipmentin­sidewith them-that is, if they had everhad it out; Cunningham had not beenable to watchthemfor the lasihour of daylight. The hull was still jackedup, however;and the naturalist easedhimselfunderit and beganto examine the damage,oncemoreusingthe torch.It was about as he haddeduced from the conversation of the men;andwith a smile, he took the little metal stickand went to work. He was busyfor some 
time under the hull, and oncehe emerged,found anotherplant-eater, 
and went back underneath.After he had finished, he walked once 
aroundtheship,checkingeachof the airlocksandfindingthemsealed, 
as he hadexpected. 
He showedneithersurprisenor disappointmentat this;and with­
outfurtherceremonyhe madehiswaybackto thecave, which hehad a 
little troublefindingin the starlight,He made a large pileof the dust,for 
insulationrather than bedding,lay down on it, and tried to sleep.He had 
verylittle success,ashe might haveexpected. 
Night, in consequence,seemedunbearablylong;and he almost 
regrettedhis star studyof the previous darkness,for now he was able to 
see that sunrisewasstill distant,ratherthanbolsterhis morale with the 
hopethat Denebwould be in the sky the nexttime he openedhis eyes. 
Sense 267 
Uncommon 
The time finally came, however, when the hilltops across the valley leapedone by one into brilliance asthe sunlight caughtthem; and Cun­ningham rose and stretched himself.He was stiff and cramped, for a spacesuitmakesa poor sleeping costume even on a better bed than a stone floor, 
As the light reached the spaceship and hrrned it into a blazing sil­very spindle, the air lock opened. Cunningham had been sure that the men were in a hurry to finish their task, andwereprobably awaiting the sun almost as eagerly ashe in order to work efficiently; he hadplanned on this basis. 
Malmeson was the first to leap to the ground,judgingby their con­versation,which came clearly through Cunningham'sphones. He hrrnedback,and his companion handeddown to him the bulky diode welder and a stackof filler rods. Then both men made their way forward to the dent where they were to work. Apparently they failed to noticethe bits of loosemetal lying on the scene-perhaps they had done some fil­ing themselvesthe daybefore. At any rate,there was no mention of it as Malmesonlaydownand slid under the hull, and the other began hand­ing equipment in to him. 
Plant-eaterswere beginning to shuggleout of their dust beds asthe connections were completed, and the torch startedto fame. Cunning­ham nodded in pleasure as he noted this; things could scarcely have been timed better had the men beenconsciouslyco.operating.He acfu­allyemergedfrom the cave, keeping in theshadow of the hillock, to in­creasehis field of view; but for several minutes nothing but plant-eaters couldbeseen moving. 
He was beginning to fear that his invited guests were too distant to receivetheir call, when his eye caught a glimpse of a long, black body slippingsilently over the dunes toward the ship. He smiled in satisfac­tion; and then his eyebrows suddenlyroseas he saw a second snaky form followingthe tracks of the first. 
He looked quickly acrosshis full field of view, and wasrewardedby the sight of four more of the monsters-all heading at breakneck speed straightfor the spaceship. The beacon he had lighted had reached more eyesthan he had expected. He was sure that the men were armed, and Showcase
hadneverintendedthattheyactuallybeovercomebythe creatures;he 
had counted on a temporarydistractionthatwould let him reach the air Iock unopposed. 
He stood up, and braced himselffor the dash, as Malmeson's helper saw the first of the charging centipedesand calledthe welder from his work. Malmesonbarelyhad time to gainhisfeet when the first pair of attackers reachedthem; and at the sameinstantCunningham emergedinto the sunlight, puttingeveryounceof his shen$h into the leaps that were carrying him toward theonly shelterthatnow existed for him. 
He could feelthe ardor of Deneb'srays the instant theystruck him; 
and before hehad covered a third of thedistancethebackof his suit was painfully hot. Things were hot for his ex-crew as well; fully ten of the black monstershad reactedto the burstof-to them-overpoweringly attractiveodor-or gorgeous color?-thathadresulted when Malmeson hadturned his welderon the metalwhere Cunningham hadappliedthe frozen blood of their nafural prey; and moreof the samesubstancewas now vaporizing under Deneb'sinfluence asMalmeson,who had been lying in fragments of it, stood fighting off the attackers.He had a flame pistol, but it was slowto take effecton creatureswhose very blood was moltenmetal;and his companion,wieldingthe diode unit on those who gottoo close, was no better off. They were practicallyswampedunder wrigglingbodiesas they workedtheir waytowardthe air lock; and nei­ther man saw Cunninghamas, staggering evenunderthe feeble gravity that was present,and fumbling with eyeshield mistedwith sweat,he reachedthe same goal anddisappearedwithin. 
Beingahumaneperson,he left the outerdooropen;buthe closed and doggedthe inner one beforeproceedingwith a more even step to the conhol room.Herehe unhurriedly removedhis spacesuit, stopping 
only to openthe switch of the powersocketthat wasfeedingthe diode unit as he heardtheouterlock door close.The fame pistolwouldmake 
no impression on the alloy of the hull, andhe felt no qualmsaboutthe securityof the inner door.The men wele safe,from every point of view. With the welderremovedfrom the list of activemenaces'he fin­
ished removing his suit, tumed to the medium transmitter,and coolly Then he hlrnedon a 
broadcasta call for helpandhispositionin space. 
radiotransmitter,so that the rescuerscould find him on the planet;and 

Sense269Uncommon 
only then didhecontacttheprisonerson the small set that was tuned to the suit radios,and tell them what hehaddone. 
"I didn'tmeanto do you any harm," Malmeson's voice came back' "I just wanted the ship. I know you paid us pretty good, but when I thoughtof the money that could be made on some of those worlds if we lookedfor something besides crazy animals andplants, I couldn't help myself.You can letus out now; I swear wewon't try anything more -the shipwon'tfly,andyou say a Guard fyer is on the way. How about that?" 
"I'm sorryyou don't like my hobby," saidCunningham."I find it entertaining;and there have been times when itwaseven useful, though I won't hurtyour feelings by telling you about thelast one. I thinkI shall feel happier if the two of you stay right there in the air lock; the rescue ship should be here before many hours, and you're fools if you haven't food and waterin your suits." 
"l guessyou win, in that case," said Malmeson. 
"I think so, too," replied Cunningham, and switched off. 




RhystingAward Winners 
JOHNGREY LAURELWINTER 
TheScienceFiction Poetry Associationgivesthe awardsannu­a[[yfor bestshorlpoem(underfifty tines) andbest tong poem (morethanfifty) of theyear.Theawardis namedfor the wan­deringBtindSingerof the Spaceways 
in Robert A. Heinlein's ctassicstory,"TheGreenHil.tsof Earth." Thisyear'swinnersare John Grey,whohaspubtishedseveral works before, and Laurel Winter, whosaid of hersetf: 
Laurel Winter livesin a passive-so|ar, smarthouse
earth-bermed withher husband and thifteen-year-old 
twin sons. Shegrewupin the mountains of lvlontanoand attended o one-roomcountry gradeschool with one teacherfor eightyeors.Sheturnedfortyon Earthdoy1999 ond isenjoyingit a greatdeal. 
Her short story of several yearsago,"InfinitySyrup,"was an evocativetale of Zen shopping. 
ExptainingFrankensteinto HisMother JOHNGREY 
His blinkered passion hasrobbed him of much of whatyou remember. The Baron makesmockery of your good and dutiful haining in the winding corridors, thehundredand one frigidrooms ofthat joylescastle. He completelyignores therules and regulations youdrummedinto him from birth to whenhe slipped your net, fell prey to the radical ideasthatenmeshed that accursed Swisscollegetighter than iry. No, he has not followed theplot you wrotefor him. He seldom changesoutof that raggedcoat, those faded gray pantaloons. He doesnot pick up afterhimself, noteven the blood. He isdisrespecfulof hiselders, especiallythe ultimate elder, God. And he writes youno letters, saveshisquill for crazed diary scribblings. 
He has become more a bleak personification 

ofhis owncrazedconcept 
thanthewell respectedman of scienceyou envisioned. 
And worse, thoughhehas not married 
andsettleddownlike the rest of your brood, 
hehasgivenyou a grandchild, 
ahideousthingmadefrom 
theflotsamandietsamof corpses. 
Unloved,it roamsthelandscape, 
clumsilyplungingmisunderstanding 
into terror. 

Rhysting Award Winners 273 
'Life! I have created lifel" was the 
lastthinghe said to me. 
An old sayingof yours, as I understand it. 


whygotdfishshouldn't use powertools LAURELWINTER 
first, they would probably be electrocuted,asit is dangerous to mix waterand electricity. 
but what about battery power, 
you ask, for examplea cordless drill 
with modifiedtrigger, 
sensitiveenough to respond 
to a filmy pectoralfin, 
sothat even dn angel fish 
couldactivatethe bit? 
I mean-yor say-what about Navy S.E.A.L.s? 
don't they usepowertools underwater? 
couldn'tthosebemodified? 

well, yes, technically it couldbe done, but think aboutit: your goldfish swimminground in their bowl atopyourLouiswhateverpedestaltable and an antiquedoilyhanded down from great-aunt beatrice -who could have given you a million dollars but no it was the doily instead-thosegoldfish with a dazed expression and vacant eyes and no cerebralcortexto speakof? do you really want to give them thatkind of power? those kindsof tools? think about it. think about waterdamage and how foolishyou'd feel filling out the insuranceclaim, admitting that the bowl broke 
becauseyouempoweredyourgoldfish, 
gave them power tools and power over their destiny. 
andhow would youknow 
if one of your goldfish had a death wish? 
it could bemurder/suicide 
andyouwould be an accessory. 

butwhat aboutgoldfish rights? you say 

whatabout the artisticpossibilities, 
thefineengravingtheymightdo 
on the inside of the bowl, 
which i could then seIIfor a million dollars 
-take that aunt beatrice-andwhatif 
they'reyeamingfor expression? 

okay,fine, expression isgood, 
but steerthemin other directions. 
howaboutperformance art? 
turn a videocameraon the bowl 
and give them the opportunity 
to reveal their souls that way. 
you can always tape over 
theboringparts; 
goldfishdon't seem to understand 
dramaticstructure. 

-
or powertools or the projectedangstyou are misdirecting. you want a powertool? get one for yourself. buy the goldfisha plastic castle anda bag of coloredmarbles, or maybeone of thosebubblyskeletonthings 
thatgoes up anddown. 
you want to givethem 
morethantheyneed. 
your own curvedrefection 
staresbackatyou 
from insidethe bowl. 



APPENDIXES 

Aboutthe Nebula Awards 
The Nebula Awards are chosen by the members of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America.In 1998 they were givenin four categories:shortstory-under 7,5oowords; novelette-7,5oo to 17,49g words;novella-r7,5ooto 39,999words; and novel-morethan4o,ooo words.SFWA members readand nominate the best SF stories and nov­els throughout the year,and the editorof the "Nebula Awards Report" collects these nominations and publishes them in a newsletter.At the end of the year, there is a preliminary ballot andthen a final one to de­termine the winners. 
The NebulaAwardsarepresentedatabanquet at the annual Neb­ula Awards Weekend, held originally in New York and, over the years, in places asdiverseas New Orleans; Eugene, Oregon; and aboard the QueenMary, in Long Beach, California. 
The Nebula Awards originatedin 1965,from an idea by Lloyd Bigglefr., the secretary-treasurer
of SFWA at that time, who proposed that the organization select and publish the yeart best stories, andhave been given eversince. 
The award itself was originally designed by fudith Ann Blish from a sketch by Kate Wilhelm. The official description: "a block of Lucite four to five inches square by eight to nine incheshigh into which a spiralnebulaof metallic glitter and a geologicalspecimenare 
embedded." SFWAalsogivesthe Grand MasterAward,its highest honor.It is 
presentedfor a lifetime of achievementin sciencefiction. Institutedin tg75,it is awarded only to living authorsand is not necessarilygiven 
everyyear. The Grand Masteris chosenby SFWA'sof6cers,pastpresi­dents,and board of directors. The first Grand MasterwasRobertA.Heinlein inry74-The others are|ackWilliamson(tqZ5),Clifford Simak(tqZ6), L. Sprague de Camp 
(tqz8),Fritz Leiber (r98r),AndreNorton(tg83),ArthurC. Clarke(tg8l)' IsaacAsimov(1986),AlfredBester(t982), Ray Bradbury(1988),Lesterdel Rey(r99o),FrederikPohl (1992),Damon Knight (rgg4),A. E. van Vo$ 
andHal Clement(rqg8)
(tqgS),fackVance(tgg6),PoulAnderson(1997), The thirty-fourthannualNebulaAwardsbanquetwasheld at the MarriottCity Center in Pittsburgh,Pennsylvania,
on May r, 1999. 

SetectedTittesfrom the 1998Preliminary 
NebutaBallot 

NOVE LS 
Atpha Centauri,William BartonandMichael Capobianco(Avon) 
Cosm,GregoryBenford(AvonEos) 
Koman,LoisMcMasterBujold(BaenBooks) 
Daysof Cain, |. R. Dunn (Avon) 
The PleistoceneRedemption,Dan Gallagher (CypressHouse) 
CommitrnentHour,famesAlan Gardner (AvonEos) 

TheDazzleof Day,Molly Gloss(TorBooks) 
BrownGirl in the Ring, Nalo Hopkinson(Warner Aspect) 

Maxinntmlight, NancyKress(TorBooks) CoIdlron,MelisaMichaels(Roc) SaintLeibowitzand theWild HorseWoman,Walter M. Miller |r. (with TerryBisson)(BantamSPectra) 
OnceaHero,ElizabethMoon (BaenBooks) 
Vasf,Linda Nagata(BantamSpectra) 
Hand of Prophecy,SevernaPark(AvonEos) 
Kirinyaga,Mike Resnick(Del ReY) 

Childrenof Cod,Mary Doria Russell(Villard Books) 
Appendixes 277 
Frameshift,Robertf. Sawyer(TorBooks) lovah's'\ngel, Sharon Shinn (Ace) TheNightWatch, Sean Stewart (Ace) lslandin theSea of Time,S.M. Stirling (Roc) Reckoninglnfinity,fohn Stith (TorBooks) lack Faust, Michael Swanwick(Avon) The Meno Tiee, Katie Waitman(Del Rey) Darwinia, Robert Charles Wilson (TorBook$ 
NOVELLAS 
"Cold at Heart," Brian A. Hopkins(StarlancePublications) "ln the Furnace of the Night," famesSarafin(Asimov'sScience Fiction) 
NOVELETTES 
"The Moon Girl," M. Shayne Bell (Asimov'sScienceFiction) 
"Thlt Thle,"NancyVarianBerberick(Advenfuresin Swordand Sorcery) 
"Content with the Mysterious," Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff (Analog) 

'Approaching

Perimelasma,"Geoftey A. l.andis (Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Little Differences," Paul Levinson (AnalogScienceFiction and Fact) "The Orchard," Paul Levinson (AnalogScienceFiction and Fact) "CrossingChao Meng Fu," G. David Nordley (AnalogScienceFiction 
andFact) "NoodleYou,Noodle Me," B. |. Thrower(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Lustman,"PatYork(Realmsof Fantasy) 
SHORTSTORIES 
"CosmicCorkscrew,"Michael A. Burstein(AnalogScienceFiction and 
Fact) "Kaleidoscope,"KateDaniel (Realmsof Fantasy) "Children of Tears," AdrienneGormley(AlternateTyrants, ed. Resnick 
and Greenberg, Tor Books) "Walter'sChristmas-NightMusik," Susan|. lkoupa (Realmsof Fantasy) "Monstrosity," Mary Soon Lee (TheMagazine of Fantasy6 Science 
Fichon)'Advantage,Bellarmine," Paul Levinson (AnalogScience
Fiction and Fact) "Tiger, Tiger,"SevernaPark(Realmsof Fantasy) 
"The HandYou'reDealt,"Robertf. Sawyer(Free Space, ed. Linaweaverand Kramer, Tor Books) "Waiting for Victor," Del Stone fr. (Nfred Hitchcock's lvlysteryMagazine) 
"silver Apples,"BeverlySuarez-Beard(Realmsof Fantasy) "The Big One," fim VanPelt(AnalogScienceFiction and Fact) "The Balladof KansasMcGriff" Bud Webster (Hobo Times) 

Past Nebula AurardWinners 
1965 

BestNovel: Duneby FrankHerbert BestNovella:"The SalivaTiee" by BrianW Aldiss and "He Who Shapes"by Roger Zelazny (tie) BestNovelette:"The Doorsof His Face, theLamps of His Mouth" by RogerZelazny BestShortStory:"'Repent,Harlequin!'Saidthe Ticktockman" by HarlanEllison 
1,966 
BestNovel: Flowers forAlgernon by Daniel KeyesandBabel-t7by 
SamuelR. Delany (tie) BestNovella:"The LastCastle"by fackVance Best Novelette: "Call Him Lord" by GordonR. Dickson Best Short Story:"The SecretPlace"byRichardMcKenna 
7967 
BestNovel:The Einstein Intersectionby Samuel R. Delany 
Best Novella: "BeholdtheMan" by MichaelMoorcock 
Best Novelette: "Gonna Roll the Bones"by Fritz Leiber 
BestShort Story:'Aye, and Gomorrah" by Samuel R. Delany 

19 68 
BestNovel: Rite of PassagebyAlexeiPanshin 
BestNovella:"Dragonrider"byAnneMcCaffrey 

Appendixes 279 
Best Novelette: "Motherto the World" by Richard Wilson Best Short Story: "The Planners"by Kate Wilhelm 
1969 
BestNovel: ThelzftHandof DarknessbyUrsulaK. Le Guin Best Novella: 'A Boyand His Dog" by Harlan Ellison Best Novelette: "Time Considered as a Helix of Semi-PreciousStones" 
by Samuel R.Delany BestShort Story: "Passengers"
by Robert Silverberg 
1970 
BestNovel: Ringworld by LarryNiven Best Novella: "Ill Met in Lankhmar" by Fritz Leiber Best Novelette: "SlowSculpfure"by Theodore Shrrgeon BestShortStory: no award 
797 7 
Best Novel: ATime of ChangesbyRobert Silverberg Best Novella: "The MissingMan" byKatherine Maclean Best Novelette: "The Queenof Air andDarkness"by Poul Anderson BestShort Story: "GoodNews from the Vatican" by Robert Silverberg 
797 2 
byIsaac Asimov Best Novella: 'A Meetingwith Medusa" byA.rthur C. Clarke Best Novelette: "GoatSong"byPoulAnderson Best Short Story: "When It Changed" byfoannaRuss BestNovel:TheCodsThemselves 
797 3 
Best Novel: Rendezvous with Rama by futhur C. Clarke Best Novella: "The Deathof Doctor Island" byGeneWolfe Best Novelette: "Of Mist,andGrass,and Sand" byVondaN. Mclntyre BestShortStory:"LoveIsthe Plan,the Plan Is Death" by |ames 
Tiptreefr. 
BestDramaticPresentation SoylentGreen StanleyR. Greenbergfor screenplay (basedon the novel Make Room!Make Room!) HarryHarrisonforMake Room!Make Room! 
797 4 
by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestNovella:"Born with the Dead"by Robert Silverberg BestNovelette:"If the Starsfue Gods"by Gordon Eklund and 
GregoryBenford BestShort Story: "The DayBeforetheRevolution"byUrsulaK. Le Guin B est DramaticPresentation: Slee perby Woody Allen GrandMaster:RobertA. Heinlein BestNovel: The Dispossessad 
797 5 
BestNovel:TheFareverWarbyfoeHaldeman 
BestNovella:"Home Isthe Hangman"by RogerZelazny 
BestNovelette:"SanDiegoLighfoot Sue"byTom Reamy 
Best Short Story:"CatchThat Zeppelin!"by FritzLeiber 
Best Dramatic Writing: Mel BrooksandGeneWilder forYoung 

Frankenstein 
GrandMaster:|ackWilliamson 

1976 
BestNovel:ManPIusby Frederik Pohl 
BestNovella:"Houston,Houston,Do You Read?" by )amesTiptree)r' BestNovelette:"The BicentennialMan" by Isaac fuimov Best Short Story:'A Crowdof Shadows" by Charles L' Grant GrandMaster:CliffordD. Simak 
7977 
BestNovel:Gatewayby FrederikPohl 
BestNovella:"stardance" by Spider and)eanneRobinson 
BestNovelette:"The ScrewfySolution"by RaccoonaSheldon 

Appendixes 281 
Best Short Story: "|effty Is Five" by Harlan Ellison Special Award: Star Wars 
797 I 
BestNovel:Dreamsnakeby Vonda N. Mclntyre 
Best Novella: "The PersistenceofVision" by)ohn Varley'A
BestNovelette: Glow of Candles, a Unicorn'sEye" by Charles L. 
Grant BestShort Story: "Stone"by Edward Bryant GrandMaster: L. Spraguede Camp 
7979 
BestNovel:The Fountains of Paradiseby Arthur C. Clarke BestNovella:"Enemy Mine" by Barry Longyear Best Novelette: "Sandkings"by George R. R. Martin Best Short Story: "giANTS" by Edward Bryant 
19 80 
BestNovel: Timescape by Gregory Benford BestNovella:"The Unicom Tapeshy" by Suzy McKee Charnas Best Novelette: "The Ugly Chickens" by Howard Waldrop BestShortStory:"Grotto of the Dancing Deer" by Clifford D. Simak Grand Master: Fritz Leiber 
1981 
Best Novel: The Claw of theConciliatorbyGeneWolfe Best Novella: "The SaturnGame" by PoulAnderson Best Novelette: "The Quickening"by Michael Bishop BestShort Story: "The Bone Flute" by Lisa Tirttleo 
7982 
Best Novel: No EnemyButTime by MichaelBishop 
oThisNebula Award was declihedbytheauthor. 
'AnotherOrphan"byfohn Kessel
BestNovella: BestNovelette:"FireWatch"byConnieWillis BestShortStory:'A Letterfrom the Clearys" byConnieWillis 
L 983 
BestNovel:StartideRisingbyDavidBrin 
BestNovella:"Hardfought"byGregBear BestNovelette:"BloodMusic"by GregBear BestShortStory:"The Peacemaker"by Gardner Dozois 
GrandMaster:AndreNorton 
1,984 
BestNovel:Neuromancerby William Gibson BestNovella:"PressEnterl" by)ohnVarley Best Novelette: "Bloodchild'by OctaviaE. Butler 
BestShortStory:"MorningChild" byGardnerDozois 
1985 
Best Novel: Ender'sGamebyOrsonScottCard BestNovella:"sailingto Byzantium" byRobertSilverberg BestNovelette:"Portraitsof His Children" by GeorgeR' R' Martin 
Best Short Story:"Out ofAll Them BrightStars"byNancyKress GrandMaster:futhur C. Clarke 
19 86 
BestNovel:SpeakerfortheDeadbyOrsonScottCard Best Novella: "R & R' by LuciusShepard BestNovelette:"The Girl Who Fellinto the Sky"by KateWilhelm 
Best Short Story:"Tangents"byGregBear 
GrandMaster:IsaacAsimov 

7987 
BestNovel:TheFallingWomanbyPat Murphy 
Appendixes283 
Best Novella: "The Blind Geometer" by Kim Stanley Robinson Best Novelette: "Rachelin Love" by PatMurphy Best Short Story: "ForeverYours, Anna" by Kate Wilhelm Grand Master: Alfred Bester 
1988 
BestNovel:FaIIingFreebyLois McMaster Bujold Best Novella: "The Last of theWinnebagos" by Connie Willis BestNovelette: "Schriidinger's Kitten" by George Alec Effinger BestShortStory;"BibleStories forAdults, No. r7: The Deluge" by 
)amesMorrow Grand Master: Ray Bradbury 
1989 
BestNovel:The Healer'sWarby ElizabethAnn Scarborough Best Novella: "The Mountainsof Mouming" by lois McMaster 
Buiold BestNovelette:'At the Rialto" by Connie Willis Best Short Story:"Ripplesin the Dirac Sea"by Geoftey Landis 
r990 
BestNovel: Tehanu: The Last Bookof Earthseaby Ursula K. Le Guin BestNovella:"The HemingwayHoax" by foe Haldeman Best Novelette: "Towerof Babylon" byTedChiang Best Short Story:"BearsDiscover Fire" byTerryBisson Grand Master: Lester del Rev 
1991 
BestNovel: Stations of theTideby Michael Swanwick BestNovella:"Beggarsin Spain" by NancyKress Best Novelette: "GuideDog" byMike Conner BestShortStory:"Ma Qui" by Alan Brennert 7992 
BestNovel: DoomsdayBookby Connie Willis Best Novella: "City of Tiuth" by |amesMorrow BestNovelette:"Danny Goesto Mars"by PamelaSargent BestShort Story: "EventheQueen"by ConnieWillis 
GrandMaster:FrederikPohl 
1993 
BestNovel: RedMarsby Kim StanleyRobinson 
BestNovella:"The NightWe BuriedRoadDog"by)ackCady BestNovelette:"Georgiaon My Mind" by Charles Sheffield Best Short Story:"Graves"by joe Haldeman 
7994 
BestNovel: MovingMarsbY Greg Bear 
BestNovella:"SevenViewsof Olduvai Gorge"byMike Resnick 
BestNovelette:"The Martian Child" by David Gerrold 
BestShortStory:'A Defenseof the SocialContracts"by Martha 

Soukup 
GrandMaster:Damon Knight 

7995 byRobertf 
BestNovella:"LastSummeratMarsHill" by ElizabethHand 
BestNovelette:"solihrde" by UrsulaK. Le Guin 
BestShortstory:"Deathand the Librarian"by EstherM. Friesner 

GrandMaster:A. E. vanVo$ Best Novel: TheTerminalExperiment ' Sawyer 
1996 
BestNovel: SIowRiverby Nicola Griffith BestNovella:"Da Vinci Rising'by |ackDann BestNovelette:"Lifeboaton a Burning Sea"by BruceHolland Rogers Appendixes 285 
BestShort Story: 'A Birthday"byEstherM. Friesner Grand Master: fackVance 
7997 
BestNovel:TheMoonand the Sun by Vonda N. Mclntyre Best Novella: 'Abandonin Place"byferryOltion 
Best Novelette: "The Flowersof Aulit Prison" by Nancy Kress 
BestShort Story: "SisterEmily'sLightship"byJaneYolen 
GrandMaster:PoulAnderson 

Aboutthe Science Fictionand 
FantasyWritersof America 

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Incorpo­rated, includes among its membersmost of the active writers of science fiction and fantasy. Accordingto the bylaws of the organization,its pur­pose"shall be to promote the furtherance of the writing of science fic­tion, fantasy,and related genresasa profession."SFWA informs writers on professional matters, protects their interests,and helps them in deal­ings with agents,editors, anthologists, and producers of nonprintmedia. It also strives to encouragepublic interest in and appreciation ofscience fiction and fantasy. 
Anyonemaybecomean active member of SFWA after the accep tanceof andpaymentfor oneprofessionallypublishednovel, one pro­fessionallyproduceddramaticscript, or three professionallypublished piecesof shortfiction.Only science fiction,fantasy,andotherprosefic­tion of a relatedgenre, in English,shallbe consideredas qualifiring for activemembership.Beginningwriterswho do not yet qualify for active membershipmay join as associate members;otherclassesof member­ship include illushator members(artists),affiliate members (editors, agents, reviewers, and anthologists), estate members (representativesof the estates of active memberswhohavedied),and instihrtional members (high schools,colleges,universities,libraries,broadcasters,film produc­ers, futurist groups,and individuals associatedwith suchan institution). 
Anyone who is not a member of SFWA may subscribe to The 
SFWABulletin.The magazineispublishedquarterly,and contains ar­
ticlesby well-known writerson all aspectsoftheirprofession.Subscrip­tionsare$r5a year or $27for two years.Forinformationon howto subscribeto theBulletin,writeto: 
SFWABulletin 
1436AltamontAve. 
PMBz9z 
Schenectady,
NY n3q-2977 arealsoinvitedtovisittheSFWAsiteonthe World WideWebReaders 
atthefollowingaddress:http://www.sfiva.
org 
PERMISSIO

NS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
"The Science Fictional Century" by GregoryBenford.Copyright@1999by 
Gregory Benford. FirstappearedinThe Magazine of Fantasy G Science Fiction 
(September1999)under the title,'A Scientist'sNotebook:The ScienceFiction 
Century."Reprintedbypermissionof the author. 
"ReadingtheBones"by Sheila Finch. Coppight@ by Sheila Finch. First appearedinThe Magazineof Fantasy 6 ScienceFicfion (January 1998).Reprinted by permission of the author. 
"LostGirls"byJaneYolen.Copyright @ ry97bylaneYolen.Firstappearedin TwelvelmpossibleThingsBeforeBreakfast(SanDiego:Harcourt Brac e, ry97).Reprintedby permission oftheauthor. 
"ThirteenWays to Water"byBruceHollandRogers.Copyright@ 1998 by Bruce HollandRogers.Firstappearedin Black cats and Broken Minors,editedby Martin 
H. Greenbergandfohn Helfers (New York: DAW, 1998).Reprintedby permission ofthe author. 
Excerptfrom Foreyer PeacebyJoeHaldeman.CopyrightO 1997by)oeHaldeman (NewYork: Ace Books, 1997). Reprinted bypermissionofthe author. 
"Why Can'tWe All JustLive Together?" byfonathanLethem.Copytight@1998 byfonathanLethem.First appeared inTheVillageVoiceLiterarySupplement (fune1998).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor. 
"Respectability"
byGordonVanGelder.Copyright@1998by Mercury press,Inc. First appeared inThe Magazineof Fantasy 6 science Ficfion(october/November 1998) under the title "Editorial."Reprintedby permission of the author. 
"Winter Fire" by Geoftey Landis.Copyright@r97 by Geoftey Landis'First appearedin Asimovb ScienceFictiorr(August'ggil' Reprintedbypermissionofthe author. ,,Lethe,'byWalter)onWilliams.Copyrighto 1997byWalter)onWilliams.First 1997)'Reprintedbypermissionof
appearedinAsimov'sScienceFiction(September theauthor. 
"The MercyGate"by Mark ). McGarry.Coppight@ 1998 byMarkJ'Mccany' 
FirstappeaiedinTheMagazineof Fantaty 6 Science Ficfion(March1998). 
Reprintedbypermissionof the author. 
"My LifeandHardTimesin SF' byWilliam Tenn'Copyright@r99 byPhilip 
Klass.Firstappearedin The Bulletinofthe seienceFictionand FantosyWtitersof America(Fali1999)underthetitle"SFWAAuthorEmeritusAcceptanceSpeech." Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor. 
"Uncommon Sense" byHal Clement.CopyrightO 1946by Street & Smith byHanyC. Stubbs,1974'Firstappeuedin Astounding 
Publications,Inc.Renewed 
(Februaryry46).Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthor'

ScienceFictron 
"Explaining Frankenstein to His Mother"byfohnGrey'Copyright@1997byfohn 
Grey.Firstappearedin StaroLine zo.3(May/fune 1997)' Reprintedbypermission 
ofthe author. 
..why GoldfishShouldn'tusePowerTools"byLaurelwinter. copyrighto 1997 Fiction(December1997)'
byl,aurelWinter.First appeared inAsirnov'sScienee 
Reprintedbypermissionof the author'