 
### DEATH AND TAXES

### by

### Sansoucy Kathenor

### SMASHWORDS EDITION

### *****

### Published by Valerie D. Kirkwood on Smashwords

### Death and Taxes

### Copyright © 2012 by Valerie D. Kirkwood

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Table of Contents

Death and Taxes

Captive Audience

A Walk on the Wind

The Book of Fate

The Castle-O-Lantern

Catspaw

Hunting Licence

Involunteer

Other books by Sansoucy Kathenor

Death and Taxes

"Mr Zemp," said the tax lawyer, a smooth, middle-aged man named Ptyual, who wore a suit although suits had gone out of fashion, "we want our money."

"My money," snarled Zemp. "You can't tax a dead man, and I've been dead for two years." He picked up his empty beer can and waved it airily. The can was always empty, but he liked its familiar feel in his hand, just as he liked his sloppy jeans and his fluorescent tee shirt advertising the Lunar Bouncers, who hadn't won a game in a decade.

"Of course we can tax you," said Ptyual. "As soon as the creation of zombies was legalized, the revenue laws were changed to include the new status. You are earning money, therefore you owe tax."

Zemp turned to Jellek, the third man sitting in the rock star's expensive suite. Graying and a bit tubby, Jellek wore the latest business-casual style, a track suit with a tie stenciled on the top half. He also wore an almost perpetual smile. "Jelly, are you going to let this blood-sucker get away with mopping out my money?"

"Well now, Zemp, baby, you can't really say he's stealing it. We had to get you legal status before you could go back on the stage, and once you're legal, they've got their claws into you."

"Same as you have," growled Zemp.

"Only fifteen per cent for me, sweetheart, and I earn it. It's not always easy to book a zombie. You'd be surprised how many people won't even consider – "

"Okay, I've heard it all before." Zemp thumped his can down. "If you let this guy take all my money, there won't be any fifteen per cent for you." He lifted the can again and waved it in triumphant logic.

Jellek mumbled, "I get mine off the top."

"Yeah, but if they take their ninety per cent of what's left, it won't be worth my while working. Then there won't be any at all for you to skim off." He turned back to Ptyual. "How do you expect me to live on just ten per cent of – of – whatever it is he leaves me?"

"Ten per cent of eighty-five per cent," Jellek supplied, always on top of figures.

"We don't expect you to live on it, Mr Zemp," said Ptyual smoothly, "since you are, as you've pointed out, dead. You no longer need food or shelter, and your expense account covers your stage costumes – "

"And what am I supposed to wear on the street?"

"The current laws allow you to wear anything at all – or nothing at all – Mr Zemp. And since you don't feel heat or cold, clothes are purely a vanity purchase for you now, and do not come under the living-equivalent deduction allowance. Furthermore, since there has, in many instances, ceased to be much difference between what you rock singers wear on the stage and what your fans wear on the street, you could use your costumes for street wear with only a slight decrease in your living-equivalent allowance."

"Ice out, man! You want me to look like those freaks?"

"But they have made themselves look like you, Mr Zemp."

"Like my stage – What's it called, Jelly?"

"Your stage persona, baby."

"So – you tax gougers want me to look like a freak?"

"As to that, Mr Zom – Zemp, we have no preference whatsoever."

Jellek leaned forward and gave his client his most persuasive look. "See here, Zempie boy, why don't you let it all go? We – er – you make enough that even eight point five per cent lets you live – I mean exist – in luxury. And you know no one ever wins out against the tax guys, so you'll have to pay it in the end; and the more fuss you make, the more interest they pile on. Cut your losses and give the man a thumbcheck now."

Zemp slammed his beer can down again, so hard he squashed it. "Now see what you made me do!"

"Here – have a full one, baby: makes more noise when you whack it around."

"Hey, you're right. Why didn't I think of that?"

"The empty one was symbolic, sweetheart. Look, you know it's just this particular guy who rubs you the wrong way. So pay up, and just to show what a big man you are, give him a ticket to your next concert – front row center!"

Ptyual sniffed. "I never attend rock concerts, thank you."

"Now, Ptyual, baby, you gotta bend a little, too. Besides, it'll look good on your ceevee to be able to say you've sampled popular culture – you know, a man of the world, and all that? Promise us you'll come. Tell you what, we'll throw in half a dozen backstage passes for you to hand out, too; you'll be the neighborhood hero. Just so long as you use that ticket yourself."

"Hmph. Very well, if it will get this case straightened out."

"Right. Now – Zemp? Just put your thumb here – I've got the check all made out ready for you. Everyone agree that's the right amount? Great. Here's your ticket and the passes, Mr Ptyual."

Jellek saw the tax man out the door of Zemp's suite, and came back rubbing his hands.

"What are you so happy about?" grumbled Zemp.

"You'd have had to pay in the end, baby. This way you can get your own back on our Mr Ptyual."

"Yeah? How?"

"Have you forgotten the effect of your amps on front row center? And I," added the manager with satisfaction, "get a twenty per cent finder's fee for bodies in suitable condition for zombie-ing."

*****

Captive Audience

Lattok panicked as he felt himself falling into the material plane again. It took him long minutes after he arrived to realize that his destination was bearable after all — for the moment. It was true that he was in a city, crowded with noisy, quarrelsome humans; but the house in which he had appeared was empty. It stayed that way for most of the next several days, and Lattok gradually relaxed.

Only two beings came in during those days. One was a half-grown kitten which came and went by a cat door; the other was a neighbour woman who came over twice a day to feed the cat. Her presence sent shivers up and down Lattok's non-existent spine at first, and he fled to the furthest corner he could find, up in the attic, pulling all his ectoplasm into as tight a bundle as he could. But she was a peaceful, cheerful person, emitting only kindly vibrations, so her brief visits were no real disturbance, and after a while Lattok just stayed in the next room till she left.

The kitten, which the woman addressed as Candy, was a delight. He spent most of his time curled up sleeping, giving off such an aura of contentment that Lattok hovered close to him, soaking up the feeling. When neither sleeping nor eating, Candy hunted out his ping-pong ball or crumpled bits of paper to play with; and Lattok was able to draw on the cat's energy – small but intense – to roll the ball or rustle the paper, to Candy's purring delight. The cat seemed half aware of Lattok's presence, waiting in patient ambush for him to move the stalked object.

Lattok was so pleased with the kitten's company that he almost stopped worrying about how temporary the situation must be. He found new playthings for Candy, nudging some off shelves or out from under carpet edges, and wished that he were material enough to feel Candy's smooth fur. All he could do to pet the animal was to move a layer of air along him.

And then one evening, the door slammed open. A man tromped in, jammed a jacket onto a hall hook, barged into the livingroom, and flung himself down in a chair. As a woman followed into the hall, dumping two suitcases cases on the floor and kicking off her shoes, the man bellowed, "Gimme a drink!"

"Get it yourself, you lazy slob!" yelled back the woman. "I gotta get dinner. If you'd let us stop along the way ..."

"And listen to another ten minutes of your brat's whining? No way!"

"It's your kid that starts Chris off! If you'd make him stop teasing the poor boy..."

"Guy knows how to behave like a big boy! If you'd stop babying Chris he might learn to do the same!"

The two boys came into the house, the older one holding a toy gun out of the other's reach. "Gimme! It's mine!" wailed Chris.

"Not any more!" taunted Guy.

"Bring in the rest of the bags!" yelled the father.

The boys ignored him, and began fighting for the toy, tripping over the luggage already in the hall. Their voices rose to shrieks. The father heaved himself up, stomped out to the hall and clouted them both. As they bolted out, the man yelled in the direction of the kitchen, "When are you going to have dinner ready?"

"I just started!"

"All you ever do is thaw something. What takes so long?"

"The thawing does, you idiot. And what's wrong with frozen food? It keeps well that way."

"You should make your own."

"Why? Do you grow your own? Why's a housewife looked down on when she modernizes her work, when every other type of worker's praised?"

Lattok had fled to the attic crawlspace, recklessly using up stored energy. He wished he could shut out consciousness of the quarreling family, and wished even more desperately that he were not confined to this house for the duration of his current existence in this plane.

The anger level fell somewhat as the family eventually consumed food and drink; it eased yet more as they watched soporific television, and then grumbled their way to bed, and slept.

As quiet settled at last, Lattok timidly ventured down to stay with the cat through the night. Candy had been out all evening, except for a few minutes indoors to bolt his food. Lattok envied him his freedom to dodge out of the house, and his ability to relax during this temporary peace. Candy curled up in an armchair and sang himself to sleep as Lattok hovered by him, reflecting his mood back to him.

At the first sounds of stirring in the morning, Lattok rushed to the cellar, trying to ignore the woman's increasingly irritated yells as she urged the others to get up. The two boys eventually came down to breakfast, carrying boom boxes tuned to competing stations. When the father staggered down after them, he cuffed them into turning off the radios. In the brief silence, while all the people applied themselves to food, Lattok crept up to the attic again, cowering in its furthest corner, and squeezing himself into the smallest possible bundle, shaking against the drag of the emotions as they poured out energy.

All of the family went out for the day, but Lattok was so nervous he could hardly bring himself to come down to look for Candy. The cat, too, was out for some hours, but eventually brought his soothing presence back; and Lattok soaked in all he could of the good feelings.

All too soon it was suppertime again, and the family was back. Lattok huddled in the attic, waiting for the calmer television hours. But the man's first day back at work had raised his irritation level. Steadily consuming beer, he kept interrupting the programs with gripes about his boss, his co-workers, politicians, sports events, and the world in general.

"If you had half the guts you keep saying Guy has, you'd get another job," sneered his wife.

"If you think jobs are that easy to get, why don't you go out and get one?"

"Because you like to boast your wife doesn't have to work. Think I wouldn't rather be out making money of my own? And at least I'd meet people who don't yell all the time."

"Meet other men, you mean!"

"Why not? I might find one who appreciates me!"

"You'd look a long time to find one who wanted a slut like you!"

Chris' voice rose above his parents'. "Gimme the book, Guy. I gotta do my stupid homework!"

"Yah! You're a sissy. I don't do homework."

"You're gonna fail."

"Who cares?"

"Well, whadda you care if I do my homework? Gimme the book."

"Won't!"

"Mom! Make him give it to me!"

"Shut up!" yelled the father. "Can't you see I'm trying to watch TV?"

"You aren't," muttered Guy. "All you're doing is complain about everything."

"Talk back to your father, will you?" snarled the man. Lurching up, he slammed his fist into the boy. "And you started it!" he snarled, hitting the younger boy even harder.

The mother screamed, rushing to stand over the fallen boys. She seized the disputed book and beat at her husband with it. He slugged her too, and blood streamed from her nose. Candy, dodging a kick by Chris, streaked out the cat door, with a speed born of experience. Guy, not daring to attack his father, kicked Chris and his mother. The father hit everyone he could reach. Hatred and fury poured through the house, swirling and mounting like a cyclone.

"Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!" shrieked Lattok soundlessly. Unable any longer to prevent his action, he flowed to the centre of the emotion, drawing in the energy and casting it forth again.

Ornaments flew from the shelves. Curtains snapped and ripped. Pictures plunged from the walls. Rugs twisted. A swag lamp swung wildly. Shoes, toys, CD players, and other objects racketed down the stairs. The TV toppled off its stand. Tables lurched. Dishes leaped out of cupboards and smashed. Floor lamps crashed over. Doors and windows slammed, and the oven door fell open with a bang. The stereo speakers crashed to the floor.

By this time the family, screaming, was outdoors. As the source of the energy Lattok was channeling lessened with distance and kind of emotion, he slowly gained enough control to force it out of him, and the house quieted.

But Lattok knew, bitterly, that this respite was only temporary. Even if the family went away, there would be the investigators and the exorcists, with their own emotional disturbances. All he could do was wait, in greater or lesser torment, until mercy gave him another reprieve, taking him back out of the horrors of the material plane.

*****

A Walk on the Wind

_I'll go if it kills me_ , vowed Amint. She looked across the wide plain below the scarp on which she stood, to the distance-smudged badlands containing the peak named Lahraf.

"Dying isn't the problem," said a voice behind her.

She whirled to face a girl – no, a young woman now – of her own age, whose pretty face bore an expression of pleased superiority.

Amint's cheeks burned as she realized she had thought so vehemently that she had broadcast the words. And her blush made it impossible to deny either the gaffe or her embarrassment.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, Suli," she countered weakly. Suli, with her poise and easy sociability, always made Amint feel awkward and unsure of herself, moreso now that Suli was an adult.

As if speaking to a young child, Suli began to explain that thoughts could be screened from transmission if one considered them private.

"I know that!" snapped Amint, vainly wishing she could keep control of her emotions, so that she could have said, with icy calm, "I'm aware of basics, thank you."

"Oh, good," returned Suli, unruffled. "I thought perhaps you were a bit backward in that field, too."

"You've only just taken your own test!" Amint cried. "I'm only a few days behind you."

"But half a year older," Suli smiled. "Why don't you give up pretending you'll ever be an adult?"

"I will be!" said Amint. "I'm going today."

Suli raised elegant eyebrows. "Really? What's managed to screw up your courage?"

That was a hit, and Amint's face flamed again.

"Ah," said Suli. "It wouldn't be Keril's visit yesterday, would it?"

He and several other recent adults had been doing an impromptu tour of the local villages, showing off their new status on the excuse of practicing long-range levitation. Suli had joined the group and, when one of them had asked Amint if she were coming too, Suli had broadcast the remark that Amint was a perpetual juvenile – using a confidential tone, as if Amint were really so backward she could not even catch a half-shielded thought.

Keril had tried to cover the moment by suggesting that a couple of the group could support her, if she'd like to join the party. His kindness-to-a-cripple meant that he was accepting Suli's evaluation of her. Trying both to deny that status and to find an excuse to refuse the humiliation – and hesitating to do either because Keril might be one of the ones to carry her – Amint stumbled over her words incoherently.

But Suli cut in quickly: "Are any of us proficient enough yet to risk carrying someone else?"

There was a sudden silence as each of the group unwillingly thought about the consequences of a loss of control while tuned in to the Amplifiers. They were all recent enough adults to be still living with that fear. It took years of practice of tapping into the global system before they could be casually sure their strength and confidence would steadily withstand the attacks to which the amplifier system exposed them. Attacks that constantly probed for an overstrained user who would be vulnerable.

In spite of hundreds of generations of selective breeding on the parent planet as well as on this one, there was still a two per cent casualty rate, most of the victims failing in their first tap-in attempt. That was why it had to be solo and in the form of an activity that involved no equipment: weaklings and incompetents had to be weeded out before they could touch the planet-wide psionic equipment system.

The death of a few young people, however hard on their families, was infinitely preferable to what would happen to the whole population, if the Outness ever got a sufficiently widespread contact through the psionic system. The Outness could be held off by even a single adult with enough practice and confidence; but a young person whose experience was not equal to some rash aspiration – too long or fast a flight, too heavy a lift, too prolonged a rapport with the Amplifier – could become a victim. The lucky ones among these were the ones with the opportunity to kill themselves quickly.

There had been no further talk of carrying Amint. The touring group had hurriedly, and a little nervously, gone on its way, leaving her behind with only a last glance of sympathy – or was it pity? – from Keril.

"Do you really think you stand a chance with him, even if you do get to be an adult?" Suli asked now, with indolent contempt.

Torn between wanting to deny that particular ambition and wanting to say, "If I don't, why do you feel a need to dissuade me from trying?" Amint had not managed to get out an answer when they were interrupted by the approach of Amint's mentor, Rean.

The older woman frowned at Suli. "You shouldn't interrupt Amint's preparation."

"She's not going now?" cried Suli, jolted out of her poise for once.

"I told you I'm going!" Some of Amint's anger came out in her words.

"You didn't say right away." Suli was forced onto the defensive, and Amint felt a surge of pleasure and even a little self-confidence at the sight.

Rean said, "Scat."

Suli hurried away, but rallied to call back, "I think I'll go for a flight, too. Perhaps to Meravu." That was Keril's village.

Rean looked carefully at Amint, and asked, "Has she been upsetting you over something?"

"No more than usual." With Rean, Amint was able to relax, and even take a more dispassionate view of her own problems. "At least she stopped me from brooding."

"Were you brooding?"

"Not really. Well, no more than everyone probably does."

"And you still feel ready?"

"Yes. At least I'm keyed up to it, and putting it off again would make things worse."

"Give me mind touch, please." After a moment, Rean continued casually, "All right, you may go ahead with it. I'll see you when you get back."

Amint felt Rean's mental grip fasten on her. The pressure of the rocky ground left the soles of her shoes and she moved up and out over the edge of the scarp. As she came to a gentle halt, she drew a sharp breath and sent the thought, "Ready," to Rean.

Her mentor put into her mind the key to contact with the Amplifiers, and then released her. Amint plunged toward the plain far below.

She had expected to be afraid in that first moment, but her mind was far too busy to give any attention to emotion. Simultaneously, she applied the control she had practiced in little lifts around the village all her life and made the contact with the global amplifier system – a much more complex contact than with the village's small amplifier. The contact, which an experienced adult soon honed down to near-instantaneity, took her two seconds on her first attempt; but she made it, and held.

Only then could she give her attention to the sensations of the shocking drop – the negative-gee, the lurch in the pit of her stomach, the rush of air up past her, the primal fall-fear; but by then they were memories, like those of a nightmare: vivid but fading as she realized her safety and channeled her adrenalin-rush into her task of levitation.

She had dropped far below the level of the cliff edge, but was well out from it and still high above the plain. She could start from there; but instead, she took the time and effort to raise herself back up to scarp level so that Rean could see her. For the duration of her flight to Lahraf and back, no one would permit her mind contact; so only by seeing her could her mentor know she had survived the first strain of the test. Rean, following the traditional pose of indifference, would not look down over the cliff; but Amint knew she would be casually facing outward, waiting for a glimpse of her protege.

Resisting an impulse to look back and wave, Amint added forward motion to her lift, swinging her legs in a long-striding action that helped her focus her will to the movement she wished. She had practiced the combination of physical and psychic action above the village ground, but that had been small-scale; just the thought of steps had usually been enough to drift her in the direction she wanted to go. Now she had a long distance to cover, and she was handling immensely greater power, holding a far higher lift. It took real physical motion to shape the willing and the power control that moved her. By the time she had leisure to think about what she was doing, she was well out over the plain.

A sense of exhilaration came to her, not only from her success but from the delightful sensation of moving smoothly through the air, warmed by the sun and cooled by her own wind of passage, looking out across the plain, which spread like a map below her. It was even better than the time she had first lifted to higher than house height, watching as her view of the tree in front of her altered from under to level to over, as if the tree were doing the moving instead of her. She had had to push down hard that day, to stay up for even a few minutes; nowadays she was rarely conscious of the effort, in the small-scale world of the village.

Here, where so much more effort was needed, she also had access to power so abundant it felt limitless. She knew it was not; but it was far beyond her need: the real limiting factor was her ability to tap the power. But so far everything was going well. She was moving quickly and smoothly, already beginning to relegate the willing to as automatic a function as real walking. The day was beautiful and the slowly shifting view spectacular. In a surge of self-confidence and pleasure, she almost danced rather than walked through the air.

Able now to relax from complete concentration on lift and motion, she began to look around, especially at the plain below her. It was nothing like as featureless as it had seemed to become in the distance, seen from the scarp top. There were streams and ponds, slopes of little hills, patches of woods, and outcrops of bedrock. There were small herds of grazing animals of different kinds – one group running, perhaps from some predators. Amint wasn't sure of the species – wildlife management had not been among her studies – but she thought they might be Earthdeer, one of the breeds brought from world to world, where the ecological balance could stand it, from the original planet itself. There were cloud shadows rolling over the landscape and the flash of movement between cloud and shadow as soaring birds rode the thermals.

Amint began to feel almost as much at ease as those soarers as she swung along, now hardly conscious of the effort of staying aloft. She felt comfortably supported on the air, and the feel of its passage as she clove it gave her the sensation of movement that she did not get from the slow shifting of the scenery below her. She had been told that distant ground would seem motionless, so she was not worried by her seeming slowness of progress; but she was glad that the air gave her so much sense of motion.

Her enjoyment of her own ability, of her motion, and of the novelty of watching the mini-changes of the plain pass by, kept her fully occupied for most of the distance to the peaks of the badlands. Once, far to her right, she saw three figures – obviously young adults – larking about; beyond them was another pair of figures, moving with the steadiness of maturity, toward her village, Homlar, from the direction of Meravu.

Thinking of Keril's village reminded her of Suli, and a stab of resentment went through her. What she hated most about Suli, Amint admitted, was that she herself kept wishing she were more like Suli – poised, attractive, admired, never making the silly mistakes Amint did, never afraid to tackle anything. Well, not quite anything: she had hurriedly scotched Keril's notion of the group's transporting Amint yesterday; but that might have been an excuse because she had not wanted Amint along; and she'd probably think up something spectacular to do today, to show that she was just being cautious for the sake of the others in the group that other time.

What would she do? Set a height or distance record for her stage of experience? Amint hoped bitterly that she would try, and kill herself in the attempt. Or worse.

Amint slammed so violent a check on that thought that she even stopped her own motion. She wouldn't wish that even on Suli; and even if she would, she must not think about such things, not while she was inexperienced, and tapping the Amplifiers.

After a few tense moments, she was able to relax her hold-back attitude and will herself to move forward again, still carefully channeling her thoughts into admiration of the scenery and a visualization of the rest of the flight to Lahraf; of the pause there to pick out a crystal from the cairn maintained on the peak; and of the flight back, to ceremoniously present it to her mentor. She would have Amint's name engraved on it and add it to her credit-shelf.

Amint knew she herself was not spectacularly competent at anything, but she was steady and dependable; so she might be a mentor herself someday, with a growing collection of Lahraf crystals to attest the numbers of protégés she had successfully trained. The steadiness was needed for the students one lost; sometimes the mentors took it even harder than the parents, although the whole purpose of the custom was to provide emotional distance between the adolescents and the ones who must send them out.

Rean wanted Amint to go into psionics, specifically the attempt to study the Outness; but Amint firmly denied any talent in psionics, and refused to consider that career – refused to admit even to herself that the study held any interest for her.

She was above the first jumbled uplifts of land, now. The scenery would be more varied in the badlands, giving her more to concentrate her thoughts on. To make sure she did keep her attention on it, she held her altitude as the ground rose, until she was dodging among the wind-carved rocks and hills. She lifted higher as the peaks did, but continued to skim the ground, swinging around rock columns, diving through gaps, vaulting out of blocked passages, and launching herself down slopes at an almost reckless speed.

It was as much fun as childhood romps a few centimetres above soft grass had been, with the spice of physical danger thrown in now. It was also foolhardy to stay so low at the speed she was maintaining; but, ironically, it saved her life when she fell.

She had been making her game even more dangerous by keeping part of her attention on the appearance of the fast-shifting scenes around her. Her gaze focused on a projection of twisted rock that looked like the distortion of a human face agonized beyond bearing. It slapped across her awareness like a physical blow; through her reckless mood and her evocation of childhood days, it triggered the memory she had been holding so tightly suppressed. She panicked and chopped off her contact with the Amplifier.

She had just dodged an upthrust rock, momentarily checking her horizontal motion, so she fell almost straight through the space from half her height to the ground. Her violent reaction also doubled her into a half-fetal position, so she hit rolling, and suffered only cuts and abrasions.

She was completely unaware of them. She was back in the village of her childhood days.

She had been in a neighbour's house and, in some game or whim of exploration, had crawled under a cloth-draped chair. Only the neighbour man, Elapron, was in the room with her. He was engaged in some psionic activity that involved tapping the Amplifiers. He was also in a grumbling mood, which he was broadcasting for a whole room width. Amint had peeked out to see if his annoyance had anything to do with her.

Amint never found out what carelessness or weakness betrayed Elapron. At the time she did not even know what happened to him. But she saw his face, and his body that seemed trying to turn itself inside out, and she felt the terror and horror and – wrongness – that he broadcast in the instant before he was unable to communicate anything.

His mental screams had hit everyone in the village, so standard shock treatment was applied to all, with special attention to the children; but since Elapron had appeared to be alone when the nearest adults rushed to him, no one realized the depth of shock Amint had received – that she had felt the echo of the Outness touch. Not the touch itself, of course, or she would not have survived at that age; but she had experienced its existence.

Only years later, during her training, had she learned that it had taken Elapron days to die; that a person fully seized by the Outness could not be killed. The first adults to reach him had tried to kill him, of course; but they had not reached him within the vital few moments when it could be done. Amint was assured that once he did die he was free of his agony, for the Outness could not hold a mind once the body ceased to live; but her mentor could not answer Amint's quiet question, "How do you know?"

No one even knew quite what the Outness was – forces or beings or existence, beyond all the dimensions of the universe – only the effect it had, if it happened to make a firm contact with a sentient brain, and the fact that only during psionic activity at a highly amplified level was the mind vulnerable. Even then it could be held out of the mind by firm rejection. Sufficient confidence in one's ability to reject it enabled a person to use more and more powerful and complex psionic devices safely: the most skilled Elders in the world even operated the occasional contacts with the nearest other colonized planets; but no one was ever trusted to operate any of the higher level of psionic equipment without first demonstrating the ability to resist the Outness during the performance of a prolonged use of amplified personal psi.

Amint lay huddled on the rocky ground, wrestling with her suddenly surfaced memories, for a long time, before logical thought gradually returned to her, and she began to worry about her present problem instead.

As emotional fatigue slowly calmed her, she considered the possibilities. She could stay where she was. When she was long enough overdue for her failure to be certain, someone would come to pick up her body and, discovering her alive, would carry her home...to live as the perpetual juvenile Suli had called her. And Keril would look elsewhere for a mate, might even fall for Suli's charms!

Over my dead body! Amint thought fiercely. Well, yes, that was another alternative. If she could not bear either to go on or to go back, she could lift high over the peaks and then disconnect from amplification. Amint wondered if she would have sufficient determination not to reconnect during her fall. The doubt led her to the realization that she did not want to die – further, that she did not really want to give up.

And that left only the choice of going on...with her confidence undermined by her surface memories of the Outness's existence, and of what it would do if it found a chink in her defence. But this choice was unthinkable only if it got her. The other two choices were unacceptable even in their best form.

Besides, she told herself, she might even have an advantage. Having come so near an Outness touch, she might be able to recognize an attack sooner than other people, and be able to react that much faster to it.

But, however fast her reaction, would it be strong enough to force the Outness back before it secured its hold? She could not trust to that hope. There was another defense, though. If she felt a touch getting through her resistance, she could cut herself off from the Amplifiers, as in her second alternative; and if she were at the right height, gravity and solid rock would claim her before the Outness could establish its grip.

Slowly, Amint stood up. Getting to the right height would be difficult with apprehension sapping her confidence. She considered climbing one of the nearest peaks, and launching herself from there; but it would take a long time, and provide very little advantage. More important, it would be yielding further ground to fear. She drew a deep breath, and keyed open contact with the Amplifiers.

Her defenses held. She hurled herself upward, lifting rapidly above the peaks, then directed herself onwards. With height achieved, some degree of reassurance and composure returned to her: she had a last resort.

The continuation of her flight, though tense, was uneventful until she was halfway across the part of the badlands between the plain and Lahraf. Then something touched her mind.

She almost reacted according to her desperation plan before she realized it was not an Outness touch, but a human one. That was a second shock, for no one contacted a person undergoing a test, or allowed such a person to make contact. But before she could react to her surprise, she also realized that the call was a cry for help. And it was near, for it was unamplified.

She swerved toward it without thought. Anyone in need of help who could not make a distance call must be in urgent trouble indeed. She homed on a figure face-down among the rocks, hearing weeping in the moment before the other sensed her presence and twisted to look at her. It was Suli.

"What are you doing here?" cried Amint, astonishment swamping her other emotions.

"Amint, help me! I'm hurt!"

"What happened?"

"I fell..." Suli twisted her head away again. "Amint, I'm bleeding, and I can't move. Help me!"

"I don't have any healer training – I could do worse damage. Call a healer."

"You call one."

"I'm under test. No one will accept a call from me. Why don't you call?"

"No! You've got to do it."

Amint began to repeat her previous comment, then shrugged and sent out a call. As she expected, she made no contact. "You see, Suli? No one will allow me to touch."

"Did you – did you amplify?"

"Yes, of course. You see, even you refused to mind touch me, or you'd have known. Now, call for yourself."

"No!"

"What's wrong, Suli?"

"I'm hurt!"

"Your head isn't. Call the healers."

"You've got to help me!"

"The only thing I can do is go back and send someone out to you. That will take twice as long as calling for someone yourself. Look, what's happened to you? How did you get here? Why won't you call? Why don't you lift home yourself? You can hold your body in lock so you won't do it any more damage."

"I can't lift!" wept Suli; "and I can't hold my body much longer."

The story came out gradually, mostly in mental pictures that revealed more than Suli intended. Amint gathered that Suli had barely started her flight to Meravu when she remembered that Keril was away. Not wanting to go aimlessly back to Homlar, she had cast about for an alternative plan, and decided to circle around Amint – who, she knew, would take a slow, steady pace – and be casually sitting on the cairn at Lahraf when Amint arrived, able to jeer at the plodder. "But I didn't know you were going to be this slow!" she wailed. "I could have died here, waiting for you to come by!"

Not wanting to tell of her fight with fear, and trying to get Suli back onto the track of her story, Amint did not explain what had delayed her. "You swung out around me, so I wouldn't see you, then you cut back in when you neared Lahraf, and – what? Did you overstrain yourself in your hurry?"

Suli's mind jerked away from the thought again. "I just paused to check where you were..."

And also to relax for a minute, on that excuse, according to the picture in her mind. She had felt strained, and worried by it. Then, acting out her excuse, she had broken the firm rule of no contact with a person under test: reaching to pick up any unguarded thought that would reveal Amint's location, she had looked straight into Amint's thoughts.

While Amint was fighting her memories.

The snatched, unclear glimpse of horror had convinced Suli that, overstrained, she was under attack by the Outness. She had panicked and cut herself off from amplification. She had been at just the wrong height for either safety or death, and had smashed into the rocks hard enough to bring about slow death unless she had prompt help. And she was too frightened to touch the Amplifiers again.

When she had pieced together the story, Amint tried again to persuade Suli she had not been attacked, and that it would be safe for her to reconnect to the Amplifiers. But Amint's deductions failed to convince Suli that the horror she had felt had not been an Outness attack on herself. She would need a healer's touch in her mind as well as in her body before she could resume adult life.

How bad were her physical injuries? Amint looked mentally, and was appalled. Suli had not been exaggerating. Using natural-level psi, she had been automatically holding herself locked, so her body could not react to its injuries; but without amplification, she could not keep that up. Already her strength was running out; she was bleeding again, and her grip was failing. The hold had also interfered with what was left of the normal functioning of her body; when her hold gave way, collapse would be rapid.

Urgently, Amint tried again to make contact with someone. Snatching a moment of power from the Amplifiers beyond the amount she was authorized to handle, she blasted out a cry of Emergency. There was no slightest response...only a feeling of building pressure against her mind that quickly forced her to reduce her consumption of psionic energy. The pressure also faded; but it did not quite vanish. Amint thought, anthropomorphically, that she had drawn attention to herself as a potential target for breakthrough.

She faced the realization that she would have to give up on her test and go for help herself. Maybe, in view of the circumstances, they would let her try again. Had anyone ever been allowed a second chance? She had never heard of a case. But surely... After all, she was not just giving up... She shoved the thoughts aside. She had no choice, so there was no use thinking about the results.

"Suli, I'll go get a healer."

"Don't go!" gasped Suli. "I can't hold out alone."

"But Suli, no one will let me make contact. Unless I go and speak to someone, no one will come till far too late."

"Don't leave me!"

Suli was failing. By now she probably couldn't handle amplified psi even if she could be coaxed to try. Amint augmented Suli's hold on her body, and felt the other girl relax into a haze of exhaustion.

Amint could help in the hold, but without knowledge, she could not indefinitely maintain the hold on another's body by herself. Suli would die if Amint could not get help; but if Amint left to fetch help, Suli would almost certainly die before it arrived. Suli had asked her to stay. The arguments were almost even, and Amint was very aware of the fact that if she chose to stay and ease Suli's dying, she could then go on to complete her test before reporting back. There would be no criticism for not hurrying back when all need for haste was gone. But the idea of not trying to do something repelled her; and she knew that if she did refuse to try, she would always feel she had done so because of her dislike for Suli, and because of her selfish wish to complete her rite of passage.

She sighed and let through the tiny thought that had been insisting there was a way that offered some hope for Suli. Amint could try to carry her back.

She refused to consider the pros and cons: any thought about the consequences of failure would only increase its likelihood. It was a way: she must try it.

She drew power, locked Suli rigid, and raised her from the ground. Suli, aware only that Amint was helping her weakening grip hold her body, pleaded again for Amint to stay with her.

"Hang on, Suli. We'll get help," Amint told her. Keeping her mind firmly on the task itself, she drew more power and lifted herself up beside Suli. The nagging little pressure expanded into a tangible push at her mind. Her only acknowledgement of it was to raise them both to the suicide level she had chosen before. Then she began the flight back.

It was no longer effortless. She had constantly to push down against the drag of gravity, as she had done in her early days each time she strove to master a new level or duration. But in those days the only danger had been physical, with help promptly at hand. Now there was the added strain of the mental pressure itself and the awareness of its threat waiting to pounce on her least flicker of weakness.

She concentrated on the three thoughts of staying up, moving forward, and holding Suli locked immobile. Eventually she was surprised to see she had left the badlands behind and was over the plain. Perhaps she would make it!

But her heart was labouring and her lungs straining, all her muscles tense with effort as she walked through space, pushing Suli along beside her. It was not just twice the effort of moving herself: the awkwardness of moving another object, to which she could not give the ease of a natural motion like walking, took more than an equal amount of energy; and the power she drew on had to be channeled through herself. Her own energy was drawn into it and consumed in steady proportion.

She spared an occasional bit of attention to snatch a quick glance around in hopes of spotting other travelers. How she could persuade one to come, with her calls still being refused, she had no idea; but the need to try to attract attention did not arise, as she saw no one.

She wondered if she should land on the plain and rest; but she feared she might not be able to regain sufficient height to top the scarp, and worried over the effect of any delay on Suli. More than either, she feared that she might not be able to force herself to the effort again, if once she stopped...if once she were free of that aching, twitching, grating pressure that was digging into her mind. She shuddered and tried to force the consciousness of it out of her thoughts.

In the moment of inattentiveness, they had begun sinking. Amint stopped their descent with a tired, clumsy jerk, and raised them again.

The sudden change roused Suli from her daze, and she thought a confused question to Amint.

"It's all right," Amint assured her. "We're on our way home. Almost there," she exaggerated a little.

"Who came? Why didn't they send a healer?"

"I couldn't call anyone, so I'm taking you back myself."

It took a moment for Suli to realize the risk that implied that she was linked to an inexperienced mind trying to achieve beyond its training, and that only that mind held off the Outness from them both. Panic rushed through her; unable to thrash physically, she poured all her fright-dredged energy into a mental struggle to escape.

The two of them tumbled wildly in the air, plunging downward. Desperately, Amint called on yet more energy from the Amplifiers, to overpower Suli's resistance to her control. With agonizing slowness, their plunge braked, their gyrating stopped, and they began to move back up...and a searing needle touched Amint's mind.

Her reaction was sheer fury. This was just too much to put up with, after everything else. She slammed against it all the hatred her years of fear and her recent struggles and her resentment of Suli had built up, momentarily glad to have the Outness reachable to attack...and the needle hesitated, writhed in an attempt to pass her counterthrust, and then gradually pulled back out.

Abruptly the scarp was ahead of them. Frantically, Amint tried to regain the lost height, but her exhausted mind could not scrape up the extra energy. Even if she dared try to draw more power, with that needle still waiting, and no reserves left to fight with again, she simply could not handle more energy in her exhausted state. It was all she could do to keep moving; and that would crash them into the cliff face in a moment.

She must stop and descend carefully, to avoid losing control and falling. But even if she succeeded, how could she attract attention for Suli in time? No, she must get higher, somehow. She strained, but the lift was too slow; the cliff rushed at her...and the needle stabbed into her mind again.

Her tired mind finally thought to stop her forward motion; but she could not gain any more lift. There was the stabbing, and pressure, and suction, and tearing at her. In another moment she must cut off or give way.

No! I'll burn out sooner than give way to that! Amint reached far beyond her limits of knowledge as well as of authorization, dragging power from the Amplifiers, slamming it at the Outness. Her consciousness of everything beyond herself and it faded. She thought she must be falling, but could feel nothing, nothing but her defiance of her lifelong fear...

And then, suddenly, there were minds blending with hers, practiced skill driving back the pressure. Sight and touch came back to Amint, and she found herself in the midst of a flock of people who were taking over the burden of Suli, and explaining that someone had spotted the rigid figure being conveyed, and realized something was wrong. Everyone near enough had launched out to help, discarding the communication taboo. Before the group was back above the scarp edge they had learned the whole story.

Rean firmly supported Amint herself, and Amint wearily allowed it. After all, it could not matter, now that she had already forfeited her test.

Rean laughed and gave her a little shake. "You've passed it, silly."

"But I only got three-quarters of the way..." Amint mumbled.

"And did the equivalent of twice that coming back carrying Suli," said Rean. "Or, looked at another way, you've done a task that's a magnitude more difficult than the one assigned. And most important, you've demonstrated you can hold off the Outness, even under strain. That's the real test; the rest is just the setup for testing."

In her flood of gladness, Amint still felt one regret. "I didn't bring you a Lahraf crystal."

"You can do that another day. And I'll tell you what. When Suli recovers, I'm going to send her to fetch you one. That'll larn her."

Half a day earlier, that humbling of Suli would have pleased Amint almost as much as a date with Keril. But at that moment Suli and even Keril seemed of little importance. "Let her be," said Amint absently. "When can I start studying psionics?"

*****

The Book of Fate

It had been many years since anyone had dared to speak of World President Povril as a dictator, anyone, that is, except Theonif. But she never spoke with condemnation; she used it as a matter-of-fact title in private, and Povril rather enjoyed it.

The few aides who knew of Theonif's residence in the Presidential Palace assumed she was one of his mistresses. In fact, a feeling akin to superstition kept his behavior toward her physically distant. He half-believed her claim she could see his day's fate every morning.

Certainly, her information was good. She had predicted two attempted uprisings and named the general who would lead the second, in time for Povril to change his schedule and avoid the planned assassination. It was then that he installed Theonif in the Palace and developed the habit of consulting her every morning, though he made a show of doing it for amusement.

He had even gone so far as to thank her, jestingly, for her warning. She shrugged it off, refusing to show any more concern over him than disapproval. "These things are fated to happen. The popular uprising could not have succeeded; more people would have died if it had not been put down promptly. And General Ragfrottel would have ordered an even greater bloodbath if he had become dictator."

"And what does fate hold in store for me today?" he would ask each morning, careful to keep a sneer or a chuckle in his voice. She would usually name some of the people who wanted to see him, with a brief analysis of the matters that concerned them, dismissing some as unimportant to his running of world government and pointing out alternative consequences that made others vital. She always turned out to be right.

He suspected her of having an elaborate spy network, but could find none. He had clandestine checks made on her by experts in parapsychology, but they reported no trace of the aura they had determined existed when psychic phenomena occurred. Occasionally he would ask Theonif directly how she could predict so well. Inevitably whe would say, with a smile and shrug, "I have memorized the Book of Fate."

"But you seem to remember only a few pages at a time."

"That has been sufficient, hasn't it?"

What intrigued him as much as her accuracy was the fact she never offered advice, only information. She acted as though everything in life were fated, so that trying to influence events or even investing any emotion in the outcome of any of them was a waste of energy.

And then one day when he asked, as he sometimes did, "How did you get to read this Book of Fate you claim to have memorized?" she answered him for the first time.

"Actually, I wrote it. It's an account of you and your times. I gave it that title because of our conversations."

"Indeed."

"Would you like to see it?"

"I certainly would."

She took an ordinary-looking book from a drawer and slipped it into a reader.

He flicked on the machine and adjusted the screen. "And just when did you write this omniscient book?"

"About two hundred years from now."

"Now you're claiming to be immortal, and to travel back and forth in time?"

"Not immortal. The information of most importance to you today is on page 523."

He paged through and stopped the scan at the indicated number. The first thing that caught his eye was a date. Today's date. He read.

"At nine-thirty, as usual, the dictator went to consult with, and bait, Theonif, who showed him the Book of Fate, and revealed that she was an historian from what to him was the future. Whether he believed her is not known, since the radiation from a source hidden in the book reader killed him, on schedule, before he expressed an opinion. Theonif, the reader, and the book were withdrawn before any alarm was – "

*****

The Castle-O-Lantern

Tabby Caldon – who was never called Tabitha except by her teachers – made a final cut in her pumpkin and put down her knife just as her twin brother Tom came into the kitchen, whistling. He broke off to remark, "That's a strange-looking Jack-o-Lantern."

"That's because it isn't one," said Tabby. "I wanted to do something different this year, so I made a castle-o-lantern instead." She insert a fat white candle into the socket inside the pumpkin.

"Oh, I see – It's got a gate, window slits, turrets...Yeah, I like it. Hey, how about giving the castle a ghost?" Tom dug into his pocket and pulled out a little plastic skeleton, which he plunked in beside the candle. "I've got a surprise, too. Uncle George gave me an animation spell to use on our decorations. Let's try it on the castle-o-lantern."

"All right; but watch out. Uncle George always throws in something extra as a joke."

Tom took a bit of paper from another pocket and breathed hard on it. The paper dissolved into nothing, and suddenly the room seemed to tilt and swirl about them. A moment later they were standing staring up at a towering, slightly curved, orange wall that rose around and above a massive black door. A gentle breeze fluttered black and white banners at some of the windows, and brought the scents of mince pie and gingerbread to them.

"I guess this is the extra part," said Tabby. "We didn't just make the castle hold living beings; we've become part of the life here."

Tom was sniffing the delicious odours. "Yum! Let's pay a visit." He walked up to the big door in the wall and rapped with the pumpkin-shaped knocker.

In a few moments a smaller door set in the large one was opened by a young woman who had ghost-white skin and orange hair, and who was wearing a bat-shaped headdress and a black gown with sparkling stars embroidered on it. She looked hurried and anxious, but smiled a little and said, "Hello. I'm Witch Willow. You're from the halfway world, aren't you? What are your names?"

Before the children could answer, another voice broke in. "Don't trust them! They're the ones who sent The Skeleton here! The bats saw them do it."

A bevy of large cats, black, white, orange, tortoiseshell, and calico, surged defensively around Witch Willow, supporting their spokesman. "That's right! They're on the rats' side!"

"Oh, dear!" said Willow. "Did you really send The Skeleton?"

"Uh," said Tom. "I guess we did; but we didn't mean any harm."

"Can we do anything to help?" asked Tabby. "Maybe we can take the skeleton away again?"

"Do you think you could? You'd better come talk to Queen Alder." Over the cats' continued protests, Willow led the children through the halls and rooms of the castle.

"What did you mean about the halfway world?" Tabby asked as they hurried along.

"This world's wholly magic. There's another where there's no magic at all. Yours is in between."

Before they could ask more questions, they entered a room furnished as a study. In a chair by the fireplace sat a beautiful, matronly woman with white hair and black skin, wearing a silver crescent-moon headdress and an orange dress. She looked frail and careworn.

There were several other witches in the room, all in assorted combinations of orange and black and white. Small, silky-furred bats with cute, foxy-looking faces kept flying in, reporting in their high, thin voices, which only the cats and the witches could understand. The witches bent over a big table marking positions on a chart that showed the castle and its grounds. Cats sat on the table, advising the witches where to station the feline troops to meet the attack that was coming. The witches approved the choices, and the bats rushed out again, carrying the orders.

"There must be a whole army of rats," Tom said.

Tammy shuddered. "And we're stuck here."

The witch queen looked at the newcomers. "Willow, the cats say you've let rat-helpers in. Why? Who are they?"

Willow gave a quick bow. "Halfwayers, Your Majesty."

The children imitated Willow's bow, and Tabby said, "We're Tom and Tabby Caldon. We want to help."

Queen Alder considered. "With cat names like those, you couldn't be rat people." She glanced at the cats who had come in with them; they grudgingly agreed, though some of them muttered, "But what about that skeleton they put in the Hall?"

"What's wrong here?" Tom asked.

"It's the time for our annual festival," the queen told them. "In order to renew our magic, we must light the great candle in the Central Hall. But this year we can't get near it. That strange Skeleton from your world has taken possession of the candle and won't let us light it. We are growing weaker, and the rats are closing in on us. Our cats are holding them off, but the cats draw their magic from me, and as I grow weaker, the cats have to retreat. Soon the rats will reach the castle, unless we can get the candle lit."

"Why don't you gang up on the skeleton and pull him away?"

"He's stronger than all of us. He's not made of bone, or anything natural. Nothing we have can affect him."

"How long can you hold out?" Tom asked. "We can take the skeleton away as soon as we get back to our own world, and that can't be long. If the spell that brought us here lasts more than few hours, our parents will fetch us back."

Queen Alder sighed. "That will be too late, I'm afraid. Time goes faster here. Your few hours will be days to us; and we must light the candle today. There doesn't seem to be anything you can do. You had best hide somewhere, in case you're still here when the rats break through."

"We can't just hide," cried Tom. "Let's at least go look at the problem."

Witch Willow led them to the great Central Hall, where the tall, thick pillar of white candle stretched up toward the round smoke hole in the roof. A spiral stair was carved into the outer edge of the candle. At its foot, blocking the stair, sat the skeleton, boney arms on boney knees, glaring around him. Red lights glowed within his eye sockets, and his teeth gleamed like white tombstones.

Cats and witches stood in a circle, just beyond arm's reach, around him, fidgeting with anxiety. Bats fluttered above them like visible worries, dodging among an assortment of ghosts in sheets, who were drifting around looking sour and grumpy.

"The Skeleton sure looks mean," whispered Tabby.

"I'll push him away," said Tom, swallowing nervously.

"He's bigger than you are." Taby hesitated. "Maybe...maybe we should both go."

"You stay back. I'm the one who put him in here."

"But I agreed. Let's go together." Tabby took Tom's hand and started forward.

They reached the circle of onlookers, which parted to let them through. But at that moment, the skeleton stood up, his hot red glare centred on them. He flexed his long, thin fingers. "That's near enough," he grated. "No one goes up this stair."

"Wh – why not?" asked Tom.

"Because I say so!"

"But the witches need to light the candle!" cried Tabby.

"Too bad!"

"But don't you understand that the rats will get them?"

"Let the rats kill them! I hate them!"

Tom said, "The rats'll get you, too, if they get in."

"They can't hurt me. Nothing in this world can hurt me."

"Don't be too sure of that!" Tom began going through his pockets. "I've probably got something plastic." All he could find was a comb. He saw a ballpoint pen sticking out of Tabby's pocket and grabbed that. The objects could scarcely be considered a sword and shield, but there was nothing else. Gripping them, he stepped forward.

Before he could do anything with his futile weapons, the skeleton suddenly kicked out, and knocked him stumbling back behind the circle. Tom picked himself up, bruised and shaken, looking at the strong knobby fingers now waiting to grab him.

Tom did not want to try again; but a sudden whisper went through the crowd as more messenger bats sped in: "The rats are at the walls!" Most of the cats rushed desperately away to join their fellows at the walls. Tom gathered his courage and stepped forward into the circle again, but Tabby grabbed his arm.

"Wait, Tom; I've just thought of something. Whenever we get mad at each other, Mom and Dad always make us explain exactly why we're mad; and it often sounds so silly when we talk it out – "

"That we stop fighting! Yeah..."

They turned back to the skeleton. "Why are you mad? Why do you hate the witches?" demanded Tom.

The skeleton glared at him, but hesitated. Tabby guessed that he wanted to state his complaints, but was angry at Tom, too, now. "Please tell us," she said. "Have they done something unfair?"

Still the skeleton hesitated, nursing his anger. Then he burst out, "It's them! He pointed to the ghosts floating beyond the circle of witches. "They won't let me join them. Said I'm weird! Said I didn't belong here!"

"He is! He doesn't!" came wails and whispers from the ghosts. "He's not like us! He's disgusting!"

Tabby whirled to them. "No, he isn't like you – but I'll tell you what he is – He's strong enough to help you fight off the rats, if you'll let him!" She turned back to the skeleton. "Will you?"

"Why should I?" he said sulkily.

"Why not?" asked Tom. "Why not show how strong you are, how valuable your help can be?"

"Well..." The skeleton thought about it.

A little crowd of bats came rushing in. "What are they saying?" Tabby demanded. The nearest cat answered, "The Queen says the ghosts have to apologize. The Skeleton's invited to be a citizen."

Another rush of bats brought a warning, which the cats repeated in horror as they flung themselves from the room, dashing to defend the walls. "The rats are breaking through!"

"Quick!" cried Witch Willow to the ghosts. "Obey the queen!"

The ghosts moved forward, seeming to shuffle even though they floated in the air. They looked at one another, each waiting for someone else to go first.

"Now!" said Witch Willow.

The ghosts mumbled, "We're sorry," but didn't sound as if they were.

"Skeleton, will you help us?" asked Witch Willow.

"No," grumbled the skeleton. "None of you likes me or wants me here."

"Oh, please," cried Tabby. Forgetting how he had frightened her, she darted forward and seized the skeleton's hands, "Please help!"

The skeleton looked down at her. "You don't think I'm disgusting?" He clasped her hands, then turned away. "Okay, have your candle. Where's the breakthrough? I'll stop 'em!" He ran off in the direction of the greatest noise of fighting.

Witch Willow ran up the candle stair and struck a flint. The sparks flashed and died. The uproar grew louder. Willow tried again, hitting the flint too hard, knocking it from her hand. She tried to grab it, and slipped from her place, sliding down the stairs.

The skeleton's voice could be heard, yelling, "Take that! No, you don't! Ha! Try to bite me, would you? I'm too hard for you. Got you!" The growls of the cats and the squeals of the rats could also be heard, along with the scratching that was tearing at the walls.

"Maybe I've got a match." Tom felt in his pockets.

"No. The new light has to be made by flint and steel," Willow told him. She tried to stand, but she had twisted her ankle, and fell back.

The battle noises were growing louder. The rats must be getting in! But the children could still hear the skeleton's cries of triumph as he drove the rats back. There was still time!

Tabby scooped up the fire-making kit and ran to the stair, clambering up the first steep steps. Halfway up, she suddenly found two steps were missing. How could they – ? Oh – Willow must have hit them as she fell, and broken off the wax.

Jamming the flint set in her pocket, Tabby stretched as far as she could, just reaching the next whole step. But she could not grip it. The she felt a boost from below, and Tom gave her the lift she needed. She scrambled across the gap and got onto steps again.

"Go on," Tom called up to her. "He's still holding them."

Tabby made it to the last step, and pulled herself onto the top of the candle, careful not to slip on the spot where Willow had broken the edge as she went over it. with equal care, she pulled out the flint set, trying to remember how Willow has used it. Not like a hammer. A sort of glancing blow. She tried it. Nothing. She struck again, a little harder, and this time got some little sparks. Again, holding it over the wick. A few sparks fell on it. Again. Yes, she was learning how to do it.

But there was a great outcry from the defenders. The rats must be getting in!

More sparks. Tabby positioned her sore hands for another strike...but wait! Those last sparks...? Yes, the wick had caught them, was glowing, was burning! A soft light spread through the Great Hall. It grew brighter, expanded beyond the doorways, filled the whole of the building.

Tingling energy shot throughout the castle. Another shout arose; but this one was a cheer – the enemy had been driven back!

By the time Tabby had got down the stairway again, sliding dangerously over the missing step section, swarms of cats were dancing back, reporting that the energy had healed the walls, and that the rats had fled.

Queen Alder entered, looking refreshed and lively, escorted by the whole swarm of fluttering bats. The skeleton returned with a retinue of his own: the resident ghosts. They were telling each other how nice it was to have a sort of ghost who could actually touch things; maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to count him as one of them.

The Queen made a speech of thanks to the skeleton and to all the others who had defended the castle. To the skeleton she added, "You must be our guest until Tom and Tabby can take you back to your own world."

"If it's all the same to you, Your Majesty, I'd kinda like to stay, now." the skeleton replied.

At that moment the children felt a swirl, and suddenly found themselves back in their own kitchen.

They peered into the castle-o-lantern. The little plastic skeleton had disappeared.

"I guess he did stay," said Tom.

*****

Catspaw

With the satisfaction of a successful talent scout, Doctor Samantha Ingram watched the entry of young Mister Platz into the college conference room, and nodded. Mid-twenties, good-looking, well-dressed, and with a cheerfully open expression, he made a good first impression. He wore horn rimmed glasses which stereotyped him desirably as studious; and this effect was balanced by the self-assurance with which he strode into the room and greeted the three professors who awaited him. He was obviously well-prepared and at ease.

Ingram herself was conscious of a mild touch of butterflies. Platz was her discovery. Although she had been careful to present him as a claimant on his own, not as her protégé, she still had a stake in his success; and she hated being put on the spot over anything. In her younger days she had tried to serve a Cause or two, but had quickly found she was too sensitive to be successful: she wilted under public scrutiny, let alone under heckling and scorn. Now she sought the appearance of just-competent mediocrity in her job, a threat to no one, and of interest to few.

The week before, she had seen an ad for Platz's travelling mentalist act, and had attended the show out of curiosity. Favourably impressed by the young man's performance, she had approached her senior colleague Jardine Merrivale, an ardent believer in ESP, and described what she had seen. S he had not needed to remind Merrivale about Glitzwell, the potential benefactor to the college currently looking for a spectacular project to fund; Merrivale had seen the possibilities in this field instantly.

As Platz crossed to them, Ingram covertly observed the reactions of her two fellow academics. Merrivale – broad of build and, in his own eyes, broad of mind, fiftyish, expansive in manner, opinionated, and always sure of himself –was preparing to take charge of the situation. His new hope for a short-cut to advancement rested on Platz's success today. That would influence his judgement; but it would also rouse his fury if the results were disappointing, and his vengeance would be directed at her.

She cringed a little at the thought. He had worked to build up his influence at the college; and though she had tenure, he could make her life so uncomfortable that she might be tempted to give up her position. She had regretted, almost the instant she had spoken to Merrivale about Platz, the impulse that led her to mention him. But from that same instant, it had been too late to undo the action. Merrivale had plunged into the project with his usual drive, and would have carried on without her if she had withdrawn – and still blamed her if the whole thing fell through.

Wilbert M Trowe –He insisted on the initial –long in body but rather short in principles, was also her senior, though he was younger than her own thirty-three years. He was not quite as ambitious as Merrivale, but he was quick to see advantages for himself, and had easily outpaced her modest progress. He had no great stake in this matter, and he affected a cynical skepticism which might make his judgement more severe. On the other hand, his air of doubt was a pose, though he believed in it himself; he was actually rather suggestible, especially in a situation like this, where he was uncertain of his ground. That was probably why Merrivale had chosen him for this panel. He was, as usual, expressing his vaunted skepticism with a frown, though a thread of uncertainty made him run a hand in mild nervousness across his prematurely balding head.

"Good afternoon, Mister Platz," boomed the senior professor. "I'm Doctor Merrivale; this is Doctor Trowe; and, of course, you know Doctor Ingram, whom we thank for organizing this little demonstration you're going to give us. " He gestured toward a conference table set at the front of the room.

Platz acknowledged the introductions smoothly and pleasantly, adding a few comments about the weather and the state of the traffic on his way to the college, working to relax any tensions or embarrassment his challengers might be feeling. Ingram recognized and admired his skill at it: he was an experienced showman, who could play his audience well.

She also recognized the feelings of the other two. Trowe's self-deluding thought was certainly, You're not going to put anything over on me, young man. Ingram knew Trowe prided himself on his ability to read both faces and body language; she also knew he had nowhere near the skill he thought he had. But that pride could easily prejudice him either way, depending on whether he happened to like the mentalist. She hoped Platz's professional charm would be equal to the occasion.

Merrivale's attitude was simpler and more direct. Already certain of the existence of ESP, he did not care whether Platz really had it or not, as long as the young man could supply good enough evidence for Merrivale to show to Glitzwell, to get the project started. Once it was under way, there would be plenty of genuine espers turned up by it. But woe betide anyone involved if his chance at the project were spoiled by a bad performance today!

*****

As the group chatted, Platz moved to sit behind the table, facing the chairs of the three academics out in the room. With a show of mild stage fright belying his smooth social manner, he fussily rearranged the objects on the table. These were a thin, three-inch-wide disc, a pack of cards, and a device that resembled a small pinball machine. He had supplied them all earlier, for the professors to examine – so they could assure themselves, he had told them with an expression of openness and sincerity, that there were no tricks involved in the props.

Platz put nervousness into his casual chatter as well, both to support the impression that his small movements were thoughtless and unplanned ones, and to blur his judges' memory that he was a professional showman. Trowe was the only person looking straight at him as the professors also settled themselves. Platz held the man's gaze, speaking of his admiration for so open-minded an institution as this college, while his hidden hands quietly attached his small, powerful electromagnets to the underside of the table, getting a good grip with their suction cups. He took off his glasses and polished them, checking that without their special filters the large symbols on the backs of his cards were safely invisible. Satisfied with his arrangements, he said, "Ready. Shall we do the cards first?"

Ingram switched on a video camera– Just one, at the back of the room, and they hadn't even put it on until now! –cleared her throat, and said, "Is everyone familiar with psi-test cards? There are five symbols: circle, square, triangle, star, and wavy lines. Mister Platz will attempt to read from my mind which symbol I am looking at, on each card." She came forward and picked up the pack from Platz's table. Shuffling the pack, she gave it to each of the other professors in turn to cut, then, resuming her seat, began to hold up the cards one at a time, their backs to Platz.

"Circle," he called out. "Wavy line. Star. Star. . . "

Merrivale carefully wrote down each of Platz's responses, while Trowe, his frown deepening with concentration, looked over Ingram's shoulder and recorded the actual mark that was on the card. When the run was completed, the two men compared lists. Merrivale exclaimed, "Twenty out of twenty-five! That's far beyond chance results!"

"Can he do it again?" grunted Trowe.

They went through another run. "Twenty-two!" cried Merrivale.

While the others chattered about statistics, Platz thought, What marks these professors are! They had fallen in with his every suggestion –especially the Ingram dame, who had been so happy to find that he had on hand a pack of the standard ESP cards, so she wouldn't have to send off for one. You'd think anyone claiming to be testing ESP would at least insist on providing their own test equipment. All these fools had asked was to be given the stuff ahead of time to look over; and aside from the card marks, there had been nothing to find. They were so gullible they had never thought to search him when he came in, for the rest of his equipment.

As the academics finished filling in all their charts on the first pair of tests, Platz pulled forward the miniature pinball board. It was covered by a stiff sheet of hard, transparent plastic – Tamper-proof, he thought sardonically – and had a small electric motor attached, so it would run without his touching it.

Ingram described the device onto the record, as she moved the camera forward for a close-up of the next action, adding, ". . . When we turn it on, the machine will release a tiny metal ball at the top of the slope every thirty seconds. Before each release, Mister Platz will try to predict whether the ball will end up in the right or left hand hole at the bottom, after bouncing its way through the pegs. Is everyone ready?"

The test began, with Merrivale and Trowe again keeping scores. Platz, his hands resting negligently in his lap, flicked the switch of his electromagnet back and forth as he called out his predictions. An occasional fluke bounce counteracted his guidance, so he didn't have to throw in any deliberate failures this time to avoid a perfect score.

After a second run, the professors compared results again. Trowe shook his head, half in gloom, half in awe. Merrivale beamed.

They were getting worked up now, Platz thought. Drunk on statistics. Now for the crowning touch. Not a physicist in the lot of them – They'd never heard of magnetic levitation – just of levitation, period. And now they'd see it with their own eyes. They'd swear to it forever, though he might have to "lose" this ability, if they ever brought in anyone who might put a few simple controls on the "experiments. "

He shoved aside the pinball machine and moved the thin, metal disc directly in front of him. He hoped he would not have to drop this part of the show from his demonstrations; he enjoyed the acting here best.

He stared at the disc, tensing his neck muscles to make them stand out. He hadn't mastered sweating on demand, but a wipe of the back of his hand over his forehead gave the impression of perspiring strain. Ten seconds. . . twenty. To the watchers, he knew, it seemed much more. Then he closed the switch, and the disc began to rise off the table. He let it hover for a count of seven seconds, then cut off the power. Wiping his brow again, he slumped on his elbows, drawing deep breaths.

When he repeated the "test" for confirmation, he let the disc fall after only five seconds, as if he could not hold the effort as long when already tired; he had found this a convincing detail.

Merrivale let out a great sigh, and beamed. "That should convince even you, Trowe. ESP is real, and we've got to get this project going before some other college beats us to it! Think what an advantage we'll have, with a proven subject already available to us. We'll – the college will be famous. This could develop into a separate department, as it grows in size and importance. "

Trowe shook his head again, but this time it was pure awe. "I can't fight you after seeing this." The enthusiasm of the convert began to come into his voice. "Yes, we must study this phenomenon further. There is certainly something in it. I'll back you in your presentation, Doctor Merrivale, and propose you to head the project – and the department, if it comes to that," he ended with a flourish.

"Then our recommendation to proceed with this project is unanimous?" Merrivale pressed, glancing at Ingram.

She nodded. "Though I've never claimed the faith you have in the validity of ESP, Doctor Merrivale, I've been willing from the start to support your proposal for study of it. And I too will put your name forward as chairman of the project. "

Merrivale glowed in the double endorsement. "Then we've got to get a report written up right away – before other people can get their trivial ideas put forward. I'll have a word with the members of the review board, too. And we'll have to arrange for them to see a demonstration; then, after we get their approval, there'll have to be another demonstration for the benefactor. Mister Platz, can you make yourself available?"

"I shall be in this city for another week; fortunately, I do not have another engagement immediately after that – " Haven't been able to get another booking for the next two months, but no need for you to know that! – "so, if you care to pay my expenses, I am prepared to stay on for a short time while you make your arrangements. I would also expect further compensation for additional demonstrations, and a contract when I begin regular work for your project. "

"Yes, yes, that's all reasonable. Doctor Ingram will arrange the details with you as soon as we have dates for the demonstrations – "He paused to receive her agreement, then went on, "Trowe, will you collect the videotape, and get started on the report? I'll go buttonhole the chairman of the board. Thank you very much, Mister Platz. " He was already on his way out on the last words. Trowe grabbed the camera and hurried after him.

And thank you, suckers, thought Platz, with an inward smile, listening to the enthusiasm in their fading voices.

As Ingram came over to him, Platz hoped she would restrain herself from emoting over the successful "tests", and talk instead about the size of salary he could expect once they got their precious project set up.

But she did neither. She placed the pack of cards down on the table and spread them, backs up. "Look," she said quietly.

A stab of fear hit him. Had she discovered the marks? How? Why hadn't she said anything? Would she conspire with him, in order to protect her own reputation? She had, after all, been the one to "find" him; however neutral she had tried to appear, people would keep remembering that. And maybe she had a stake in their project, too.

Anyway, what could she prove? She didn't have filter glasses on, so she couldn't see the marks. Even he couldn't see them, now that he had his glasses off – Wait a minute! He still had the glasses on – and he couldn't see the marks!

"That's right," Ingram answered his thought. "I switched decks. Before the test. You weren't cheating; you really were reading the symbols from my mind. And the pinball box now has a magnetic field in a metal plate in its base that blocked your weak fields. And the disc I substituted for yours is actually plastic, painted to look like metal, so it couldn't feel the magnetic levitation. You did it all by mental power. "

"But I couldn't have," blurted Platz.

"You could, and did," said Ingram, adding, on a private mental level: with a lot of boosting from me. Your talent's very small, but it'll grow by the time I'm through with you. And meanwhile you and Merrivale and Trowe will be taking all the flak of publicity and opposition, with me comfortably in the background, a blameless assistant with no crusading to do, and no one shattering my own abilities by getting me too upset to function. This time, at last, my own particular Cause will get the support it needs: I'll get the study of ESP established properly, and find lots of others of my kind, so I won't feel so freakish and timid. You're not much, Platz, but you're a start. . .

"I did? Really?" faltered Platz.

Ingram watched belief begin to flood through his mind as vistas of what he might be able to do stirred his ambitions and began to strengthen his psi controls.

"Really," she said firmly. "Now, let's think up a few more demonstrations you can do, and get you some practice. . . "

*****

Hunting Licence

I keep thinking about the skinny kid who sold me my hunting licence. Of course, none of us are fat nowadays; with the famines no one would dare to be, even if he could. But this kid had a particularly "lean and hungry" look. I suspected him of being a vegetarian, with a jaundiced outlook on the whole history of the ancient sport of hunting.

Still, he did his job well. Before he let me fill out the form, he went through the whole lecture about observing the boundaries of the hunting reserve; no shooting in the cleared zone around the edges; prescribed rifles only; and all the rest of it. He reminded me that all insurance policies carried a no-payment clause on hunters, and that, in the event of serious injury, I might have up to a six hours' wait before the four-times-a-day moratorium allowed one of the rescue teams to cart me out. I'd heard it all the previous three years, and waited impatiently for my licence.

At last he let me fill it out, and stamped it with the big official seal, with the date and "Good for four (4) days". That was two days less than last year, but of course, hunting is popular, and everyone has to be allowed a turn. The cost was up, too; but it always is.

I went through the usual search at the entrance to the reserve and listened to that same lecture again, with stress on the cleared safety zone. The guard added, "Once you're in the wooded area, you can shoot whatever you see. Animals are sufficiently scarce these days that there aren't likely to be any protected ones wandering in; and we check pretty thoroughly for them, anyway. If anything does get in, it's yours."

That sounded like a nice bonus, though an unlikely one. We've had to learn to make our controls rigid, what with more people and fewer resources every year. Nothing but birds were likely to get in, and they weren't worth the cost of a high-powered bullet.

It pays to know a bit of wood lore – especially how to move quietly, so the other hunters won't hear you. Some of them, who can afford it, blaze away at every sound, even though you can't count a kill you use more than one shot on; and no one likes the idea of lying around wounded, waiting for the rescue team. I had practiced a lot, whenever I got a pass to a park; if I wasn't an expert, at least I wasn't a blundering fool.

I worked my way in slowly and cautiously, listening to occasional shots, wondering how many of them were wasted. When I found a spot that suited me, I snuggled down into cover and waited.

My first year out, I was so busy dodging the other hunters that I didn't get a single kill myself; but the next year I got sensible enough to curb my impatience and wait in ambush, and I got one. Last year I played it that way from the start, and I got two. If my luck was that good again this year, I'd make the List.

I pushed away that thought: it could get me too excited, and I had to stay cool.

The wait seemed long; I had to keep checking my impulse to get up and try to find a better ambush spot. But finally I heard cautious steps approaching, from nearly the direction I'd figured on. He was coming slowly enough that I could inch my way around to get lined up, without making any noise myself. I couldn't stop my pulse from speeding up, but I was able to make my breath stay even.

I hadn't got the direction quite right; I had to swing my rifle at the last moment; and my cover wasn't as good as I'd thought, either: he spotted my motion, and fired as fast as I did. And we both hit.

It's pretty bad, at first. You don't know how serious your wound is, not when it's right in the body. A nick on the arm, and you can walk out for help; a really bad wound, and you don't have time to wonder. But in between, you can't move much, and you wonder if you'll last till rescue. Of course, my anti-pain hypo kicked in the minute its sensor felt my shock, but the waiting's still grim.

After the drug began to take effect, I was able to think about other things, and I called out to him, to see if I'd killed him. Not instantly, anyway, for he answered – voice a little dull, but his own anti-pain shot would do that.

"How are you?"

He was a good sport. He could have refused to answer, leaving me wondering; but he spoke up. "I'm in a bad way. I think you can count me on your score. How many you got?"

"Three – four, if I get to count you. How many you got?"

"Four."

"Thought you were an Ace already, the way you snapped off that shot – and hit."

"Well, if you die, too, I'll be on the List, even if I don't live to see it."

We were silent for a few minutes, thinking of the List – the hunters' aspiration, the Hall of Fame that makes the risks so worth it. There are some names with two or even three stars – double and triple Aces; but few of us last that long: luck steps in. Look at this guy: he was obviously better than I am, but I got him anyway.

You know the odds, but you go out anyhow. Even when you've got your five, you still go back. But most of us don't last even that long, so there's a sort of superstition about not thinking beyond the current five. Just to get on the List at all is the height of ambition for most of us: to have posterity know we were real men, successful hunters of the most dangerous game on Earth.

He interrupted my thoughts. "I think ours is the best method."

"Method?"

"Of population control."

"Oh, yeah." I didn't think about it that way much.

"You know, in some countries, you don't get a chance. I hear some of them just kill off nine out of every ten babies born. Some execute everyone over thirty-five. And there are actually countries that limit the number of children their people can have. Imagine, having your sex life regulated. We'd kill any politician who tried that one on us!"

"Some countries hold lotteries," I said. "That gives you a chance to keep on surviving."

"Yeah, but what kind of a life is that? Doing nothing, just waiting to see if some computer picks you. In our way, we get the chance to win out against the odds, by our own skill. And we face the danger voluntarily – but not meekly."

"You're right. Every man wants to go down fighting – and knowing he'll be remembered and honoured when he's gone."

We fell silent; since we agreed, there wasn't much else to say about that; and my thoughts went back to the List again. Not with a sense of glory, this time, but with frustration. If I died now, I wouldn't be on the List. He was only my number four. I'd be his number five, and he'd have his place secure, live or die; but I wouldn't.

That was when I started thinking about the kid in the licence office. I couldn't figure out why. There was no way he could be of any help to me or my score. The search teams would come in after the sonics had laid out everybody in the woods, and check all the death scenes, noting whose rifle had killed whom. I'd be his fifth, and he would be my fourth, only. You can't alter numbers. Why did I think about that kid?

Wait – not the kid himself: something he'd said, that was it...something in the regulations. What was it?

He'd asked me how many kills I had. I'd said, three. And he said, "You could make your Ace this time. Remember, every one-shot kill counts."

Of course it does. Why had he emphasized it like that? Or had he meant nothing? Just making conversation? No matter: it meant something to my subconscious – only I couldn't quite dig it out. I fumed and strained for long minutes, then gave up as a wave of weakness hit me. And then I had it. Every one-shot kill counts...

I called out to my companion. No answer. Was he dead? I had to be sure. Slowly, careful not to over-exert myself, I dragged myself over to him, and felt for a pulse. I checked several times, not wanting to fool myself with the strength of my own hope. There was no pulse. I had four kills. I could get five.

They might argue about it a bit, I suppose, though I'm sure they'll accept it in the end. But just to make sure, I'm putting this description on my pocket recorder, addressed to the local news media. I'm the first guy to think of this, so by the time they're through spreading the story, no one would think of denying me a place on the List. Finally, I make this affirmation that I am not mortally wounded, and I am clear-headed enough to legally waive my rights as an already wounded man. That makes me legitimate prey for anyone except the guy who's already shot me once.

Then, with my own rifle, with my own finger (or toe, if I have to)...

Every kill counts...

*****

Involunteer

Mr. Oussiar had no intention of becoming what the news media of our world promptly dubbed a "dimension-naut". He was a small, quiet man, near retirement age; and he was taking what his society regarded as a routine interstellar trip.

It was not routine to Mr. Oussiar, for he had never before been off his home planet of Abdak, in spite of being a translator for inter-species business conferences. He was taking this trip to Morarr to visit his granddaughter's family, which had settled there and grown wealthy, and had invited him to spend his retirement years with them in greater comfort than his own means would permit. They were providing the trip so he could see how he would like the situation before he decided.

It was a slack time at the Abdak Departure Centre, and the staff there gave him kindly extra attention to expedite his hesitant progress through the formalities. Within a few minutes he was stepping into one of the transmitter cars – deligs, as they were called, after their inventor. Clipped to Mr. Oussiar's jacket was a ticket to Morarr and in his hand he gripped a carry-on bag. Draped across his shoulders was a honiope, a six-legged, fluffy, cat-sized animal named Cayanan, native to the planet Linznaliat.

Mr. Oussiar found he had the car to himself. He settled on one of the two upholstered, facing benches, slid Cayanan onto his lap, and bent to tuck his bag under the seat. A red light went on over the door, telling him the delig was now sealed and the trip in progress.

He absently stroked the honiope, and thought about turning on the book in his pocket. It was an exciting story about a psionics engineer who gimmicked a delig to carry him into another universe instead of just across space; and Mr Oussiar, whose own life had known no excitement greater than occasional displays of temperament by his clientele, was eager to read more. But there would hardly be time to get into the book again, unless there were some overcrowding delay in the docking at Morarr Arrival Centre. Even while he was mentally locating his place in the story, the red travel light changed to the blue arrival one and the door opened.

He retrieved his bag and stepped out, then looked around in astonishment. He was not in an Arrival Centre, but on the lawn of a three-story wooden building that sat in isolated splendour amid greenery and flowers. Mr. Oussiar's reaction was not a joyful sensation of adventure-at-last but a sinking realization that something-had-gone-wrong. He clutched his bag and the honiope and thought, with horror this time, about the universe-exchange theme of his story.

The house at which Mr. Oussiar gazed so fearfully was occupied by Cheyne Forrester and her daughter Jackie. Cheyne was a freelance software designer whose skill supplied a financially comfortable life for her family in a renovated Victorian country house and permitted her husband Bob to remain, with a clear conscience, in an underpaid job as a scientist. He was currently in the Antarctic, competing for krill against their natural predators, in a lengthy study of marine ecological systems. Jackie, a postgrad student in the fledgling discipline of psionics, was spending the summer at home developing computer programs to provide unbiased guidance of parapsychology experiments.

At the time of Mr. Oussiar's arrival, Cheyne was engaged in the low-tech job of repainting the gingerbread fretwork that decorated the front porch. Jackie was leaning out an upstairs window, trailing wires from a psionics band around her head, trying to broadcast the familiar home scene to her father, who had promised to try to receive at this hour. The two women stopped in mid-brushstroke and mid-viewsweep respectively, and stared at the little man with his luggage and his animal, standing in front of the two and a half meter high rounded cube he had just exited.

His shape and face were human, though he stood not much more than a meter and a half tall, was hairless, and had golden leathery skin. His posture and expression clearly showed fright and bewilderment.

For a moment the tableau of disbelief on both sides held; then it was shattered by the Forresters' dog, Batty, waking from his snooze at the side of the lawn. Batty knew a chasable animal when he saw one, whatever its shape, and here was one being carried practically onto his own doorstep. With his most ferocious bark, he hurled his seven kilograms of guardian muscle toward it.

The honiope was equally adept at recognizing a chase scene. It streaked for the nearest shelter, the house, and reached the top of the porch in one leap and a scramble, and a moment later was up the remaining house wall to the roof.

"Oh, dear!" said Mr. Oussiar.

"Six legs?" said Jackie, craning up at the animal that had passed her window.

"Batty!" called Cheyne. With practiced skill, she scooped up the little dog and shoved him through a one-way animal flap into the cellar, where his voice was muffled. "I'm so sorry," she told Mr. Oussiar.

They all looked up at the honiope, and Mr. Oussiar tentatively called, "Here, Cayanan." Cayanan clung to the ridgepole and looked down with patent distrust, ears pricked toward Batty's indignant, if faint, barks.

"Maybe it'll come down if we wait quietly," Cheyne suggested. Mr. Oussiar looked at her blankly, and she realized that he could not understand her words, though she had unconsciously guessed at his. She gestured at him and herself and pointed to the chairs on the porch, then gestured the sun moving across the sky and the honiope descending. Mr. Oussiar gave an assenting tilt of his head to the right and followed her onto the porch.

By this time everyone had forgotten to be frightened (except the honiope) or incredulous. Cheyne called to Jackie to bring some lemonade and cookies, and settled Mr. Oussiar in a chair, with a cushion behind his short body. He gestured her to keep talking, tapping his head to try to tell her he had a biocomputer implant that would soon store up a vocabulary of her words as he identified them. By the time Jackie came out, the other two had exchanged names and identified their animals and were settling down to a language lesson.

"Mom, when that thing arrived – " Jackie pointed to the transmitter car.

"He calls it a delig, dear."

"When the delig came, my psionics equipment really worked for a minute. Not just sort of and maybe, but definitely. The gauges recorded, and I saw Dad's view, and he said, 'Hey, it's working' to me. Then everything cut off again. Do you think the delig brought in psionic energy and gave me a boost?"

"Could be. It must have some sort of tremendous power. If I've understood him properly, Mr. Oussiar was going on an interstellar trip in that little thing."

"Well, hurry up and teach him some more words. I want to ask him some questions!"

"You won't be the only one," said Cheyne thoughtfully. "Phone your father's office and tell them to send every biologist in the company over here. Don't tell them why – they won't believe it. Just say I give my word it's a matter more urgent than that lost data I retrieved for them last year."

Mr. Oussiar was reluctant to move indoors away from his delig and honiope, but he did take a quick look inside when invited to do so. Cheyne demonstrated a computer to give him some indication of the level of technology her world had, and he managed to convey to her an intimation of his implant. She called up a course in basic English, downloaded it onto a portable unit, and soon had Mr Oussiar back in his porch chair, reading through the course and storing its contents in his augmented memory.

But before he could finish, the interruptions began.

The Forresters' house was on a little-used side road, but there were occasional vehicles passing. A couple of neighbours who had time to spare were curious enough at the sight of the delig to turn into the lane to make inquiries. Another, seeing the delig and cars, stopped to see if help were needed on some project. One, too hurried to stop, carried mention of the scene into the village a few kilometers away, and as soon as he had time, the local policeman drove out to see what was going on. His radioed report about "a sort of flying saucer" (a blurted analogy that embarrassed him for years) brought prompt reinforcements of police and eventually an army tactical unit in helicopters.

The three biologists who had come out from Bob Forrester's office (happy for an excuse for an outing but muttering, "It had better be something important!") arrived shortly before the military and just after the press. One close look at Mr. Oussiar left the biologists first speechless, then babbling.

After hearing the story, and seeing how worried Mr. Oussiar was about his animal, the most athletic of the biologists, a young man named Ramsey Quong, climbed from an attic window to the roof and carried down the honiope, which submitted patiently to the handling and made no objections to the descent, now that Batty had gone to sleep in the cellar, worn out by his magnificent defense of the property.

The biologists cooed over the six-legged Cayanan; the neighbours gawked at Mr Oussiar; the police tried to establish some order in the growing crowd that simply ignored them, and the two reporters tried to interview everyone there, including Cayanan. Mr. Oussiar wondered if he should try to say he was pleased and honoured to be there, even though he was not.

Suddenly everyone was drowned out by the army copters which hovered around the property, discharging troops. The soldiers formed into a ring and closed in on the house at a run, weapons at the ready. Batty, wakened by the noise, added his own.

Some of the crowd rushed for cars, some for the house. Cayanan streaked back up to the roof. The biologists – in what they later agreed was the most foolhardy thing they had ever done in their lives – without a pause for consideration, gathered defensively about their remaining treasure, Mr. Oussiar, ready to defy anything from guns to gods to keep him.

The main group of soldiers reached the centre of their circle and stopped, rather uncertainly, looking at the worried and bewildered people they had herded into a knot in front of the porch. Another circle of soldiers, with more firmly levelled weapons, held the unresisting delig at bay, while a nominal group surrounded the house, which also put up no fight.

A smaller chopper landed on the lawn, letting out a Major and two aides. The senior officer announced his name as Loave, and told the two reporters to turn off their cameras or have them confiscated.

One of the reporters sang out, "No way, soldier-boy! This is going out live, so don't even think about trying to muzzle the press!"

The Major's brow darkened. Losing hope of secrecy, he ordered the local police to sort out the people who didn't belong at the house and send them away. The biologists claimed to be legitimate invited guests and the reporters would not stir, even under threat; but the rest were gradually forced out onto the road. By the time he was able to start questioning the remaining people, Loave was simmering; and the answers he got did not soothe him.

As he saw it, there were three possibilities. Either the Forresters were perpetrating a hoax, which was wasting manpower and equipment, and therefore ought to be punished, or something they had done with their confounded computers and psionics had genuinely brought some out-of-this-world things into it, which could prove dangerous, or else Earth was being deliberately invaded, and the Forresters had failed to report it. Whichever way, they were guilty of something.

Furthermore, everyone kept telling him the alien couldn't speak English; but he had caught him exchanging words with the Forrester woman; and he was clutching a portable computer with English words on the screen. Loave didn't trust a one of this bunch, and he'd see to it they didn't get away with whatever they were up to!

"Take that man – or whatever he is – into custody," he ordered his sergeant. "And have your best marksman knock that animal off the roof."

The reporters happily recorded the biologists' screams of protest. Ramsey Quong, the athletic scientist, was eventually allowed to fetch Cayanan again, and to go along with the animal to the army base, while one of his colleagues went to fetch a suitable cage from their supplies.

Mr. Oussiar was taken away, while a chopper lifted the delig, dangling in a cargo sling, and flew off. Loave then ordered some of his soldiers to search the Forrester house, and to confiscate all the electronic and psionic equipment there.

Cheyne, by now as angry as Loave, snarled, "You touch one piece of our equipment without a court order and you'll trade your commission term for a jail term! Our house is run by the computers and I use them in my business. My daughter's university work depends on them. You have no evidence for your notion that our equipment 'pulled' the delig here."

Loave, who considered all electronics the province of nerds and therefore unmanly, would have been delighted to order the equipment not only removed but destroyed, but he was painfully aware that he had no evidence against the Forresters; and there were those blasted reporters waiting to show him damaging a civilian's business. He compromised by sending for some experts to examine the equipment, and forbidding the Forresters to touch it in the meanwhile.

Cheyne promptly called her lawyers. When Loave tried to stop her, she remarked to the reporters, "I've got programs in there that I haven't marketed yet. Nobody is going to mess around in it!"

Loave was forced to retreat again. When he eventually withdrew, leaving only a token guard on the property, he was grimly determined to get satisfaction out of the alien.

Cheyne was silently vowing to rescue Mr. Oussiar from him.

The army moved fast. A quarantine unit was emptied and Mr. Oussiar was whisked into it, surrounded by guards and scientists. He was stripped of everything he owned: his suitcase, his ticket to Morarr, his clothes, and his unfinished book. He would have liked to see how the engineer in the story got back, or coped with the situation. It might have helped him believe that he too might survive his experience; but his polite protests and requests were ignored.

But Cheyne's lawyers – Dunbarton, Khoury, Ohama, and Atkov – recognizing a spectacular case as readily as Batty and Cayanan did a chase, moved equally fast. The army was stopped in its tracks until Mr. Oussiar could learn enough English to give his informed consent to any testing. Everything he had brought with him was declared his property and likewise inviolate except as he permitted. The one victory the army gained was the right to keep him separated from his possessions.

It was not long before Mr. Oussiar was able to bargain, under the guidance of D, K, O, and A. He accepted continued observation and agreed to undergo reasonable physical tests provided Cayanan was spared any. He failed to get the animal returned to him, and suspected the honiope was being kept as a hostage for his good behavior. He did get an agreement that Dr. Quong, the biologist who had been protective of the honiope, would be allowed onto the team looking after it, which relieved his mind a little.

He was allowed to select a few personal items, such as pictures of his family, from his suitcase, in return for giving the rest of its contents to the scientists to analyze. He asked for his book back long enough to finish it. But Loave, now a colonel and in charge of Operation Alien, distrusted the gadget. Moreover he was no reader and could not understand a liking for fiction, so he told Mr. Oussiar to ask the scientists investigating it how the story turned out, if that was really all he wanted it for.

Nor would Loave let him near the delig. Aside from not trusting the alien not to produce a weapon from it somehow, he also objected to Mr. Oussiar's avowed purpose of trying to return home in it. A successful attempt would end Project Alien, not to mention Loave's new prestige. He did agree to preserve the delig and the ticket to Morarr, provided the army's scientists could attempt to use them.

Mr. Oussiar gave reluctant permission. The delig was his only hope of returning home, he had to keep the experimenters from harming it. But if they should find a way to work it, there was no guarantee they would exchange universes as he had, or go to the right one, or to his own part of that one, and even less that they or anyone else could come back for him.

A number of attempts were made, by groups and by individuals, who sat in the delig for hours, carrying Mr Oussiar's ticket (and sometimes his book, since he had incautiously admitted that the delig operated psionically, and that he had been thinking of the book's premise of inter-universe travel when the glitch had occurred), while assorted fields of energy were provided around the delig, which contained neither power source nor connection for one. The delig remained just a metal compartment with two upholstered bench seats in it.

Meanwhile, having rapidly mastered English, Mr. Oussiar willingly shared his broad but very superficial knowledge of the eighteen known inhabited worlds of his universe and his precise but subject-limited knowledge of their ten major languages. Linguists got much, sociologists little, and technicians next to nothing. Mr. Oussiar knew how to work switches, but he had no idea what happened between the switches and the light, sound, movement, or other action of the machines.

Though they found both Mr. Oussiar and the delig useless, the army officials hung on to both, for fear someone else might somehow get more out of one or the other than they had. They did, however, relax the tightness of their guard on him, and Cheyne was finally allowed in to see him, under observation.

"I have much to thank you for," Mr. Oussiar told her, in fluent, if somewhat clumsy, English. "The lawyers told me how you mounted a public awareness campaign, and enlisted the help of influential people you knew through your work, to back the lawyers' demands on my behalf, all of which was needed, they said."

"I hope I'd have done it anyway; but after the way Loave treated all of us, I enjoyed the fight. But I wish we could figure out how to get you home, or at least find a way to get you released from here."

"They treat me well now, though I admit it's lonely, in spite of the number of people around. Having you visit helps... I wish they'd at least let me have Cayanan back."

"Had you had him long?" Cheyne asked with quick sympathy.

"No, I just got him at the Departure Centre. He's not even from my own world, but he is from my universe." Mr. Oussiar sighed. "My great grandchildren would have enjoyed seeing him. They've never travelled, either."

Mr. Oussiar told her about his family. Since the expansion into space had started a century before, families were allowed three children, and he had had the full quota. With his parents, and his wife's, there was quite an extended family, especially by the time you counted the grandnieces and grandnephews. They all stayed in touch, even the ones who had moved to other planets, even his in-laws, though he had been widowed for a decade. He missed them all terribly, the few pictures he carried with him being poor substitutes.

"I wish I could show you my world," he sighed. "People are so much more mature than so many I've met here. If I could just get back, I'm sure our scientists could figure out what happened, after all, they know all about deligs, and then we could set up a travel service to here."

Cheyne, to force down a lump in her throat, said grumpily, "You'd have to set up strict immigration laws, otherwise someone like Loave might go there and louse things up."

"Don't worry. We have good psychiatrists."

Cheyne grinned, hoping that that had gone clearly onto the automatic recording and that Loave would see the transcription, without authority to delete anything before it went to higher ranks also. "Well, perhaps someday I will be visiting you at your home," she said as she took her leave. "Don't give up hope."

"I won't," Mr. Oussiar assured her, though he looked as if he already had.

Cheyne took images with her as she left: Mr Oussiar's worlds and his society; the touch of brave hope he had held in his face and voice till the end of their meeting; and the despair that had claimed him when their time was up. The images kept circling in her mind, and a vague feeling grew that she had missed something important. Was it something Mr. Oussiar had wanted her to know, but had not dared to say out loud? Something he had hoped she would somehow guess? Was that why he had drooped at the end?

She went over and over her memory of the meeting, and gradually she focused on something. Could it be that he didn't trust the military to know, for fear they would snatch from him his last tiny hope of someday getting home? It was a wild guess. And what could she do about it, anyway? Well, if it would possibly get little Mr Oussiar home – not to mention blacking Loave's eye – she would find something to do about it!

By the time she got home she had an idea; but first she sought out Jackie's opinion on the psionics of her guess.

"Well, yes, it's conceivable," responded her daughter. "No reason why it should be so, but no reason why it shouldn't. So how can we find out?"

"We can't. And we don't dare try, anyway. It would alert Loave's gang. We just have to act on the assumption we're right."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see the TV producer we worked with in our awareness campaign. Then we may have to get our influential friends to apply pressure again."

The producer was delighted with the idea of filming a re-enactment of Mr. Oussiar's epic journey. After sufficient pressure had been applied at the right levels, grudging permission was received from the authorities for Mr. Oussiar to take part in the show.

Mr. Oussiar was rather startled at first by the idea of acting a part, even that of himself, but he quickly became interested in the idea, especially when he learned that Cheyne was behind it. He co-operated in the long conferences with the production staff.

Eventually a set, constructed to resemble Mr. Oussiar's description of the Abdak Departure Centre, was erected on the Forresters' side lawn, out of camera range from the arrival point of the delig at the front. On filming day the delig itself (prompted by Cheyne, the producer had insisted on having every possible thing authentic, as part of the selling point of the program) was brought back and plunked down in the Departure set.

Soldiers again infested the property, but until it was their turn to act out their arrival, they were employed mostly in keeping extraneous people out of the way. There were enough legitimate self-actors and TV personnel to crowd the area as it was.

Mr. Oussiar was brought along – accompanied by guards watching against escape or attack – at what they intended to be the last minute. A couple of delays necessitated a wait after all.

He was dressed in a visual replica of the clothes he had worn when he arrived – the originals having been lost to analysis. His ticket to Morarr was again clipped to his jacket, and beside him stood a suitcase that looked like his own, packed with clothes and few souvenirs he had acquired on Earth. He appeared nervous and anxious as he peered around at the bustle and crowd.

Loave was arguing with the producer and director about the suitcase; he wanted it empty, or filled with bricks. "If I have to let him near his machine, I'm not letting him take anything he's chosen into it."

The director lost his temper. "What do you think he's going to do, convert his You-Are-Here tee-shirt into a superweapon as he gets inside? We're trying to help him feel natural, and you want him to lug bricks! Colonel, you're out of your tree! If you insist on this nonsense, we'll open that suitcase in the middle of the scene, show the bricks, and tell the public about your idiocy!"

While everyone's attention was on the noisy quarrel, Cheyne slipped close to Mr. Oussiar and murmured, "Good luck!"

"Where's Cayanan? They said they'd have everything just as it was..."

"They're bringing him now, in that cage, see? They had to check first that Batty was out of the way until the arrival scene. Don't worry, you'll have the chance to see your pet."

Mr. Oussiar swallowed. "He's..."

"I know," Cheyne interrupted him. "Pets are important, especially at times of crises. Don't be nervous. You'll do all right."

"If I do, I know it's thanks to you."

There was another delay, as Loave decided he didn't trust Mr. Oussiar out of his sight for even a few minutes, and insisted on getting into the delig too, necessitating a slight change of camera angle, so that he would not be visible as Mr. Oussiar got in.

Dr. Quong, still faithfully guarding Cayanan, brought the honiope over and draped it around Mr. Oussiar's neck. Cheyne gave the animal a stroke and stood back, smiling and shaking her head when Mr. Oussiar seemed about to say something more to her.

The director signaled, and Mr. Oussiar walked onto the set as steadily as he could, hiding the trembling of his hands and controlling his desire to run and fling himself into the delig. He concentrated on acting out his original movements as he climbed in, speaking thanks to an actor who was playing the part of one of the Abdak Departure staff.

Ignoring Loave's sour glance, Mr. Oussiar settled himself and Cayanan, and shoved his bag under the seat. The door swung shut. He wished he had been able to finish his book, so he could imitate the hero's way of returning, if he had. All he could do was think about the story and Morarr, and his craving to go there. The rest was up to the psionics system.

The red light went on.

The red light! He was going!

Unless the TV people had rigged it for some reason?

"What's taking them so long?" grunted Loave from the other seat. "They're supposed to carry this thing over to the arrival point. Or do we have to get out while they do it? Weak-backed lot they have in TV!"

The red light went out, and the blue light came on.

The door opened.

Mr. Oussiar let out the breath he had been holding, and tears blurred his vision. It was Morarr Arrival Centre, with its sign, in the right language.

He climbed out, followed by a suddenly speechless Loave, who stood staring around with his mouth goldfishing soundlessly. Mr. Oussiar crossed to the check-in counter and handed in his ticket and the honiope, that psionic catalyst that triggered delig travel, and went on out.

Because he was a kindly person, Mr. Oussiar would go back in a few minutes to rescue Loave from the Customs and Immigration and ticket people now questioning him in languages incomprehensible to him. But because he was human, or its equivalent, he would wait those few minutes.

**Also by Sansoucy Kathenor**

## Puss in Bytes

Available on Smashwords

<http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/134671>

A fast-paced high-tech adventure that cat-fanciers will love!

*****

### In Memoriam

Sansoucy Kathenor (Walker)

SF Canada member Sansoucy Kathenor (Walker) died peacefully at her home in Ottawa on Saturday, November 5, 2005. She had been in ill health for the last year.

Her publications included a book of poetry, _Temple into Time_ , and short stories such as "The Cinderella Caper", a _Writers of the Future_ runner-up in 1985 (and apparently taught in a university class on creativity and archetypes); "Mirror" and "A Spell in Time" in _Fantasy Book_ ; "Invasion" in the anthology _Arc of Ice_ ; and "Murder Undone", coauthored with Andrea Schlecht, in the anthology _Over My Dead Body_. At the time of her death she was working to complete a long novel.

In Ottawa, Sahn was the founder of the Lyngarde writers group, which is now in its third decade. Her writing had wit and deftness. Her criticism was direct and often penetrating. She could be eccentric and obdurate, but also kind and funny, and she is dearly missed by those who were close to her.

\- John Park

*****
