Author: Charles L. Grant
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Anthologies; Weird Fiction; Cyberpunk; Fiction; Short Stories; Science Fiction; Horror
Description: Imagine a collection of nighmarish tales as dark as a freshly opened grave. So terrifying that they scatter dreams like leaves before a midnight wind. So macabre that they give even the typesetter the chills. So horrific that Evil itself turns away. Imagine. Now open and read.
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

"The Man Who Would Not Shake Hands" copyright © 1981 by Stephen King. "Yours,—Guy" copyright © 1981 by Robert F. Young. "The Belonging Kind" copyright © 1981 by John Shirley and William Gibson. "Calling Collect" copyright © 1981 by Barry N. Malzberg and Arthur L. Samuels. "Hearing Is Believing" copyright © 1981 by Ramsey Campbell. "Threshold" copyright © 1981 by Deirdre L. Kugelmeyer. "A Visit To Brighton" copyright © 1981 by Alan Ryan. "Echoes From a Darkened Shore" copyright © 1981 by Cherie Wilkerson. "The Blue Chair" copyright © 1981 by Tabitha King. "Meow" copyright © 1981 by Tanith Lee. "The Giveaway" copyright © 1981 by Steve Rasnic Tem. "Need" copyright © 1981 by Lisa Tuttle. "Waiting for the Knight" copyright © 1981 by Beverly Evans. "Under My Bed" copyright © 1981 by Al Sarrantonio. "The Hour of Silhouette" copyright © 1981 by Juleen Brantingham. "Snow, Cobwebs, and Dust" copyright © 1981 by John Keefauver. "The Spider Glass" copyright © 1981 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This Berkley Book contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. It has been completely reset in a typeface designed for easy reading, and was printed from new film.

SHADOWS 4

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

Doubleday & Company, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Doubleday edition published 1981

Berkley edition / April 1985

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1981 by Charles L. Grant.

Introduction copyright © 1981 by Charles L. Grant.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 245 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10017.

ISBN: 0-425-07650-4

A BERKLEY BOOK® TM 757,375

Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name "BERKLEY" and the stylized "B" with design are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Wickerman eBooks

Introduction

To do an anthology, to fill it with the types of stories its premise dictates, there have to be rules. Rules for length, for style, for content. But one of the nicest things about being an editor is: since you made up the rules in the first place, you can also break them when the occasion warrants. Thus, I've set myself against the traditional in dark fantasy fiction (vampires, werewolves, and so forth), against including science fiction, humor, and poetry, and against settings other than the contemporary. I also have a deadline: after thus and such a date, no more.

In theory, it works. In practice, I've discovered that there are stories crossing my desk for each volume that I cannot pass up without condemning myself to nightmares. So Shadows has had its share of vampires (though of very special kinds), of having stories included a week after I thought I'd finished working, and of pieces that might not, at first glance, seem to fall within the tone of the book.

This volume breaks almost every one of my rules.

And the best part about that is, as long as you and I, as readers, enjoy the offerings, who cares?

And enjoy I trust you will. Perhaps not all, since we all differ in tastes, but enough so that the title of this series continues to work—if not on your imagination, then at least on your dreams.

Charles L. Grant

Budd Lake, New Jersey

1980

Shadows 4 begins and ends with Kiplingesque tales. Book-ends, if you will, which settle us not too comfortably into our chairs, start the fire in the grate, and place brandy at our elbows. If there's a wind out there, so much the better; if not, then the wind you're hearing can be blamed on this homage by Stephen King, one of the few who can break Shadows' rules, not with a bludgeon, but with the cool slice of a razor.

THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT SHAKE HANDS by Stephen King

When dinner was over, those of us who made up the club's winter attendance—old bachelors all—retired to the large second-floor lounge to drink brandy and swap tales.

It was a bitter, snowy night outside, and a huge blaze had been laid in the hearth. Havelock switched off the overhead light, bathing the old, high-vaulted room in maroon, leaping shadows. Conversation lagged, and we looked into the flames with varying degrees of introspection—I imagine we saw our respective pasts played out in the leaping flames. We were certainly all too old to have any romantic, daring plans for the future, and it was thoughts of romance that the night engendered—perhaps the dark romance of the doomed.

I suppose we all jumped a little when Tremain's scratchy, almost querulous voice broke the silence; I know that I did. Tremain was usually the most close-mouthed of men, offering little yet absorbing everything as he constantly lit and relit his briar pipe with his weathered and gnarled old hands. Yet, on the few occasions I had heard him recount a story I had gone home with plenty of food for thought—and the feeling that the man must have seen some passing queer things in his time, things that would cause more frequent speakers to fall silent and consider.

"I once saw a man murdered right in this room," said Tremain now, "although no juror would have convicted the killer. Yet, at the end of the business, he convicted himself—and served as his own executioner!"

There was a pause while he lit his pipe, a tall man whom time had overloaded with invisible sacks of age. Smoke drifted around his seamed face in a blue raft, and he shook the wooden match out with the slow, declamatory gestures of a man whose joints have been clotted with arthritis. He threw the stick over the fire screen and watched the flames char the wood. His sharp blue eyes brooded beneath their bushy salt-and-pepper brows. His nose was large and hooked, his lips thin and firm, his shoulders hunched almost to the back of his skull. In the dim and shifting light, I could almost fancy that it was not a man at all that sat there, but a fierce and introspective eagle.

"Don't tease us, Clint!" growled Fred Varney. "Bring it on!"

"No fear. Be patient, Freddy." And we all waited until Tremain had his pipe fired to his complete satisfaction. When a fine bed of coals had been laid in the large briar bowl, Tremain folded his large, slightly palsied hands over one knee and said:

"Very well, then. I'm seventy-nine and what I'm going to tell you occurred when I was twenty-five or thereabouts. It was 1919, at any rate, and I was just back from the Great War. My fiancée had died only five months earlier, of influenza. She was only twenty-two, and I fear I drank and played cards a great deal more than I should. She had been waiting for three years, you understand, and during that period I received a letter faithfully each week. Perhaps you may understand why I indulged myself so heavily. I had no religious beliefs, finding the general tenets and theories of Christianity rather comic in the trenches, and no family. And so I can say with truth that the good friends who saw me through my time of trial rarely left me. There were fifty-three of them—more than most people have!—fifty-two cards and a bottle of Cutty Sark whiskey. I had taken up residence in the very rooms I inhabit now, on Brennan Street. But they were much cheaper then, and there were considerably fewer medicine bottles and pills and nostrums cluttering the shelves. Yet I spent most of my time here, for there was almost always a poker game to be found.

"I was in the game room playing patience the first and only time I met Henry Brower. There were four of us who were ready to sit down and play; we only wanted a fifth to make the evening go. When Jason Davidson told me that George Oxley, our usual fifth, had broken his leg and was laid up in bed with his cast at the end of a damned pulley contraption, it seemed that we should have no game that night. I was contemplating the prospect of finishing the evening with nothing to take my mind off my own thoughts but patience and a mind-blotting quantity of whiskey when the fellow across the room said in a calm and pleasant voice, 'If you gentlemen have been speaking of poker, I would very much enjoy picking up a hand, if you have no particular objections.'

"He had been buried behind a copy of the Times until now, so that when I looked over I was seeing him for the first time. He was a young man with an old face, if you take my meaning. Some of the marks I saw on his face I had begun to see stamped on my own since the death of Rosalie. Some—but not all. Although the fellow could have been no older than twenty-eight from his hair and hands and manner of walking, his face seemed marked with experience and his eyes, which were very dark, seemed more than sad; they seemed almost haunted. He was quite good-looking, with a short, clipped moustache and darkish blond hair. He wore a good-looking brown suit and his top collar button had been loosened. 'My name is Henry Brower,' he said.

"Davidson immediately rushed across the room to shake hands; in fact, he acted as though he might actually snatch it out of Brower's lap. And an odd thing happened: Brower dropped his paper and held both hands up and out of reach. The expression on his face was one of horror.

"Davidson halted, quite confused, more bewildered than angry. He was only twenty-two himself—God, how young we all were in those days—and a bit of a puppy.

" 'Excuse me,' Brower said with complete gravity, 'but I never shake hands!'

"Davidson blinked. 'Never?' he said. 'How very peculiar. Why in the world not?' Well, I've told you that he was a bit of a puppy. Brower took it in the best possible way, with an open (yet rather troubled) smile.

" 'I've just come back from Bombay,' he said. 'It's a strange, crowded, filthy place, full of disease and pestilence. The vultures strut and preen on the very city walls by the thousands. I was there on a trade mission for two years, and I seem to have picked up a horror of our Western custom of handshaking. I know I'm foolish and impolite, and yet I cannot seem to bring myself to it. So if you would excuse me . . .'

" 'Only on one condition,' Davidson said with a smile.

" 'And that is?'

" 'That you draw up to the table and share a tumbler of Clint's whiskey while I go for Baker and French and Jack Willden.'

"Brower smiled at him, nodded, and put his paper away. Davidson made a brash circled thumb-and-finger, and chased away to get the others. Brower and I drew up to the green-felted table, and when I offered him a drink he declined with thanks and ordered his own bottle. I suspected it might have something to do with his odd fetish and said nothing.

" 'It's good to be here,' Brower said reflectively. 'I've shunned any kind of companionship since I returned from my post. It's not good for a man to be alone, you know. I think that, even for the most self-sufficient of men, being isolated from the flow of humanity must be the worst form of torture!' He said this with a queer kind of emphasis, and I nodded. I had experienced a form of the loneliness of which he spoke, in the trenches and again after learning of Rosalie's death. I found myself warming to him in spite of his self-professed eccentricity.

" 'Bombay must have been a fascinating place,' I said.

" 'Fascinating . . . and terrible! There are things over there which are undreamed of in our philosophy. Their reaction to the motorcar is amusing: the children shrink from them, yet follow them for blocks. They find the airplane terrifying and incomprehensible. Of course, we Americans view these contraptions with complete equanimity—even complacency!—but I assure you that my reaction was exactly the same as theirs when I first observed a street-corner beggar swallow an entire packet of steel needles and then pull them, one by one, from the open sores at the end of his fingers. Yet here is something that natives of that part of the world take utterly for granted.

" 'Perhaps,' he added somberly, 'the two cultures were never intended to mix, but to keep their separate wonders to themselves. For an American such as you or I to swallow a packet of needles would result in a slow, horrible death. And as for the motorcar . . .' He trailed off, and a bleak, shadowed expression came to his face.

"I was about to speak when the boy appeared with Brower's bottle of scotch, and directly following him, Davidson with the others.

"Davidson prefaced the introductions by saying, 'I've told them all of your little fetish, Henry, so you needn't fear for a thing. This is Darrell Baker, the fearsome-looking fellow with the beard is Andrew French, and last but not least, Jack Willden. Clint you already know.'

"Brower smiled and nodded at all of them in lieu of shaking hands. Poker chips and three fresh decks of cards were produced, money was changed for markers, and the game began.

"We played for better than six hours, and I won perhaps two hundred dollars. Darrell Baker, who was not a particularly good player, lost about eight hundred (not that he would ever feel the pinch; his father owned three of the largest shoe factories in the state), and the rest had split Baker's losses with me about evenly. Davidson was a few dollars up and Brower a few down; yet for Brower to be near even was no mean feat, for he had had astoundingly bad cards for most of the evening. He was adroit at both the traditional five-card draw and the newer seven-card-stud variety of the game, and I thought that several times he had won money on cool bluffs that I myself would have hesitated to try.

"I did notice one thing: although he drank quite heavily—by the time French prepared to deal the last hand, he had polished off almost an entire bottle of scotch—his speech did not slur at all, his card-playing skill never faltered, and his odd fixation about the touching of hands never flagged. When he won a pot, he never touched it if someone had markers to change or if someone had 'gone light' and still had chips to contribute. Once, when Davidson placed his glass rather close to his elbow, Brower flinched back abruptly, almost spilling his own drink. Baker looked surprised, but Davidson passed it off with a remark.

"Jack Willden had commented a few moments earlier that he had a drive to Albany staring him in the face later that morning, and once more around the table would do for him. So the deal came to French, and he called seven-card stud.

"I can remember that final hand as clearly as my own name, although I should be pressed to describe what I had for lunch yesterday or whom I ate it with. The mysteries of age, I suppose, and yet I think that if any of you other fellows had been there, you might remember it as well.

"I was dealt two hearts down and one up. I can't speak for Willden or French, but young Davidson had the ace of hearts and Brower the ten of spades. Davidson bet two dollars—five was our limit—and the cards went round again. I drew a heart to make four, Brower drew a jack of spades to go with his ten. Davidson had caught a trey which did not seem to improve his hand, yet he threw three dollars into the pot. 'Last hand,' he said merrily. 'Drop it in, boys! There's a lady who would like to go out on the town with me tomorrow night!'

"I don't suppose I would have believed a fortuneteller if he had told me how often that remark, with its later ironic overtones, would come back to haunt me at odd moments, right down to this day.

"French dealt our third round of up cards. I got no help with my flush, but Baker, who was the big loser, paired up something—kings, I think. Brower had gotten a deuce of diamonds that did not seem to help anything. Baker bet the limit on his pair, and Davidson promptly raised him five. Everyone stayed in the game, and our last up card came round the table. I drew the king of hearts to fill up my flush, Baker drew a third to his pair, and Davidson got a second ace that fairly made his eyes sparkle. Brower got a queen of clubs, and for the life of me I couldn't see why he remained in. His cards looked as bad as any he had folded that night.

"The betting began to get a little steep. Baker bet five, Davidson raised five, Brower called. Jack Willden said, 'Somehow I don't think my pair is quite good enough,' and threw in his hand. I called the ten and raised another five. Baker called and raised again.

"Well, I needn't bore you with a raise-by-raise description. I'll only say that there was a three-raise limit per man, and Baker, Davidson, and I each took three raises of five dollars. Brower merely called each bet and raise, being careful to wait until all hands were clear of the pot before throwing his money in. And there was a lot of money—slightly better than two hundred dollars as French dealt us our last card face down.

"There was a pause as we all looked, although it meant nothing to me; I had my hand, and from what I could see on the table it was good. Baker threw in five, Davidson raised, and we waited to see what Brower would do. His face was slightly flushed with alcohol, he had removed his tie and unbuttoned a second shirt button, but he seemed quite calm. 'I call . . . and raise five,' he said.

"I blinked a little, for I had fully expected him to fold. Still, the cards I held told me I must play to win, and so I raised five. We played with no limit to the number of raises a player could make on the last card, and so the pot grew marvelously. I stopped first, being content simply to call in view of the full house I had become more and more sure someone must be holding. Baker stopped next, blinking warily from Davidson's pair of aces to Brower's mystifying junk hand. Baker was not the best of card players, but he was good enough to sense something in the wind.

"Between them, Davidson and Brower raised at least ten more times, perhaps more. Baker and I were carried along, unwilling to cast away our large investments. The four of us had run out of chips, and greenbacks now lay in a drift over the huge sprawl of markers.

" 'Well,' Davidson said, following Brower's latest raise, 'I believe I'll simply call. If you've been running a bluff, Henry, it's been a fine one. But I have you beaten and Jack's got a long trip ahead of him tomorrow.' And with that he put a five-dollar bill on top of the pile and said, 'I call.'

"I don't know about the others, but I felt a distinct sense of relief that had little to do with the large sum of money I had put into the pot. The game had been becoming cutthroat, and while Baker and I could afford to lose, if it came to that, Jase Davidson could not. He was currently at loose ends, living on a trust fund—not a large one—left him by his aunt. And Brower—how well could he stand the loss? Remember, gentlemen, that by this time there was better than a thousand dollars on the table."

Tremain paused here. His pipe had gone out.

"Well, what happened?" Varney leaned forward. "Don't tease us, Clint. You've got us all on the edge of our chairs. Push us off or settle us back in."

"Be patient," Tremain said, unperturbed. He produced another match, scratched it on the sole of his shoe, and puffed at his pipe. We waited intently, without speaking. Outside, the wind screeched and hooted around the eaves.

When the pipe was aglow and things seemed set to rights, Tremain continued:

"As you know, the rules of poker state that the man who has been called should show first. But Baker was too anxious to end the tension; he pulled out one of his three down cards and turned it over to show four kings.

" 'That does me,' I said. 'A flush.'

" 'I have you,' Davidson said to Baker, and showed two of his down cards. Two aces, to make four. 'Damn well played.' And he began to pull in the huge pot.

" 'Wait!' Brower said. He did not reach out and touch Davidson's hand, as most would have done, but his voice was enough. Davidson paused to look, and his mouth fell—actually fell open as if all the muscles there had turned to water. Brower had turned over all three of his down cards, to reveal a straight flush, from the eight to the queen. 'I believe this beats your aces?' Brower said politely.

"Davidson went red, then white. 'Yes,' he said slowly, as if discovering the fact for the first time. 'Yes, it does.'

"I would give a great deal to know Davidson's motivation for what came next. He knew of Brower's extreme aversion to being touched; the man had showed it in a hundred different ways that night. It may be that Davidson simply forgot it in his desire to show Brower (and all of us) that he could cut his losses and take even such a grave reversal in a sportsmanlike way. I've told you that he was something of a puppy, and such a gesture would probably be in his character. But puppies can also nip, when they are provoked. They aren't killers—a puppy won't go for the throat; but many a man has had his fingers stitched to pay for teasing a little dog too long with a slipper or a rubber bone. That would also be a part of Davidson's character, as I remember him.

"I would, as I say, give a great deal to know . . . but the results are all that matter, I suppose.

"When Davidson took his hands away from the pot, Brower reached over to rake it in. At that instant, Davidson's face lit up with a kind of ruddy good fellowship, and he plucked Brower's hand from the table and wrung it firmly. 'Brilliant playing, Henry, simply brilliant. I don't believe I've ever—'

"Brower cut him off with a high, womanish scream that was frightful in the deserted silence of the game room, and jerked away. Chips and currency cascaded every which way as the table tottered and nearly fell over.

"We were all immobilized with the sudden turn of events, and quite unable to move. Brower staggered away from the table, holding his hand out in front of him like a masculine Lady Macbeth. He was as white as a corpse, and the stark terror on his face is beyond my powers of description. I felt a bolt of horror go through me such as I had never experienced before or since, not even when they brought me the telegram with the news of Rosalie's death.

"Then he began to moan. It was a hollow, awful sound, cryptlike. I remember thinking, Why, the man's quite insane; and then he said the queerest thing: 'The switch . . . I've left the switch on in the motorcar . . . O God, I'm sorry!' And he fled up the stairs toward the main lobby.

"I was the first to come out of it. I lurched out of my chair and chased after him, leaving Baker and Willden and Davidson sitting around the huge pot of money Brower had won like graven Inca statues guarding a tribal treasure.

"The front door was still swinging to and fro, and when I dashed out into the street I saw Brower at once, standing on the edge of the sidewalk and looking vainly for a taxi. When he saw me he cringed so miserably that I could not help feeling pity intermixed with wonder.

" 'Here,' I said, 'wait! I'm sorry for what Davidson did and I'm sure he didn't mean it; and if you must go, you must. But you've left a great deal of money behind and it belongs to you and you shall have it.'

" 'I should never have come,' he groaned. 'But I was so desperate for any kind of human fellowship that I . . . I . . .' Without thinking, I reached out to touch him—the most elemental gesture of one human being to another when he is grief-stricken, but Brower shrank away from me and cried, 'Don't touch me! Isn't one enough? O God, why don't I just die?'

"His eye suddenly lit feverishly on a stray dog with slat-thin sides and mangy, chewed fur that was making its way up the other side of the deserted, early morning street. The cur's tongue hung out and it walked with a wary, three-legged limp. It was looking, I suppose, for garbage cans to tip over and forage in.

" 'That could be me over there,' he said reflectively, as if to himself. 'Shunned by everyone, forced to walk alone and venture out only after every other living thing is safe behind locked doors. Pariah dog!'

" 'Come now,' I said, a little sternly, for such talk smacked more than a little of the melodramatic. 'You've had some kind of nasty shock and obviously something has happened to put your nerves in an awful state, but nothing is quite as bad as that. Now if you will only come back inside and—'

" 'You don't believe me?' he cried, and his eyes were wild enough to make me acutely uneasy. There was no light of sanity left in them, and he reminded me of nothing so much as the battle-fatigued psychotics I had seen carried away in carts from the front lines: husks of men with awful, blank eyes like portholes to hell, mumbling and gibbering. 'Would you care to see how one outcast responds to another?' he asked me with a strange, twitching smile. 'Watch, then, and see what I've learned in strange ports of call!'

"And he suddenly raised his voice and said imperiously, 'Dog!'

"The dog raised its head, looked at him with wary, rolling eyes (one glittered with rabid wildness; the other was filmed by a cataract), and suddenly changed direction and came limpingly, reluctantly, across the street to where Brower stood.

"It did not want to come; that much was obvious. It whined and growled and tucked its mangy rope of a tail between its legs; but it came—a dog that surely would have shied from any living thing upon two legs and most upon four. It came right up to Brower's feet and then lay upon its belly, whining and crouching and shuddering. Its emaciated sides went in and out like bellows, and its good eye rolled horribly in its socket.

"Brower uttered a hideous, despairing laugh that I still hear in my dreams, and squatted by it. 'There,' he said. 'You see? It knows me as one of its kind . . . and knows what I bring it!' He reached for the dog's paw and the cur uttered a snarling, lugubrious howl and bared its teeth.

" 'Don't!' I cried sharply. 'He'll bite!'

"Brower took no notice. In the glow of the streetlight his face was livid, hideous, the eyes black holes burnt in parchment. 'Nonsense,' he crooned. 'Nonsense. I only want to shake hands with him . . . as your friend shook with me!' And suddenly he seized the dog's paw and shook it. The dog made a horrible howling noise, but made no move to bite him.

"Suddenly Brower stood up. His eyes seemed to have cleared somewhat, and except for his excessive pallor, he might have again been the man who had offered courteously to pick up a hand with us earlier the night before.

" 'I'm leaving now,' he said quietly. 'Please apologize to your friends and tell them I'm sorry to have acted the fool. Perhaps I'll have a chance to . . . redeem myself another time.'

" 'It's we who owe you the apology,' I said. 'And have you forgotten the money? It's better than a thousand dollars.'

" 'O yes! The money!' And his mouth curved in one of the bitterest smiles I have ever seen.

" 'If you will promise to wait right here, I'll bring it,' I said. 'Will you do that?'

" 'Yes,' he said. 'If you wish, I'll do that.' And he looked reflectively down at the dog whining at his feet. 'Perhaps he would like to come to my lodgings with me and have a square meal for once in his miserable life.' And the bitter smile reappeared.

"I left him then, before he could reconsider, and went downstairs. Someone—probably Jack Willden; he always had an orderly mind—had changed all the markers for greenbacks and had stacked the money neatly in the center of the green felt. None of them spoke to me as I gathered it up. Baker and Jack Willden were smoking wordlessly; Jason Davidson was hanging his head and looking at his feet. His face was a picture of misery and shame. I touched him on the shoulder as I went back to the stairs and he looked at me gratefully.

"And when I reached the street again, it was utterly deserted. Brower had gone. I stood there with a handful of greenbacks in each hand, looking vainly either way, but nothing moved. I called once, tentatively, in case he should be standing in the shadows someplace near, but there was no response. Then I happened to look down. The stray dog was still there, and he would never tip over another trash can. He was quite dead. The fleas and ticks were leaving his body in marching columns across the cement. I stepped back, revolted and yet also filled with an odd, dreamy terror. I had a premonition that I was not yet through with Henry Brower, and so I wasn't; but I never saw him again."

The fire in the grate had died to guttering flames and cold had begun to creep out of the shadows, but no one moved or spoke while Tremain lit his pipe again. He sighed and recrossed his legs, making the old joints crackle, and resumed.

"Needless to say, the others who had taken part in the game were unanimous in opinion: we must find Brower and give him his money. I suppose some would think we were insane to feel so, but that was a more honorable age. Davidson was in an awful funk when he left; I tried to draw him aside and offer him a good word or two, but he only shook his head and shuffled out. I let him go. Things would look different to him after a night's sleep, and we could go looking for Brower together, I thought. Willden was going out of town, and Baker had "social rounds" to make. It would be a good way for him to gain back a little self-respect, I thought.

"But when I went round to his apartment the next morning, I found him not yet up. I might have wakened him, but he was a young fellow and I decided to let him sleep the morning away while I spaded up a few elementary facts.

"I called here first, and talked to Kelley Earnshaw, who was on the door in those days. He said that Raymond Greer, a fellow I knew slightly, had spoken for Brower. Greer was with the city trade commission, and I immediately went to his office in the Trade Center Building that used to stand over on Market Street. I found him in, and he spoke to me immediately.

"When I told him what had happened the night before, his face became filled with a confusion of pity, gloom, and fear.

" 'Poor old Henry!' he exclaimed. 'I knew it was coming to this, but I never suspected it would arrive so quickly.'

" 'What?' I asked.

" 'His breakdown,' Greer said. 'It stems from his year in Bombay, and I suppose no one but Henry will ever know the whole story. But I'll tell you what I can.'

"The story that Greer unfolded to me in his office that day increased both my sympathy and understanding. Henry Brower, it appeared, had been unluckily involved in an authentic rarity of our times: a real tragedy. And, like all tragedy, it had stemmed from a fatal flaw—in Brower's case, forgetfulness.

"As a member of the trade commission group in Bombay, he had enjoyed the use of a motorcar, a relative rarity there. Greer said that Brower took an almost childish pleasure in driving it through the narrow streets and byways of the city, scaring up chickens in great, gabbling flocks and making the women and men fall on their knees to their heathen gods. He drove it everywhere, attracting great attention and huge followings of ragged children that followed him about but always hung back when he offered them a ride in the marvelous device, which he constantly did. The auto was a Model-A Ford with a truck body, and one of the earliest cars able to start not only by crank but by the touch of a button. I ask you to remember that.

"One day Brower took the auto far across the city to visit one of the high poobahs of that place concerning possible consignments of jute rope. He attracted his usual notice as the Ford machine growled and backfired through the streets, sounding like an artillery barrage in progress—and, of course, the children followed.

"Brower was to take dinner with the jute manufacturer, an affair of great ceremony and formality, and they were only halfway through the second course, seated on an open-air terrace above the teeming street below, when the familiar racketing, coughing roar of the car began below them, accompanied by screams and shrieks.

"One of the more adventurous boys—and the son of an obscure holy man—had crept into the cab of the auto, convinced that whatever dragon there was under the iron hood could not be roused without the white man behind the wheel. And Brower had left the switch on and the spark retarded.

"One can imagine the boy growing more daring before the eyes of his peers as he touched the mirror, waggled the wheel, and made mock tooting noises. Each time he thumbed his nose at the dragon under the hood, the awe in the faces of the others must have grown.

"His foot must have been pressed down on the clutch, perhaps for support, when he pushed the starter button. The engine was hot; it caught fire immediately. The boy, in his extreme terror, would have reacted by removing his foot from the clutch immediately, preparatory to jumping out. Had the car been older or in poorer condition, it would have stalled. But Brower cared for it scrupulously, and it leaped forward in a series of bucking, roaring jerks. Brower was just in time to see this as he rushed from the jute manufacturer's house.

"The boy's fatal mistake must have been little more than an accident. Perhaps, in his flailings to get out, an elbow accidentally struck the throttle. Perhaps he pulled it with the panicky hope that this was how the white man choked the dragon. But it was his last mistake. The auto gained suicidal speed and charged down the crowded, roiling street, bumping over bundles and bales, crushing the wicker cages of the animal vendors, smashing a flower cart to splinters. It roared straight downhill toward the street's turning, leaped over the stone gutter of the house at the bottom, crashed into a stone wall and exploded in a ball of flame."

Tremain switched his briar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"This was all Greer could tell me, because it was all Brower had told him that made any sense. The rest was a kind of deranged harangue on the folly of two such disparate cultures ever mixing. The dead boy's father evidently confronted Brower before he was recalled and flung a slaughtered chicken at him. There was a curse. At this point, Greer gave me a smile which said that we were both men of the world, lit a cigarette, and remarked, 'There's always a curse when a thing of this sort happens. The miserable heathens must keep up appearances at all costs. It's their bread and butter.'

" 'What was the curse?' I wondered.

" 'I should have thought you would have guessed,' said Greer. 'The wallah told him that his black magic would answer Brower's, or some such drivel. Told him that a man who would practice sorcery on a small child should become a pariah, an outcast. Then he told Brower that any living thing he touched with his hands would die.'

" 'Brower believed it?'

"Greer sighed. 'Apparently he did. You must remember that the man had suffered a dreadful shock. And now, from what you tell me, his obsession is worsening rather than curing itself.'

" 'Can you tell me his address?'

"Greer hunted through his files, and finally came up with a listing. 'I don't guarantee that you'll find him there,' he said. 'People have been naturally reluctant to hire him, and I understand he hasn't a great deal of money.'

"I felt a pang of guilt at this, but said nothing. Greer struck me as a little too pompous, a little too smug, to deserve what little information I had on the miserable Henry Brower. But as I rose, something prompted me to say, 'I saw Brower shake hands with a mangy street cur last night. Fifteen minutes later the dog was dead.'

" 'Really? How interesting.' He raised his eyebrows as if the remark had no bearing on anything we had been discussing.

"I rose to take my leave and was about to shake Greer's hand when the secretary opened his office door. 'Pardon me, but are you Mr. Tremain?'

"I told her I was.

" 'A man named Baker has just called. He's asked you to come to four seventeen Westfall Street immediately.'

"It gave me quite a nasty start, because that was Jason Davidson's address. When I left Greer's office, he was just settling back with his pipe and The Wall Street Journal. I never saw him again either, and don't count it any great loss. I was filled with a very specific dread—the kind that will not quite crystallize into an actual fear with a fixed object, because it is too awful, too unbelievable to actually be considered."

Here Havelock interrupted Tremain's narrative: "Good God, Clint! You're not going to tell us he was dead?"

"Quite dead," Tremain said. "I arrived almost simultaneously with the coroner. His death was listed as a coronary thrombosis. He was short of his twenty-third birthday by sixteen days.

"In the days that followed, I tried to tell myself that it was all a nasty coincidence, best forgotten. I did not sleep well, even with the help of my good friend Mr. Cutty Sark. I told myself over and over that the thing to do was divide that night's last pot between the three of us and forget that Henry Brower had ever stepped into our lives. But I could not. I drew a cashier's check for the sum instead, and went to the address that Greer had given me, which was in the Seventies—a fashionable district in those days.

"He was not there, quite as Greer had prophesied. His forwarding address was in the Sixties, a slightly less well-off neighborhood of respectable brownstones. He had left those lodgings a full month before the poker game, and the new address was on Dock Street, an area of ramshackle tenements.

"The building superintendent, a scrawny man with a huge black mastiff snarling at his knee, told me that Brower had moved out on April third—the day after our game. I asked for a forwarding address and he threw back his head and emitted a screaming gobble that apparently served him in the place of laughter.

" 'The only forradin' address they gives when they leave here is Hell, boss. But sometimes they stops in the Mission Districk on their way there.'

"The Mission District is the same now as it was then: the home of the homeless, the last stop for the faceless men who only care for another bottle of cheap wine or another shot of the white powder that brings long dreams. I went there. It's near the docks, and there are dozens of flophouses, a few benevolent missions that take drunks in for the night, and hundreds of alleys where a man might hide an old, louse-ridden mattress. The salt stench was always in the air, and the screaming gulls whirled endlessly over the gray and peeling warehouses that clustered at land's end. I saw scores of men, all of them little more than shells, eaten by drink and drugs. No names were known or used. When a man has sunk to a final basement level, his liver rotted by wood alcohol, his nose an open, festering sore from the constant sniffing of cocaine and potash, his fingers destroyed by frostbite, his teeth rotted to black stubs—a man no longer has a use for a name. But I described Henry Brower to every man I saw, with no response. Bartenders shook their heads and shrugged. The others just looked at the ground and kept walking.

"I didn't find him that day, or the next, or the next. Two weeks went by, and then I talked to a man who said a fellow like that had been in Devarney's Rooms three nights before.

"I walked there; it was only two blocks from the area I had been covering. The man at the desk was a scabrous ancient with a peeling bald skull and rheumy, glittering eyes. Rooms were advertised in the flyspecked window facing the piers at a dime a night. I went through my description of Brower, and the old fellow nodded all the way through it. When I had finished, he said:

" 'I know him, young Mister. Know him well. But I can't quite recall . . . I think ever s'much better with a dollar in front of me.'

"I produced the dollar, and he made it disappear neat as a button, arthritis notwithstanding.

" 'He was here, young Mister, but he's gone.'

" 'Do you know where?'

" 'I can't quite recall,' the desk clerk said. 'I might, howsomever, with a dollar in front of me.'

"I produced a second bill, which he made disappear as neatly as he had the first. At this, something seemed to strike him as being deliciously funny, and a rasping, tubercular cough came out of his chest.

" 'You've had your amusement,' I said, 'and been well paid for it as well. Now, do you know where this man is?'

"The old man laughed gleefully again. 'Yes—Potter's Field is his new residence; eternity's the length of his lease; and he's got the Devil for a roommate. He must've died sometime yesterday morning, for when I found him at noon he was still warm and toasty. Sitting bolt upright by the winder, he was. I'd gone up to either have his dime or show him the door. As it turned out, the city showed him six feet of earth.' This caused another unpleasant outburst of senile glee.

" 'Was there anything unusual?' I asked, not quite daring to examine the import of my own question. 'Anything out of the ordinary?'

" 'I seem to recall somethin' . . . Let me see . . .'

"I produced a dollar to aid his memory, but this time it did not produce laughter, although it disappeared with the same speed.

" 'Yes, there was somethin' passin' odd about it,' the old man said. 'I've called the city hack for enough of them to know. Bleedin' Jesus, ain't I! I've found 'em hangin' from the hook on the door, found 'em dead in bed, found 'em out on the fire escape in January with a bottle between their knees frozen just as blue as the Atlantic. I even found one fella that drowned in the washstand, although that was over thirty years ago. But this fella—sittin' bolt-upright in his brown suit, just like some swell from uptown, with his hair all combed. Had hold of his right wrist with his left hand, he did. I've seen all kinds, but he's the only one I ever seen that died shakin' his own hand.'

"I left and walked down to the docks, and the old man's last words seemed to play over and over again in my brain like a phonograph record that has gotten stuck in one groove. He's the only one I ever seen that died shakin' his own hand.

"I walked out to the end of one of the piers, out to where the dirty gray water lapped the encrusted pilings. And then I ripped that cashier's check into a thousand pieces and threw it into the water." Tremain shifted and cleared his throat. The fire had burned down to reluctant embers, and cold was creeping into the deserted game room. The tables and chairs seemed spectral and unreal, like furnishings glimpsed in a dream where past and present merge.

"I only saw him once," Tremain said, "but once was wholly enough; I've never forgotten it. But it did serve to bring me out of my own time of mourning, for any man who can walk among his fellows is not wholly alone."

Robert F. Young has been a favorite storyteller for a number of years, most of his work appearing in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. He is equally adept in both genres, but when he puts his mind to it, his excursions into dark fantasy can put more power into a single last word than most of us dare dream of.

YOURS,—GUY by Robert F. Young

The postcard came in Friday's mail. Squires read it while he was waiting for dinner:

Hiya Partner!

I'm back in the old home town for a few days, revisiting old haunts. Am staying at the Maplecrest. Hope you can find time to drop in and see me.

Yours,—Guy

Squires read the words again. He couldn't remember ever having known anyone named Guy.

The card was the pictureless kind carried by the post office. It bore a local postmark and had been mailed the day before. Both the address and the message had been printed in uneven block letters with a soft-lead pencil. The name "Guy" was similarly printed.

Some crank, probably.

He consigned the card to the part of Friday's mail that was destined for the wastebasket. At once it vanished from his mind and did not return till early Monday morning when the phone rang. His wife, Adeline, answered it; he was in the upstairs bathroom, shaving. "It's for you, Nick," she called from the downstairs hall. "Someone named Guy."

He took the call on the bedroom extension. Oddly, he'd guessed it was Guy. "Hello."

"Nick? Guy. How are ya, partner?"

The voice was that of a total stranger. Squires was tempted to hang up. But he didn't. He'd sold cars all his adult life and had come to regard everyone he met as a potential buyer, not to be offended until proved otherwise. His recent acquisition of the local Chevrolet dealership had reinforced his attitude.

"Guy? I'm afraid I don't—"

"Now don't try to tell me you don't remember me. That you've forgotten those good old days at the old dirt track!"

Dirt track? Squires scoured his mind. He could find no trace of a dirt track—not even in the back where things that no longer interested him were relegated.

"What I was thinking, Nick," the speaker at the other end of the line went on, without waiting for a response, "was that, well, you're a busy man, a successful businessman and all that, and you probably don't have a helluva lot of time to spare, so what I was thinking was that maybe you and me could get together for lunch today, here at the Maplecrest. That way, your schedule won't be interfered with and I won't feel guilty about taking up your valuable time. What d'you say, partner?"

"Well, I—"

"You don't have another lunch engagement, I hope."

"No. But—"

"Great! One o'clock be okay? I'll be in the bar. We'll have a couple of drinks first—get to know each other again after all these years. See you, Zip."

After replacing the receiver Squires stood by the bed for a long time, staring at the wall. No one had called him "Zip" since he was ten years old.

Surely he must know Guy. Obviously Guy knew him.

Should he keep the engagement that had been forced on him, or not?

In the end, he didn't keep it. He might have, but at quarter after twelve Elton Cready of Edgewater Industries dropped into the showroom to talk Caprice. Cready was an every-other-year customer who refused to deal with any of Squires's salesmen, fancying that Squires gave him a better deal. He would have gotten the same deal regardless, but you don't argue with every-other-year customers, especially when they're of Cadillac caliber and do business with you only because you're local, a fellow Mason, and the nearest Cadillac agency is thirty miles distant.

Naturally he asked Cready to lunch. At Anthony's, of course. Anthony's catered to Cadillac-caliber people, and Cready would have been insulted if he'd asked him anywhere else.

He should have called the Maplecrest, he supposed, driving home from the showroom that afternoon. It was true he didn't know Guy's last name, but all the desk clerk would have had to do was consult the register. For that matter, all he'd have had to do was stick his head in the bar and holler, "Guy, you're wanted on the phone." There weren't that many guys named Guy.

"That Guy person called again," Adeline said when he came in the door. "He left a number for you to call back."

The number was jotted down on a memo pad next to the hall phone. Squires glanced at it as he walked past, heading for the kitchen. He got a bottle of Lowenbrau out of the refrigerator, opened it and carried it upstairs, sipping from it on the way. He set it down on the dresser while he showered. He'd never joined the scotch-and-soda clique or the martini-before-dinner haute bourgeoisie. He disliked scotch and he hated gin. What a man was shouldn't dictate what he drank, but what he liked. Squires liked beer. He'd drunk a lot of it in a lot of bars on his way up. Cheap stuff in the beginning. Now he drank the best.

He didn't dial the number Guy had left. He didn't go near the phone. All through dinner he kept listening for it to ring, but it didn't. After dinner he worked in the yard. Raking up leaves still sodden from the April rains. Picking up twigs and broken branches winter winds had torn from the trees. It was still too wet on the Edgewater Links for golf, and he needed exercise. Come warmer weather he'd give old man Hendriks, his regular gardener, a ring, and tell him to take over.

The phone rang when he was putting the rake away in the tool shed. "It's that Guy person again," his wife called from the patio. "He sounds like he's drunk."

"Tell him I'm not home."

"I already told him you were."

The voice at the other end of the line was slurred. "Zip, old buddy—how goes it?"

"About lunch," Squires said. "There was no way I could have made it." He went on to explain. "By the way, what's your last name?"

"I borrowed the name 'Oldfield.' I don't have one of my own. You never gave me one."

Irked, Squires almost hung up. Curiosity stopped him at the last second—curiosity, and a strange tingling along the length of his spine.

Finally he decided to play along. "What've you been doing all these years, Guy?"

"Racing—what else? Still at it, too. Trouble with me is, I never grow old."

"Racing?"

"Stock cars mostly. Daytona Beach, Atlanta, Rockingham, Charlotte—you name it, I've raced there. I've always wanted to drive in the Indy Five Hundred—I go there every year—but hell, who'd back a bum like me? It'd be different, maybe, if I ever won, but I never do." The voice at the other end of the line took on a whining note. "I've worked on cars all my life and I don't even qualify as a mechanic, to say nothing of a driver. All I'm good for is running errands for A. J. Foyt and the Unser brothers. And it's all your fault, Zip!"

"If you're no good, it's your fault—not mine!"

"Aw, Zip—I didn't mean to make you mad. I don't really blame you for my shortcomings—honest I don't. Hell, you were just a kid then! And I don't hold it against you either for not showing up today and leaving me standing here at the bar with nobody to talk to but myself. I know you're a busy man with all sorts of things on your mind. But geez, Zip, all I'm asking is for you to have lunch with me. Is that so much to ask? Is it?"

"No, of course not, but—"

"One o'clock tomorrow, then? Same place? Great! See you then, Zip. I'll be in the bar."

Click.

Squires wiped his forehead. He was still sweating from his exertions in the yard. But why was the sweat so cold?

He went to bed early. Lying in the darkness, he found himself speculating on what Guy looked like. His staying at the Maplecrest indicated that he was a long way from being well-off. All right, then—a seedy suit, no tie probably, and discount-store shoes slightly run-down at the heels. If he'd worked on cars all his life, as he claimed, there was probably grease ingrained in his palms and embedded in his fingernails. Maybe he had that dead-white complexion mechanics sometimes acquire. Probably needed a haircut, although that was hard to tell these days. A nest of blackheads, probably, on the back of his neck, perhaps half-hidden by his hair. His voice was that of a young, or fairly young man; but boozing the way he did there was bound to be at least the beginning of telangiectasis on his face.

Not a particularly prepossessing person. But commonplace. Commonplace enough, anyway, to allow Somnus, who had been waiting in the wings all this while, to come into the room.

"My guy just heard if you go slow you can save gas. See how slow he's goin'?"

"My guy heard if you go fast you can save gas. Whoom!"

"Bet you my guy could beat yours at the Indy Five Hundred, Zip."

"Bet you he couldn't!"

"Let's pretend this is the Indy Five Hundred. Here's the starting line. Right over here by the tree. Line up!"

"My guy's lined up. Shoot off the starting gun, Ted!"

"Here she goes! Ready?"

"Ready."

"BANG!"

"Zoom!"

"Zoom!"

At breakfast, Adeline said, "You've got something on your mind, Nick. Is it that Guy person?"

For a moment he was tempted to tell her about the dream. About the way reality seemed to be slipping through his fingers. But only for a moment. He knew that underneath she didn't give a damn about him any more than he gave a damn about her. The only difference was that she pretended to herself that she did, and he didn't.

The house was a compartmented stage on which they continued to act like husband and wife after, other than in a legal sense, they had ceased to be either. Maybe the kids marrying and moving away was partly responsible, but he didn't think so. The mere passage of the years would have been enough in itself to reveal that their marriage had been an empty shell to begin with, a shell they had filled with false kisses and ersatz endearments because doing so was comme il faut. A shell neither could fill with love, because the emotion they evoked in each other had, in the beginning, hinged wholly on sex, later, on a mutual concern for their offspring, and, eventually, on nothing at all. The shell had always been empty. It had only seemed full.

From the coign of vantage of the hilltop of the years, the view as seen from below was no longer visible.

The dream rode with Squires all the way to the showroom. It accompanied him into his office. He could not break free from it. At ten o'clock he told Merritt, his sales manager, that he had business in town, got in his Caprice and drove out of the lot. He drove through the business section and turned right at the light onto Central. He drove down Central to Sycamore Street, and turned left. After his mother died (his father had predeceased her) he'd remodeled the house and rented it to a family named Allerton. When he came opposite it he drove into the driveway and turned off the motor. Except for his Caprice, the driveway was empty. Allerton worked and his wife worked too, and the kids of course were in school. Good; he wouldn't have to invent excuses. He got out of the car and walked around the house to the backyard. The apple tree was gone—his father had cut it down years ago—and green grass grew right up to the back porch, or would when May shook the last of the long winter out of her hair. Right now the grass was drab brown. There was no sign of the old dirt track. Of course there wasn't. He hadn't expected there to be. He'd only wanted to look at where it had been, to see the site of the old "Indy Five Hundred" where, through a long and dreamlike summer, he and Ted had raced their tiny toy racecars. "My guy can beat your guy any day!" "Like heck he can!" "Zoom!" "Zoom!"

He walked over and kicked aside an abandoned baseball bat that lay where the starting line had been. The impression left in the grass by the bat made it all seem real again, and for a split second he glimpsed the two small figures hunched above the "old dirt track" pushing their silly little racecars back and forth in the dust. "Zoom!" "Zoommmmmmmmm!" . . .

When Ted died last year, had his guy died with him?

With an effort Squires braked the irrational train of thought that was overriding his common sense. Then he walked rapidly back around the house, got behind the wheel of his Caprice and drove back to the showroom.

The Maplecrest was old and run-down—a dilapidated monument to the pre-throughway days when the local tourist trade was thriving. This was the first time Squires had really looked at it in years, and he was amazed at how old and run-down it had become. He parked his Caprice partway down the block and sat behind the wheel. In the rearview mirror he could see the big bay window of the lobby and the weather-beaten wooden sign above the sidewalk that read: The Maplecrest Arms. You walked into the lobby past the desk, and on your right was the doorway that led to the bar and on your left was the doorway that led to the dining room. Between them was the wide stairway that led up to the second, third and fourth stories. He used to hang out in the bar, years ago when he was a fledgling salesman. He'd swung many a deal there. It was long and narrow and windowless, and a lack of adequate lighting had lent both the patrons and the ambience a grayish cast. Factory workers hung out there now, he'd heard, and transients, drunks and bums.

For the life of him he couldn't bring himself to get out of the car. It was broad daylight, the sun so bright it hurt his eyes, and he sat there frozen behind the wheel, early afternoon traffic edging by on his left, pedestrians passing on his right; sat there, scared.

At length he realized that he wasn't going to get out, that he wasn't going to go near whoever it was who was lurking in the shadows of that long, dimly lit bar, waiting to pounce on him the second he stepped inside. He started the engine, eased into the traffic flow and drove across town to Anthony's. After a chef salad that he barely touched, he returned to the office.

That afternoon when he arrived home the phone began ringing the moment he opened the door. He started to shout to Adeline not to answer it when he saw that she already had.

She gave one of those exasperated little sighs she was so good at these days, and handed him the receiver. He accepted it with outer equanimity, managing somehow to control the trembling of his hands. "Hello."

"Zip? Gosh, partner, it's good to hear your voish!"

His ersatz equanimity went down the drain in a sudden surge of anger followed by fear. "Get off my back, you drunken bum! If you don't stop harassing me, I'll call the police!"

"Aw, Zip—don't be like that. You've no reason to be mad at me. All I want is for us to get together so we can talk over old times. I've missed you like sixty all these years."

"Don't give me that! If you'd missed me, you'd have gotten in touch long ago!"

"I wanted to get in touch, Zip—gosh, how I wanted to! But you had kids growing up, and I knew there'd be no room in your life for me, and before that you were busy getting educated. Now it's a different story. You're all alone now, Zip, like me. I know you're all alone, wife or no wife—otherwise I wouldn't've been able to get through."

"I won't listen to such nonsense!"

"Sorry, Zip. I didn't mean to upset you."

Squires relented a little. Maybe the absurd association his subconscious had come up with was getting the best of him. Maybe Guy, whoever he might be, really was lonely. "If you don't like being alone, why don't you get married and have kids?"

Hoarse laughter. "That's a good one, Zip! That's the best one I ever heard. Me have kids? How in hell could I? You shortchanged me, old buddy—you shortchanged me all the way down the line. A racetrack driver who'd never seen under the hood of a car, who didn't know a piston from a fan belt, who didn't know first from second, neutral from reverse! . . . Well, I could do something about those things, and I did—as much, anyway, as a guy without an ounce of mechanical aptitude could. But this other thing—there wasn't a damned thing I could do about that! Oh, you shortchanged me all right—you shortchanged me but good! Sure, I know you were just a kid then, and didn't know beans about the birds and the bees, but just the same you did me wrong, old buddy, and sooner or later you're going to have to pay. So don't try to give me the bum's rush—it won't do you any good. If I have to, I'll—"

Squires hung up. He removed the receiver from the cradle and laid it on the hall table. Adeline, who was standing in the living-room doorway, opened her mouth to object, then closed it when she saw his face.

They ate dinner in silence. "Are you going to work in the yard tonight?" Adeline asked after they finished their dessert.

"No."

They sat watching TV. When darkness fell, Squires locked all the doors and drew all the blinds. He kept listening for the front-door chimes to sound, but they didn't—not till he and Adeline were in bed. "Who is it?" Adeline whispered. "Aren't you going to go down and see?"

"What difference does it make who it is? For God's sake, go back to sleep!"

The chimes sounded again. Then there was a silence. Presently someone began to knock. Squires lay in the darkness, trying to control the trembling of his limbs. The knocking grew louder. Should he call the police? He'd have to replace the hall-phone receiver first. He started to get out of bed. Just as his feet touched the floor, the knocking stopped.

He sat there poised, waiting for it to begin again. It didn't. At length there was the sound of someone stumbling down the front steps. Then silence.

He eased himself back into bed. Beside him, Adeline's breathing became deep, even. He lay sleepless almost till dawn, waiting for Guy to come back. But Guy didn't. The three harassment-free weeks that followed were sufficient to bring Squires back to his senses, and by the end of that time he had Guy safely filed away in a neat mental folder labeled "Crank, harmless." Then, two days before Memorial Day, he received another postcard.

This one was postmarked Indianapolis, Indiana:

Hiya Partner!

Well here I am at the good old Indy again. Same old hoopla, same old faces, but I just can't stay away.

Wish you were here—we'd show these dudes a thing or two. See you soon.

Yours forever,—Guy

An international collaboration from William Gibson (Canada) and John Shirley (United States); the former a relatively new writer whose material has appeared in Universe and New Worlds. The latter a sf veteran whose new novel, City Come A-Walking, has just been released from Dell. This story isn't a rules-breaker; it's Shadows, pure and simple.

THE BELONGING KIND by John Shirley and William Gibson

It might have been in Club Justine, or Jimbo's, or Sad Jack's, or The Rafters; Coretti could never be sure where he'd first seen her. At any time, she might have been in any one of those bars. She swam through the submarine half-life of bottles and glassware and the slow swirl of cigarette smoke . . . she moved through her natural element, one bar after another.

Now, Coretti remembered their first meeting as if he saw it through the wrong end of a powerful telescope, small and clear and very far away.

He had noticed her first in The Backdoor Lounge. It was called The Backdoor because you entered through a narrow back alley. The alley's walls crawled with graffiti, its caged lights ticked with moths. Flakes from its white-painted bricks crunched underfoot. And then you pushed through into a dim space inhabited by a faintly confusing sense of the half-dozen other bars that had tried and failed in the same room under different managements. Coretti sometimes went there because he liked the weary smile of the black bartender, and because the few customers rarely tried to get chummy.

He wasn't very good at conversation with strangers, not at parties and not at bars.

He was fine at the community college where he lectured in introductory linguistics; he could talk with the head of his department about sequencing and options in conversational openings. But he could never talk to strangers in bars or at parties. He didn't go to many parties. He went to a lot of bars.

Coretti didn't know how to dress. Clothing was a language and Coretti a kind of sartorial stutterer, unable to make the kind of basic coherent fashion statement that would put strangers at their ease. His ex-wife told him he dressed like a Martian; that he didn't look as though he belonged anywhere in the city. He hadn't liked her saying that, because it was true.

He hadn't ever had a girl like the one who sat with her back arched slightly in the undersea light that splashed along the bar in The Backdoor. The same light was screwed into the lenses of the bartender's glasses, wound into the necks of the rows of bottles, splashed dully across the mirror. In that light her dress was the green of young corn, like a husk half stripped away, showing back and cleavage and lots of thigh through the slits up the side. Her hair was coppery that night. And, that night, her eyes were green.

He pushed resolutely between the empty chrome-and-formica tables until he reached the bar, where he ordered a straight bourbon. He took off his duffelcoat, and wound up holding it on his lap when he sat down one stool away from her. Great, he screamed to himself, she'll think you're hiding an erection. And he was startled to realize that he had one to hide. He studied himself in the mirror behind the bar, a thirtyish man with thinning dark hair and a pale, narrow face bobbling on a long neck, too long for the open collar of the nylon shirt printed with engravings of 1910 automobiles in three vivid colors. He wore a tie with broad maroon and black diagonals, too narrow, he supposed, for what he now saw as the grotesquely long points of his collar. Or it was the wrong color. Something.

Beside him, in the dark clarity of the mirror, the green-eyed woman looked like Irma La Douce. But looking closer, studying her face, he shivered. A face like an animal's. A beautiful face, but simple, cunning, two-dimensional. When she senses you're looking at her, Coretti thought, she'll give you the smile, disdainful amusement—or whatever you'd expect.

Coretti blurted, "May I, um, buy you a drink?"

At moments like these, Coretti was possessed by an agonizingly stiff, schoolmasterish linguistic tic. Um. He winced. Um.

"You would, um, like to buy me a drink? Why, how kind of you," she said, astonishing him. "That would be very nice." Distantly, he noticed that her reply was as stilted and insecure as his own. She added, "A tom collins, on this occasion, would be lovely."

On this occasion? Lovely? Rattled, Coretti ordered two drinks and paid.

A big woman in jeans and an embroidered cowboy shirt bellied up to the bar beside him and asked the bartender for change. "Well hey," she said. Then she strutted to the jukebox and punched for Conway and Loretta's, "You're the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly." Coretti turned to the woman in green, and murmured haltingly:

"Do you enjoy country and western music?" Do you enjoy . . .? He groaned secretly at his phrasing, and tried to smile.

"Yes indeed," she answered, the faintest twang edging her voice, "I sure do."

The cowgirl sat down beside him and asked her, winking, "This li'l terror here givin' you a hard time?"

And the animal-eyed lady in green replied, "Oh hell no, honey, I got my eye on 'im." And laughed. Just the right amount of laugh. The part of Coretti that was dialectologist stirred uneasily; too perfect a shift in phrasing and inflection. An actress? A talented mimic? The word "mimetic" rose suddenly in his mind, but he pushed it aside to study her reflection in the mirror; the rows of bottles occluded her breasts like a gown of glass.

"The name's Coretti," he said, his verbal poltergeist shifting abruptly to a totally unconvincing tough-guy mode, "Michael Coretti."

"A pleasure," she said, too softly for the other woman to hear, and again she had slipped into the lame parody of Emily Post.

"Conway and Loretta," said the cowgirl, to no one in particular.

"Antoinette," said the woman in green, and inclined her head. She finished her drink, pretended to glance at a watch, said thank-you-for-the-drink too damn politely, and left.

Ten minutes later Coretti was following her down Third Avenue. He had never followed anyone in his life and it both frightened and excited him. Forty feet seemed a discreet distance, but what should he do if she happened to glance over her shoulder?

Third Avenue isn't a dark street, and it was there, in the light of a streetlamp, like a stage light, that she began to change. The street was deserted.

She was crossing the street. She stepped off the curb and it began. It began with tints in her hair—at first he thought they were reflections. But there was no neon there to cast the blobs of color that appeared, color sliding and merging like oil slicks. Then the colors bled away and in three seconds she was white-blond. He was sure it was a trick of the light until her dress began to writhe, twisting across her body like shrink-wrap plastic. Part of it fell away entirely and lay in curling shreds on the pavement, shed like the skin of some fabulous animal. When Coretti passed, it was green foam, fizzing, dissolving, gone. He looked back up at her and the dress was another dress, green satin, shifting with reflections. Her shoes had changed too. Her shoulders were bare except for thin straps that crossed at the small of her back. Her hair had become short, spiky.

He found that he was leaning against a jeweler's plate-glass window, his breath coming ragged and harsh with the damp of the autumn evening. He heard the disco's heartbeat from two blocks away. As she neared it, her movements began subtly to take on a new rhythm—a shift in emphasis in the sway of her hips, in the way she put her heels down on the sidewalk. The doorman let her pass with a vague nod. He stopped Coretti and stared at his driver's license and frowned at his duffelcoat. Coretti anxiously scanned the wash of lights at the top of a milky plastic stairway beyond the doorman. She had vanished there, into robotic flashing and redundant thunder.

Grudgingly the man let him pass, and he pounded up the stairs, his haste disturbing the lights beneath the translucent plastic steps.

Coretti had never been in a disco before; he found himself in an environment designed for complete satisfaction-in-distraction. He waded nervously through the motion and the fashions and the mechanical urban chants booming from the huge speakers. He sought her almost blindly on the pose-clotted dance floor, amid strobe lightning.

And found her at the bar, drinking a tall, lurid cooler and listening to a young man who wore a loose shirt of pale silk and very tight black pants. She nodded at what Coretti took to be appropriate intervals. Coretti ordered by pointing at a bottle of bourbon. She drank five of the tall drinks and then followed the young man to the dance floor.

She moved in perfect accord with the music striking a series of poses; she went through the entire prescribed sequence, gracefully but not artfully, fitting in perfectly. Always, always fitting in perfectly. Her companion danced mechanically, moving through the ritual with effort.

When the dance ended, she turned abruptly and dived into the thick of the crowd. The shifting throng closed about her like something molten.

Coretti plunged in after her, his eyes never leaving her—and he was the only one to follow her change. By the time she reached the stair she was auburn-haired and wore a long blue dress. A white flower blossomed in her hair, behind her right ear; her hair was longer and straighter now. Her breasts had become slightly larger, and her hips a shade heavier. She took the stairs two at a time, and he was afraid for her then. All those drinks.

But the alcohol seemed to have had no effect on her at all.

Never taking his eyes from her, Coretti followed, his heartbeat outspeeding the disco-throb at his back, sure that at any moment she would turn, glare at him, call for help.

Two blocks down Third she turned in at Lothario's. There was something different in her step now. Lothario's was a quiet complex of rooms hung with ferns and Art Deco mirrors. There were fake Tiffany lamps hanging from the ceiling, alternating with wooden-bladed fans that rotated too slowly to stir the wisps of smoke drifting through the consciously mellow drone of conversation. After the disco, Lothario's was familiar and comforting. A jazz pianist in pinstriped shirt sleeves and loosely knotted tie competed softly with talk and laughter from a dozen tables.

She was at the bar; the stools were only half taken, but Coretti chose a wall table, in the shadow of a miniature palm, and ordered bourbon.

He drank the bourbon and ordered another. He couldn't feel the alcohol much, tonight.

She sat beside a young man, yet another young man with the usual set of bland, regular features. He wore a yellow golf shirt and pressed jeans. Her hip was touching his, just a little. They didn't seem to be speaking, but Coretti felt they were somehow communing. They were leaning toward one another slightly, silent. Coretti felt odd. He went to the rest room and splashed his face with water. Coming back, he managed to pass within three feet of them. Their lips didn't move till he was within earshot. They took turns murmuring realistic palaver:

"—saw his earlier films, but—"

"But he's rather self-indulgent, don't you think?"

"Sure, but in the sense that—"

And, for the first time, Coretti knew what they were, what they must be. They were the kind you see in bars who seem to have grown there, who seem genuinely at home there. Not drunks, but human fixtures. Functions of the bar. The belonging kind.

Something in him yearned for a confrontation. He reached his table, but found himself unable to sit down. He turned, took a deep breath, and walked woodenly toward the bar. He wanted to tap her on her smooth shoulder and ask who she was, and exactly what she was, and point out the cold irony of the fact that it was he, Coretti, the Martian dresser, the eavesdropper, the outsider, the one whose clothes and conversation never fit, who had at last guessed their secret.

But his nerve broke and he merely took a seat beside her and ordered bourbon.

"But don't you think," she asked her companion, "that it's all relative?"

The two seats beyond her companion were quickly taken by a couple who were talking politics. Antoinette and Golf Shirt took up the political theme seamlessly, recycling, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard. Her face, as she spoke, was expressionless. A bird trilling on a limb.

She sat so easily on her stool, as if it were a nest. Golf Shirt paid for the drinks. He always had the exact change, unless he wanted to leave a tip. Coretti watched them work their way methodically through six cocktails each, like insects feeding on nectar. But their voices never grew louder, their cheeks didn't redden, and when at last they stood, they moved without a trace of drunkenness—a weakness, thought Coretti, a gap in their camouflage.

They paid him absolutely no attention while he followed them through three successive bars.

As they entered Waylon's, they metamorphosed so quickly that Coretti had trouble following the stages of the change. It was one of those places with toilet doors marked Pointers and Setters, and a little imitation pine plaque over the jars of beef jerky and pickled sausages: We've got a deal with the bank. They don't serve beer and we don't cash checks.

She was plump in Waylon's, and there were dark hollows under her eyes. There were coffee stains on her polyester pantsuit. Her companion wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a red baseball cap with a red-and-white Peterbilt patch. Coretti risked losing them when he spent a frantic minute in "Pointers," blinking in confusion at a hand-lettered cardboard sign that said, We aim to please — You aim too, please.

Third Avenue lost itself near the waterfront in a petrified snarl of brickwork. In the last block, bright vomit marked the pavement at intervals, and old men dozed in front of black-and-white TVs, sealed forever behind the fogged plate-glass of faded hotels.

The bar they found there had no name. An ace of diamonds was gradually flaking away on the unwashed window, and the bartender had a face like a closed fist. An FM transistor in ivory plastic keened easy-listening rock to the uneven ranks of deserted tables. They drank beer and shots. They were old now, two ciphers who drank and smoked in the light of bare bulbs, coughing over a pack of crumpled Camels she produced from the pocket of a dirty tan raincoat.

At 2:25 they were in the rooftop lounge of the new hotel complex that rose above the waterfront. She wore an evening dress and he wore a dark suit. They drank cognac and pretended to admire the city lights. They each had three cognacs while Coretti watched them over two ounces of Wild Turkey in a Waterford crystal highball glass.

They drank until last call. Coretti followed them into the elevator. They smiled politely but otherwise ignored him. There were two cabs in front of the hotel; they took one, Coretti the other.

"Follow that cab," said Coretti huskily, thrusting his last twenty at the aging hippie driver.

"Sure, man, sure . . ." The driver dogged the other cab for six blocks, to another, more modest hotel. They got out and went in. Coretti slowly climbed out of his cab, breathing hard.

He ached with jealousy: for the personification of conformity, this woman who was not a woman, this human wallpaper. Coretti gazed at the hotel—and lost his nerve. He turned away.

He walked home. Sixteen blocks. At some point he realized that he wasn't drunk. Not drunk at all.

In the morning he phoned in to cancel his early class. But his hangover never quite came. His mouth wasn't desiccated, and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror he saw that his eyes weren't bloodshot.

In the afternoon he slept, and dreamed of sheep-faced people reflected in mirrors behind rows of bottles.

That night he went out to dinner, alone—and ate nothing. The food looked back at him, somehow. He stirred it about to make it look as if he'd eaten a little, paid, and went to a bar. And another. And another bar, looking for her. He was using his credit card now, though he was already badly in the hole under VISA. If he saw her, he didn't recognize her.

Sometimes he watched the hotel he'd seen her go into. He looked carefully at each of the couples who came and went. Not that he'd be able to spot her from her looks alone—but there should be a feeling, some kind of intuitive recognition. He watched the couples and he was never sure.

In the following weeks he systematically visited every boozy watering hole in the city. Armed at first with a city map and five torn Yellow Pages, he gradually progressed to the more obscure establishments, places with unlisted numbers. Some had no phone at all. He joined dubious private clubs, discovered unlicensed after-hours retreats where you brought your own, and sat nervously in dark rooms devoted to areas of fringe sexuality he had not known existed.

But he continued on what became his nightly circuit. He always began at The Backdoor. She was never there, or in the next place, or the next. The bartenders knew him and they liked to see him come in, because he bought drinks continuously, and never seemed to get drunk. So he stared at the other customers a bit—so what?

Coretti lost his job.

He'd missed classes too many times. He'd taken to watching the hotel when he could, even in the daytime. He'd been seen in too many bars. He never seemed to change his clothes. He refused night classes. He would let a lecture trail off in the middle as he turned to gaze vacantly out the window.

He was secretly pleased at being fired. They had looked at him oddly at faculty lunches when he couldn't eat his food. And now he had more time for the search.

Coretti found her at 2:15 on a Wednesday morning, in a gay bar called The Barn. Paneled in rough wood and hung with halters and rusting farm equipment, the place was shrill with perfume and laughter and beer. She was everyone's giggling sister, in a blue-sequined dress, a green feather in her coiffed brown hair. Through a sweeping sense of almost cellular relief, Coretti was aware of a kind of admiration, a strange pride he now felt in her—and her kind. Here, too, she belonged. She was a representative type, a fag-hag who posed no threat to the queens or their butchboys. Her companion had become an ageless man with carefully silvered temples, an angora sweater and a trenchcoat.

They drank and drank, and went laughing—laughing just the right sort of laughter—out into the rain. A cab was waiting, its wipers duplicating the beat of Coretti's heart.

Jockeying clumsily across the wet sidewalk, Coretti scurried into the cab, dreading their reaction.

Coretti was in the back seat, beside her.

The man with silver temples spoke to the driver. The driver muttered into his hand mike, changed gears, and they flowed away into the rain and the darkened streets. The cityscape made no impression on Coretti who, looking inwardly, was seeing the cab stop, the gray man and the laughing woman pushing him out and pointing, smiling, to the gate of a mental hospital. Or: the cab stopping, the couple turning, sadly shaking their heads. And a dozen times he seemed to see the cab stopping in an empty sidestreet where they methodically throttled him. Coretti left dead in the rain. Because he was an outsider.

But they arrived at Coretti's hotel.

In the dim glow of the cab's dome light he watched closely as the man reached into his coat for the fare. Coretti could see the coat's lining clearly and it was one piece with the angora sweater. No wallet bulged there, and no pocket. But a kind of slit widened. It opened as the man's fingers poised over it, and it disgorged money. Three bills, folded, were extruded smoothly from the slit. The money was slightly damp. It dried, as the man unfolded it, like the wings of a moth just emerging from the chrysalis.

"Keep the change," said the belonging man, climbing out of the cab. Antoinette slid out and Coretti followed, his mind seeing only the slit. The slit wet, edged with red, like a gill.

The lobby was deserted and the desk clerk bent over a crossword. The couple drifted silently across the lobby and into the elevator, Coretti close behind. Once he tried to catch her eye, but she ignored him. And once, as the elevator rose seven floors above Coretti's own, she bent over and sniffed at the chrome wall ashtray, like a dog snuffling at the ground.

Hotels, late at night, are never still. The corridors are never entirely silent. There are countless barely audible sighs, the rustling of sheets, and muffled voices speaking fragments out of sleep. But in the ninth-floor corridor, Coretti seemed to move through a perfect vacuum, soundless, his shoes making no sound at all on the colorless carpet and even the beating of his outsider's heart sucked away into the vague pattern that decorated the wallpaper.

He tried to count the small plastic ovals screwed on the doors, each with its own three figures, but the corridor seemed to go on forever. At last the man halted before a door, a door veneered like all the rest with imitation rosewood, and put his hand over the lock, his palm flat against the metal. Something scraped softly and then the mechanism clicked and the door swung open. As the man withdrew his hand, Coretti saw a grayish-pink, key-shaped sliver of bone retract wetly into the pale flesh.

No light burned in that room, but the city's dim neon aura filtered in through venetian blinds and allowed him to see the faces of the dozen or more people who sat perched on the bed and the couch and the armchairs and the stools in the kitchenette. At first he thought that their eyes were open, but then he realized that the dull pupils were sealed beneath nictitating membranes, third eyelids that reflected the faint shades of neon from the window. They wore whatever the last bar had called for; shapeless Salvation Army overcoats sat beside bright suburban leisurewear, evening gowns beside dusty factory clothes, biker's leather by brushed Harris tweed. With sleep, all spurious humanity had vanished.

They were roosting.

His couple seated themselves on the edge of the formica countertop in the kitchenette, and Coretti hesitated in the middle of the empty carpet. Light-years of that carpet seemed to separate him from the others, but something called to him across the distance, promising rest and peace and belonging. And still he hesitated, shaking with an indecision that seemed to rise from the genetic core of his body's every cell.

Until they opened their eyes, all of them simultaneously, the membranes sliding sideways to reveal the alien calm of dwellers in the ocean's darkest trench.

Coretti screamed, and ran away, and fled along corridors and down echoing concrete stairwells to cool rain and the nearly empty streets.

Coretti never returned to his room on the third floor of that hotel. A bored house detective collected the linguistics texts, the single suitcase of clothing, and they were eventually sold at auction. Coretti took a room in a boardinghouse run by a grim Baptist teetotaler who led her roomers in prayer at the start of every overcooked evening meal. She didn't mind that Coretti never joined them for those meals; he explained that he was given free meals at work. He lied freely and skillfully. He never drank at the boardinghouse, and he never came home drunk. Mr. Coretti was a little odd, but always paid his rent on time. And he was very quiet.

Coretti stopped looking for her. He stopped going to bars. He drank out of a paper bag while going to and from his job at a publisher's warehouse, in an area whose industrial zoning permitted few bars.

He worked nights.

Sometimes, at dawn, perched on the edge of his unmade bed, drifting into sleep—he never slept lying down, now—he thought about her. Antoinette. And them. The belonging kind. Sometimes he speculated dreamily . . . Perhaps they were like house mice, the sort of small animal evolved to live only in the walls of man-made structures.

A kind of animal that lives only on alcoholic beverages. With peculiar metabolisms they convert the alcohol and the various proteins from mixed drinks and wine and beers into everything they need. And they can change outwardly, like a chameleon or a rockfish, for protection. So they can live among us. And maybe, Coretti thought, they grow in stages. In the early stages seeming like humans, eating the food humans eat, sensing their difference only in a vague disquiet of being an outsider.

A kind of animal with its own cunning, its own special set of urban instincts. And the ability to know its own kind when they're near. Maybe.

And maybe not.

Coretti drifted into sleep.

On a Wednesday three weeks into his new job, his landlady opened his door—she never knocked—and told him that he was wanted on the phone. Her voice was tight with habitual suspicion, and Coretti followed her along the dark hallway to the second-floor sitting room and the telephone.

Lifting the old-fashioned black instrument to his ear, he heard only music at first, and then a wall of sound resolving into a fragmented amalgam of conversations. Laughter. No one spoke to him over the sound of the bar, but the song in the background was "You're the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly."

And then the dial tone, when the caller hung up.

Later, alone in his room, listening to the landlady's firm tread in the room below, Coretti realized that there was no need to remain where he was. The summons had come. But the landlady demanded three weeks' notice if anyone wanted to leave. That meant that Coretti owed her money. Instinct told him to leave it for her.

A Christian workingman in the next room coughed in his sleep as Coretti got up and went down the hall to the telephone. Coretti told the evening shift foreman that he was quitting his job. He hung up and went back to his room, locked the door behind him, and slowly removed his clothing until he stood naked before the garish framed lithograph of Jesus above the brown steel bureau.

And then he counted out nine tens. He placed them carefully beside the praying-hands plaque decorating the bureau top.

It was nice-looking money. It was perfectly good money. He made it himself.

This time, he didn't feel like making small talk. She'd been drinking a margarita, and he ordered the same. She paid, producing the money with a deft movement of her hand between the breasts bobbling in her low-cut dress. He glimpsed the gill closing there. An excitement rose in him—but somehow, this time, it didn't center in an erection.

After the third margarita their hips were touching, and something was spreading through him in slow orgasmic waves. It was sticky where they were touching; an area the size of the heel of his thumb where the cloth had parted. He was two men: the one inside fusing with her in total cellular communion, and the shell who sat casually on a stool at the bar, elbows on either side of his drink, fingers toying with a swizzle stick. Smiling benignly into space. Calm in the cool dimness.

And once, but only once, some distant worrisome part of him made Coretti glance down to where soft-ruby tubes pulsed, tendrils tipped with sharp lips worked in the shadows between them. Like the joining tentacles of two strange anemones.

They were mating, and no one knew.

And the bartender, when he brought the next drink, offered his tired smile and said, "Rainin' out now, innit? Just won't let up."

"Been like that all goddamn week," Coretti answered. "Rainin' to beat the band."

And he said it right. Like a real human being.

Barry Malzberg tells me that Arthur L. Samuels has sold the first two things he's written and doesn't want to write anymore. Neither of us is betting on it, especially since the Malzberg form and the Samuels touch have produced . . .

CALLING COLLECT by Barry N. Malzberg and Arthur L. Samuels

I

"I'll do it," Irma Green said after a long pause. She pushed a strand of hair distractedly back over her ear. "I mean," she said, "I have no choice."

Her visitor shrugged and said, "That is your decision."

"I mean I do have a choice," she said, "but then—"

"Vanity of vanities," her visitor said calmly. "All is vanity." His eyes glowed.

"Ain't that the truth," Irma said reluctantly.

II

Martin Green staggered from the rear patio toward the shrilling phone, looking remarkably like an angry Doberman. Even there, he could not escape the sound of the telephone which sounded peculiarly, malevolently fixated on him. That was ridiculous, of course; the call, as always, would be for Irma. No peace, he thought. No peace. "Hello?" he said.

"This is Jack Jacobs," an unctuous voice said. "Jack Jacobs, you know? We met you at the pool last week—my wife and I, we met you and your wife at the swim club." The voice paused, wavered. "This is Martin Green, isn't it?"

"She's not home," Martin said. "She's out. She's at a club meeting."

"Oh," Jack Jacobs said. He paused again. "When will she be back?"

"Later. Listen, Jacobs, what do you want? Why are you calling my wife?"

"We—my wife and I, that is—wanted to invite you over some evening. Generally I do the calling." Jack Jacobs coughed into Martin's ear and said, "I know that isn't conventional—in the suburbs it's usually the wife who does the social things like that, I know, but we have kind of a liberated marriage, share and share alike, so I thought I'd put through the invitation—"

"Jacobs," Martin said flatly, "I don't think I want to see you. I don't even remember you and I don't want to renew acquaintances. You understand?"

There was a long silence at the other end and Jack Jacobs said, "Oh yes, I understand."

"Don't call my wife anymore, Jacobs," Martin said and put the phone down so abruptly that it bounced off the pedestal. He caught it on the fly. "Don't do it," he screamed and slammed it down again and went back to the patio. But his mood was ruined. He could not do bicycle repair. Strange men were calling his wife now on what was already an instrument of destruction. I can't take it anymore, he thought, but he knew that this was only a pose. Of course he could continue to take it.

What was the alternative?

Irma Green was obsessed with the telephone. Martin could sit and read for hours, work on household equipment; Irma talked. When she didn't talk, she went out. In between times, when feasible, she prepared dinner, slept, engaged in sex. When she was home she was on the telephone.

The calls came in and went out. Irma scurried off on her activities, wooed new acquaintances from her own bed until after midnight. I don't have a wife, I have a switchboard, Martin thought. Once he had even said it to her. She did not take to it kindly. Fifteen years of marriage counted for something, she said. Like autonomy and trust. Trust was vital to any marriage. Beaten, Martin had dropped the issue. But now she was getting calls from a man. Who was Jack Jacobs? What did he want? What was going on?

Martin pondered the issue into the evening, long after Irma had come home, dropped her coat and car keys, returned five telephone calls. She had laughed when told about Jacobs. He had almost drowned in the pool trying to show off last week, she had said. Didn't Martin remember? No, he did not remember. Well, it did not matter; certainly she was far too busy to want to deal socially with people like him or his fat liberated wife. "You look angry, Martin," she said at eleven, the phone mercifully still. "Are you jealous? Do you think I'm having an affair?"

"You're never off that phone," Martin said pointlessly. "You're always calling someone or they're calling you. There's no peace."

"It keeps me young," Irma said.

This was probably true, Martin thought. At forty-five she looked thirty; throughout their marriage she had softened and deepened, while he had merely wrinkled and spread. "It's not keeping me young," he said. "If I haven't got Jacobs for a correspondent, I have the telephone."

"Don't be ridiculous," Irma said. "I sleep eight hours a night, I maintain a full schedule, and we have an active sex life."

"All between. Between phone calls. We haven't had twenty minutes together awake in years—"

"Really?" she said. "How about last Monday?"

Martin tried hard to think of last Monday. It was hard to isolate the day in memory; time kind of flowed. Of course, that was a characteristic of mid-life. He had read that in books.

The phone rang.

Irma picked it up. "Oh," she said, "hello. Hello."

"Good-bye," Martin mumbled. He stood, left the bedroom, stalked into the living room. Behind him he could hear Irma with appalling brightness talking to someone called "Dorothy" about "plans" for a "bruncheon." Martin brooded. The voice from the bedroom rose and fell. The conversation ended; he heard the faint clang of the receiver being replaced. The phone rang again.

Martin closed his eyes, sat at attention in a bright red chair. The new conversation was relatively brief. The receiver clattered. There was a pause. He heard the sound of Irma dialing.

Martin sighed. He stood, shuffled back into the bedroom, looked at his wife as she talked. Her voice was blissful, her eyes lustrous, her skin gleamed with the force and innocence of youth. The telephone did marvelous things for her complexion. As we live so we will die, Martin thought. Irma was immortal. How could you die in the act of returning a phone call?

"You're ridiculous," Irma said nervously when he finally was able to bring up this thought safely after midnight. "You're a strained man, Martin, you're spending too much time hanging around the house. It's never been the same since you free-lanced accounts. Get out into the world, look for a job, see your accounts, go to the racetrack. Try golf. I mean, that's really bizarre thinking."

"What? That you think you can cheat death by that damned phone?"

"I want to go to sleep," Irma said. She pushed the phone away and lay with her back toward him.

He reached—but found that she really did.

Maybe she was right, he thought later. Other interests. Get out of the house. Cease to brood. Martin got up in the shadows of another dawn and drove to the local public golf course, waited outside the gates, rented a set of clubs, went out in the mists alone, swinging wildly. He had not played golf in a decade, didn't even watch the sport. Inhaling great drafts of polluted air, looking at factory smokestacks from the south cheerfully pumping out their industrial filth, Martin plodded through nine holes, trying earnestly to break a hundred. By the fourth hole, however, his internal attention had left the course and shifted to the figure of a man.

A man. Who? Where? Martin could not identify him, but it was definitely a man and he had a picture: the man was in bed with Irma. Right now. An affair. Just like in the works of John Cheever. Skulking through the rooms of desire, the shadow lover while the husband, all ignorance and bouncy cheer, is out at sport. What else? What else!

She had sent him out, hadn't she? It had been her idea! And the incessant phone, the whispered arrangements—the man who had called her a couple of days ago. Jim Jacobs? No. Not quite. Jack. Jack Jacobs. That was it. Martin tore out a divot.

He understood everything.

Martin stumbled through a twelve-stroke ninth, tossed his clubs into the cart, plunged through the pro shop cursing. In his head Jacobs and Irma tinkled ice cubes in post-coital cocktails, discussed Martin's sexual inadequacies. The phone, he thought. The phone did this to me. I'll kill him. No, I won't. I'll be civilized. Maybe it wasn't the phone, he thought; maybe it was Jacobs who was keeping her young.

He drove home. No strange car in front of his house. Still, there wouldn't be, would there? He knew how it was; what you did was park the car blocks away, sometimes miles, and speed fleeting through the neighborhood to land panting with desire at the side door. I'm no fool, Martin thought, I know about this stuff too. It isn't all bills of lading and statutory unemployment funds here; there's educational television and the Literary Guild. I read and think. He came up his steps briskly, opened the door soundlessly, took off his shoes and went up the stairs toward the bedroom to the open door. Shameless! I won't kill him, Martin thought, I'll be civil, offer him a drink. Then I'll kill him.

He heard Irma's voice.

Inside, she sat on the bed, her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, the telephone cupped to her ear, talking with intensity. "Friday," she said. "Friday is good, Emily. Of course I'll have to call Rona and Harriet to make sure—"

Something within Martin Green broke.

He plunged toward his wife, seized the phone, ripped it away and flung it against the wall. "I am not merely an accountant!" he screamed. "I suffer!" She stared at him incomprehendingly. "I can't stand it anymore!" he said piteously. Her eyes were luminous. He went to the closet, seized an overnight bag, stuffed clothing indiscriminately. "I've got to get out of here!" he said. "I don't even have the dignity of being cuckolded by a man!"

He fled down the stairs swinging the bag, got into his car and drove away.

Later, he found it hard to recall the details.

Twelve hours and five hundred miles later, however, Martin awoke to find himself in a small motel on the outskirts of Erie, Pennsylvania. The air was, if possible, worse here than on the golf course. He belched uncomfortably, the residue of many drinks, a bad dinner, remorse. Shame lifted him toward the cashier, self-pity paid the check, self-loathing carried him from the dining room and to the elevator, the elevator carried him up one flight and shame, doing double duty, took him into his bleak room. He locked the door, tossed aside a tissue box and a Bible, picked up the phone and gave the switchboard his home number.

"And make it collect," he said.

He entered a long tunnel of possibility. The phone purred in his ear. That it was not busy was in itself further inducement to remorse, more fodder for self-loathing. Perhaps he had misunderstood her. Or perhaps she was out with Jack Jacobs.

Irma answered the phone. The switchboard said that it was a collect call. There was a long pause. "I'll take it," Irma said shakily. "Martin—"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Martin—"

"I am," he said, "I am sorry." He said other things. He talked for a long time. He would not let her say much; he said it all himself. To her credit, Irma had a wonderful telephone manner. She listened. He told her that he had been a fool. Unstable. Recriminatory, immature. Hateful. Suspicious. And selfish. The selfishness had driven her to the telephone for companionship. "It won't happen again," he said. "I'm coming home. I can't stand Erie, Pennsylvania!" he added desperately.

"It's too late, Martin," Irma said.

"There is someone else, then. Is it—"

"No," she said, "it isn't that." There was a sickening pause. "It's too late, Martin," she said, "too late for any of this. I accepted the call."

"You accepted the call? Of course you accepted—"

"Postage due," she said sadly. She hung up.

Martin clutched the phone and stared at the Bible. Well then? he asked it. What now?

III

Irma walked from the telephone, her gait hobbling and cautious. Inside she felt the crumbling, the organs caving into dust, but she would not collapse. Nor would she cry. Not then, not ever. It was the pact, that was all. You accept the conditions; you accept the risks.

She went into the bathroom, supporting herself on the door, wobbling on the tile, grasping at the wall for balance as she came before the mirror. Her heart thudded to a thicker, older rhythm. She stared at her face in the mirror.

The crevices and hollows of that ruined face looked back at her, the mouth of the old woman opened and closed.

Irma whimpered.

"Vanity of vanities," her visitor said behind her softly.

"You're here to collect," Irma said weakly.

"You accepted the charges," Jacobs said reasonably.

Ramsey Campbell is a Shadows regular, and with good reason: few writers in the field have the deft touch that Campbell manages in all his stories, fewer still who understand the difference between shock and true fear. Ramsey Campbell's newest books are New Terrors (as editor), and two new novels, The Parasite and The Nameless. And while you're waiting . . .

HEARING IS BELIEVING by Ramsey Campbell

Suddenly he wasn't on the bus home after a frustrating day at work, but in Greece, in a taverna by the sea. The sky was a block of solid blue; over the plucking of bouzoukis he heard people smashing their empty glasses. Now sunset was turning the sea into lava, and someone like Anthony Quinn was dancing, arms outstretched, at the edge of the taverna, where waves lapped the stones.

Wells emerged from the daydream several streets nearer home. If he couldn't recall having passed through them, that was hardly surprising; beyond the streaming windows of the bus all the streets looked half-erased by rain, smudges and blotches of dull color. Around him people coughed and sputtered with February chills. No wonder he preferred to anticipate his trip to Greece, the Greece of a film in which a tycoon married an American president's widow.

He ran home as though he were trying to butt the rain aside. The pavements were quivering mirrors of slate. At the top of the hill, rain scrambled over the ruin of the factory. Last week he'd seen the hundred-foot chimney standing for an instant on an explosion of dust before buckling, keeling over, taking with it two hundred jobs.

His house sounded hollow. Except for his bedroom and the living room, most of it was uncarpeted. Bare scruffy plaster overlooked the stairs, littered the boards of the spare room. That was the way his father had left the house, which was still preferable to Wells's old flat—more of an investment, for one thing. Soon Wells must get on with decorating.

But not tonight: he'd already done enough work for one day, if not for several. When he'd eaten dinner the living-room fire was blazing; flames snatched at the fur of soot on the back of the chimney. Most of his furniture was crowded into the room, including the Yamaha stereo system, the most expensive item in the house.

He sat with a large scotch while something by Delius wandered, gentle and vague as the firelight. The coughs of the audience were so far back in the stereo arc that they seemed embedded in the wall. At the end of the music, the applause made the room sound huge and deep. He could almost see the flock of hands fly up clapping.

A soprano began singing German, which Wells neither understood nor found evocative. He imagined the conductor's black and white plumage, his gestures at the singer as part of an elaborate mating ritual. Eventually Wells got up and fiddled with the dial. Here was a police call, here was a burst of Chinese, here was a message from a ship out on the Irish Sea. And here was someone whispering beside him, so close that he started back, and the rain came pouring in through the roof.

The voice had a background of rain, that was all. There were two voices, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the downpour. He couldn't understand what they were saying; even the sound of the language was unfamiliar—not Eastern European, not an Oriental language. Yet he was so impressed by the vividness of the stereo that he sat down to listen.

The two men were in a street, for he could hear the gurgle of roadside drains. It must be dark, for the men were picking their way very hesitantly. Sometimes they slipped—rubble clinked underfoot—and he didn't need to understand the language to know they were cursing.

For a while he listened to the street sounds: the shrill incessant hiss of rain on stone, rain splashing jerkily from broken gutters, dripping on fragments of windows in the houses which loomed close on both sides. It was better than sitting before the fire and listening to a storm outside—or at least it would have been, except that he wished he knew why the men were afraid.

It unnerved him. Had they fled into this area to hide? Surely they would be more conspicuous amid the derelict streets, unless everywhere was like this. Or were they searching for something of which they were afraid? They had lowered their voices; they were certainly afraid that something would hear them, even through the clamor of rain. Wells found himself listening uneasily for some hint that it was near, listening so intently that at first he didn't realize that the men had fallen silent and were listening too.

For a while he could hear only the babble of rain and drains and rubble. The other sound was so similar that at first he couldn't be sure it was there. But yes, there was another sound: in the distance a great deal of rubble was shifting. If something was pushing it out of the way, that something was unhurried and very large. Surely the sound that accompanied it must be a quirk of the storm—surely it couldn't be breathing.

The men had heard it now. He could tell from their voices that they knew what it was—but why was he so much on edge because he couldn't understand? They dodged to the left, gasping as they stumbled over rubble. Now they were struggling with a door that scraped reluctantly back and forth in a heap of fallen masonry. At last rusty hinges gave way, and the door fell.

What use was it to take refuge here, when they'd made so much noise? Perhaps they were hoping to hide as they fled desperately from room to room. Now that they were in the house they sounded closer to him; everything did—the splat, splat of rain on linoleum in one large room, the dull plump of a drip on carpet in another. There must be very little left on the roof.

Now the men were running upstairs, their feet squelching on the stair carpet. They ran the length of a room that sounded enormous; he heard them splashing heedlessly through puddles. Now they were cowering in the corners to his left, where the light of his fire couldn't reach. He would have switched on the overhead light, except that would have been absurd.

In any case, there was no time. Something had hurled the front door aside and squeezed through the doorway into the house. It started upstairs at once, its sides wallowing against the staircase walls; three or four stairs creaked simultaneously. The breathing of the men began to shudder.

When it reached the top of the stairs it halted. Was it peering into the room? Wells could hear its breathing clearly now, thick and slow and composed of more than one sound, as if it came from several mouths. In the corners beyond the firelight the men were straining not to breathe.

A moment later they were screaming. Though nothing had squeezed through the doorway, Wells heard them dragged onto the landing. Their screams went downstairs as the creaking did, and out of the house. Had their captor's arms been able to reach the length of the room?

Wells sat listening reluctantly for something else to happen. Rain shrilled monotonously outside the house, dripped quicker and quicker on linoleum, sodden carpets, bare boards. That was all, but it went on and on, seemingly for half an hour. How much longer, for God's sake? As long as he was fool enough to leave it on, perhaps. He switched off the stereo and went to bed, only to lie there imagining unlit streets where some of the dim heaps weren't rubble. He couldn't switch off the rain outside his house.

Next morning he was glad to reach the office, where he could revive his imagination with the Greek travel poster above his desk, and joke with his colleagues until it was time to let the queue in out of the drizzle. Many of the waiting faces were depressingly familiar. Those who meant to plead more social security out of him were far easier to cope with than the growing number of young people who were sure he could find them a job. He hadn't grown used to seeing hope die in their eyes.

One of them was reading "the novel that proves there is life after death." Perhaps she'd grown so hopeless that she would believe anything that seemed to offer hope. He'd heard his colleagues seriously wondering whether God had been an astronaut, he'd seen them gasping at books "more hideously frightening than The Exorcist because everything actually happened." It seemed that any nonsense could find believers these days.

The bus home was full of tobacco smoke, another stale solution. The faces of the riders looked dispirited, apathetic, tired of working to keep up with inflation and taxes. A Jewish shop daubed with a swastika sailed by; the bus was plastered with National Front slogans, no doubt by the same people responsible for the swastika. If that could seem acceptable to some people, what solutions could be found in a worse world?

As soon as he reached home he switched on the tuner. Music would make the house sound more welcoming. He'd left the dial tuned to the station he had listened to last night, and the speakers greeted him with a rush of static. He had begun to alter the tuning when he realized what was wrong. The sound wasn't static, but rain.

There was no mistaking it once he heard its sounds on floorboards and linoleum; he could even hear plaster falling in the derelict house. Who on earth could be broadcasting this? He didn't care if he never found out who or why. He had to turn the knob some way before he lost the station.

That night he listened to records, since static kept seeping into the broadcasts he wanted to hear. Did the music sound thinner than it used to sound at the flat? A dripping tap made the house seem emptier. Perhaps the acoustics would improve once he improved the house. When he went upstairs to bed, remembering the months he'd lived here after his mother had died, during which he'd given up trying to persuade his father to let him redecorate—"Leave that, I like it as it is."—the dripping tap, whichever it had been, had stopped.

In the morning he felt robbed of sleep. Either a dream or the unnatural cold had kept waking him. Perhaps there was a draught that he would have to trace; he wasn't yet familiar with the house. Still, there were places where his life would seem luxurious.

One of his colleagues was reading a novel about an African state where all the workers were zombies. "That's what we need here," he grumbled. "No more strikes, no more unemployment, no more inflation."

"I hope you're joking," Wells said.

"Not at all. It sounds like paradise compared to this country. If someone took charge now I wouldn't care who it was."

Suddenly, Wells remembered his dream: he had been here at his desk and everyone around him had been speaking English, yet he couldn't understand a word. He felt uncomfortable, vulnerable, and at lunchtime he went strolling to avoid more of that sort of thing. It didn't matter where he went—anywhere but here. Before long he saw the sky above the Mediterranean, two shades of piercing blue divided by the razor of the horizon. When he returned to the gray streets he found he was late for work; he couldn't recall having wandered so far.

After dinner he found a broadcast of Greek music. A large scotch and the firelight helped him drift. Soon the lapping of flames, and their warmth, seemed very like Greek sun and sea—though as he began to doze, losing fragments of the music, the wavering of shadows on the walls made them look to be streaming. Perhaps that was why he dreamed he was sitting in a rainstorm. But when he woke, the rain was in the room.

Of course it was just the sound, coming from the speakers. Had the broadcast slipped awry, into static? He thought he could hear water splashing into puddles on linoleum, yet the dial on the waveband was inches away from the broadcast of two nights ago. He had to turn the knob still farther before the noise faded.

He slapped the tuner's switch irritably, then stumped upstairs to bed. At least he might get a good night's sleep, if he didn't lie there brooding about the stereo. He'd paid enough for it; the shop could damn well make it right. Tonight his bedroom seemed even colder, and damp. Still, the whiskey kept him warm, and drowned his thoughts. Soon he was asleep.

When he woke, the first thing he heard was the shifting of rubble. Something must be up the hill, in the ruined factory—a pack of dogs, perhaps, though it sounded larger. Or were the sounds downstairs, in his house? Certainly the sound of rain was.

He hadn't unplugged the stereo. His drowsy swipe must not have switched it off properly. Impatient to deal with it before he woke fully and couldn't get back to sleep, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. As soon as his bare foot touched the floor he cried out, recoiling.

He writhed on the bed, trying to twist the agony out of his foot. He had cramp, that was all; the floor hadn't really felt like drowned linoleum. When he peered at it, the carpet looked exactly as it should.

He stormed downstairs. The dark, or his inability to wake, made the empty rooms look impossibly large. The plaster above the staircase looked not only bare but glistening. Ignoring all this, he strode into the living room.

The stereo dial was lit. The room was crowded with sound, a chorus of rain in a derelict house. In the distance there was another sound, a chanting of voices that sounded worshipful, terrified, desperate for mercy. That dismayed him more than anything else he'd heard. He pulled the plug from the wall socket and made himself go straight back to bed, where he lay sleepless for a long time. Somewhere in the house a tap was dripping.

Lack of sleep kept him on edge at work. He could hardly face the youngest of his clients. Though she had failed at interview after interview, she was almost superstitiously convinced that she would find a job. "Why can't I have one of the strikers' jobs?" she demanded, and he couldn't answer. He sent her to another interview, and wished her luck. He couldn't rob her of her faith, which must be all that kept her going.

He was glad he'd reached the weekend. When he arrived home, having visited Greece on the way, he made a leisurely dinner, then sat by the fire and listened to records. Somehow he didn't want to use the radio.

He couldn't relax. Of course it was only the play of firelight and shadow, but the room seemed to tremble on the edge of total darkness. As he drank more whiskey in search of calm, he felt that the music was straining to reach him, drifting away. In the quieter passages he was distracted by the irregular dripping of a tap, he couldn't tell which. When he felt he might be able to sleep, he trudged upstairs. Tomorrow he would go walking in the country, or take the tuner back to the shop, or both.

But on Saturday it was raining. Perhaps that was just as well; he'd dreamed he was walking in the country, only to realize that the walk was a daydream that had lured him somewhere different and far worse. He lay in bed watching the sunlight, which was rediscovering the pattern of the ancient wallpaper. Then he flung himself out of bed, for the rain he could hear was not outside the house.

Though the stereo wasn't plugged in, the sounds filled the speakers: a gust of wind splattered rain across sagging wallpaper, waterlogged plaster collapsed, a prolonged juicy noise. He dismantled the stereo, which fell silent as soon as he unplugged the speakers, then he stormed out to find a taxi.

At last he found one, speeding down the terraced slopes as if it wasn't worth stopping. It took him back to his house, where the driver stared into space while Wells manhandled the stereo into the taxi. By the time Wells reached the shop he was ready to lose his temper, especially when the engineer returned a few minutes later and told him that nothing was wrong.

Wells controlled himself and insisted on being taken into the repair shop. "This is what's wrong," he said, tuning the stereo to the unidentifiable station. The engineer gazed at him, smugly patient, and Wells could only look away, for Radio Prague came through loud and clear, with no background noise at all.

Wells roamed the shop rather desperately, tuning stereos in an attempt to find the rain. The engineer took pity on him, or determined to get rid of him. "It may be a freak reception. You may only be able to pick it up in the area where you live."

At once Wells felt much better. He'd heard of odder things, of broadcasts that possessed people's hearing aids, telephones, even refrigerators. To the engineer's disgust, he left the stereo to be overhauled; then he went strolling in the hills, where spring was just beginning. The moist grass was flecked with rainbows, the sun seemed almost as bright as Greece.

That night he was surprised how alone he felt without the stereo. It must be its absence which made the house seem still emptier. At least he could relax with a book, if only he could locate the dripping tap. Perhaps it was in the bathroom, where the light bulb—years old, no doubt—had failed. The bathroom walls glistened in the dark.

Soon he went to bed, for he was shivering. No doubt the cold and the damp would get worse until he attended to them. In bed his introverted warmth lulled him. A slide show of Greek landscapes played in his head. Starts of sleep interrupted the slides.

When uninterrupted sleep came it was darker, so that he couldn't see his way on the street along which he was creeping. At least the rain had stopped, and there was silence except for the muffled drumming of his heart. When his feet slipped on rubble, the shrill clatter sounded vindictively loud. His panic had made him forget what he mustn't do. There was a car a few yards ahead of him, a vague hump in the darkness; if he crouched behind that he might be safe. But he lost his balance as he reached it, and tried to support himself against its blubbery side. No, it wasn't a car, for something like a head rose out of it at once, panting thickly. The shapes that came scrabbling out of the houses beyond the rubbly gardens on both sides must have been its hands.

He woke and tried to stop shivering. No point in opening his eyes; that would only hold him back from sleep. But why was it so cold in the room? Why were the bedclothes clinging to him like wallpaper? Perhaps his sense that something was wrong was another reason to shiver.

When at last he forced his eyes open he saw the night sky, hardly relieved by a handful of stars, above him where the roof should be.

He couldn't think, because that would paralyze him. He thrust his feet into his shoes, which were already soaking. He dragged his sodden jacket and trousers on over his pajamas, then he fled. Now he could hear the rain, the lingering drops that splashed on linoleum, carpet, bare boards. On the stairs he almost fell headlong, for they were covered with fallen plaster. His sounds echoed in all the derelict rooms.

At last he reached the front door, which appeared still to be his, unlike the house. The street was dark; perhaps vandals had put out the lamp. He reeled out into the darkness, for he couldn't bear to stay in the house. He had still forgotten what he mustn't do; he slammed the front door behind him.

He heard rubble falling. When he grabbed at the door, it was already blocked from within. It lurched when he threw himself against it, but that was all; even though it was off its hinges, it was immovable. He mustn't waste time in struggling with it, but what else could he do? At one end of the unknown street, amid a chorus of unhurried breathing, something was feeling for him along the broken facades.

According to the rules of writing, one has to struggle for any number of years, "paying dues," collecting rejections, gaining experience. Only a handful of writers manage to break through immediately, and fewer than that do so before they're twenty. I won't mention Deirdre Kugelmeyer's age, but it's young enough for me to wonder what I was doing wrong all those years. This is her first sale; unquestionably, it won't be her last.

THRESHOLD by Deirdre L. Kugelmeyer

Mist rose from the river and crept over the retaining walls. It went up and down the streets and avenues along the river and cut down other roads until, silently, it had covered the entire city.

It was a huge maze with only the tracing of the river to follow as a clear-cut path. What little afternoon light there was began to grow dimmer and fade out the city. Night and mist mixed together and became one. Up one avenue by the river this mixture crawled until it became darkness.

Rain bathed the darkness. Very gently it soothed everything the city was made of and animated a very unusual door on the avenue. The darkness went on, leaving the rain to its work.

Quietly, the rain awoke each object of the carved stone and ironshod wood. No longer were they cold and hard, but smooth and warm. On three human figures hair grew, skin felt the rush of blood, muscle adhered to bone. Vines that crawled around and up the stone sprouted green, shiny leaves. Scales emerged on the sleek body of the salamander doorhandle. Each fine detail attained life, including the oval, slanted glass eyes that were directly above the lintel.

The major feature of the wooden door and its stone frame was the head of a young woman. Her slender neck supported the same kind of face. Wrapped around her neck was the head and snapping jaws of a wolf.

The companions of the lady were two statuettes perched on either side of her in the stone corners. They were nymphlike—one male and the other female, both clothed in the leaves that grew around them; they were servants of the bodiless woman-wolf.

A man walked down the street. From her place above the doorway the woman saw him. The rain had taken the blindness from her glass eyes, and she saw for the first time. She watched him grope his way through the darkness and rain, and her newly acquired hearing listened to his undecipherable mumbling. He wore no jacket to protect him from the wetness, and he saw nothing but his shoes.

Being unfamiliar with his surroundings, he glanced up to look around. The door immediately caught his eye. He stopped in front of it and stood looking at all its living qualities. It gave him the feeling of being all alone and very tired and tense. She watched him from above, rain tears streaming down her face. The two figures on either side of her called down in mimicking voices, saying she could never have anything human.

He stood looking at the wooden door and its frame. The two oval panes of glass above the door stared at him from their coffin. Looking back into those eyes, he saw haunting images of his life, and scenes of what made him wander this night. He turned away and whispered to himself, "Who would live in a place with a door like that?"

Both cherubs were looking down at him and laughing. She wanted him, the first human being she had ever seen. But then she was only stone, a head without a body.

No, she thought, she had a body, although it was not made from the same substance as his. Her body was the building, and she had muscle and bone and tissue, also. And that was the difference between them—stone and flesh.

Everything about the door fascinated him. Its figures, its leaves, its hinges, the whole and each individual part. If he looked at it long enough, it became another creature—living, taking its existence from the innards of the structure. She smiled at him when he looked up at her, but the rain distorted his vision. Water dripped from his hair onto his nose, then down his chin. He laughed because it tickled the inside of his ear.

She had no voice to call to him or laugh with him. It began to rain harder, and a tearful wind forced the door open. It swung inward, revealing a narrow hallway and a stone-paved courtyard beyond. Before going inside, it occurred to him briefly that it looked very much like a mouth that would swallow him when he entered. He scampered inside and closed the door, and she could feel him stepping across the stone, wet shoes leaving puddles as he moved along. The courtyard was just as wet as outside, so he stayed in the hallway, walking back and forth to get dry.

Each footstep made her shiver. The weather had never bothered her before, for her stone mask had kept her from it. This time was different. She was afraid—of the rain, the wind, and the strange man who was inside her. The two statuettes were quiet, for they too felt it. She did not like him standing there inside the hallway.

There was an indignant show of lightning, which lit up her eyes. Below her, the startled man jumped to the window. Glass and rain spattered over him before he was thrown back by a lunge at his throat. Stone-sharp teeth bit deep.

When the rain stopped, the man was gone. Only the broken glass from the door remained. There was a little red fringe around the wolf's mouth, and the eyes seemed solemnly human.

Alan Ryan returns to Shadows in one of his infrequent trips into the macabre. A nasty bit, this one is, far removed from the more gentle pieces he produces in the field of science fiction. His first novel, Panther!, is now out and doing well, and he is currently working on a mainstream thriller, a sf anthology, and basking in his nomination for the John W. Campbell Memorial Award.

A VISIT TO BRIGHTON by Alan Ryan

I'm quite an ordinary man, really, and dislike very much anything that disrupts the normal schedule or the carefully ordered plan of my life. I therefore found it very disturbing, initially, when my superior at the bank asked me to go down to Brighton for the weekend. Imagine conducting banking business on a weekend. And doing it outside the City, where it properly belongs. And in a frivolous place like Brighton, with its piers and its bathers and what people call amusements—works of the devil of idleness, I call them.

Although I was deeply disturbed at this extraordinary disruption in my life, I quickly acquiesced in my superior's wishes. My work from the bank in the department that deals with large funds and trusts is extremely important and often quite delicate, and some of my colleagues have, on occasion, been sent by the bank to tidy up the financial affairs of some careless client in the home counties, matters that sometimes I was aware required their presence overnight. The bank, of course, had never sent me on any of these jaunts. My superior, Mr. Fotheringill, knows very well my intense dislike for disruption and irregularity in any form, and in particular my dislike for travel. I seldom see any need to be away from the two poles of my existence—my office at the headquarters of the bank in the City, and my modest but comfortable flat in Notting Hill. That ride in the Underground twice daily is quite enough travel for me. Therefore, when Mr. Fotheringill personally requested, through his secretary, that I go down to Brighton to settle some matters of bank business with a valued client, I supposed at once—and rightly, I think—that the matter required my own sort of experience and expertise. Mr. Fotheringill is well aware of my fondness for order and propriety in all things, and no doubt it was those very penchants of mine that caused him to make this extraordinary request. I replied, through his secretary, that I was prepared to place myself fully at the service of the bank.

By the time I completed my work on Friday, I had quite succeeded in steeling myself for the unpleasantness to come. One has a responsibility to one's business, after all, and I knew that Mr. Fotheringill would appreciate my dedication. And besides, I had also worked out a scheme by which I could save the bank the expense of putting me up for a night and also spare myself the discomforts of staying at a hotel or bed-and-breakfast house. My brother Anthony lives in a small house on the outskirts of Brighton, with his wife and a daughter. He is engaged in some independent business of his own—repairing people's defective television sets, I believe it is. Imagine. At any rate, although I hadn't seen my brother since the occasion of our parents' death in a car smash three years ago, and although I must say I didn't care for his pale little wife, and although I absolutely cannot abide the presence of children around me, nevertheless it seemed more agreeable to stay there with them than to suffer the irritation of a bed-and-breakfast establishment. At the very least, I knew my morning bacon would not be burnt and I would not be spied upon by one of those greedy and often lascivious widows who maintain such places.

On Thursday, I searched out Anthony's number and rang him up. He was rather surprised, of course, but readily agreed that I should be a guest in his home. We never got on all that well as children, but I am, after all, his brother. Arrangements were made. I would have to go down from Victoria Station on Friday evening, despite the terrible crowds, as my business required a meeting with the client very early on Saturday morning.

I was, of course, looking forward to none of it other than the business part, but they do say the sea air is good for one, and also Brighton is reputed to have some quite attractive and neatly kept flower displays. I rather enjoy looking at flowers. So, I thought, perhaps the trip would be just bearable after all.

What extraordinary numbers of children run about loose in Victoria Station on a Friday evening. But then they are, really, no worse than their ill-mannered parents, who seem to take positive delight in shoving and jostling violently anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. The fifty-five minute ride from London to Brighton promised to be perfect torture.

I was among the first to board the train, though, and managed to obtain a place next the window. For a minute, I considered myself fortunate. I was hardly settled, however, before a rather unkempt-looking family, complete with several children and armloads of packages, attacked the seats around me. I pressed my lips tightly together and drew myself in, hoping to indicate clearly my wish to be left alone. There was for some minutes a frightful yelling and bustling about while they settled in three children and numerous bags and packages in the racks and on the floor at their feet. I closed my eyes and did not open them again until the train began moving.

It was halfway to Brighton when a thought struck me. Anthony and his wife would no doubt be expecting me to bring them some little present in exchange for their hospitality. Oh dear, I thought. I shall have to find some little thing when I arrive in Brighton. Perhaps something for the daughter. I understand that it is quite desirable, when there is a child involved, to select a present for it. I am not a generous man, as generosity is both impractical and seldom appreciated these days, but I do like to do things properly. Yes, I thought, I shall stop and purchase some inexpensive item for the child when I arrive in Brighton.

I was, actually, the more I thought about it, rather pleased with the plan. Almost exactly a year ago, the manager of my block of flats went out of his way to let me know that his small daughter was anticipating a birthday, her sixth or seventh or something of the sort. The man had absolutely no shame and made it perfectly clear that a present would not be unwelcome. Naturally, I dislike being bullied, but the matter did have a practical aspect to it, which I readily perceived. In due course, the child was presented with a large picture book of horses. (It was, in fact, the work of one of the bank's clients who had made copies available to those of us on the staff who had served him well.) Thereafter, I noted a definitely new alacrity on the part of the manager in tending to matters of small repairs in my flat. Yes, the practical aspect must always be considered.

Fortunately, my mind was occupied with these thoughts for most of the time it took to travel to Brighton and I was spared having to think about the noisy family that had almost surrounded me with children and parcels. And I was pleased to note that the train came to a halt in the station at Brighton precisely at the appointed time.

Now there was another great hubbub and bustling about as my fellow passengers—who, I must say, seemed positively to be enjoying the commotion—all rushed to collect children and bundles and be among the first to detrain. I sank back into my seat and ignored the pushing and shoving crowds in the narrow corridor, determined to wait and be the last to exit. In particular, I ignored the noisy and confused departure of the family who had quite surrounded me on the journey.

When the noise had somewhat abated, having transferred itself to the milling crowds on the platform, I glanced about me. Only a few sensible persons like myself still remained. And like me, they were only now beginning to make their own, more dignified, departures. It was then that I saw the doll.

It lay on the floor near my right foot. Its hair, made of red wool yarn, lay spread out about its head. The eyes, embroidered in bright blue and outlined with black eyelashes, were wide open and stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. Soft pink stuffed arms stood straight out from its sides, as if it were about to be crucified. The legs were striped red and white, one stretched out, the other twisted up under the body, out of sight. It wore some sort of red dress affair with a white apron over it. Hardly thinking, I leaned forward to pick it up.

Just as my fingers touched it, however, I bethought myself and hesitated, then straightened slowly in my seat. My first thought had been to return the unsightly toy to its owners, obviously the family who had sat next to me all the way from London. But my second thought was a fear that they would return and accuse me of stealing the thing, and a staff member of a bank can't be too careful about the appearance of honesty. I glanced quickly out the window. Seeing the disorderly crowds on the platform, however, convinced me that Brighton and its unruly mobs had already swallowed up the family and its noisy children. They were gone for good and very likely would not even miss the doll for some while yet.

I looked back at the thing, which still lay on the floor where it had fallen. It was the kind of doll that is called, so I believe, Raggedy Ann. Certainly, I thought, its design and colors and costume suited that appellation. It appeared to be rather new, hardly soiled at all by its brief contact with the floor, and it was this realization that caused a new thought to enter my mind quite suddenly.

I shall give this doll to my brother's daughter, I decided. It is clearly impossible now to return it to its owner, and it makes no sense at all to leave it in the train only to be stolen by some anonymous thief. So my thoughts ran.

I was about to reach for the thing again when suddenly there was a new commotion in the corridor near the steps to the platform. Apparently some foolish person had fallen in his haste to leave the train and everything was being held up while he was attended to and removed from the way. There was nothing for it but patience. I picked up the doll to examine it more closely.

And the most extraordinary thing happened, or so I thought at the time, a thing quite shocking and unsettling. I was looking the doll over carefully to make certain there were no soils or stains that would make it unsuitable for a present. Beneath the apron and the piece of red cloth intended, I suppose, to suggest a dress, I found stitched onto the body a red heart with, spelled out right on it in white lettering, the words "I love you." I was quite taken aback for a moment, I must confess. How unusual and, somehow, disturbing. I can make no sense of it now, but for an instant—only an instant, of course—I had the horrified sensation that the doll was addressing those outrageous and appalling words to me. It was simply extraordinary, and the truth is that I reacted in a most extraordinary manner, staring fixedly into the doll's solemn face. And for a moment—it makes me shiver to recall it—I could have given my oath that the thing opened its eyes and stared deeply into mine, indeed into my very soul, while a tiny smile played briefly across its silly face. I really can't say what came over me, but I did feel in that one instant that there was some compelling force at work, some secret communication between the hideous thing and myself.

Good Lord, no wonder there are terrible crimes committed in the world when even so sane and sensible a man as I can be subject to such moments of madness, however spontaneous and brief they may be.

An instant later I returned to my senses, thrust the doll into my briefcase, which contained a change of shirt and underclothing for the next day as well as my papers, and stepped into the corridor, which was now clear at last. In the station, the crowds were rapidly dispersing and it was only minutes later that, resigned to my fate, I was out in Brighton itself.

It took only one enquiry and a few minutes to find a shop that could do up the doll with wrappings as a present. They did it quite inexpensively, too. And I was glad that I had not permitted Anthony to meet me at the train, as he had wanted. I dislike being a bother. With the doll suitably done up, then, I arrived at the house some little while later.

Suffice it to say that they provided an adequate dinner, declared themselves pleased to see me, made every effort to maintain a conversation, enquired about my health and my work and so on, and the child—her name, I believe, was Emily and she was nine years old or thereabouts—was made to thank me properly for the doll. This was, I sensed at once, an evil-minded child, the sort that needs constant prompting in the matter of social graces. I noticed that she played rather perfunctorily with the doll for a short while, then left it dumped ignominiously in a corner while she went on to other pastimes that apparently amused her more. I really don't understand what people see in children, especially nasty-minded ones like this Emily. She really was quite an unpleasant young thing. I saw her several times glancing at me across the dinner table with what was clearly a deep resentment at something. It may be that she fancied I wasn't enjoying my dinner—and in truth I was not, preferring rather to be at home alone—but certainly her manners were inexcusable and her attitude toward me rude in the extreme. Lord knows, I wanted to be there as little as that unmannerly child wanted me.

After dinner, Anthony and his wife offered me a cordial. I seldom taste such things, of course, but on this occasion I thought perhaps the indulgence could be excused. I doubted that it would seriously impair the clarity of my thoughts at my meeting in the morning, and perhaps it would help slightly to ease the discomfort of my present situation. This blasted child was making me extremely uncomfortable.

The cordial was to be served at a small table set up on the tiny bit of grass in front of the house. Anthony referred to it as "the yard," a term I assume he picked up from the countless American tourists who come to Brighton in the summer and make it even more unlivable than it is ordinarily during the rest of the year. Sighing with resignation, I followed him and his wife outside. No sooner were we seated around the tiny table with our glasses in front of us (and the hint of a very cool breeze threatening to give us all dreadful colds if we stayed outside very long) than I saw lying on the grass the very doll I had earlier presented to their child. It lay on the grass, abandoned, discarded and totally forgotten by this unpleasant niece of mine and, for all I knew, savagely trampled upon while her elders were still inside the house and out of sight. Even in the now dimming light of evening, I could plainly see a large green grass stain on the otherwise clean white material of the doll's apron. How ungrateful this child is, I thought. How very ill-mannered, thoughtless, and ungrateful.

My brother noticed the look upon my face and his gaze followed the line of my sight. Directly he saw the doll, he glanced across at his wife and, to his credit, gave her a look that clearly said he thought she might have trained the child better. Then he called to his daughter, who was now amusing herself in the house.

She came and stood in the doorway, gazing in sullen silence at her father while he reprimanded her sternly for leaving her toys about in general, and for leaving her lovely new present lying about so carelessly in the yard. Pick it up and take it inside at once, he told her sharply. The child mumbled something under her breath, I am sure, before stomping across the grass and glaring unpleasantly at me. At me, who had done nothing but bring her a present. This awful child somehow held me responsible for her father's having to correct her. She scooped up the doll, grabbed it by one pink foot and, I swear, dragged it cruelly across the grass, bumping its head sharply—and quite deliberately, I am certain, and for my especial irritation—on the front doorstep before disappearing inside.

What a little beast, I thought. What a perfect little beast.

My brother, his boring little wife and I had barely finished our cordials before the evening grew quite dark and the cool breeze absolutely chilly. At that point, I declared myself rather tired from my trip and suffering from a severe headache. And, I explained, I had a very early appointment in the morning that required my full abilities. I needed a good night's sleep, I told them, and wished to retire for the evening. They urged me to stay up with them for a while longer. There were some delightful programmes on the telly, so they said, and at that I insisted all the more strongly that I really must retire. Indeed, I thought I really was beginning to feel the onset of a headache. Finally they yielded, and my brother showed me to their extra bedroom where I was to sleep.

On the way we passed the child, Emily, who was now playing on the floor with a book and some crayons. She looked up and glanced first at me and then at her father.

Is he going to bed? she asked, referring to me.

Yes, her father replied, and you're going next.

He's older than I am, Emily said, and he has to go to bed first. And she laughed. Laughed right at me.

Emily, say good-night, her father told her.

She said good-night, still laughing.

It was all I could do to squeeze out a good-night myself.

Beast, I thought again. The little beast.

I slept only fitfully. I am not accustomed to being in a strange bed, in a strange house, surrounded by strange people. It made me uneasy and uncomfortable and I tossed and turned for what seemed most of the night. I was, in fact, all the more uncomfortable as I anticipated being tired for my meeting in the morning, and this too served to keep me awake even longer. And that awful child of my brother's had played a large part in upsetting me further. What an ill-mannered, ungrateful little thing. A perfect beast.

Consequently, when I roused myself from fitful, uneasy sleep in the morning, I was totally unprepared for the chaos I found.

What a mistake it was to come here in the first place, I thought. Outside my room there was a great coming and going of heavy feet and, as I listened silently at the inside of my door, I thought I even heard the sound of sobbing and crying. What could be going on? I wondered. Good heavens, what new method have they thought of to plague me in my brief stay in this house? I waited a little longer for the confusion to die down, but of course it did not. When I consulted my watch, I found that now I should have time for only a hurried cup of tea if I were to be in time for my appointment. And I certainly had no intention of keeping a valued client of the bank waiting. There was nothing for it but to go out and, I thought bitterly, be satisfied with gulping down a cup of undoubtedly tepid tea before having to dash. I shall be fortunate, I thought, if I don't incur the additional expense and inconvenience of having to hire a taxi.

The sobbing came from the kitchen where, of necessity, I had to go. My brother stood near the table with his hands on the shoulders of his wife. It appeared that he was trying to calm her. The awful child, I noted with relief, was nowhere to be seen. Whatever it was that had caused so much disturbance this early in the morning, it fully occupied the minds of my hosts. The fact is, they barely greeted me.

Some moments later, my brother rallied a little from his seeming distraction, at least enough to address me and offer me the cup of tea I was longing for. As he did so, he glanced quickly at his still sobbing wife and, without mincing words, I must say, told me plainly what had happened. The wife shot me a look of what can only be described as hatred, but I made a point of ignoring it. Good Lord. It seems that the awful child, Emily, took to bed with her last night the doll that I had brought. And it seems further that, during the night, she managed somehow to smother herself with the thing. At any rate, she was found in bed this morning with the doll pressed tight up against her face. She was quite dead already, and the efforts of the constables and the doctor who were hastily summoned were inadequate to revive her. Quite, quite dead.

Now I will admit that for just the briefest of moments I recalled the earlier incident in the train when I could have sworn that the doll had a life and mind of its own and had actually smiled at me. Indeed, I even felt the tiniest hint of perspiration on my forehead and an alarming, if momentary, shortness of breath. Could there be a connection? I wondered fleetingly. But the thought passed almost as quickly as it had come. It was nonsense, of course, perfect nonsense.

All in all, it was a thoroughly unpleasant way to be greeted upon awakening. And me in Brighton on a weekend. And of course, when I finally tasted it, the tea was cold.

I could hardly make my way out of there fast enough. My briefcase was packed already with my clothes and papers, so there was nothing else to do but take my leave as quickly as possible. My brother walked out to the door with me—I'm certain he was hurrying me along—and I thanked him as best I could for putting me up. At the door, however, he held me back a moment.

Here, he said, his eyes avoiding my gaze. We appreciate this, really we do, he said, but please do take it away with you. My wife wouldn't be able to stand the sight of it, you know. Nor I, he added, although I had all I could do to make out what he was saying. With his other hand, he pressed into mine the doll I had brought for the now dead child.

A moment later I was hurrying down the street, and arrived at the corner, it almost goes without saying, just in time to see my bus roar away without me. Will it never end? I asked myself.

I quickly stuffed the doll into my briefcase and waited impatiently on the sidewalk for an empty taxicab to come along. Happily, it was only a few minutes until one did. Only then, settled in the taxi and knowing that at least I would be in time for my meeting, was I able to relax at all.

The meeting, to my further relief, went smoothly and I was able to uphold my bank's deserved reputation for efficient and discreet service to its clients. I came away feeling more at ease than I had at any time since leaving London the evening before.

Now, in the train heading back up to London, I have been thinking again about the doll. What shall I do with it? Really, it seems such a shame to throw it away, especially after all the trouble of carting it about like this. What is the practical solution? What practical use might the thing be?

And of course the answer came to me just now. The manager of my block of flats has been hinting recently that his daughter's birthday is coming round again. She is to be eight or nine or some such age. A wretched child, actually, frequently making quite a great deal of noise in the hallway near the door of my flat. But of course she must have a present, mustn't she, or the manager will be slow to take care of my repairs in future; that has been made quite clear to me already. Well, that's it, then. I shall save the doll and give it to this wretched child for a birthday present.

Yes, that is what I shall do. That is precisely what I shall do.

Another first sale, one of the delights of editing.

Cherie Wilkerson lives and works in California, has begun her first novel (a horror story), and has the Shadows criteria down pat: the best form of terror is that which lingers, long after you've tried to get rid of it.

ECHOES FROM A DARKENED SHORE by Cherie Wilkerson

Death has a way of pointing out to us temporary survivors how fragile this life really is, so we cling to whatever represents security and seek a simpler time. When my husband Jim died, I was no exception. I returned to Cuymar with my six-year-old daughter, Jenny, for the first time since I'd married. Despite the town's dilapidated buildings, the blistered paint of the playground equipment, and its general air of having been forgotten by the rest of the world, I found I still loved the place.

Every summer of my childhood, my parents and I had vacationed in Cuymar. As soon as we arrived, I would rush out to look for what had changed. One year all the playground equipment had been painted a shiny dark green. Another year a wall of cinder blocks with seats to seaward appeared. And once, a winter storm had tossed up onto the beach a huge tree trunk as white as the sand, bleached by the sun and the sea. I used that trunk as a playground. I leaped over it and off it. I balanced on it as if I were on a tightrope. Often I just sat on it watching the waves roll in.

That summer I met the Captain. His white hair showed beneath his blue captain's hat and he carried a cane of gnarled driftwood. One day he sat down beside me on the log and we talked about the ocean and many other things now forgotten. All that summer we'd meet on the log and stroll along the water's edge, stopping now and then to examine some shell or bit of wood unearthed by his cane.

Although the shells of scallops and jackknife clams have a special meaning for me for having been revealed by the old man's cane, nothing we did or said was especially memorable. Yet everything was special. Neither of us fitted into the world around us; I was too young and he too old. For the first time in my life I felt needed.

After that summer we never again had long conversations or morning walks along the beach. I was too busy with my new friends; but each year I'd see him sitting on the steps near the pier and would stop to say hello. After many years had passed, I walked by the Captain sitting in his usual place and again said hello. He only glanced at me and nodded his head once. As I walked away I saw him talking animatedly with a group of small children. I realized then that his eyes had become blinded with age—my age, not his. I was too old. I had grown up.

My return as an adult differed from when I was a child. This time I revisited the places of my memories, seeking not what had changed but rather all that had remained the same, as if to assure myself that there was some constancy in the world. I soon had the proof I sought. Before a week had passed, Jenny found the Captain. She came home so excited it took some minutes before I could figure out what had happened. Her joyous enthusiasm brought back bittersweet memories.

One day near the end of summer, after telling Jenny about my lost friendship with the Captain, I reached down to brush a wisp of tawny hair from her face and discovered a frown.

"What's wrong, Jenny?"

Her frown deepened. "I don't want to lose the Captain. He's my only friend."

"Honey," I said, "you'll find other friends besides the Captain."

She looked at me earnestly. "How old were you when the Captain couldn't see you? Am I getting too old?"

I laughed. "Don't worry. You've got a few years left. Besides, if you and the Captain are true friends, you'll be friends forever. Age won't make a bit of difference."

She looked at me with less than acceptance but seemed to think it over before asking, "Can we have spaghetti for dinner?"

"Certainly," I answered solemnly, "unless you think you've gotten too old for spaghetti." She lowered her head and gave me her mock-indignant stare that told me she knew I was teasing.

School started, finally, and Jenny delighted in the change from summer activities. Getting ready for school, she looked like a ragamuffin in her favorite outfit of jeans and T-shirt. She absolutely refused to wear the new dress I had picked out for her first day.

"You know, you're just like your father," I said.

She looked at me solemnly. "I am?"

"I could never get him to dress up either. In fact, his friends stole all his clothing before our wedding so he'd have to wear his tuxedo."

"Am I just like him?"

"Well, you look just like me, but you're just like him on the inside." I smiled at her, but Jenny remained pensive. I shook my head in amusement. I'd never been able to figure out what Jim was thinking, either.

All that morning I had Jim on my mind, so I headed for the tide pools I'd always visited as a child. It seemed the only way to clear my thoughts of the memories of Jim was to replace them with much earlier memories.

The sun had not yet burned off the morning mist and the beach was deserted. No children built castles in the sand; no elderly couples sat on the benches. I liked this time of day for its solitude. The empty carapace of a rock crab gleamed on the shore, inviting me to pick it up. Inside, where the body had been, was smooth and silky. The exterior felt rough and hard to the touch. Like me, I thought and grinned, knowing it wasn't true. I returned it to the sand.

By the time I reached the tide pools, the sun was coming out and the mist was retreating. To my dismay, they were buried under high tide. Sighing, I settled back onto the sand and dug my heels through the warm top layer to the chill of the damp sand below. I drew figures in the sand and pretended that it didn't matter, that I didn't care anymore that I was alone.

One day, soon after I had started working in a hospital again, Jenny came home in tears.

"What happened?" I asked, my imagination fearing the worst. But I could see nothing worse than wet, sandy blue jeans from the knees down and playground dirt from the knees up, something she brought home every day.

"He called me names!" she blurted out and her tears began again.

"Who called you names?"

"Bobby," she sniffled. "Bobby did. He called me a baby." That didn't sound like Jenny; she wasn't afraid of anything.

"Why did he call you a baby?"

Jenny hung her head and dug a toe into the dirt by the front step. " 'Cause I'm little," she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. I knew Jenny was shorter than her classmates, but it had never seemed to bother her before. Then her expression turned fierce. "They don't understand. They laugh at him!" Her anger melted into a pool of bewildered tears and she hurled herself against me, arms wrapped tightly around my legs. "They laugh, Mommy!"

Dropping to the step, I cradled her in my arms and waited. When her crying had ceased, I asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"The big kids laugh and say I'm a baby. They say he's crazy. The Captain's not crazy, is he, Mom? Is he?"

"No," I said, "he's different. Being different isn't the same as being crazy."

She buried her head in my lap and whispered, "I'm different, too."

"You'll grow, Jenny. Don't worry." I gave her a reassuring hug.

"I don't want to grow up and be like them." She pouted.

"You don't have to be like them, but everybody has to grow up."

"I won't," she cried petulantly and began struggling out of my arms. "I'll never grow up!"

"Oh, Jennifer, knock it off." I was in no mood to put up with a temper tantrum. Earlier today, a boy Jenny's age had been admitted to the hospital with leukemia. The other nurses had stood around whispering about it and laying odds as to when he would die.

Jenny glared at me. "You can't make me grow up and I won't!"

"Oh honestly, Jennifer! You are acting like a baby and I'm tired of all this foolishness!"

"I hate you! Nobody understands me but the Captain!" She ran down the driveway, then whirled to face me, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. "I hate you," she screamed. "I hate you and wish you were dead!" She turned and ran toward the beach.

"Jennifer, come back here this minute!" I shouted, but she ignored me. I sat down on the steps and began to cry for the first time since Jim died of leukemia, just as the boy was going to do.

When it started getting dark early and Jenny had not come home for dinner, I began searching the beach for her. I knew I wouldn't have to look far. I found her sitting silently on the steps near the pier with the Captain. Without a word to either of them, I took Jenny by the hand and marched her home. We made it just before the rain started. That night, as the storm battered the house, I could not sleep.

The next morning, Jenny said she wasn't feeling well. Her temperature was normal but she acted unusually sluggish. Just to be safe, I sent her back to bed. I was angry with her for having stayed out so late and gotten chilled. She was doing that too often lately.

"Why do you insist on sending her to school in her condition?" her teacher asked after I called to explain Jenny's absence.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm referring to your daughter's leukemia."

"My daughter's what? She doesn't have leukemia. What on earth gave you an idea like that?"

It was her turn to be indignant. "Your daughter has been telling everybody since the day she arrived in school that she has leukemia and is going to die soon. At first I brushed it off as a childish fantasy since it's not in her health records, but after her repeated illnesses . . ."

I was stunned. I hadn't had any idea that Jenny thought she had her father's disease. I had felt that I needed to talk to her about Jim's death to help her understand, but she had been so stoic through it all that I hadn't known where to begin.

Then I heard her teacher say, "And if I were you, I wouldn't let her spend so much time with that man."

"What man?" I'd lost track of the conversation.

"I wouldn't let my daughter near him. You're not from around here and you don't know him. Take my advice and keep your little girl away from him." I slammed down the receiver when I realized she meant the Captain. I had more important things to worry about than idle gossip.

Hesitantly, I looked in to see whether Jenny was awake and received a wan smile. I shivered and walked to the partly open window. It wasn't open wide enough to let in the rain, but the room was chillier than I liked. I tugged at the sash, but dampness has swollen the wood so that if I jerked hard enough I could open it wider but could not close it all the way. Giving up, I sat down on Jenny's bed and tucked the covers tightly around her.

"Are you cold?" Jenny shook her head, so I plunged right into my planned conversation. "Your teacher tells me you think you have what Daddy died of."

She squirmed a little under the blankets and avoided looking at me. "I do have it," she whispered, then looked up at me. "I don't want to die."

"Oh, Jenny, you don't have leukemia. You're perfectly normal."

She fingered the edge of the blanket and said, "You told me I was like Daddy on the inside."

"I only meant that you have a personality like Daddy's. You don't have any disease like Daddy had. Neither of us does." I hugged her in relief.

Her voice seemed more hopeful but she asked, "Then why am I sick all the time?"

"Well, why do you run around at night without a jacket?" She made a wry face. "Why do you go swimming when there're icicles on the swings?"

She looked indignant. "There's never been any icicles on the swings!"

I laughed. "Well, almost." She grinned shyly and snuggled up to me.

"I'm really O.K.?"

"You're really O.K."

After promising her that I would bring her something, I went outside to see what the storm had brought to the shore. Piles of kelp tossed up onto the beach lay damply in the morning mist. The sun, like a bright cold pearl, hung in the gray sky and offered no warmth as I walked along the water's edge. The gray-green darkness of the sea was beautiful.

Stepping over the snarled heaps of kelp, I looked for something to take back. As I uncovered fragments of a shell in the sand, a driftwood cane pointed to a spot several inches over and I heard the Captain say in an offhand manner, "You'll find one there, I think." He continued down the beach as I dug in the sand and found an amber cowrie shell.

I caught up with the Captain and studied him covertly as he ignored me. The man seemed ageless, just as he had seemed when I was a child. I wondered how old he really was. Polishing the cowrie on my jeans, I said, "Jenny likes you very much."

"She's a sweet little thing but sad, too."

"Sad?"

"Her illness—she's sick all the time."

I looked at him for a moment before speaking. "I do everything I can, but she won't take care of herself," I said slowly.

The Captain flashed a look of anger at me which startled me by its unexpectedness. "The people here, they don't understand. I mean nothing but good for your little girl; nothing but good and they call me evil. Shortsighted is what they are." His cane indicated another shell for my collection: a jackknife clam with both halves intact.

"I guess people are more suspicious nowadays," I said, trying to read the expression on his weathered face. He walked at a fast pace, staring straight ahead. The feeling that he was no longer aware of my existence made me uneasy.

"If ever a child is sickly they blame me," he muttered. "They come to me ill and I help them be happy."

I stopped and stared. "The townspeople think you make children ill?" I could not believe what the old man was saying. There was no reply; the Captain walked on. I watched as he shuffled rapidly down the beach, not as if he were crippled, but rather as if he had been a long time at sea and had not yet become reacquainted with land. Nervously, I tumbled the shells in my pockets until they were warm from my touch. On the way home I dropped them onto the beach.

As winter progressed, Jenny's illnesses became more frequent and prolonged. One evening she came home and collapsed in a listless heap on the couch. The doctor could find nothing definitely wrong and recommended vitamins and rest.

Not long after I had put her to bed, I heard a soft scratching at the door. Puzzled, I opened the door and saw the Captain. He seemed almost apologetic as he stood with his cap tucked under his arm. He ran his gnarled fingers over the equally gnarled handle of his cane and said, "I just wanted to look in on Jenny and see how she's doing." His voice was like the whisper of waves against the sand. I hesitated, then led him to her room. Gently he reached out his hand to stroke her forehead as she slept. There was such compassion and sorrow in his face and in that gesture that any reservations I'd had earlier disappeared.

In the days that followed, there was no improvement in Jenny's condition no matter what doctor's advice I took. Every night there was the familiar scratching at the door; every night I let the Captain in to sit for a time at her bedside. In the silence as Jenny slept and the Captain rested his hand against her cheek, the ticking of the clock seemed abnormally loud, drowning even the roar of the ocean. The Captain and Jenny seemed frozen in time, a tableau painted by an expert artist.

Watching them one evening, I caught myself biting the inside of my cheek but refused to listen to my irrational thoughts. "How long has it been since you've been to sea?"

"A long time," he said without glancing up. I stared at him and felt my scalp trying to lift from my skull.

"Did you ever have children?"

The Captain nodded slowly. "My grandson was about her age when he died."

"I don't want you to touch her," I said, trying unsuccessfully to control the quiver in my voice.

"I've said the wrong thing," the Captain said. "I'm sorry. Don't let the gossip frighten you."

"Please leave," I said. He looked at me for a moment, then slowly got to his feet and left. I was trembling as I slid the bolt home. When I looked at Jenny more closely, I knew it wasn't my imagination; she seemed even more pale and listless than before. After I turned out the light, I remembered the window that was stuck. I stretched out beside Jenny. Before I fell asleep, I placed my arm over her in the only protection I could offer.

I awoke to hear the clock ticking and Jenny breathing unevenly. Carefully, I listened to the sounds she made and tried to see her face in the darkness. I must have been asleep longer than I'd thought, for the moonlight no longer illuminated the room. Just then light flowed across the bed; I jerked upright, but I was not quick enough to make out the form that had blocked the window and then slid past. Too frightened to get up and look outside, I stared out the window from the bed, but could see nothing. I vowed to leave Cuymar when morning came.

The next day, my fears did not seem so reasonable as they had at midnight. As the days went by and Jenny got better, happiness pushed the fears into the back of my mind and I forgot about leaving Cuymar. The Captain never came back to the house.

As Jenny left for her first day back in school in months, I was struck by how tiny she looked. The doctors had remarked on her lack of height, but assured me she would catch up with her classmates before long. That evening as I tucked her in bed, I again noticed how slight she was; she hadn't grown an inch since the day we'd arrived in Cuymar.

A familiar scratching at the door startled me. Annoyed more than anything else, I turned out the light to discourage any visitors. I heard someone on the steps outside, then Jenny getting out of bed. Although I knew the door was secure, I checked the bolt anyway. Jenny came padding in, half asleep.

"Is it the Captain?" she murmured happily.

"You'd better get back to bed, young lady. It's past your bedtime." I started to scoot her off in that direction when I again remembered the window. Determined to get it closed, I grabbed a screwdriver from the kitchen. "Stay here, Jenny, and don't open the door for anyone. Not anyone, you understand?" She nodded, yawning, and curled up on the couch.

I struggled with the window, chipping away the paint and cursing. Finally it came down with a bang and I pushed the latches closed. As I turned around, I heard a sound in the other room.

"Jenny?" I called as I ran into the room. All I could see when I entered was the bolt thrown back and Jenny standing at the door with one hand on the doorknob. As she turned the knob, there was that faint scratching sound. I pushed her away from the door. The door swung open.

A scrawny puppy sat on the doorstep. "Poor little thing," I said, laughing in relief. "Look Jenny, it's only a puppy." I turned and found the Captain standing with both hands on Jenny's shoulders.

"She let me in."

I grabbed Jenny away from him and held her tightly against me. She struggled weakly and began to cry, a soft, mewling sound. "You're not welcome here," I said. I still held the screwdriver in my hand. "Get out."

"I just want her last days to be happy ones."

"What?" I stared at him dumbfounded until I remembered that Jenny had told everyone she had leukemia. "She's not dying; there's nothing wrong with her. Nothing!" The Captain shook his head sadly. I tried to edge away from him and backed up against the door.

"You're not facing facts. Everyone knows she has a blood disease."

I felt calm suddenly as my hand grasped the doorknob behind me. "You're wrong," I said quietly. "Everybody's wrong. She doesn't have leukemia. She doesn't have anything organically wrong with her. I've been to enough doctors to know."

The Captain looked bewildered. "You can't be telling the truth," he said, but I could hear the doubt behind his words.

"I keep telling you: she's not dying. And she can't stay a little girl forever."

"You don't understand," he whispered and looked down at Jenny.

"I do understand," I said, for suddenly I did. "It's her obsessive desire to remain little so she won't lose your friendship that's done this. If you want to do something for her, then get out!"

"You don't understand," he repeated.

"You selfish old man! Leave her alone!"

"I made a mistake but there's no taking it back," he said slowly.

Fear made me furious. "If you don't leave her alone, you'll never live to see another child."

The Captain slowly shook his head. "And so it has continued since God knows when. We fear death but we easily give it to others; that's why we are so lonely."

"You're not lonely; you're evil. The people of this town know what you are and no one would miss you."

"I'm damned," he stated matter-of-factly, "for being afraid of death. It's the universal sin."

"Don't give me that pseudo-Christian pious attitude!" I turned the doorknob and the Captain stepped toward Jenny.

"You can't run from this!"

I thrust the screwdriver at him. "Get away!"

"You're not a murderer," he said, but he did not come any closer. When I did not respond, he took another step, smiling. I threw the screwdriver at him and ran outside, dragging Jenny with me. She was as oblivious of what was happening around her as if she were made of cloth and straw.

"No, you can't take her away! She's mine. It's no use; give her to me!" the Captain called after me.

By the time I realized I was heading for the beach and away from town, the Captain was already between me and the main road. By this route, the town was far away, too far away, and the beach was deserted. I thought I spotted people standing at the end of the pier and yelled for help, but there was no response. I was too far from them. We struggled to run in the sand to the pier. Twice Jenny fell and couldn't get up, and each time the Captain came closer. When I reached the pier, Jenny could go no farther. I half-carried, half-dragged her along.

The fog was beginning to roll in, muffling the clang of the buoys and causing weird echoes of my flight down the wooden timbers. When I reached the end, there was no one there, only the shadows cast by the lights in the mist. I turned in circles like a trapped animal and began to cry. Already the fog was so thick that I could not see the shore and I had no idea where the old man was. I crouched down behind the building housing the boat winches and held Jenny in my arms. Salt mist beaded my face with dampness and I shivered. Jenny did not move. Frightened, I shook her. She frowned and rolled her head back against my shoulder. Behind me through the railing, I could see the black ocean swelling and tugging at the tangled seaweed wrapped around the pilings.

I heard footsteps approaching and cautiously peered around the corner of the shed. The Captain stepped into a yellow circle of light and stopped. He seemed ancient in that light, older than he had ever appeared before.

"Jenny?" he called. I placed my hand over Jenny's mouth. "Jenny?" She stirred and called out weakly despite my hand. I froze, not knowing whether or not he had heard. I could feel the boards move as the Captain walked. The movement stopped. I looked up and I was staring directly into the Captain's face.

"It's not fair," he said. He seemed to be talking to himself. "It's not fair; only children. Why not the old ones, the evil ones?" He bent and took hold of my wrist and the touch of his cold, calloused hand made my skin crawl. I jerked away. He spoke harshly. "Accept what you can't change, woman! Let me at least get some use out of what little life is left in her!"

I felt drained and tired. "There's nothing I can do, is there?"

"No," he said and tried to reach past me to touch Jenny. I threw myself at him as hard as I could and he fell against the railing.

"Don't do it," he pleaded. Off-balance, he struggled to regain his footing. "Think of yourself. 'Let him who is blameless cast the first stone.' " I pushed him once more. He balanced on the edge of the pier for a long moment, long enough for him to have called out for help and for me to have given it.

The fog muffled the sound of his fall into the ocean. I watched as he slowly sank without a struggle, his white hair floating around him like a halo in the darkness; then he disappeared from sight. I stared at the spot where he had been until my eyes burned with tears. I turned back to Jenny. Gently, I brushed the hair from her face and kissed her cold cheek. "It's all right now, Jenny. Everything's going to be different now. You wait and see." I struggled to my feet with her in my arms. As I staggered down the pier, carrying my daughter's limp body, I thought I heard a voice from the direction I'd just come. But when I stopped to listen, there was only silence.

Fate honored the vows Jenny and I made: she never grew older and was buried long before the Captain's body was washed ashore and interred without an investigation. And I never returned to Cuymar. I know now that the Captain lied: it is possible to get away if you leave soon enough.

I don't have that problem, however. I have a long, full future ahead of me in my work at the hospital. And when I decide it best to move on, I'll always be able to find a job. There are not many who have the compassion, strength, and understanding to work in a children's hospital. It really is a sad job, particularly in the incurable wards, but it has its compensations.

It's a curious sort of stereotype: that writers of dark fantasy are gentle, shy, unassuming, self-effacing, not at all what their stories conjure in the minds of the readers. When Tabitha King isn't working on her novel, Small World (Macmillan), and when she isn't keeping her husband Steve at the grindstone and her children out of the house, she belies her lovely, wide-eyed image with pieces like this.

THE BLUE CHAIR by Tabitha King

Beth drew the draperies over the window that, at that moment, offered only a fading view of the parking lot below. She sat down on the edge of the nearer of the paired beds to unstrap her sandals. Kicking them off and putting her legs up, she found herself noticing the chair by the window.

And the more she looked at the chair, the sillier it seemed. The navy-blue upholstery not only padded the back and seat, it was drawn over the arms, which were slim, squared, and bent to the seat like an old man grasping his thighs. The straight, slim legs supporting the platform on which the seat cushion rested were footed with silvered casters that looked like the claws of some mythical, otherworldly bird of prey. And the legs of the chair had been upholstered too. They made Beth think of pants on horses.

The chair was the touch of overdecoration that declared the room to be a rented one, duplicated in complementary or contrasting or identical colors fifty times in this hotel. The room wasn't half bad. It had been done in otherwise sure taste, witnessed by restful, predominantly clean lines and colors. Making the best of a box, she thought, but that didn't answer the question of why hotel decorators never seemed to know when enough was enough. No matter the valiant effort, ugliness crept in.

Anomie will out, she decided. She wiggled her toes and massaged her feet, rubbing out the cramps and tiredness that had settled in them during the day.

Too many hotels, she reflected, when a person begins to wallow in the philosophy of their decoration. Or too much time in the noonday sun. Which, here in Washington, seemed to beat down from seven to seven with the relentless energy of a two-year-old child, most inappropriately for such a bloody-old star. The humidity was what one might expect in August. It washed the life out of her, until she felt like a pile of bones by a desert track.

She rose from the bed to strip and shower. It was almost worth sweating like a pig all day, for the pleasure of a long, cool shower. That was the Vermont in her. While agreeing politely with all her contacts that the heat was terrible, in her heart she knew it was blasphemous to complain of a little free warmth.

With the water running over her in silken sheets, she contemplated her immediate future with a little more modest pleasure. Tonight, for the first time on this trip, there were no clients to entertain. Not that she minded the rituals of dining in expensive restaurants, or escorting VIPs to shows or concerts or private film screenings. It was like the sun; her Vermont heart told her she liked it too much for her own good.

She studied her body in the full-length mirror that discreetly backed the bedroom door. Only sweating like butter left out on a summer day kept her from blowing up like a balloon, she told herself. A night away from the opulent tables of Sans Souci and Dominique's would do her body a world of good.

This trip was a milk-run, a feverish bore. At the same time, it was what she needed to put her over the top, the culmination of three years of sweating-blood effort. Her future, a partnership come Christmas, was on order, the down payments made but nothing confirmed, nothing delivered. It was like early spring in Vermont, a time of treacherous, sucking mud, bogging down cars, ruining shoes, spattering the backs of one's legs. The mud followed one indoors, on boots and rubbers. It seemed to want to draw a body down to its own slick, idiot slapstick level. When the ice broke, the rain came, hard cold rain, but it left in its wake a warm and fragrant air that promised summer. Falsely, always falsely; one shivered in the muck, left wanting.

But there was nothing to fear. Everything was going according to her best-laid plans. There was no reason to be apprehensive. Except, her Vermont heart answered back, that that was exactly why there was everything to fear. The odds had turned against her; she was due for a fall.

She stuck her tongue out at herself. Executive paranoia. Too much goddamn sun.

Wrapping herself in a thin cotton robe, she ordered a spartan meal from room service. She dropped her briefcase ceremonially on one of the narrow beds, flopped belly-down after it, took out a pencil and settled down to work. The pencil wandered to her mouth; it was a filthy habit, chewing pencils, but it seemed to help her concentrate ever since she gave up smoking. In seconds she was absorbed in the work, oblivious of the room around her.

Abruptly, the pencil splintered in her mouth. She bit down convulsively on a foul-tasting mash of graphite, flakes of paint, and shards of wood, and into her own lip. At once the taste of her own blood overpowered the taste of the shattered pencil. She spit a bloody mess, like some obscene, machine form of granola, into her cupped palm.

Blindly, she scrambled to snatch a tissue from the box she'd left by the window. Then she was tangled in the blue chair, slamming her shinbones into its legs and seat.

"Goddamn!" she shouted.

A sharp pain shot through her haunches, answering the dull complaint that burned along her tibia. Hobbling to the bathroom, she couldn't believe how quickly she had cramped. Slopping over the bed at a lazy angle plus too much concentration, she decided, and sucked at a cold, wet washcloth. The ice bucket was empty, but the tap flowed chilled enough so that by soaking the washcloth frequently, she was able to keep the lip from swelling noticeably.

She sat down on the john and examined her legs. Ugly red patches fringed with bits of shredded skin promised variegated bruises in a day or two. That meant opaque stockings, in this Christless heat. She must have taken on that chair with some impetus. And lost her balance, lunging for the tissue, because she knew there had been a clear path between the bed, the window, and the chair when she took off her sandals. Impossible to tell now, for her clumsiness had pushed the chair well out of place. She was surprised the heavily padded chair had had bones enough to really bruise her.

Sighing, Beth walked stiffly back to the bed, sat down on the edge and gathered up her working papers. She took a new pencil from her briefcase and set to work again, keeping the pencil gripped firmly enough to whiten her fingers, and maintaining an upright posture. In minutes, she was awash with nervous sweat, all too conscious that the symbols on the page were dissolving to incoherence before her eyes. The pencil slipped between her damp fingers, sliced a black scar across the page, and snapped insolently against the sensitive cap of her knees as it fell to the floor.

"Jesus!"

She dumped the lapful of papers to the carpet and kicked at it violently with her bare feet. The paper exploded upward like a flight of doves. Turning away, she threw herself on the bed and pounded the pillows with clenched fists.

And then fury gave way to the giggles; clutching her knees to her chest, she rolled over the bed, rocking herself gently until the spasms of giggles passed, until her breathing was even. She closed her eyes tight.

Lady, lady, she scolded herself, I don't believe this. Either tomorrow you start your period, or you need a man. Ho ho.

She opened her eyes. The blue chair sat in its place, a few of her papers drifted on its seat and arms. There was something unnerving in its hideous indifference, the idiot serenity of a pagan idol, with the pale, bloodless bodies of its sacrificial victims cradled in its dark arms. And she didn't remember moving it back into its place at all.

There was a knock at the door, room service with her meal. Called back to the real world, she jumped to her feet. When she had tipped the waiter and sent him away, she came back to the bedroom to scoop up her papers, re-order them, and place them neatly on the round glass dining table in the living room of her small suite, mercifully out of sight of the blue chair. It was a much better place to work; she should have realized that in the beginning.

She was eating her salad, watching "The White Shadow" on television, when the telephone rang. She couldn't imagine who would be calling. The day's business was concluded; she could recall no social connections in the area. But she was pleased to talk to someone, anyone, and not just to relieve her solitary state. It made her feel competent, businesslike, to put aside her fork, wipe her mouth with the hotel's stylishly rough-woven linen napkin, and lean over the broad arm of the sofa to pick up the receiver.

"Hello," she said. Her voice was modulated, but sexy in a low-key way, a nice contrast with her cool, creamy personal presence that had not hindered her career at all.

"Beth?" It was a male voice with an upper-class Boston accent that hinted at chaste small boats on endless summer seas. It was as if she suddenly saw her own face in a mirror, as she really was.

"Jay!" she cried, "Jay!"

"I saw you," he said, teasing like a small boy spying on his older sister, "last night, in Sans Souci."

"My God, why didn't you say hello? I didn't see you," she protested.

"You were leaving when I saw you. With the two Japanese and the godfather type. I didn't want to make a nuisance of myself when you were obviously working."

She laughed. "The godfather was a mere lobbyist, and I am permitted an occasional visit from my relatives. Anyway, you called at last, and I am glad. However did you find me?"

"Called your home office in Chicago. I'm surprised I caught you in."

"Me too."

"I bet. How long have you been in town?"

"Almost a week."

"Well, listen, Bethie, have you had your dinner yet?"

"Well, sort of. I'm having a spinach vinaigrette in my room. I'm not deeply attached to it. No meaningful relationship forming or anything."

"Oh. Then come out with me, and I'll buy you a disgustingly sweet dessert. And we'll get drunk together and lay bare the secrets of our souls."

"When and where?"

He suggested a restaurant-night club in Georgetown that was better known for its post-dinner revels than its cuisine, the very one to which Beth had taken her pair of Japanese clients and the distinguished-looking lobbyist after they had dined at Sans Souci. She was too excited to wonder whether it was too much of a coincidence; she thanked him and promised to meet him in forty minutes.

With glee like a small August sun in her heart, she stacked the room service dinner onto its trolley and shoved it out the door.

She summoned up Jay's voice again, as she made up her face with subdued lighting and the smog of cigarettes and too many people in mind. She had fallen in love with his clear, clipped Boston accent about the same time she had noticed that her boy-cousin was no longer just another cousin, or another noisy, irritating little boy, but a terrifically attractive male, seemingly a hundred times more sophisticated and suave than the other boys she knew, suddenly louts and oafs and shit-kickers.

Her own up-country Vermont twang was a violent embarrassment at fourteen. She was rid of it now, proud that she sounded satisfyingly like whatever she wanted to sound like, depending on where she was and who she was with. She could even, if she wanted to, sound like Jay, like her father and all that side of the family. Her mother had told her some years ago that now when Beth tried to talk like a Vermonter, she sounded like a tourist, putting it on.

She knew it was true but she also knew her mother was jealous of her, resented her easy passage into the society that her mother had never really been accepted in. The only one of them her mother had ever cared for was Jay, who was forgiven his outrageously snotty accent and cherished for what Beth's mother had referred to as his "antics." He could say the boldest things to her and be laughed at. Perhaps Beth's mother had also seen Beth's growing away from the country life as an intrusion on Jay's uniqueness. Only one of them could belong to both worlds successfully. And only one of them did, for Beth never went home now.

She had not seen or heard of Jay since her wedding thirteen years ago. He had not even made her father's funeral, though the two had been as close as father and son, closer than Jay had been to his own father. By the time of Beth's father's death Jay had become a rumor, an item of family gossip, said either to be dealing dope in the Far East or living as a monk in some Italian monastery. She had not known what to believe of him, for he was capable of anything, and with the stress of mourning and the disintegration of her marriage, Jay had become a dead-end concern.

She threw her wrapper over the blue chair and slipped into a softly cut white sundress. Assembling the necessities into a little evening bag, she dropped her lipstick and eye pencil. The thin gold tubes rolled as if under their own power beneath the chair. Abandoning all dignity, she crawled around on the floor after them, giggling with nervous irritation. When she trapped them against one of the chair's legs, she felt a prick on the bare skin of her back and drag along it as she backed out hastily. A quick peek in the mirror confirmed that the thin line of heat on her back was a long red scratch. A loose upholstery tack or exposed staple under the chair must have caught her. Her evening shawl and then the low lighting in the night club would have to cover it.

She fled the blue chair, the glass table littered with working papers, the trolley going rancid outside her door, into the suffocating summer night with an almost euphoric sense of relief.

Jay was lounging at the entrance to the restaurant; she saw his red head a block away. She stepped from her taxi into his joyous embrace. They babbled at each other. She was struck by how good he smelled. Some discreet and sensuous European scent, worn with the kind of Ivy League clothing he'd worn in college. Not flashy enough for a dope dealer, but definitely unmonkish.

It was enough, for a time, merely to look at each other. They were seated at a tiny table and had ordered drinks before they could speak anything other than a kind of verbal confetti.

It was a jolt to see that he hadn't changed very much at all. A few threads of white in his hair, promising a distinguished middle age. It was scary how very much he was still the boy who had infatuated her as an adolescent. It wasn't until Jay had introduced her to his best friend from prep school that he lost his place in her heart. Ken had seemed, then and for a long time after, to be everything that Jay was and more. It was natural that Jay should be their best man; he had surrendered her formally and gone away. And taken the luck of their marriage with him.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked her.

She drank in his voice, which was like a dry, silky wine.

"How little you've changed," she smiled, "and how glad I am you left Ken and me to our miserable devices. I'm so glad you weren't there. I would have been terribly embarrassed."

He laughed, just a little cruelly. "I won't say I saw it coming." He paused. His gaze passed over her again, like an approving caress.

"You've changed. You're not just prettier, you're beautiful. I always knew you would be."

She twirled the swizzle stick in her glass lightly. "So kind of you to say so," she said. "Now tell me what you're doing here, and what you've done with the last decade."

"I live here." He sipped his drink. "I work for the State Department. I speak five languages." He raised his eyebrows elaborately. "That makes me invaluable."

"I should think so. Did it take you all those years to learn them?"

"Almost." He waved a bowl of pretzels under her nose as if it were roses. "I'm married."

Beth sat up straight and seized his left hand.

"Wonderful!"

"My wife is Vietnamese. We have three children. My father bought us a house in Alexandria, much nicer than we could have afforded on my salary."

"Why aren't you working for someone who would pay you what you're worth?" Beth demanded.

He smiled at her a little wearily. "You presume I'm underpaid. That, maybe. But I'm doing what I should be doing. Don't worry about me, Beth. Why do you think my father, and our grandfather, and our greatgrandfathers piled up all that long green, if it wasn't to return it to the Republic in a suitably artistic form? I'm just doing my dooty, as a gent."

"Can't dump on that, can I?"

"Nope. Want another drink?"

"Oh, yes. Why didn't you bring your wife? I would have liked to meet her."

That was true enough. Even if the news had produced a small seismic shift in her heart, she couldn't help being both intensely curious about Jay's wife, and somehow pleased that he had married.

"Rachel—that's her anglicized name—doesn't go out. She hates to leave our girls. So she says. She doesn't really like this country very much. It's a little awkward, this town being what it is, and all."

Beth took both his hands in hers again. "Jay," she began.

Loosening her grasp on him, he reversed the gesture, and was holding her hands, raising them to his lips to brush them, almost too lightly to feel.

"I want out," he said slowly. "I don't have the courage just yet. We muddle along."

"Oh, Jay," Beth repeated helplessly.

He looked straight at her and grinned. "Not too good at being married, are we?"

It made her laugh, to see him being jaunty, like a small boy shadowboxing some cosmic comic-book enemy.

"You like your job?" he asked.

"Love it. I'm going to be a partner come New Year's, I think."

He raised his glass to her. "I'm not surprised."

"Oh, you never are," she laughed at him. "Nothing ever surprises you."

"Not true," he protested. "Something does."

"What? I have to hear this. The thing that surprises Jay," she challenged him.

"Every time I look at my little girls," he paused to stare into his drink as if he could see them there, "I'm surprised. I don't believe I'm really the father of three small females."

"It's hard for me to feature that, too," she admitted, giggling.

"I have a secret," he announced. "I talk to your mother."

Beth put her glass down with a thump. "What?"

"Yes, I do," he insisted. "Four times a year—Christmas, Mother's Day, Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving. You really didn't know?"

"No. I don't, you know. Talk to her."

"Yes," he said. He studied his hands. "I know."

"You know everything."

"I saw Ken last year, at a cocktail party in New York. He looked good, a little heavier than he used to be. Had a new wife with him, biiig boobs." Jay drew enormous bazooms in the air.

Beth laughed. "I saw him too, only it was a class reunion. His wife went to school with me, did you know that? Anyway, the shocking thing was I didn't recognize him. I had to look at him for ten straight minutes to summon up his name. How's that for selective recall?"

Jay whooped. In the well-oiled, noisy crowd around them it went unnoticed.

"That's great. I'm pleased to hear it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Sometimes it surprises me," Beth mused. "I wonder if I'm heartless, or something. But there's no resentment, no anger, no nothing. That's the worst of it—no nothing."

"You knew his wife in school? Did you like her?"

"When we were in school? No." Beth made a face. "Veddy goddamn artistic. What did you think of her?"

"They'll drift apart eventually. Giving each other space until they forget each other's telephone numbers."

Beth fell silent, playing with her swizzle stick. Jay munched a pretzel lazily and watched her. She looked up and slapped one of his hands playfully.

"Don't look at me like that. I keep thinking one of my straps is broken and I've fallen out."

"You're blushing," he teased, delighted.

"Do you really call my mother?"

He nodded, now solemn.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I miss your dad. We talk about him, mostly."

Beth covered her surprise by reaching for a pretzel. It was not so much a shock to know that Jay wanted to talk to someone about her father as that her mother did.

"And me?"

"Sometimes. I get the biannual bulletins. She talks more about Tory."

"Oh." Beth snapped the pretzel in two, tasted it, set it aside. She picked up her glass and began to push remnants of ice around the bottom of the glass.

"How is he?" she asked evenly.

"Handsome, strong, and bright, she says."

"That calls for another drink."

Jay flagged a waitress.

Beth sucked at the melting ice noisily. She had known they would talk about Ken, about her parents, about her son Tory, because those people were part of the past she shared with Jay. But it was a shock to discover that Jay retained ties to her mother that were more elaborate than her own twice-yearly letter. She had not expected him to know that she had given Tory up to her mother.

She found him watching her again.

"Are you happy?" he asked her matter-of-factly.

She thought about it. His tone was intellectually curious, nonjudgmental, dry as the gin she sipped gratefully.

She nodded.

"Good," he said, and launched into the kind of gross yarn that had once captivated her. She resisted mightily, setting her face in the mask of constipated sobriety that her mother had worn years ago when subjected to what she had called "Jay's foolishness." It was just a game, an old, familiar tease and surrender, and at the proper moment, midway through the third story, she howled with horrified delight.

They came back to her hotel a little sloshed, holding hands. Heads turned as they passed through the lobby; Beth's color, already high with excitement and drinking, increased. From within the glass elevator, they presented sober, mock-American Gothic faces to the curious, and when the door closed on them they burst into giggles.

Beth had to close her eyes against the queasiness induced not only by the normal effect of the rush against gravity as the elevator rose, but also by the sudden dissolution of the outside world. Which was not, she reminded herself, exactly outside, but only the cylindrical multistoried inside of a fancy hotel.

She fumbled the key at the door. The suite seemed smaller and closer than she remembered. A normal side effect of gin, she thought, and no doubt that also explained her sensations in the elevator. She went immediately to the air-conditioner. At once the room was filled with the sound of its light respiration, and was cooler.

Turning, she found Jay looking around the living room, touching everything lightly, intently, as if he were blind and had to map the location of her papers, her portable typewriter, her address book, her briefcase, internally.

"I took you away from work," he commented.

"Oh, yes," she said.

"Good."

"Look over the rest of my home. Cloned all over this hotel, and in thirty dozen other hotels in the U.S. and the Free World. I can draw a map locating the can, the closet, and the drapery drawstrings before I sign the register."

"I know the sensation," Jay said.

He sauntered through, peeking at the kitchenette, and the bath, pausing in the bedroom. He touched her cotton wrapper on the blue chair affectionately.

"That chair," Beth said. "I wake up at night and it's watching me. The revenge of the decorator."

Jay smiled. "I didn't notice it until you said that. What does it eat?"

"Bits and pieces of me, when I get too close," she answered, and showed him her back.

He traced his finger lightly along the scratch.

"Poor baby," he murmured.

She tapped the bedroom door; it swung closed, and she could see herself in the mirror. And then Jay, behind her. It was amazing how much they looked alike.

Jay saw it too; he always had.

"We could be twins," he said.

She remembered the first time he had said it, when they were, what—eleven? She hadn't thought so then.

She giggled. He slipped one arm comfortably around her waist. She looked back at him, over her shoulder.

"Do you think the people downstairs thought so?"

He nodded yes. They looked into the mirror together.

"Little did they guess—not incestuous twins; merely cousins. The children of twins," he said.

"Still, incestuous," Beth said, smiling at him in the mirror. "Unzip me, will you?"

He smiled back at her, his fingers already doing her bidding. Then she turned to him, just as she had always wanted to, and it was so easy, they had done it so many times in their heads.

She brushed his mouth lightly with hers, and he moved suddenly against her, pushing the bony basket of his pelvis into her soft belly. Jay was already huge and hard, and he held it like a weapon against her.

In a quick light rush of words, she told him that this was what she wanted, and had always wanted. She talked all through it, talked about being fifteen and wanting to and not doing it, and later, how the possibility was always there between them. And how now the fact of it would always be there. This would close the circle, finally. This was where they were meant to come.

Without a man for many months, she prolonged the lovemaking until she was glazed with sweat and dazed with fatigue. Jay said very little, only to urge her on; it was apparent her talking was as effective for him as the easy practiced sexual gymnastics.

She ran out of words and separated from him. He closed his eyes and was very still. The air conditioning breathed a draft over them; she drew up the sheet and covered them. She lay quiet, listening to his breathing as it quickly became deep and even.

She was still intoxicated from alcohol, from sex, from Jay and their reunion that had abruptly fulfilled so many old daydreams. The unease that had plagued her for weeks was gone, cleanly exorcised. She was on the mountaintop, she told herself. It was too easy to forget the benefits of getting one's ashes hauled.

She closed her eyes but sleep eluded her. Her body was sticky, her mind busy. Moving slowly, so as not to shatter the wonderful langour of her flesh, she opened her eyes and sat up. The blue chair was the first thing she saw. It made a nice composition—the rainbow colors of the wrapper draped in horizontal stripes, cradled in the arms of the chair, so vaguely and monstrously human, such a deep, unmarkable night-sky blue.

The shower was just right; she stopped it only because she was afraid she might awaken Jay if it went on too long. She passed by the bed; he had shifted and covered his face with one protective arm. His lips curved upward a little, as if he were having a very pleasant dream. The hair in his armpit was reddish gold, as hers would be if she didn't shave it; his pubic thatch was the same color and as full as her own. She did not pause very long to observe him; it was too sweet, promising complications. Picking up the wrapper from the blue chair, she went into the living room and closed the door, gently and not quite completely, behind her.

She had just gotten into the work when the door opened. Hearing it, she did not bother to look up.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to wake you. I couldn't sleep."

When he failed to answer, she looked up to see him leaning against the doorframe. The look in his eyes was one she had seen before, sometimes in the faces of her Japanese clients when they looked at Americans. The what-are-you look, she called it. She smiled at him warmly.

"Go back to sleep. Don't mind me."

"Don't your clients resent it?"

She frowned, puzzled. "What?"

"Don't your clients resent your jumping out of bed to get back to the paperwork. Or is it just part of the job?"

Her anger fell on her good feelings for him like a typhoon upon a lovely dune. She wanted to punch him. How could a man as intelligent as she knew Jay to be fail to understand that no serious woman could afford casual sex with business associates? Precisely because she would always, with or without evidence, be suspected of screwing her way to the top.

"I don't sleep with my clients," she said shortly.

"Oh," he said. "Who do you sleep with?"

"My cousin, for one," she said easily, meeting his gaze directly.

Jay grinned. "You aren't telling me the company has been having your best all these years?"

Beth leaned back in her chair and stretched. This was really incredibly tiresome. And unfunny, if there was an element of joking in it. He seemed to want to spoil their wonderful time with some kind of obscure male tantrum. Perhaps it was necessary to defuse, once and for all, the implication that she whored, literally or metaphorically, for the company.

"I had a very pleasant relationship with a surgeon in Chicago, up until seven months ago. It lasted three years. Will that satisfy the Inquisition?"

"And?" he persisted.

"And what?" she exclaimed. "And nothing. And none of your goddamn business, Jay. What are you trying to do?"

He smiled again, this time rather sweetly. "Come back to bed with me?"

She stared at him incredulously. "Jesus. Some bedside manner."

He shrugged and left. She heard the bedsprings give as he dropped to the mattress.

She sighed and followed him, leaving the papers where they lay.

It was her turn to stand in the doorway, while he spread himself possessively over the narrow bed. He grinned at her, and opened his arms.

"I am a true descendant of capitalists. I want it all, all the time."

"I don't understand you," she protested. "You were riding me. I never would have expected sexual jealousy from you, Jay."

He punched the pillow playfully. "I hate women who get out of bed to shuffle papers. This frigging town is full of them. It's too much like balling the Secretary of State."

"Oh, you've been screwing the Secretary of State, have you?" Beth teased.

"Well," Jay answered lazily, "I've tried. I'm not his type, though."

Beth laughed. "You bastard," she said and took off the wrapper.

It was a mistake; she knew it almost immediately. This time he took charge, using her brutally. She froze up, going through the motions and hurting because she was dry and put off and put out and angry. What right had he to punish her for some nebulous body of crimes? She had not failed him; she had failed Tory and Ken and her mother and father. Then she was angry with herself, for doing this, trying to please a man she hadn't seen in ten years, trying to please the girl she hadn't been for that long.

He knew, the way he always knew, and he was angry too. He bruised her deliberately; he kept going until she was almost in tears. At last he pushed her away and blurted, "Screw it!"

She crouched against the pillows and joked bitterly. "You have been, bastard."

A power rose up in her over him. She took him in her mouth and brought him quickly to the end of it, though he resisted. She felt him holding back and punished him with the exact degree of brutality he had paid her, leaving bruises on his buttocks and back, scratching his chest and arms and thighs viciously.

Rolling away from him, she spit on the sheets. She went to sit in the blue chair, drawing back the draperies a little so she could look over the parking lot, lit eerily by arc lamps and nearly empty, covered by the thunderous clouded night sky. She wished mightily for a cigarette, thinking sometimes an early death was a fair trade for a little comfort.

He kept his peace a long time, and then she heard him, behind her, dressing. She did not look back at him. She could see all she wanted of him, moving like a shadow on the windowpanes.

"I hope your wife likes your war wounds," she said pleasantly.

He snorted. "What wife?" he said.

Beth was startled, but she would not turn and look at him. She was suddenly very weary and confused. It was like him, of course; he had always been the world's biggest liar. She put her hands on the arms of the blue chair to stop their shaking.

"Bye, Bethie," he said softly behind her. "It's been nice. I'll say hi to your mother and Tory for you."

She said nothing. There was nothing left to say. She just sat there, listening for the sound of the door opening and closing.

At last she thought she must have dozed and missed it; it was a long time since Jay had spoken and the room was so quiet, just the air conditioning breathing, and her own. The chair was surprisingly comfortable to sit in. Just right for her size, actually. The back support at the right place; the legs the right length from the floor. With her eyes half closed she sat still, suspending the thoughts that pecked at her, accusing her of folly and self-indulgence and stupidity. She would face them in the light of day.

Then she felt his arms around her again, very gently, crossing her breasts, around her waist, passing between her legs. She felt his fingers, oddly cold and silken, trace her face and the long, graceful line of her neck.

"Jay," she whispered, immediately aroused by the revelation that it was all one of his games, just another elegant tease. They would be good together again. He was after all, her kin, her spirit-mate.

"Jay," she murmured, and opened her eyes slowly, so that she might see him reflected like a ghostly twin in the window. Only he wasn't there, and the blue arms embraced her.

The delights of editing include (among other things) the unexpected. A short while ago, Donald A. Wollheim sent me this story without warning. As it happens, there aren't too many fans more enthralled by Tanith Lee's fantasy than I; nor, I suspect, do they realize how wonderfully dark is a corner of Ms. Lee's soul that can produce a piece like . . .

MEOW by Tanith Lee

I was young, last year. I was twenty-six. That was the year I met Cathy.

I was writing a novel that year, too. Maybe you never read it. Midnight and four A.M., five or six nights a week, I used to do my magician act at the King of Cups, on Aster. It paid some bills and it was fun, that act. Even more fun when you suddenly look out over the room and there's a girl with hair like white wine, and the flexible, fluid shape of a ballet dancer, looking back at you, hanging on every breath you take.

Later, around four-thirty, when we were sitting in a corner together, I saw there was a little gold cat pendant in the hollow of her throat. Later still, when we'd walked back, all across the murmuring frosty pre-dawn city, with the candy-wrapper leaves blowing and crackling underfoot, I brushed the cat aside so I could kiss her neck.

I didn't realize, then, I was going to have trouble with cats.

I might have thought the trouble would be over money. You know the sort of thing—well-off girl meets male parasite. Somehow we worked it out, keeping our distance where we had to, not keeping it where we didn't. We were still finding the way, and she was shy enough; it was kind of nice to go slowly.

But, she did own this graystone house, which her parents had left her when they went blazing off in a great big car and killed themselves. She'd been sixteen then. She'd just made it into adulthood before they ditched life and her. Somehow, I always resented them. They'd done a pretty good job of tying her up in their own hangups, before they split and gave her another one.

The house was still their house, too. It was jammed full of their trendy knickknacks and put-ons, and their innovative furniture you couldn't sit on or eat off. And it was also full of five cats.

Cathy had acquired the cats, one by one, after her parents died. Or the cats had acquired her. After that, the house was also theirs. They personally engraved the woodwork, and put expert fringes on the drapes. And on anything else handy, like me. You're right—I had a slight phobia. Maybe something about the fanged-snake effect of a cat's head, if you forget the ears. Cathy was always telling me how beautiful the cats were, and I was always trying to duck the issue. And the cats. They knew, of course, about my unadmiration; I'd have sworn that right from the start. They'd leap out on me and biff me with their handfuls of nails. They'd jump onto the couch behind my shoulders and bite. When Cathy and I made love, I'd shut the bedroom door and the cats would crouch outside, ripping the rug. I never dared make it with her where they could see and get at me.

I'd spot their eyes in the early morning darkness when I brought her home, ten disembodied dots of crème de menthe neon spilled over the air. Demons would manifest like that. Ever seen a cat with a mouse or a bird? I used to have a dumb dove in my act, called Bernie, and one day Bernie got out on the sidewalk. He was such a klutz, he thought everyone was his damn friend, even the cat that came up and put its teeth through his back. No, I didn't like cats much.

One night it was Cathy's birthday, and we had to be in at the house. Cathy was rather strange about her birthdays, as if the ghosts of Mom and Pop walked that night, and maybe they did. I'd tried to get her to come out, but she wouldn't, so we sat in the white-and-sepia sitting room, under the abstract that looked like three melting strawberries, and ate tuna fish and drank wine. I'd managed to get the cash to buy her the jade bracelet that had sat in a store window the past five weeks, crying to encircle her wrist. When I'd given it to her, she too cried for half a second. It was often harder to get close to her when she was emotional than at any other time. By now the jade was warm as her own smooth skin, and the wine not much colder. The cats sat around us in a ring, except when Cathy went out to the kitchen; then they followed her with weird screechings. The cats always responded to activity in the kitchen in the same way, even to something so small as the dim, far-off clink of a plate. When the house was empty of humans, I could imagine every pan and pot holding its breath for fear of attracting attention.

Finally Cathy stopped playing with her tuna and gave it to the cats.

"Oh, look, Stil," she said, gazing at them madonnalike as they fell on the dish. "Just look."

"I'm looking."

"No, you're not," she said. "You're glaring."

I lifted the guitar from the couch and started to play some music for us, and the cats sucked and chewed louder, to show me what they thought of it.

We sang Happy Birthday to the tune of an old Stones number, and some other stuff. Then we went up to the bedroom and I shut the door. She cried again, afterward, but she held onto me as if afraid of being swept out to sea. I was the first human thing she'd really come across since her parents left her. That night at the King had been going to be her experiment in failure. She'd thought she'd fail at communicating, at being gregarious, and she'd meant to fail, I guess. That would have given her the excuse for never trying again. But somehow she'd found me. I didn't really think about the responsibility on my side of all this. It was all too dreamy, too easy.

A couple of the cats noisily puked back the tuna on the Picasso rug outside.

"Why don't you," I said, "leave this godawful house? Let's take an apartment together."

"You have an apartment."

"I have a room. I mean space."

"You can't afford it."

"I might."

"You want to live off me," she said. The first time she ever said it.

"Oh look," I said, "if that's what you think."

"I didn't mean it."

"Sure you did. Just don't mean it again. Next year MGM'll be making a movie of my book."

"It isn't even published yet."

"So, it will be."

"I'd better go and clean up after the cats," she said.

"Why don't you train them to clean up after themselves?"

We lay awhile, and pictured the cats manipulating mop, pail and disinfectant. But somewhere in me I was saying to them: If there are any parasites around here, I know just who. Make the most of it, you gigolos. Your days are numbered.

I really did have it all worked out. Cathy was going to sell the house and I was going to sell the book. We were going to take an apartment, and I was going to keep us in a style to which I was unaccustomed. Cats aren't so hot ten floors up in the air. And five of them, in those conditions, are just not on. Of course, I knew she wouldn't leave them without a roof, and I'd already become a cat salesman. But suddenly it seemed everyone I knew had one cat, two cats or three. Except Genevieve, who had a singularly xenophobic dog. Everybody, even Genevieve, told me cats are bee-ootiful, and I should let Cathy educate me over my phobia.

Then someone got interested in the book. Things seemed to be coming along, so I sat up from five in the morning until eleven the next night a few times, and finished the beast with heavy hatchet blows from the typewriter.

I got ready to broach the apartment idea again to Cathy. I began to dream crazy schemes. Like renting out Cathy's parents' house, and whoever took it on got the cats as a bonus, while we had the cats to visit us twice a week. Or buying the cats a ranch in Texas. Or slipping them cyanide in their Tiger-Cookies.

I was fantasizing because I basically understood Cathy wouldn't agree. And she didn't agree.

"No, Stil, I can't," she said. "Can't and won't. You're not making me leave my cats."

"I need you," I said, striking a pose like Errol Flynn. It wasn't only the pose that wasn't one hundred percent true. I was wondering how exactly I did analyze my feelings for her, the first time I'd had to do that, when, brittle and hard as dry cement, she said, "You just need my money."

"Oh Jesus."

"You want to use me."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course I do."

I stood and wondered now if I was only demanding we live together because I wanted her to choose between me and the zoo. Did I really want to be with her that much, this white-faced maniac with green electric eyes?

"You bastard," she whispered. "Dad always told me I'd meet men like you."

And she pulled off the jade bracelet and flung it at me, the way girls fling their engagement rings in old B movies. Like a dope, I neatly caught it. Then she turned and ran.

I stood and looked at the sidewalk where the colored lights of the King of Cups were going like a migraine attack. I now had the third wonder, wondering what I felt. But I was too numb to feel anything. Then I went into the club and perpetrated the worst goddamn magician act I hope never to live through again.

Two weeks later, Carthage Press bought my book, with an option on two more. I got a standing ovation at the King, got drunk, slept with a girl I can't remember. Three weeks later, Genevieve, who reads tarot at the King, came over and stood looking at me as I was feeding the dental-floss-white rabbit I'd just accumulated to put in the act as a cliché.

"You know, Stil," said Genevieve, gazing up at me from her clever, paintable, look-at-able face and all of her five-foot-one inches, "you are going all to hell."

"I'd better pack a bag, then."

"I mean it, Stil," said Genevieve, helping me post the rabbit full of lettuce. "The act is lousy."

"Gee thanks, Genevieve," I gushed.

"It's technically perfect, and it's getting better, and it's about as dead as Julius Caesar."

"Gosh, is he dead? How'd it happen, hit and run?"

"No, I'm not laughing," said Genevieve, not laughing. "I want to know where that girl is, the blond girl." She waited awhile, and when I didn't say anything, said, "Let's get this straight. I'm worried about her. She was on a knife-edge, and you were easing her off it. Now I guess she's back on the knife-edge. You're not usually so obtuse."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we had nothing left to say to each other."

"To coin a phrase. That's why the act stinks. That's why the next novel will stink."

"Genevieve, I honestly don't know if I want to see her again."

"I know," said Genevieve. She smiled, riffled the cards, and picked the Lovers straight out of the pack. "Just," said Genevieve, "go knock on her door, and see what happens to you when she opens it."

I went out to the pay phone in the Piper Building down the block. I didn't realize till I came to put the nickels in that I still had a leaf of lettuce in my hand.

I didn't think anyone would answer. Or maybe one of the cats would take the call, and spit. Then there was her voice.

"Hi, Cathy," I said.

I heard her drag in a deep breath, and then she said, "I'm glad you called. It doesn't make any difference, but I want to apologize for what I said to you."

"It does make a difference," I said.

"Thank you for mailing me back the bracelet," she said. "I'm going to hang up now."

"Carthage is doing my book," I said.

"I'm so glad. You'd never read me any. I'll be sure and buy it. I'm going to hang up right now."

"OK. I'll be with you in twenty minutes."

"No—"

"Yes. Give the cats a dust."

It was a quarter to five when I reached the house, and a premature white snow was coming down like blossoms on the lawns along the street.

Here goes, Genevieve, I thought as I pressed the doorbell. Now let's see what does happen to me when Cathy opens the door.

What happened was a strange, strange thing, because I looked at Cathy and I just didn't know her. For one thing, I'd never properly seen how beautiful she was, because she'd looked somehow familiar from the first time I saw her. But now she was brand-new, unidentifiable. And looking into her clandestine face, I wondered (always wondering) if I was ready to break the cellophane wrapper.

"There's snow in your hair," she said quietly, and with awe. And I comprehended that she, too, was seeing something new and uncannily special, in me. "Are you sure you want to come in?"

"You're damn right I do. I'm getting cold out here."

"If you come in," she said, "please don't try and make me agree to anything I don't want. Please, Stil."

"Cross my heart."

She let me in then, solemnly. We went into the living room. The once-conversation-piece electric fire, which didn't look like a fire at all but some sort of space rocket about to take off and blast its way through the ceiling to Venus, exuded a rich red glow. It enveloped five squatting forms, and their fur was limned as if in blood.

"Hi, cats," I said. I knew by now I was probably going to have to concede, perhaps even share my life with them. Maybe I could get to love them. I reached down slowly, and a fistful of scythes sloughed off some topskin. So. I could tie their paws up in dinky little velvet bags, I could cover the floors with washable polythene, I could always carry a gun. Cats don't live so long as humans. Unless they get you first.

We sat by the fire, the seven of us. Cathy and I drank China tea. The cats drank single cream from five dishes.

There were some enormous fresh claw marks along the fire's wood surround, bigger and higher than any of their previous original etchings. Cathy must have gone out at some point and missed one of their ten or eleven mealtimes, and they'd gotten fed up waiting. I surreptitiously licked my bleeding hand.

"Genevieve told me," I said, "about a ground-floor apartment just off Aster. There's a backyard with lilac trees. They'd enjoy scratching those."

"You still want me to sell this house," said Cathy. "My parents' house, they wanted me to have."

"Not sell. You could rent it."

She looked at the fire, which also limned her now, her bone-china profile, the strands of her hair, with blood.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she said.

"The Invisible Man. It's OK. I took the antidote."

"I thought I'd just go back to where I was, the years before I met you. That I'd always be alone. Me, and the cats. I thought that was how it would be."

I took her hand. It was cold and stiff, and her nails were long and ragged. Down below, the cats were poised over their empty plates, staring up at her, their eyes like blank glass buttons.

"So I said to myself," she said, "I don't need anyone. I've got the cats. I don't need anyone human at all."

She pulled her hand out of mine, and got up.

"I'm not," she said, "leaving this house."

"All right. Good. Sit down."

"In a minute," she said. "I have to feed the cats."

"Oh, sure. The cream was an aperitif. Which is the starter? Salmon or caviar?"

She considered me, her eyes just like theirs. She wasn't laughing, either. She went out to the kitchen, and the cats trotted after her. They didn't screech this time, but I could imagine all that cream slopping loudly about in their multiplicity of guts.

Alone, I sat and contemplated the Venus rocket and the huge new claw marks up the wood. It looked, on reflection, really too high for the cats to have reached, even balanced on tip-claw. Maybe one had teetered on another one's head.

After a while, none of the cats, or Cathy, had come back.

The tea was stone-cold, and I could hear the snow tapping on the windows, the house was so quiet, as if no one else but me was in it. Finally I got up, and walked softly, the way you tread in a museum, along to the kitchen door. There was no light anywhere, not in the passage, not in the dining area, or in the kitchen itself. And scarcely a sound. Then I heard a sound, a regular crunching, mumbling sound. It was the cats eating, there in the dark. I must have heard it a thousand times, but suddenly it had a unique syncopation. It was the noise of the jungle, and I was right in the midst of it. And the hair crawled over my scalp.

I hit the light switch on a reflex, and then I saw.

There on the floor, in a row, were the five cats. And Cathy.

The cats were leaning forward over their paws, chomping steadily. Cathy lay on her stomach, the soles of her feet pressed hard against the freezer, supporting her upper torso on her elbows. Her hair had been draped back over one shoulder so it wouldn't get in the way as she licked up the single cream from the saucer.

She continued this about a couple of seconds after the light came on, long enough for me to be sure I wasn't hallucinating. Then she raised her head like a snake, and licked her lips, and watched me with her glass-button eyes.

I backed out of the kitchen. I went on backing out until I was halfway along the passage. Then I turned like a zombie and walked into the living room.

Nothing was altered. Not even the big new runnels in the wood surround of the fire.

I was sweating a dank cold sweat and breathing as fast as if I'd just gotten out of a lion's cage, which I hadn't yet. It was some kind of primitive reaction, because what I'd seen was really very funny, a joke. But I don't think I could have been more shaken if she'd come at me with a steak knife.

I pondered my alternatives. I could make it out the door, and run. I needn't come back. She'd know why not. Or I could stay and try to figure her out, try to persuade her to tell me what the game was and why she was playing it, and how I could help stop her going insane.

I was deliberating, when she came into the room. She looked straight at me and said:

"I'm sorry you saw that."

"Are you? Somehow I had the feeling I was meant to see. What's the idea?"

"No idea. I like it. I like scratching the wood, too. Over the fire. See? You look nervous."

"Must be because I am."

She glided across the room, and slid her arms around my ribs.

"You're nervous of me."

"I'm terrified of you."

She kissed my jaw, and each time she kissed, I felt the edges of her teeth. I could imagine what she'd be like if I made love to her now. Not that I wanted to make love to her.

I wanted to leave her and run. That was all I wanted, but concern gets to be a habit, and I guess we all know about habits. Besides, you find a girl sitting with a bottle of pills and a razor blade, and you go out and shut the door? And then, in any case, I realized she was trembling. I'd thought it was just me.

"Get your coat and your boots," I said.

"It's snowing."

"Excuses, excuses. Get your coat."

"All right."

Ten minutes later, we were on the street. The cold, silvery air seemed to blow through my head, and I started to ask myself where I was taking her. But Cathy didn't speak, just walked beside me like a good little girl doing what the adults tell her, though she doesn't understand.

We rode the subway, and came back up out of the ground and walked to my place, to which I never take anyone unless I must, not even a rabbit. The King of Cups is where I live. Twenty-three Mason is where I occasionally eat, and less occasionally sleep, thrash a typewriter, and worry. And that's the way it looks. It's a couple of flights up, or chiropractical jerks if you use the elevator. In the snow-light, it was gray and chill and littered by reams of paper, magazines and dust. My world and no one else's, and I didn't want her here, and this was where I'd brought her. Why? Because part of me had subconsciously worked it out that this place had been built from my own individual ectoplasm, and I was going to use it to bawl her out and back to sanity, louder than any shout I could make with my throat.

We got inside the door, and she glanced drearily around. We hadn't offered a word to each other since leaving the house.

"Every luxury fitment," I now said. "Most of them not working."

Cathy crossed to the window, and stood there in her coat with the snow dissolving on its shoulders. She looked at the yard two floors down, and the trash cans and broken bottles in their own cake frosting of snow. When she turned around, her face was gleaming, waves of tears running over it. She sprang to me suddenly and held onto me. I knew the grip. I knew I'd got her back. If I wanted her. Her hair seemed the only thing in the room which had color, and which shone.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "sorry, sorry."

I felt tired and it all seemed faintly absurd. I stroked her hair, and knew that in the morning I was going to call Genevieve and ask her what the hell to do next.

In the morning, about seven, I slunk out of bed, put some clothes on and went out, leaving Cathy asleep. The pay phone in the entry, as usual, was busted, so I walked down to the booth on the corner of Mason and Quale. The snow lay thin and moistly crisp as water ice, and the sky was painting itself in blue as high summer. It was an optimistic morning, full of promises of something. I got through to Genevieve, who hardly ever sleeps, and told her all of it, feeling a fool.

"Oh boy," said Genevieve. And then: "Bring her over here to breakfast, why don't you? Maybe the dog'll chase her up a tree."

"You think I'm on something and I imagined it."

"No."

"You think I should laugh it off, it doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"Well?"

"Well. I think you're going as bats as she is. I don't know what I can do except feed you pancakes—little children like those, don't they?—but I know a guy who might help."

Genevieve genuinely knows a remarkable number of guys who can help. Help you get to sing with the opera, help you find out who you were six hundred years ago in Medieval Europe, or help you find a cop who cares somebody mugged you and stole the fillings from your teeth.

"A shrink."

"Sort of. Wait and see."

"It has to be gentle, Genevieve. Very, very gentle."

"It will be. Bring her. I'll expect you by eight."

Once you've passed the buck, you feel better. I felt better. I walked back through the snow, identifying the footprints in it like a kid: human, bird, dog. I knew I could leave all the delicate maneuvering to Genevieve, who is one of the best social surgeons there are. Sometime later I'd have to decide where I wanted to be in all of this, but I didn't have to do it right now.

I got up to the second floor and let myself into the apartment, and Cathy was gone.

The bed was empty, the bathroom, even the closet. I was working myself into a panicky rage when I saw her purse lying under the window. The window was just open, and the dust-drape of snow on the fire escape had neat dark cuts in it the shape of shoe soles. I climbed through onto it, and looked down and saw Cathy standing in the yard, with her back to me.

I didn't react properly. I was just so relieved to find her. I leaned on the rail and shouted.

"Hey, Cathy. We're going to Genevieve's for breakfast."

She turned around, then, and her eyes came up to mine, but without a trace of recognition. And then I saw what it was she had in her mouth. It was a bleeding, fluttering, almost-but-not-quite-dead pigeon.

Cathy had found her breakfast already.

The anthology was closed. I had already begun working on the stories, which would be delivered in four days to the publisher, when this came in from Steve Rasnic Tem. His second appearance, then, in the nick of time.

THE GIVEAWAY by Steve Rasnic Tem

"If you don't cut that out something real bad's gonna happen to you!"

Six-year-old Marsha dropped the second handful of mud she was about to smear on seven-year-old Alice Kennedy's party dress. "Like what?"

Alice made a thinking face for a little while. "Well . . . I might tell your daddy about it and he just might give you away!"

"Uh-uh," Marsha grunted. She proceeded to gather another handful of mud. Some of it spattered onto her shoes and she had to twist each foot just so to wipe them in the grass. It was hard to do that and still hold onto the slippery mud. Then she walked carefully over to where Alice was sitting making mud pies and raised both hands.

"Stop it, Marsha! I told you what I'd do! I'll tell and he'll just give you away!"

Marsha didn't understand why Alice didn't want her to smear mud on the dress anyway; it was nice and cool and besides, Alice's dress was already muddy from making mud pies all afternoon. But she was even more confused about this giveaway stuff. She'd never heard of that before.

"What do you mean, give me away?"

"I'll tell him you've been real bad to me, Marsha, and he'll give you away to some other family, or even worse!"

Marsha just looked at her in confusion. "Moms and dads don't give their kids away," she said seriously.

Alice looked up from her mud pie and smiled. "That's what your daddy did with your brother Billy."

"That's not true, Alice Kennedy; Billy died and went to heaven!"

"How do you know? Did you see him go?"

"Well, no. But Daddy told me he did."

"They have to say that, stupid! They don't want you crying and making trouble."

"Don't call me stupid!" Marsha watched her shoes squishing into the mud. "Why did they give Billy away?" she asked softly.

"I heard your daddy tell my daddy that Billy was too small and that he'd never be very big, ever. He sounded real sad about that. So I guess he just gave him away so he can get a bigger boy later on."

Marsha nodded her head solemnly.

"Know who else got given away?"

"Who?"

"Johnny Parker."

"I 'member him! He was like a grownup 'cept he had something funny wrong with his head made him want to play with kids all the time. But he went to a special school! My aunt said so and she's a teacher!"

"Well, he was gonna go to one of them schools, but they gave him away instead. Know who else?"

"Uh-uh."

"Shelly Cox. She kept breaking things and being mad and real mean and one night her daddy had them take her away."

"Who's them?"

Alice looked back over her shoulder at the backyard of her house. "I don't know for sure. Guess who else?"

"Who?"

"You, Marsha, 'cause you got my party dress all muddy and my daddy's probably gonna want to give me away so I'm gonna have to tell on you."

"Tattletale!" Marsha cried, tears streaming down her face.

"Crybaby!" Alice yelled, running toward her house.

Marsha threw a handful of mud after Alice in frustration. "Uh-uh," she grunted as she began the long walk home.

There were loud voices coming from the kitchen when Marsha got home. She could hear her mother crying, her father shouting. He sounded real mad. Marsha hated it when they had a fight. She sat down in a chair in the living room, picked up one of her books, and pretended to read. But she could only pretend because they were too loud.

"Can't you do anything so simple as enter a check properly, Jennie? I bet Marsha could do that and she's only six years old!"

"I'm sorry, Ted. I just forgot! Will you leave me alone!"

"If I let you alone we'd be broke within the month! Last week you took out the grocery money twice and caused six checks to bounce! And you say you don't know what happened to the money! You're driving me crazy, Jennie! I can't take it! I tell you I can't take it anymore!"

"I've tried to be a good wife to you . . ." Her mom started to cry and cough, and Marsha couldn't tell what she said anymore. She wanted to go in and see her mom, but she was too afraid. Her daddy was shouting louder than ever now.

"You haven't been a wife to me, Jennie, since Billy's been gone!"

Her mom was crying louder than before. Marsha could hardly understand her. "The doctor says . . . you know the doctor said I can't have any more!"

"You're lying, Jennie; you're lying through your teeth. I know that quack's nurse! You've been lying to me, lying all the time. You just don't want to, Jennie. You just don't want to!"

Marsha went upstairs until dinner. She thought her daddy noticed the dried mud on her shoes when she got up from the table, but he didn't say anything.

Marsha woke up with it still dark outside. Something told her she should go to the window. She was afraid, because it was real dark out there, but she thought she should probably go. She tiptoed as softly as she could, afraid she might wake up her dad.

A funny-looking car was parked out in front of the house. It was long and black, the longest and blackest car she had ever seen. And there was a long silver thing, jagged like lightning, that went from one end of the car to the other. This lightning was brighter than the streetlights and hurt her eyes.

The car windows were gray. They looked dirty. She couldn't see through them at all.

Marsha didn't want to see the big black car anymore, but she was more afraid not to see it. She didn't know why she was more afraid of not seeing it, but she was.

Marsha tiptoed down the stairs in her pajamas, scared to death that her father would catch her and maybe give her away like he had Billy. She went into the dark living room. The front door was wide open; she could see the long black car by standing in front of the open door.

She stepped carefully onto the front sidewalk and started walking to the car. She tried to be as quiet as a mouse like her aunt had told her once. She was scared of the car, but she had to keep walking toward it. She couldn't understand that at all.

When she got to the side of the car she held her hands up to her eyes and leaned against the window, trying to see what was inside. But it was too gray, too dirty, too dark. She started to walk around the front of the car and to the other side to look in the windows there, when the tall man stepped in front of her.

He was tall with black shadows all over him and he had a big white bow tie and a big white flower on his chest, but she couldn't see his coat, he was so black, so she didn't know how the flower stayed on.

The tall man bent over. He had no face, just a head full of white fog, like his face hadn't made itself yet.

Marsha began to cry in a soft voice, scared to death she'd wake up her daddy and he'd give her away for spoiling his sleep. But she couldn't help crying, and it kept getting louder and louder until she was sure he'd wake up and want to give her away. Her pajamas felt suddenly wet and warm and she knew she'd wet herself and he'd want to give her away for that too.

She turned around to run back into the house.

Two men with no faces were standing there, carrying a long thing between them. Marsha was so surprised she stopped crying.

For some reason she wasn't so afraid now, so she walked up to the long thing they were carrying to see what it was.

Her mommy was tied to the thing and she was looking up with her eyes all funny and her mouth open and oh she knew her mommy was dead oh dead dead dead!

She ran screaming into the house and they grabbed her and she was screaming and they put something into her mouth—

Only "they" was her daddy. He was sitting with her on the sofa now, looking all serious like when she'd done something real bad.

"You saw the car?"

She nodded her head tearfully.

"Your mommy went away in the car?"

"Ye-es," her voice broke and she cried a little.

"Okay, I want you to listen, Marsha." He held her chin up and made her look into his eyes. "Your mommy didn't do things right, Marsha; she wasn't good enough. So you know what happened?"

Marsha nodded her head solemnly.

"I had to give your mommy away. That's what happens to people who mess up, Marsha. You've got to do your best, do your best for me, all the time."

Again she nodded her head, but then her father was gone, as quickly as he had arrived, and she was all alone on the couch in the darkened living room. She looked out the window but there was nothing there. She knew everything was all over, then.

Marsha sleepily climbed off the sofa and stumbled around trying to find a light switch. She couldn't find one so she had to make her way to the kitchen in the dark. She would have cried then, but she really didn't feel like crying anymore.

The kitchen light switch was too high, so she had to work in the dark. It was hard to find the pans or the turner in the dark, but she finally did. At least the refrigerator light let her see the eggs, and she kept the door open afterward so she could see better.

She knew she'd better start her daddy's breakfast now if she was to get it finished on time. The stove and counters were real high for her, so it would take a long time for her to use them.

Daddy liked big breakfasts, and more than anything else in the whole wide world, she wanted to please her daddy.

It happens. A favorite author (in this case, Lisa Tuttle) and I exchange letters, manuscripts, and not a few mutterings over the years, yet have not been able to connect. Until now. Lisa spends most of her time working in science fiction, but ever since I read a story of hers entitled "Dollburger," I knew sf was not her only strength. A matter of waiting, then, and a matter of . . .

NEED by Lisa Tuttle

After ballet, Corey liked to walk home through the cemetery. The grounds were large and well tended and offered the visitor a wealth of picturesque monuments and sentimental gravestone inscriptions, some of them dating back before the Civil War. There were columns, slabs and spheres in abundance of the pinkish marble that was quarried locally, and among the mausoleums built to look like temples, chapels and houses was one defiant pink pyramid.

The walk through the cemetery, like the ballet class that preceded it, was one of the few things Corey enjoyed, something she did because she wanted to and not because she was expected to or thought she should.

On this October afternoon, crunching through the dead leaves and breathing in the crisp, autumn-scented air, Corey felt pleasantly tired, and looked forward to reaching her apartment where she could have a cup of hot tea and some sandwiches before settling down to write her usual evening letter to her fiancé.

But although she looked forward to those simple things, there was also pleasure in being able to delay them. With no one waiting for her and no schedule to follow, there was no reason to hurry back. It was a beautiful day, and she knew she had at least an hour before it would begin to get dark. So she turned aside from the main path and wandered the sloping, uneven ground among stone angels and headstones until she came to her favorite spot, discovered on a previous walk.

This was a bench beneath a large old oak tree with a view of a cluster of elaborately carved tombstones all commemorating various members of the Symonds family, and a statue of a gentle-faced young woman holding a baby, with a second child clutching at her stone draperies, half turned as if looking longingly at the graves.

"It's as if she were saying, 'Why did you abandon me, and leave us here alone?' " said a voice behind her.

Corey jumped up and turned to see a young man in a bright blue windbreaker. He had a pleasant, rather weak-looking face, and seemed about her own age.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I thought I was alone. I didn't hear you walk up," she said, and realized she had pressed one hand against her heart; she let it drop, feeling embarrassed.

"And in a cemetery . . . I don't blame you for being frightened."

"I'm not," Corey said. "I was just startled, that's all. I like cemeteries. I like this one, anyway. It's peaceful. I often walk here."

"I know," he said. "I do, too. I spend a lot of time here. I've seen you, although I don't suppose you ever noticed me. I've seen you, always by yourself, and I suppose I got to thinking that I knew you. That's why I came up and spoke like I did. It was stupid of me, and rude—I'm sorry."

"It's all right, really, I understand," Corey said. "You don't have to keep apologizing." He gave off such an aura of unhappiness and unease that she felt obliged to try to lessen it.

"I can tell you like this spot," he said. "It's one of my favorites. I love to sit on the bench and look at that woman with her children. She's so beautiful and so sad, really a tragic subject. Her husband has left her—and it's the ultimate desertion. He hasn't gone to another lover, but to Death. So she knows she can never win him back. But she stares at his grave and dreams, and asks him why. You'd think that her beauty and her obvious need would make any man change his mind—but it's too late, of course, for both of them."

Corey felt uneasy now, her pleasant mood shattered. She had no desire to be standing in a cemetery, talking to an odd boy who had watched her without her being aware. But force of habit kept her polite.

"I have to be getting back soon," she said. "I have things to do."

"You're from the South, aren't you?"

"North Carolina."

"My parents live in Florida, so that's supposed to be my home now. But actually, I was born here in town. My family goes way back. In fact, I'll be buried right here in this cemetery when I die. There's a family plot, with a space reserved for me. But you're a long way from home. What made you come here?"

"It's a good school," she said, her voice resentful. "My parents thought I should have the opportunity to go to a first-rate school and see another part of the country. But I'm only here for a year. In May I'm going home. I'm getting married."

"You're engaged."

"That's right."

"He's not here?"

"He's home, in North Carolina."

"Ah." He nodded quickly. "I thought you were . . . it's the lonely who seek out the cemeteries. We have that in common."

She wanted nothing in common with him. She wanted to get away, to escape to the dull confines of her furnished apartment and reread Philip's old letters. Blandly cruel, she said, staring at the bright blue of his jacket, "In common? You mean you're engaged to someone who isn't here, too?"

"Engaged? Oh no, I . . . I don't have anyone. I don't have anyone at all except my dead friends here."

"I've got to go," Corey said, glancing at a wrist on which there was no watch. Anything not to see the misery on his face. She walked away quickly, deliberately crunching through fallen leaves. If he spoke again, or called after her, she might not hear him above the noise she made.

When the letter came, it had been five days without a word. Corey was so excited that her hands shook, and she tore the envelope in getting it open.

It wasn't very long. Just one page written in Philip's precise hand. She read it through to his signature without understanding, and then read it again, her mouth going dry and her stomach beginning to hurt.

He was releasing her from their engagement, he said. Their parents were right—they were too young to make such a momentous decision. He did love her, but he felt they should both date other people and get to know their own minds better. He was sure she would agree with him, but they could talk this over at greater length when they saw each other at Thanksgiving.

Corey dropped the letter on the floor and walked across the small room to stare unseeing at the wall. Less than two months they had been apart. He hadn't been able to last even two months.

She clenched her fists and pressed them against the sides of her head. Her mouth open wide, she breathed in ragged, tearing gulps, feeling as if she were drowning. She wept.

It was beginning to get dark, and still Corey remained slumped on the couch where she had spent most of the day since reading Philip's letter. She had tried to call him, and had left a message with his roommate. She didn't know what she would say if he returned her call, but she had to talk to someone, and she could think of no one else to call.

She had come to this distant, northern town, this first-rate university, under protest, in order to satisfy her parents. She saw her agreed-upon year here as a time of trial, something that must be undergone before she could be united with Philip, and so she had taken a certain grim pleasure in refusing to do anything that would make the time easier on herself. She hadn't joined any organizations or tried out for plays, as she would have back home, and she had not made any friends. What was the point? She would be gone at the end of the year. Why should she pretend that this lonely interval had anything to do with her real life?

She didn't need dates, she didn't need friends, so long as she had Philip, no matter how far away he was. That was what she had thought. And now that she longed for a friend, anyone with a sympathetic ear, she had nowhere to turn.

She thought of the people from her classes who had spoken to her, and how she had always turned aside whatever gestures they had made toward friendship. She thought of the boy in the cemetery. He was as alone as she was now. Remembering how she had deliberately cut him, she felt deeply ashamed.

Abruptly she stood up. She had to get out. She had done nothing but sit and brood and cry alone all day, until the walls and furniture were so saturated with her grief that she could scarcely bear to look at them any longer.

She decided to go to the cemetery. It was a good place for walking, for brooding, for being alone. It was nearly dark, but that didn't bother her. She suspected a cemetery would be safer after dark than the campus.

Corey's apartment was one of four in an old house on the west side of the university. As she crept cautiously down the dark, narrow stairs, she hoped she wouldn't encounter any of her neighbors. Although she had heard them coming and going, she had never actually met any of the other occupants of the house; she wasn't even certain how many of them there were. They were only heavy footsteps on the stairs to her, and voices muffled by walls.

She walked quickly through the empty evening streets. The air was gray-blue with dusk and very still; she felt as if she were walking along the bottom of a deep, quiet pond. When she reached the cemetery she made her way toward the familiar bench and statue.

"You came."

He didn't startle her this time. It was as if she had known he would be there, sitting on the stone bench and waiting for her as the day faded.

He stood when she approached. "I knew you would come," he said quietly. "I knew that if I waited long enough, and thought about you hard enough, that you would understand and come to me."

"How could you know?" Her voice was gentle.

"Because I needed you. I've come here every day, and hoped to see you. Today—I didn't know how much longer I could go on. Today I concentrated on you. I thought about you. I really needed you . . . and so you came. If you hadn't, then I would have known that it was all over, that what I needed didn't matter. But you came."

"I came," she agreed. It was an odd conversation, but it seemed almost appropriate under the circumstances. What else did one say to a strange boy at twilight in a cemetery? "But I didn't know you would be here," she said. "How could I? I'm not sure why I came here. I guess I needed you, too."

She heard him suck in his breath.

Feeling very tired, she sat down on the bench. After a moment he joined her.

"I didn't go to class today," he said. "I was up all night, thinking, and then I came here. I spent all day here, hoping I would see you. When it started to get dark I almost gave up. I'm glad I didn't."

"You don't even know me," she said. She turned her head to look at him. In the darkness she couldn't even tell what color his eyes were. "You don't even know my name."

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is the kinship between us. I felt it long before I spoke to you. You feel it too, don't you?"

"I don't know." She clutched her shoulders, folding her arms across her chest. "I just didn't want to be alone anymore. I don't have any friends here; I don't know anyone I can talk to."

"You can talk to me," he said. "If I could help you—you don't know how happy that would make me. I'd do anything, anything to help you. Anything you need from me."

His tone was disconcertingly intense, and Corey felt briefly the oddness of the situation. But anything was better than being alone right now.

"I'd like to talk to you," she said. "I need to talk—if you'd be willing to listen. Maybe we could go somewhere and have dinner together. I haven't eaten anything all day."

"I'd like that very much," he said quietly.

They went to an Italian restaurant near campus, and there, over plates of spaghetti and glasses of wine, she began to talk. The flood of her pent-up emotion rushed out and flowed over the young man who sat across the table from her, gazing at her as if she were a miracle. But she was past minding his disconcerting gaze or his odd speeches. He existed for her only as someone who kept her from being alone, a listening presence who served her need to talk in the same way that a glass of water relieved her mouth of dryness.

After their meal he walked her home and, noticing the darkness of the hall, suggested firmly that it would be better if he saw her safely to her own door. She felt a pang—it was the sort of thing Philip would do—but smiled and thanked him. The front door, she discovered, was unlocked—a good, hard push would serve to open it. This was a common occurrence. It was an old door, slightly warped, and needed to be firmly shut, and most of the people who hurried in and out of the house did not bother to pause to make certain the latch had caught. She was slightly nervous as they walked up the dark stairs together, but he did not try to touch her or kiss her, and said good-night politely when she had unlocked her door and turned on a light.

"We'll see each other again?" he asked in a low, hopeful voice.

"Yes, of course," she said. Exhausted from pouring out her troubles to him, she felt eager to get away from him.

"In the cemetery—tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'm not sure, I . . ."

"Then the next day. Or Saturday? Saturday afternoon, for sure?"

She nodded. "Saturday."

"I'm not trying to push you, or chase you, you understand. But I want to help you. And I think we need each other. It is mutual."

"Thank you for listening to me tonight," she said. "It really helped. I hope it wasn't too boring for you." She was uncomfortable again, aware of him as an individual, as an odd stranger who was now knowledgeable about her problems.

"You don't have to thank me. I'll be here for you whenever you need me, I promise. All you have to do is ask me, and I'll come. But I'll see you Saturday, for sure, in the cemetery. Our place."

She nodded uneasily. When he had gone, she locked the door and went to the telephone. Philip might have been trying to reach her while she was out.

But nothing could be learned or settled or changed by telephone, Corey found. Words went humming off into space and lost all connection with reality, with truth. Philip's voice, detached from Philip, was distant and unfamiliar. Was that impatience in his voice, or regret? Pain or indifference? Corey didn't like the sound of her own voice, which echoed in her ears, obscuring what Philip said and what she wanted to say.

She had to see him face to face and learn if he still loved her.

The money in her bank account, the money she was expected to live on for the next month, would more than cover the cost of a round-trip ticket. She didn't think about what she would do when she returned—her parents would provide.

She left Thursday evening, on the first flight she could get. It involved a change in Philadelphia as well as one in Charlotte, but Philip had agreed to meet her post-midnight flight. Despite her nervousness, she felt a greedy exhilaration. No matter what happened, she would have this weekend with Philip.

It was wretched.

At the end of it, Corey felt as if she and Philip were complete strangers. She was eager to leave, even to go back to a place she despised.

She returned Sunday night, thinking about the boy from the cemetery, and remembered her broken promise—she had not met him Saturday, after all. But surely he would understand when she explained, she thought. He knew, as no one else in this town did, something of her feelings. She would have to go and look for him the next day. She realized that she didn't know his name or where, besides the cemetery, she might expect to find him.

On Monday, she found out.

She paused by the student union to pick up a newspaper on her way to class, and noticed that the lead story was about a student who had committed suicide. It was not the student's name, but her own address that leaped out at Corey as she scanned the article—501 Comstock. That was the house she lived in, and it was where the student, Harold Walker, had been found early Sunday morning, dead of self-inflicted wounds. Shocked, she glanced at the accompanying photograph and recognized Harold Walker as the boy from the cemetery.

He must have spent his last hours of life waiting for her in the cemetery. And then he had come looking for her, needing her. And this time he had needed her in vain. She hadn't been home. And so he had killed himself outside her door.

"Oh, God," she said. Heavy with guilt, she sat down on the steps of the Union. He had needed her, and she had failed him—betrayed him—and now he was dead. She began to cry. Other students, passing by on the steps, looked at her and then looked away. No one stopped to talk to her; no one knew her.

During the next few days Corey thought a lot about Harold Walker as she walked dazedly through her life. She saw his body interred in the family plot he had told her about; saw, but did not approach, his quiet, bewildered-looking parents. After the funeral she went to the place where they had first met, and sat alone on the bench where they had once sat together.

What horrified her most of all was the realization that she could never atone. She had never before seen anything in her life as irrevocable. But Harold Walker was dead, and if she had not failed him when he needed her, he might now be alive. Beside his death, the loss of Philip faded into triviality. She scarcely thought of Philip now; it was Harold she dreamed of, mourned, and longed to see again.

Because she could not spend all her time in the cemetery, Corey continued to wander through her daily routine, but her mind was elsewhere. Gradually she accustomed herself to the idea of Harold's death—perhaps he was better off, he had escaped the life that had made him so unhappy. She mourned for herself, now, for her own loneliness.

On the last night of October, sitting alone in her small apartment, a bowl of soup rapidly cooling in front of her, Corey felt her grief turning to anger. The resentment must have been smoldering beneath the sorrow all along.

How could he kill himself like that? With all his talk of need, he must have known how she needed him, and realized what he would be doing to her by killing himself. If she had betrayed him, his betrayal of her had been far greater, because it was forever. It could not be recalled or apologized for. He had taken himself out of life, and out of her life, for all time.

"What about me?" she said aloud. The tears rolled slowly down her face.

It was Halloween night. People were out having a good time with their friends, attending parties all over campus. And Corey sat alone, talking to a dead man.

"I needed you," she said. "Did you think about that? Couldn't you have waited a little longer? Or weren't my needs as important as yours? All right; I wasn't there for you on Saturday, but I would have come back, you should have known that. But you can't come back—no matter how much I need you, you'll never come to me again."

She went to bed early because there was nothing else to do, but she lay awake a long time. And when she did finally fall asleep, it seemed only a few minutes before something woke her.

She lay in the dark and listened. She could hear someone moving about downstairs, and thought now that the sound which had wakened her had been the slamming of the front door. Probably one of her neighbors coming home drunk from a party. Whoever it was was making a very noisy job of climbing the stairs; in addition to the slow, heavy footfalls, Corey could hear a soft, erratic thump-and-slide sound, as if the climber had to support himself against the wall as he climbed.

There was something oddly disturbing about the sound. She was wide awake now, and she lay stiffly waiting for the noisy intruder to reach his journey's end.

Silence—the top of the stairs reached at last. Then more dragging footsteps. Then a thumping at her door.

She sat up in bed, clutching the covers. The pounding continued.

"No!" she cried. Then, feeling nervous and embarrassed (it was probably only a drunk who had made a mistake), she got out of bed and walked through the dark into the living room and called, "You've got the wrong apartment; you're across the hall. Try the other door!"

She waited for the sounds of departure, but when the pounding stopped there was nothing, and the silence ate at her nerves.

Then the pounding began again, still at her door. It was not forceful at all, but neither was it controlled enough to be called knocking. It was heavy but unfocused, a loose, meaty slapping against the wood.

She shuddered. Remembering the downstairs door, and how it was often left unlocked, she realized that anyone might have gotten in.

"Who is that?" Corey called.

The pounding stopped. Silence again. Corey stared at the door, wondering who waited on the other side. Suddenly she had a vivid image of Harold Walker crouching outside her door on the night he died. Had he pounded and begged to be let in, imagining her hiding inside?

The pounding began again, making her jump. She bit her lip and tried to keep from crying. It wouldn't do to lose control. It was probably just some old drunk, or some kid trying to frighten her. But now that she had thought of Harold, she couldn't seem to get the thought of him out of her mind. It was absurd and impossible, but it seemed to her that Harold was on the other side of the door, making that terrible slapping sound with his weak, dead hands.

"Go away," she cried, her voice high and shrill with fear. "Go away, or I'll call the police!"

Silence again. A waiting silence. Whoever was there did not leave.

Harold, she thought. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you came looking for me. She walked closer to the door. Cautiously, trying not to make a sound, Corey leaned against it, pressing her ear to the wood. She heard nothing, not even breathing, from the other side.

But as soon as she stepped back, the pounding began again.

She stared at the door, remembering something Harold had said: "All you have to do is ask me, and I'll come."

"But you're dead," she said. It was barely a whisper, but again it stopped the pounding, as if whoever was in the hall was eager to hear anything she had to say.

"Go away," she said more loudly. "Go away, do you hear me? Go back to where you came from! Do you hear me? I don't need you! Go away!"

There was no more pounding after that. There was no sound of any kind. Corey slumped to the floor, facing the door, no more able to walk away from it than she was to open it. She was shivering and felt slightly sick.

If it was Harold, she thought, someone would find the body out there, sooner or later. And if it wasn't, if it had been only her imagination, her need, someone would find her and let her know; someone would call or someone would come. Sooner or later.

And so she sat, all through the night, waiting and listening for the sounds of the dead.

There has been a positive glut of dragons in the fantasy field over the past few years, so much so that I cringe whenever I see one lurking on a book cover. Then Beverly Evans told me she had a dragon story, and I told her, politely, that I'd be glad to have a look and offer an opinion, perhaps even suggest a market. Another rules-breaker. This is not precisely a Shadows story, but it has struck me in such a way that I literally could not pass it by, if only because it heralds only the second appearance of a major new writer—one who makes her living writing commercials for radio.

This is the first Shadows rule I've broken that's given me not a single twinge of guilt.

WAITING FOR THE KNIGHT by Beverly Evans

On the far side of the collapsed drawbridge two young dragons stood quietly, the morning sun making rainbow patterns across their long, scaled backs. From deep inside the castle ruin a loud, sonorous rumbling shook the ground, and they flattened their ears and winced.

"I don't think we should go in," Heathcliff said softly. "You know what happened to the newt that stumbled in by mistake."

"I know," Monmouth replied. "Seared his little wings to the shoulder. He's lucky to be alive."

"Well, I'm not going to risk it, not after that. Let's go," Heathcliff said, and swatted his friend playfully on the rump with his tail as he turned around.

The rumbling sound increased, followed by the smacking of sleepy lips.

"Wonder what makes old Styzycks snore so loudly anyway," Heathcliff said, gesturing toward the castle with his head.

"Deviated septum," Monmouth replied, rolling his large pink eyes solemnly at his gullible friend as they set off down the hill, snapping at the crickets that leaped madly from their path.

Monmouth and Heathcliff grazed near the river, their long jaws moving slowly as they watched the dragonflies hovering over the water in the hot, still air. Heathcliff flexed his wings in a visible yawn, and Monmouth's lids were so nearly closed that he appeared to be eating in his sleep. He raised his head and turned to Heathcliff, but when he opened his mouth to speak, a flash of fire erupted from his throat, startling them both. Heathcliff ducked his head and stumbled backward several paces, his rear legs and tail landing in the water.

"Grendel's Blood!" he cried out. "Would you watch it! You almost scorched me!"

"Sorry," Monmouth said, abashed. "I didn't know it was coming. You all right?" He sniffed toward his friend, moving his snout up and down with concern, soft blue nostrils flaring.

"I'm fine," Heathcliff said, moving back up onto the bank, stamping his great rear claws. "You'd better be more careful, though. It's a good thing I'm light on my feet." In a friendlier tone he added, "I didn't know you were having trouble with that too."

"It comes and goes. I'm not as bad as some of the newts, thank goodness. It's a pity about them, to die so young and never know what happened."

"Another one got the hiccups yesterday," Heathcliff said.

"I heard the blast," Monmouth said. "It was awful. There's no other sound like it."

"Another one for Saint George," Heathcliff said, and they bowed their long necks sadly, quiet once again.

After a long pause, Monmouth spoke.

"They say it used to be so grand. The castles full of people, the excitement, the adventure—that was the time of heroes. It must have been great to be a hero . . ."

"We're still the heroes, Monmouth, even if there aren't any more noble knights or castles or beautiful poplollies. We won—at least, our grandfathers did," Heathcliff said proudly.

"But look at old Styzycks. He sits on his pile of treasure, grows old, and burns newts by mistake, thinking they're thieves."

Heathcliff raised a questioning eyebrow as he began to nibble a sapling.

"Even in his dreams Styzycks has a little glory to relive. But what do we have? Most of us can't even control our flames. I'm afraid someday I'm going to burp and blow up like the newts." Monmouth sat down, so dejected that his scales began to lose luster.

"Would you like a little sapling?" Heathcliff offered. "It's very good."

Monmouth shook his massive head slowly from side to side.

"How about a game of King of the Moat? We haven't done that one in a long time. You can be king."

Heathcliff looked at his friend anxiously, disturbed by his vacant expression and the way his wings suddenly seemed so fragile, like two autumn leaves resting against his sides.

Heathcliff felt a buildup of methane, but didn't want to upset Monmouth. He turned to the river and lowered his head as if to take a drink, but discreetly expelled a small burst of flame under the water. Several fish surfaced, belly-up, and floated awkwardly downstream.

Monmouth went up to the old tower and looked at the arched entranceway, tilting his head first one way and then another to gauge the dimensions. A rabbit, nesting inside the ruin, scurried away in panic.

Monmouth backed himself cautiously into the tower, stepping gingerly.

"I fit, Heathcliff," he called. "This one is perfect."

"Now come running out," Heathcliff said.

Monmouth roared, "Gardyloo!" and charged through the door. His shoulders and flanks, no longer compressed for squeezing in, were too wide for rushing out. He broke through the doorframe, and the tower began to collapse behind him. The entranceway fell first, and with a great rumbling shower of rocks and mortar the tower fell in on itself.

Monmouth and Heathcliff watched it silently. Monmouth tried to look particularly innocent, and batted his long eyelashes with amazement.

"Well," he said, "I guess that wasn't such a perfect tower after all."

"Monmouth?"

"What?"

". . . gardyloo?"

"Oh, that? It's something like 'ready-or-not-here-I-come.' " Monmouth grinned slyly.

Heathcliff sighed and followed his friend through the wet grass to the next castle ruin.

"Shhh," Monmouth hissed. "There she is."

The thick stand of trees and briars concealed only a fraction of their bulk. Their tails made a steady swishing noise across the ground behind them, and branches snapped underfoot like muffled firecrackers.

Heathcliff moved to the bushes opposite Monmouth, placing the woman between them. The woman was as still as stone—only her eyes darted with fear and caution toward the noises in the woods around her. Monmouth was so excited he almost roared, but kept low in the elderberries. Heathcliff stepped forward. The woman screamed and backed up carefully, not taking her eyes from Heathcliff's. Monmouth rose slowly and, when she was only a few paces away, let out an earsplitting roar.

The woman spun around, saw Monmouth, and fell to the ground.

"You killed her!" Heathcliff cried.

"No, I think she just . . . what's that thing Styzycks used to say poplollies did a lot?"

"Screamed? No . . . fainted?" Heathcliff said.

"That's it, she fainted. Let's get her to the castle."

They stood over her, not sure how to go about it.

"You'll have to carry her," Monmouth said.

"Why me? This is your idea," Heathcliff replied.

". . . I'm afraid."

Heathcliff sighed, and then carefully picked the woman up in his mouth, with assisting nudges from Monmouth. Heathcliff's nostrils flared and went violet with distaste. He felt a rising urge to spit out the foul-tasting and -smelling object, but suppressed it and, with eyes watering and snout twitching, walked behind Monmouth, who made contented, puffing noises as he left a trail obvious enough for a newt to follow.

Monmouth crouched in the castle courtyard, nervously swatting at flies with his tongue and watching the progress of the sun as it slowly crossed the open space above him. The mewling noises the woman in the corner was making were irritating him; he was hungry, and had sent Heathcliff off to gather a few mouthfuls of marsh grass for him to keep up his methane.

Monmouth had practiced his rushing technique and planned how he would evade the knight's sword thrusts with cunning and skill. Actually, it all seemed too simple. If he sat long enough the knight would be within range of his flame, and Monmouth could easily overpower him with one well-timed blast. But where, then, was the thrill that made Styzycks so nostalgic? Monmouth sighed, settled down, and lowered his long neck to rest on the ground. His snout reached the entranceway, and he snorted with impatience.

Lost in thought, he was surprised to hear a rustling noise a few paces outside the door. He sniffed the air, caught a faint whiff redolent of skunk, and withdrew his head. Then he saw a figure by the doorway. It was a man, he knew, but it wasn't noble. It was scantily clad and barefoot, with fiery eyes showing through a mane of hair. Its shaggy beard was streaked with gray. The man half-crouched, warily, also sniffing the air. It was armed with a sharpened stave, and nothing more. The man and Monmouth regarded each other silently for several seconds. The woman cried out once, and then was silent.

Monmouth was taken aback. No armor and sword? No trusty horse in chamfrain? No colored scarf? And where was the traditional challenge? Didn't these men know anything, Monmouth thought as he stamped his feet. The man jumped back, brandishing the stave. Monmouth roared. The woman whimpered and the man trembled with fear, but came forward slowly. With a menacing shake of his head, Monmouth bared his sharp teeth and darted his tongue in and out. To his surprise, the man grinned also, a determined grin below narrowed, cold eyes.

Trembling with excitement, Monmouth prepared to test his flame—but, to his horror, he caught an air bubble in his throat instead, and swallowed it by mistake. His stomach made a hollow, popping sound, and the air crept back up. He swallowed harder, eyes bulging and red, frantically trying to suppress the bubble. Clouds of hot steam warmed his nostrils to an uncomfortable purple. Oh no, he thought, not hiccups—anything but hiccups.

The man took the advantage and moved forward again, jabbing his stave at Monmouth. Still holding his breath, Monmouth took a step backward and felt a wall behind his tail. With a triumphant grin the man advanced, sharp hunting cries punctuating his smile. As Monmouth raised his head farther back the man straightened, eyes gleaming at the expanse of soft green underbelly that now lay exposed. The woman dashed across the courtyard and crouched behind the man.

Monmouth was shaking violently with the effort of not hiccupping, and knew he couldn't hold out much longer. There was little choice now—stand still and let the man impale him, or let out one final blast that would take them all. It isn't supposed to be this way, he thought frantically—this is all wrong.

Then the man lunged forward, holding his stave with both hands not unlike an unseated knight with a lance, and with a painful explosion of pent-up air Monmouth cried, "Heathcliff . . ."

A fireball engulfed the man and woman, and the force of the blast threw Monmouth back against the wall, crushing his tail behind him. Flames licked the bundle of cinders on the courtyard floor, and their soft crackle was the only sound in the sudden stillness. Monmouth lay still, panting. His mouth felt raw, and he carefully tried to swallow.

He could hear pounding steps coming up the hill and thought wryly that here was the horse, albeit a little late.

Heathcliff came through the entranceway and stopped short.

"Are you all right?" Pieces of marsh grass still hung from his jaws.

"I did it, Heathcliff—and it was so exciting! It was better than I even dreamed." Monmouth righted himself and gently tried out his crumpled tail. "He came at me, and I waited until he was close enough . . . and then I let him have it!"

Heathcliff looked at his friend with admiration. Monmouth, now over his scare, was beginning to chuckle, and pranced in tight little circles in the small courtyard.

"I did it! Let's go tell Styzycks," Monmouth said, and bustled toward the door, his ears flopping merrily.

"Wait a minute," Heathcliff said, looking around. "What about the poplolly?"

"Don't worry about that—let's go."

Monmouth turned to go, but then stopped. He licked his lips and frowned, feeling a strange sensation in his stomach and a lump in his throat. He poked the ashes tenderly with his snout and felt his chest tighten.

"What's the matter?" Heathcliff asked.

Monmouth didn't reply, but his frown increased and his neck tensed so that his jaw sunk down toward his chest. His eyes stared, but did not see Heathcliff come to face him with concern.

"You okay?"

Monmouth's eyes held more sadness than Heathcliff had ever seen. Monmouth looked at him and their sorrow deepened; tears glistened down the sides of his snout. Still he wouldn't speak, but gestured with his head toward the door.

"Monmouth?"

Again, almost angrily, Monmouth gestured, and Heathcliff finally turned and ambled out into the sunny afternoon.

Monmouth felt the pressure build up inside him, and leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall for comfort.

Heathcliff waited at the bottom of the hill, and then heard an abrupt, agonized roar that gradually faded away until the only sounds were the perpetually angry twittering of the sparrows and the soft crackle of dying flames.

Al Sarrantonio's stories have appeared in Heavy Metal, Chrysalis, and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. He works in publishing for a tyrant of an editor and every so often gets back by letting loose a bit of terror. This is his first appearance in Shadows; it won't be his last.

UNDER MY BED by Al Sarrantonio

When Daddy says I'm bad, he puts me to bed and turns out the lights. He does that a lot, and I don't like it, but at least I've got somebody to talk to when I'm in here. Daddy thinks I'm alone, but there's a man under my bed.

He only comes up out of the trapdoor after the lights go out and Daddy shuts the door and goes away. The man says he doesn't like lights; he says he doesn't like Daddy much either, and I have to smile when he says that.

He lives somewhere down below the bed, though I'm not really sure where. The living room is downstairs below my bedroom, so he can't really live there or Daddy would see him; he must live in the little space underneath the floor.

He talks to me about things when I'm shut up in here because Daddy says I've been bad. Daddy says I've been bad a lot, every time I do something he doesn't like. Daddy doesn't smile a lot and I don't think he likes me very much anymore.

There was a time when Daddy did like me, but that was a long time ago, when Mommy was still here. I even remember Daddy picking me up and swinging me through the air, letting go and then catching me again, with a big smile on his face. He called me his "little Billy boy." He must have liked me, or he wouldn't have called me that. I even had friends then, and I remember Daddy taking me and all my friends to the ball game once. I spilled soda on myself, and Daddy didn't even get mad; he just smiled and said, "Let me give you a hand there, Billy boy," and helped me clean it up. I spilled soda on myself last week when Daddy's girl friend was here and I thought he was going to kill me.

I remember things began to change just about the time me and Pete Cochran became best friends. Pete's father worked at home, and Mommy used to come over to Pete's house to pick me up after we finished playing. Pete and I played super-heroes, or Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, or the Hardy boys, and one of us would make believe he was in trouble and the other one would save him. It was fun, and we almost always played it at Pete's house.

But after Daddy and Mommy started fighting I couldn't go to Pete's house anymore, and then Pete couldn't come to mine, and after a while Daddy wouldn't let me go out at all. The fighting got worse and worse, and most of the time I stayed locked in my room. Daddy stopped calling me "Billy boy," and they both started putting me to bed a lot, sometimes in the middle of the day. I almost always had my pajamas on. I think they wanted to get rid of me so they could fight, and I used to lie in bed and listen to them yell at each other and sometimes throw things around. Once, the police came, and that was exciting, but otherwise it wasn't very good. They started to hit me sometimes, too. Mommy hit me once and told me that she and Daddy never wanted to have me, and that the only reason they had me was because Daddy thought it would keep him and Mommy together. She smelled like whiskey when she said it. "At least Pete Cochran's father knows what love is," she said.

After Mommy left, I asked Daddy if that meant that Mommy was Pete Cochran's mommy now instead of mine, but the way he looked at me made me never ask him that again. Things got very lonely after that, and I never went out and didn't see my friends anymore.

The man under my bed came out for the first time right after Mommy left. A few nights I heard sounds down there, like mice or squirrels, and I hid under the covers. Then, one night after Daddy shut me up in here and it was real dark, I heard the trapdoor open and the man came out. I heard him puffing as he pulled himself out of the hole, and then he lay there for a while breathing hard. I was scared stiff and yelled for Daddy to come and when he did come and turned on the light the man was gone, back down in the hole; but as soon as Daddy turned out the light and left, the door opened again and the man pulled himself out. I yelled for Daddy to come back but he wouldn't, so I pulled the covers up over my head and listened through the mattress. I could hear him moving around down there. After a while I couldn't hear him moving, so I pulled one side of the sheets up over the edge of the bed and made a hole so I could listen out.

He started to talk to me then, and for a minute I was afraid since his voice sounded a little creepy, like squashing bugs; but he wasn't saying mean things so after a while I stopped being scared.

"I know how you feel, Billy," he said from down under the bed. "I'm on your side." Then we talked for a while about things I like to do, and what I don't like and things.

After that night, he climbed out of his door and lay down there talking to me every time I got put to bed. You could say he became my best friend, like Pete Cochran used to be. I could talk to him about anything at all. And he really understood how bad Daddy is to me, and he felt sorry for me about it. "I don't like your Daddy," he told me once.

I could imagine him down there lying on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the bottom of my bed like it was blue sky with clouds blowing across it. I sort of got the picture of him like Tom Sawyer, with blue jeans on and a straw in his mouth and freckles and a big smile. Even though he told me he didn't look like that and that he couldn't let me see him, the picture I got of him lying down there with freckles and grinning was so strong that I sneaked Daddy's flashlight under the covers with me one night and leaned down over the side of the bed and shone it on him. I had some trouble with the switch, though, and by the time I got it on he was pulling the trapdoor closed behind him. All I saw was his hand on the door rope and the top of his head; he didn't have any hair and was kind of wrinkly-looking. And I got the feeling he wasn't smiling. Then the switch went off and Daddy heard me moving around and came and took the flashlight away.

The man under the bed wouldn't come out for a week after that, and I realized just how lonely it was in the dark without him. I slept most of the time with the covers over my head; I was scared to be in the dark without him, even if he didn't look like Tom Sawyer.

But he did come back a couple of nights ago, just when I needed him most.

Daddy hit me that night, harder than he ever had before. He had his girlfriend home with him and he was drinking whiskey and I asked if I could watch the TV a little longer, and he hit me. Then he put me in my room and turned off the lights and said that if I made any noise he'd beat me some more. I lay under the covers, and I was crying, and then I heard the trapdoor squeak open, slowly, and I heard the man dragging himself out. He sounded tired, but when he started talking to me I could tell he wasn't mad at me anymore. He almost sounded happy. He said he was sorry Daddy hit me and that he wanted to help; he said he might even let me find the trapdoor. He stayed up with me almost all night, until I fell asleep. The next morning after he left I crawled under the bed and, sure enough, I could feel the edges where the door must be; I'd never been able to find them before, no matter how hard I tried. And last night he said Daddy would never hit me again. "Things are going to be all right, Billy boy," he said, and that made me feel warm all over, because I knew he was my friend.

Tonight Daddy's coming home late, and I got into bed by myself just like the man under the bed told me to. He told me to turn out the light and wait for Daddy to come home. He's been under the bed for more than an hour, telling me funny stories that make me laugh, about other kids' daddys and about the things that happened to them. Some of the things are real funny, like what happens in the cartoons I watch in the morning after Daddy goes to work. Even though I know what the man looks like, I still can't help thinking of him lying down there under my bed like Tom Sawyer, with his legs crossed and laughing, telling those funny stories.

It's late now, and I just heard Daddy come in. He's alone, but he sounds like he's been drinking whiskey again. He's bumping into things and cursing.

I can hear Daddy looking for me, since he thinks I'll still be up; he'll probably think of looking in my bedroom any minute. The man under the bed says to be quiet; he says he may even take Daddy through the trapdoor with him to where he lives. Wouldn't that make a funny story, he says, and he laughs. I laugh with him. He says he won't even let the light bother him this time, that he'll come right out from under the bed.

Daddy's outside my door now; I can hear him fumbling with the handle, trying to open it. He finally does, and now his hand is searching for the light switch. He finds it and turns it on, and he looks very surprised to see the two of us in bed, waiting for him.

Hi Daddy.

Juleen Brantingham is a Shadows regular, and she definitely knows what she's doing.

THE HOUR OF SILHOUETTE by Juleen Brantingham

The room seemed to be made of windows. They extended from the ceiling nearly to the floor, their outlines not softened by drapes or curtains except the ones of natural green hanging from half a dozen maples. A sun-room it was called and perhaps it was, earlier in the day. But now, with the hands of the clock approaching six, there was no sun to be seen—only the glare of the sky that, in spite of the generosity of the windows, did not penetrate the room, only reflected from its surfaces.

Those surfaces were the planes and curves of unexpectedly fine furniture—a piano, tables of oiled walnut, upholstery that looked like silk, a delicately colored rug like a painting in thread. It was a surprising room, surprising that it had retained its original character, from a time when this place was not a Home but only a house. How had they kept it so?

Leona Farrier was to be one of the favored few who were allowed to enjoy the beauty of the room and the view from the windows for an hour every day. It was, the nurse had explained, a special treat because she was doing so well. She had not bothered to add that Leona could be trusted not to soil the furniture or to make little messes with stolen food. Such things were understood.

Leona would not have felt particularly honored even if she had been able to think of anything but the agony of putting one foot ahead of the other, leaning on the nurse's arm. She accepted the privilege as she accepted all the privileges of what she saw as her station in life, not as things to be enjoyed in themselves but as marks of rank. Leona knew she was above the usual ruck and run of humanity, but others sometimes needed to be reminded.

At the door to the sun-room Leona paused. Let the nurse think she was admiring the room. It gave her a moment to regain her strength without admitting that she needed that moment. Leona did not regret her earlier rejection of a wheelchair—Leona never regretted her actions—but she did wish sometimes that it was not necessary to set such a good example.

She felt burdened and put upon. She had no patience with the body that had betrayed her, the nurses who patronized her, or with any of the trappings of this refuge for the pitiful. She certainly did not feel honored to be allowed to spend the hour before dinner in the company of the four or five others the nurses considered trustworthy.

She had no faith in their judgment of that either. The old man in the corner, for example. Look at him nodding, mumbling to himself. Any moment now he would probably begin drooling or doing something equally disgusting.

The nurse helped her to a comfortable chair close to the windows, facing them. It was not the place Leona would have chosen for herself, but she felt she could not endure another moment on her feet. The sky was bright, too bright, and she knew she would be able to make out nothing of the features of those who passed between her and the windows. The nurse, leaning over to put a lapboard on Leona's knees, was a silhouette, a dark, twisted thing against the glare.

Leona felt her breath gathering in a sob at the back of her throat. Enough of that. It was upsetting what this illness had done to her carefully ordered life. It was nearly unendurable that it should also play havoc with her emotions, causing her to laugh or cry at the slightest thing until she felt she hardly knew herself.

She blinked away the tears, telling herself it was the glare, picked up the deck of cards and began a game of solitaire. The Solitaire Lady, the old ones called her, their titters drawing a line under the other meaning of the word.

It was dreadful, this waiting. Of course, Leona was only waiting for her health to return, which wasn't nearly as bad as waiting to die. Unlike the others in the Home, she would leave in a week or two to pick up the threads of her life again. She would never look back. This was only an interlude, like the quiet hour before dinner. She could endure even this, knowing it had a limit.

But still it was dreadful, this waiting.

Though she carefully avoided looking out the windows, the glare was giving her a headache. She had always had this trouble with her eyesight, but she had ordered her life so most of the time she hardly noticed it. In her apartment she veiled daylight's glare with gauzy curtains and lit the lamps earlier than most people. She never drove her car after sunset. Her eyes seemingly could not adjust. They played tricks on her. In silhouette and shadow she saw things that should not be there.

More than the waiting, Leona hated her helplessness. Now that she had caught her breath, she could pick up the bell on the table and summon the nurse, ask to be moved to a chair that faced away from the windows. But to do so would make her seem like the others, the whiners and fussers who had abdicated control of their lives to the white goddesses.

Rather than act like those she despised, Leona would endure. In a day or two the trip from her room would not exhaust her, and if she felt like moving from one chair to another she could do it without help.

Her hands counted and turned the cards, stacked and rearranged so quickly she didn't have to think about the game. It was as if her hands played, leaving her mind free to wander and reflect. Some minds are not made for reflection, as some pieces of glass are made to be seen through, not into. But under some conditions, when the light is exactly so, images can be seen.

It came to Leona suddenly that she had hurt people. Her husband, perhaps, and her children. It was a novel thought. Is that why they—And did he, because—

She had never played solitaire before she came to the Home. She'd never had much interest in trivial games, but here one needed something to help the hands of the clock move along. From time to time one of the other trustworthies spoke to her. She did not look up, knowing she would see only painful glare and silhouette. She did not reply for these people were inconsequential, only a step or two away from what the nurses euphemistically referred to as "failing."

Except for herself, of course.

After a time they took the hint and stopped bothering her. Two of them sat near the center of the room, behind her chair, gossiping about long-dead contemporaries and their nearly forgotten scandals. Another was coaxing soft notes from the piano. Only the old man remained where Leona could see him, in his corner, and then only if she looked up from her solitaire. She did not look up, though from the corner of her eye she was aware of his presence, partially silhouetted against the glare, partially wrapped in the shadows formed by the angle of the walls separating the windows.

There was something about the old man she had noted as the nurse brought her to this chair, something familiar. Her husband, father, and brother were dead and she knew it could not be her son. That left her lovers—but she had forgotten them almost as soon as she knew them, so no use to try to call up their memories now.

For a few moments it amused her to wonder if the old man might have been part of that most vivid memory—the rising and falling, rising and falling, while in the next room her husband was dying. His doctor, hadn't it been? His final words, which she had been almost too late to hear, had been of his gratitude and love for a self-sacrificing, faithful wife.

It had been almost a litany of their marriage. It occurred to her now that he must have known of her lovers and hoped by repeating the words to make them work a kind of magic.

A silhouette. That's all he had ever seen. A silhouette.

The doctor had also been complimentary during those moments preceding her husband's crisis, but he hadn't been thinking of her more respectable attributes. Again a silhouette. Could it have been the old man? It was briefly amusing to think so.

She glanced at her watch. The hands had hardly moved since the last time she looked. The hours had substance here, and weight. They bowed the shoulders of the elderly infirm. Here Leona's time was all the same, for herself, but scheduled to suit the convenience of others. It was a step backward into childhood, and Leona resented it.

What she had seen of the sun-room, briefly shielding her eyes against the glare, was lovely. In a more gracious time someone had taken pains with the furnishings. The lines suggested airiness and ease, but these were not the usual flimsy summer things. It would be the perfect place to entertain guests, away from the harsh sterility of the rest of the converted house.

Leona did not expect guests and did not regret their absence. Before she came here she had given strict orders and she was not the kind of woman who expected, even hoped to have those orders disobeyed. She most definitely did not want visitors while she was here at the Home. She thought of herself as the strong one, the one on whom others leaned. She did not care to have her friends see her, even temporarily, against a background of those who all their lives must have been pushed about by circumstance. She could not be pushed. Someone might assume her illness had changed her.

She had been the one to decide she must spend time in a Home rather than be a burden to her family. She had chosen this Home and made the arrangements. She gave the orders that she was to be left alone to mend. She was in charge, always.

And she was in charge even of this foolish card game. When it seemed there were no more moves to be made, she cut the cards she held in her hand, rearranging her options.

"I s-saw that!"

Stupid old man.

"I s-saw th-that. You ch-cheated!"

The note of hysteria in his voice brought silence to the rest of the room. These old people were so foolish. Tempests in teapots were the only thing that kept them from dying immediately of boredom. But they had the attention span of a two-year-old. Leona ignored the old man, waiting for him to fall back into the pool of his memories.

Red queen on the black king ignore the creeping hours. This interlude would end.

The nurse came to summon the others to their rooms for dinner. She stayed by the door to speak to someone. Leona sat helpless, forced to wait for the nurse's strong arms, hating it.

When the old man got to his feet, casting a shadow on Leona's lapboard, she looked at him once, quickly, fearing the touch of her glance would bring on his hysteria again. She blinked as the glare brought tears to her eyes. His dark presence was a grotesque thing, seemingly covered with lumps and clots that fell away as he moved. When he was gone, the lumps remained in the corner as if waiting for his return.

If Leona had had a fanciful turn of mind she might have thought of those lumps and clots as little beasts of shadow-stuff, feeding on the old man, draining him of life. But she rejected such thoughts. Fancies were for the weak and timid.

She had dealt with illness before, the usual childhood things and her husband's long decline. But she had never been ill herself. She did not know how to be patient. Two steps from her bed to her chair. What were two steps? Only two out of how many thousands, millions she had taken? But those two steps were an effort calling for self-congratulation while her pulse throbbed in her ears and perspiration dampened her body.

The walk from her room to the sun-room was an event as momentous as the travels of Marco Polo. She rejected the once-again-offered wheelchair and never considered the ultimate cowardice of refusing to go. But dread cast a shadow over the afternoon hours. The second and third day the nurse returned her to the same chair, near the windows and the old man, and Leona was too exhausted to object.

He watched her. She knew he watched her, staring from the safety of his shadows. Was he remembering when her face had been not so lined, when her body had moved as easily and responsively as a girl's? Was he the one, the forgotten one whose guilt—surely, if he could feel it—should be greater than her own? And why was she thinking of guilt now, when it had never occurred to her as she stood by her husband's bed?

She felt impaled by the light. She longed for darkness, the peaceful, concealing darkness of night.

Again he accused her of cheating. The others stopped their gossiping and their piano playing and Leona imagined their eyes turning, widening. It was no longer amusing to think he might be speaking of something other than the card game.

She did not respond to his accusation, of course. It was a point of pride with her that she never allowed herself to become involved in these senile games.

It was another point of pride that she was fighting her weakness and defeating it. She would not give in as others had, as her husband had, to the narrowing boundaries of illness. She forced them back. On the fourth day, after a brief rest, she realized she was strong enough to get up and move to another chair if she chose. But the old man was watching. She could almost make out the gleam of his eyes within the clots of shadow. Would he think she was trying to escape? She remained where she was and made no effort to hide the way her hands manipulated the cards to win every game.

As the hour of the fourth day passed, this new game became more amusing than solitaire. The others in the room must have been frozen, because Leona could hear nothing but the old man's words and the sound of cards slapping on the lapboard.

His voice raged every time she slipped a card to a more favorable position. Surely if the light were better she would see unhealthy purple in his face. He was spitting words now, and his silhouette leaned from shadows as he tried to rise to add force to his words.

The game ended, as she had feared it must, when one of the others became alarmed and summoned the nurse. The old man was led away, lumps and clots of shadow flaking from his silhouette, trailing scraps of hysteria. Leona smiled. He was terribly thin without his little beasts. He must have been a long time dying.

With the old man gone, Leona's hands lost interest in solitaire and fell idle on the lapboard. Her eyes kept returning to the corner, trying to see past the glare of the windows. Strange—it almost seemed as if he still sat there, spying on her.

The room grew more dim. There was a storm coming. High, racing clouds and wind-whipped leaves made shadows that slipped and slithered in the sun-room. There was tension in the air, but whether it was from the coming storm or the remains of her battle with the old man Leona couldn't have said. Once, while trying to force her hands to resume their game, she thought she glimpsed a black snake sliding toward her from the corner. She almost cried out when it reached her feet but stopped herself in time, realizing that it was only a harmless shadow.

That night, as rain pelted the window and wind howled, her weakness returned, worse than before. She slept badly, once crying out at the pain in her legs. She spent most of the next day with a handkerchief in her hands, to dab away the treacherous tears. She told herself she was not losing her courage, she was not. But tears continued to drop from her eyes, and the thought of the long walk to the sun-room hung over her like a pall.

When she had to stop to catch her breath halfway down the hall, the nurse again suggested a wheelchair. Leona drove herself to complete the walk at once, almost without the nurse's help. But the cost of her pride was high. When she reached her accustomed chair she felt a weight crushing her chest. She dismissed the nurse with an abrupt wave, afraid her right to be here might be taken away "for her own good."

The nurse ignored her gesture. "Are you sure you feel up to this today, dear? Perhaps I should take you back to your room so you can get a little extra rest. I'm sure that with the storm last night you didn't get much sleep. Everyone had a bad night."

Even if she had been dying, Leona would have found the strength to deny being a part of this group. She shook her head impatiently and clutched at the nurse's arm.

"Old man—sits in the corner—where is he?"

The nurse looked at her so strangely that for a moment Leona was afraid her eyes had played a trick on her again, that he was there in the shadows after all. Then she sensed the pity, like warm, dripping butterscotch.

"Is he a friend of yours? I'm sorry, dear. He was terribly upset about something yesterday and then the strain of a restless night—it wasn't good for him. He seems to be failing. The doctor is with him now."

After the nurse had gone, Leona allowed herself to smile.

She woke with a start. Had she been asleep? But she never slept during the day. Naps were for babies and old people. She dabbed at her eyes, which had begun to dribble tears as soon as she opened them. The lapboard was an uncomfortably heavy burden. Perhaps she should give up solitaire. Perhaps it was the lapboard that made her legs feel as if they were being nibbled by ants.

But what would her hands do without a game to play? How could she help the hours to pass? She couldn't amuse herself by looking at the scenery, because the glare of the sky would blind her when the nurse came to take her to her room. And in here the shadows . . .

She shuddered. In the old man's corner she could almost make out his shape, part shadow and part silhouette. It was as if the little beasts had taken his shape to mock her. Had he been that forgotten one? Why did he seem to stare at her still?

Don't look, she warned herself. Don't let him know you know he is there.

No—look quickly because the little beasts have begun to slip and shift at the touch of your eyes. They are sliding across the floor now, dangerous life-sucking beasts, toward your legs, little clots of shadow.

Move. Move. They're not very fast. Move before they can reach your chair.

Leona pushed the lapboard to the floor and struggled to stand. In a panic she turned, her hands outstretched pleadingly, to see the others staring at her, like a flock of white birds startled by the appearance of a cat. What could she say? How could she explain? She had to get away, out of reach of the old man's little beasts, but these stupid ones would not be able to understand.

She looked at her feet, willing them to move. As she stepped away from the chair she saw her shadow on the floor like an elongated silhouette.

She was looking at it when the clots of shadow reached her feet and began to slither up her legs.

John Keefauver's stories have appeared in anthologies and magazines frequently, both here and in Great Britain. And white this may, at first glance, appear to be somewhat gentle, there is a sting, a lingering, that is most definitely . . . Shadows.

SNOW, COBWEBS, AND DUST by John Keefauver

"Beautiful, isn't it, darling?" the man whispered, standing on the boardwalk, his eyes half closed against snow that fell lazily onto the beach. White fluffs crouched on his moustache, gray and newly trimmed, before melting down cheeks crinkled now in a wan smile.

"Give me your arm, Martha." He crooked his arm, the palm of his hand up, his fingers slowly curling. "Wearing gloves now, aren't you." A chuckle. "A little different from the last time we were here—that summer." He bent quickly and kissed an inch above his palm. "You'll have to forgive me for being such a romantic old fool, dear, but it's been so long since we've been together. Like this."

His chuckle seemed incongruously loud in the floating snow-quiet. "I know it's ridiculous, Martha, walking the boardwalk in the winter. But then, we always did do ridiculous things."

He listened, then quietly nodded. "Yes. A long time, forty-three years. Forty-three years ago today, we were married."

The feet of a policeman crunched dry snow, slowed, hesitated, then crunched on down the boardwalk.

"Let's hurry, darling," the man said anxiously. "It's cold, and I want to get inside with you. Again."

He walked over snow-matted boards, past shops and restaurants boarded up for the winter, his left arm crooked at his side. He slipped once and nearly fell, but caught himself and laughed and walked on again, the crunch-crunch of his footsteps loud in the quiet of the falling snow.

"It'll be nice and warm when we get to the club," he said reassuringly. "I saw Christy yesterday. He gave me a key to the place. See?" He pulled a key from his pocket and held it to his left. "I didn't tell Christy you were going to be with me." He grinned wryly. "Didn't think he'd understand. Just told him I was going to look around on my own. Told him I was a sentimental old fool. Don't you think that was the right thing to say?"

The man's face lighted as he listened. "You're lying," he said, "but I love it. Keep talking—I love to hear you talk, it's been so long; go ahead, please."

Chuckling, he crunched on until he stopped at the door of a restaurant that fronted the boardwalk, its windows now dark and saltcrusted. Jutting out from the building, the unlit neon tubes spelled Christy's.

"We're here, Martha."

He unlocked the door and went inside, snapping on a wall switch. Sheets covered stacked tables and chairs, like grotesque diners huddled in silent conversation. Cobwebs patterned corners. Unmelted, the man's snowy tracks led back through the dust to the door.

He quickly took off his hat and coat and hung them on hangers, and, shivering as he walked toward a table, said with eagerness, "Look at the crowd, Martha. Christy always did pack them in. Remember? Remember?

"Waiter! Table for two, please. In the corner. Over there."

He walked to a table and pulled the sheet off it and two inverted chairs. "Comfortable, darling?" he asked when he had arranged the chairs.

"Good," he answered.

He glanced at the dance floor. "I wish the orchestra would hurry. We haven't danced in years." His voice sagged into a husky whisper. "But let's have something to eat first—the same thing we had the last time we were here."

He snapped his fingers and ordered steaks and wine—"With candles, please."

He held a package of cigarettes over the table after he watched the waiter leave. "Martha?" He waited, smiling. "Cigarette, Martha?" His chuckle spilled into the quiet club. "You haven't changed a bit, have you. Still gaping at women's clothes." He burst into a laugh. "But go ahead and look."

His laughter broke. A match scratched loudly in the silence and through its flare he said, "Because even if you don't look at me—" his hand was trembling now, "—I'll be able to see you." He stared at her chair. "Let me. Please."

Then, with a resolute swing of the head, he turned toward the dance floor, his lips taut. "Let's dance, Martha. Now. Like we used to."

He got up and hurried to pull out the other chair; its legs made clear lines in the dust as it moved. He walked quickly, as if afraid he would stop and turn and come back, to the dance floor, his footsteps loud-thumping and hollow on the cold boards.

He hesitated when he reached the raised floor. "In each other's arms," he whispered. He stepped up onto the floor and walked to the center and stopped, standing like an old forgotten mannequin in a closed-up store.

He was trembling now as he forced his arms up, reaching for Martha. Then he let them fall. Sweat began to bubble on his forehead. His tongue flicked out over drying lips. A shiver spasmed him. His hands were knuckled at his side now.

Up came his arms again. Slowly. Slowly. Up. They reached out in front of him. Searching, they cupped. Cupped, feeling for her.

They felt. They held. His arms tightened; they held.

He felt her. He felt her.

"Martha," he whispered. "My God," he whimpered.

"My God. My God." And he jerked his arms down, he snatched them away. "My God." Backing, backing.

Backing from the floor and the covered tables and chairs; backing through the dust and the unmelted snow his tracks had left. Backing, and he yanked open the door and burst out onto the boardwalk, leaving his coat and hat hanging.

Outside, snow settled lazily onto his footprints, and after a while quietly leveled them.

Back again to the clubroom, the fireplace, the brandy. And who better to close this year's volume than Count Saint-Germain?

THE SPIDER GLASS by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
an Edwardian story

"There is a curious tale behind this mirror, actually. I'm pleased you noticed it," their host said to the select and exclusively masculine company that had gathered in the Oak Parlor at Briarcopse after dinner. He reached for the port and rather grandly offered it around. "Surely you'll have some. It was laid down the year I was born—splendid stuff. My father was quite the expert in these matters, I assure you."

Five of his guests accepted with alacrity; the sixth declined with a polite, Continental bow, and the Earl put the decanter back onto the silver tray set out on the gleaming mahogany table. "Don't stand on ceremony, any of you," he said with a negligent wave of his long, thin hand. He then settled back in his chair, a high-backed, scallop-topped relic of the reign of Queen Anne, and propped his heels on the heavy Tudor settle before the fire. Slowly he lit his cigar, savoring the aroma and the anticipation of his guests.

"For the lord Harry, Whittenfield . . ." the rotund gentleman with the brindled mutton-chop whiskers protested, though his indignation was marred by an indulgent smirk.

Their host, Charles Whittenfield, ninth Earl of Copsehowe, blew out a cloud of fragrant, rum-scented tobacco smoke and stared at the small, dull mirror in its frame of tooled Baroque silver. "It is a curious tale," he said again, as much to himself as any of the company. Then, recalling his guests, he directed his gaze at his wiry, middle-aged cousin who was in the act of warming his brandy over one of the candles. "Dominick, you remember my mother's Aunt Serena, don't you?"

"I remember all the women on that side of the family," Dominick said promptly. "The most amazing passel of females. My mother refuses to mention half of them—she feels they aren't respectable. Well, of course they're not. Respectable women are boring."

"Yes, I'm always amazed by them. And why they all chose to marry such sticks-in-the-mud as they did, I will never understand. Still, they make the family lively, which is more than I can say for the males—not a privateer or adventurer among them. Nothing but solid, land-loving, rich, placid countrymen, with a yen for wild girls." He sighed. "Anyway, Dominick, Great-aunt Serena—"

Dominick nodded with vigorous distaste that concealed a curious pride. "Most misnamed female I ever encountered. That whole side of the family, as Charles says—they marry the most unlikely women. Serena came from Huguenot stock, back in the middle of the seventeenth century, I think." He added this last as if the Huguenot influence explained matters.

"Ah, yes, Great-aunt Serena was quite a handful." The host laughed quietly. "The last time I saw her—it was years ago, of course—she was careering about the Cotswolds on both sides of her horse. The whole countryside was scandalized. They barred her from the Hunt, naturally, which amused her a great deal. She could outride most of them, anyway, and said that the sport was becoming tame."

"Whittenfield . . ." the rotund man said warningly.

"Oh, yes, about the glass." He sipped his port thoughtfully. "The glass comes from Serena's family, the English side. It's an heirloom, of course. They say that the Huguenot who married into the family took the woman because no one else would have her. Scandal again." He paused to take wine, and drained his glass before continuing. "The mirror is said to be Venetian, about three hundred and forty or fifty years old. The frame was added later, and when Marsden appraised it he said he believed it to be Austrian work."

"Hungarian, actually," murmured the sixth guest, though no one heard him speak.

"Yes . . . well." Whittenfield judiciously filled his glass once more. "Really wonderful," he breathed as he savored the port.

"Charles, you should have been an actor—you're wasted on the peerage," Dominick said as he took a seat near the fire.

"Oh, very well, I'll get on with it," Whittenfield said, capitulating. "I've told you the glass is Venetian and something over three hundred years old. The latest date Marsden ventured was 1570, but that, as I say, is problematical. In any case, you may be certain that it was around in 1610, which is the critical year so far as the story is concerned. Yes, 1610." He sank back in his chair, braced his heels once more on the Tudor settle, and began, at last, in earnest.

"Doubtless you're aware that Europe was a great deal more chaotic then than it is now—"

"That's not saying much," the rotund man interjected.

"Twilford, for God's sake, don't give him an excuse to digress again," Dominick whispered furiously.

"As I was saying," Charles went on, "Europe was doing very badly in 1610. That was the year Henri the Fourth of France was assassinated and his nine-year-old son succeeded him, and you know how Louis the Thirteenth turned out! James was making an ass of himself by prolonging Parliament and by locking up Arabella Stuart for marrying William Seymour. One of the tsars was deposed, but I can never keep them straight, and I believe a Prussian prince was offered the job—"

"Polish," the sixth guest corrected him politely. "Vasili Shuisky was deposed in favor of Vladislav, Sigismund III's son."

"Very likely," Whittenfield agreed. "Spain and Holland were having a not-very-successful go at a truce. The German Protestant states were being harried by their neighbors . . . That will give you some idea. Well, it happened that my Great-aunt Serena's nine times great-grandmother was living—"

"Charles," Twilford protested, "you can't be serious. Nine times great-grandmother!"

"Of course I am," Whittenfield said, astounded at being questioned. "Serena was born in 1817. Her mother, Eugenia, was born in 1792. Her mother, Sophia, was born in 1774. Sophia's mother, Elizabeth, was born in 1742. Her mother, Cassandra, was born in 1726. Cassandra's mother was Amelia Joanna, and she was born in 1704 or 05; there's some doubt about the actual date. There was flooding and fever that winter and they were not very careful about recording births. Amelia Joanna's mother, Margaret, was born in 1688. Her mother, Sophronia, was born in 1664—"

"Just in time for the Plague and the Fire," Dominick put in.

"Yes, and only three of the family survived it: Sophronia, her mother, Hannah, and one son, William. Terrible names they gave females in those days. Anyway, William had four wives and eighteen children in his lifetime and Sophronia had six children and even Hannah remarried and had three more. Hannah's mother was Lucretia and she was born in 1629. Her mother, Cesily, was born in 1607, and it was her mother, Sabrina, that the story concerns. So you see, nine times great-grandmother of my Great-aunt Sabrina." He gave a grin that managed to be smug and sheepish at once. "That Lucretia, now, she was a sad one—married off at thirteen to an old reprobate in his fifties who kept two mistresses in separate wings at his principal seat as well as having who knows how many doxies over the years. Lucretia turned nasty in her later life, they say, and there was an investigation over the death of her tirewoman, who apparently was beaten to death under mysterious circumstances. The judge in the case was Sir Egmont Hardie, and he—"

"Charles!" thundered his cousin.

Whittenfield coughed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. "About Sabrina. Let me see. She was twenty in 1610, married to Captain Sir James Grossiter. Cesily was three and her boy, Herbert, was one. It is a little hard to tell about these things after so long, but apparently certain difficulties had arisen between Sabrina and her husband. Sir James had quarreled with his father when he got into trouble with his commanding general, and ran off to the Continent, which was a damned silly thing to do, considering the times. He tried a little soldiering, which was the only thing he knew, and then got caught for some petty offense and was flung into gaol, leaving his wife with two children to feed and no one to help her, and in a foreign country, to boot."

"Well, she's not the first woman to earn her bread on her back, but I shouldn't think you'd bring it up . . ." one of the guests was heard to remark.

Whittenfield shook his head. "Most men prefer whores who can speak to them, which Sabrina could not. And her children were inconvenient for such a profession. She knew some French and had been taught a few Italian songs as a child, but for the most part she was as good as mute." He drained his glass again. "She was greatly distraught, as you might suspect, and did not know which way to turn."

"That's a female for you," the same guest said, and the sixth guest turned to him.

"What makes you believe that a man, in those circumstances, would fare any better?" The sixth guest clearly did not expect an answer, and the man who had spoken glared at him.

Charles went on as if he had not heard. "She sold all that she and Sir James possessed, which was not much, and then she began to sell their clothes, so that they had only what they wore on their backs, and that quickly became rags. However, she was able to afford a few bits of food and to hire mean lodgings in a back street of Antwerp. By doing scullery work at a nearby inn she got scraps to eat and enough to buy cabbages to boil for her babes. But it was inevitable that there would come a time when she would not have enough money even for those inadequate things, and her children would have no shelter or food."

"What on earth has that to do with the glass?" Twilford asked, blustering to conceal his perplexity.

"I'm coming to that," Charles Whittenfield said with a great show of patience. "If you'll let me do it in my own way."

"Well, I don't see how we can stop you," muttered a younger man sitting in the corner, hunched over his pipe.

"Everard, please," Dominick put in imperiously.

The older man beside him gave Dominick a contemptuous glare. "No manners these days. None at all."

"Pray go on," said the sixth guest in slightly accented English. It might have been because he was the only man not drinking that his clothes were the neatest and most elegant of any man's in the room.

"I intend to," Whittenfield said to his guests. "As I've intimated, my many-times-great Aunt Sabrina was stranded in Antwerp because Sir James was in prison and she was destitute. She had been cast out by her family when she had elected to follow her husband to the Continent, so she could not turn to them for relief, not that she was the sort who would have, in any case. Of course, Sir James's family had washed their hands of him some years before and would have nothing to do with him or any of his. Sabrina could play the virginal and had a fair knowledge of botany, as many well-bred women did in those days, but those were the limits of her skills. Yet she must have had courage for all of that, because she did not despair, or if she did, she conquered it. She was determined to keep her children with her, as the alternative was giving them to the care of nuns, and being a good English churchwoman, she could not bear to surrender her unprotected babes to Roman Catholics." He recrossed his legs. "My Uncle George married a Roman Catholic, you know. There was the most frightful uproar and dire predictions, but Clara has shown herself to be a most reasonable woman and a truly excellent wife. No trouble there, I assure you. So all those warnings came to naught."

"The glass, Charles, the glass," Twilford insisted.

"I'm coming to that," the young peer protested with mock dismay. "You've no patience—positively, you haven't a jot." He held out his glass for refilling as Everard helped himself to the port. "So," he resumed after an appreciative moment, "I trust I've made her predicament clear to you. Her husband was in prison, she has no one to turn to, her children as well as herself were in real danger of starvation, she was living in the poorest part of the city in a low-ceilinged garret in a house that should have been pulled down before the Plantagenets fell. There was no reason for her to hope for anything but an early grave in Potter's Field."

"Yes, yes, yes," Dominick interrupted. "Very touching plight. But as her daughter had a daughter, we must assume that all was not lost, at least not then." He splashed a bit more port into his glass and lit another cigar.

"Well, Charles, what happened?" Everard demanded. "Did she catch the eye of an Earl traveling for pleasure, or did some other person come to her aid?"

"Not quite that," Whittenfield conceded. "Not a traveling Earl in any case, but a traveling Count."

"Same thing," Dominick scoffed.

"He was, as you perceive from the title, a foreigner," Charles persisted. "He had arrived in Antwerp from Ghent some time before and had purchased one of the buildings not far from where Sabrina lived in terrible squalor."

"And he gave her the mirror for primping," Everard finished. "There's nothing very mysterious about that."

"Now, that's the odd part of it," Whittenfield said, leaning forward as he spoke. "He gave her the glass, but not the frame; that she bought for herself." He did not wait for his listeners to exclaim at this, but went on at once. "But that comes later in the story. Let me tell it as it must be told." He puffed his cigar once and set it aside again. "She became acquainted with this foreigner through an act of theft."

"What could anyone steal from her?" Twilford asked of the air.

"You don't understand—it was Sabrina who was the thief."

The reaction ranged from guffaws to shock; the sixth guest gave a small, wry smile and said nothing.

"Yes, she had decided to steal money so that she and her children could eat that night. You must understand that she had not stolen before and she knew that the penalties for it were quite harsh, but she had come to believe that she had no other choice. It was late in the afternoon when she saw this foreigner come to his house, and she determined to wait for him and accost him as he came out. She thought that since the man was not a native of the place, he might be reluctant to complain to the authorities, and of course, since he was foreign, he was regarded with a degree of dislike throughout the neighborhood."

Everard shook his head. "Sounds like a rackety thing to do."

"It was better than starving," said the sixth guest.

The other man with the pipe coughed and made a gruff protest. "But what is the point of all this, Whittenfield? Get on with it, man."

"Lord Graveston, you are trying to rush me," Whittenfield said with the slightest hint of a slur in his pronunciation. "That won't do. You'll have to listen, the same as the rest."

"Then stop this infernal dallying about," Lord Graveston said with considerable asperity. "At this rate, it will be time for breakfast before you're half done with your story, and we'll never know what the point of it is."

Whittenfield shrugged. "I don't see the virtue in haste when one is recounting the travail of a family member, but if you insist, then I will do my humble best . . ."

"For all the saints in hell, Charles!" Dominick expostulated.

"Very well," Whittenfield sighed lavishly. "Since you insist. As I told you, Sabrina conspired to set upon this foreigner and rob him so that she would have money for food and lodging for herself and her children. She went down the street at night, filled with terror but determined now on her course. There were beggars sleeping in doorways, and a few poxy whores plied their trade in this quarter, but most of the denizens of the night left her alone. She was an Englishwoman, don't you see, and isolated from them. It was a cold, raw night and her shawl did not keep her warm. Think of her predicament, gentlemen—is it surprising that she nearly turned back half a dozen times?"

"What's surprising is that she attempted it at all," Dominick said quietly. "Not that I approve of thieving, but in this case . . ."

"Precisely my point," Whittenfield burst out, the contents of his glass sloshing dangerously. "Most women would have not been able to do a damned thing, at least not any of the women I know. Sabrina, though, was most . . . unfeminine."

"Hardly that," murmured the sixth guest.

"She reached the house of the foreigner and slipped into the doorway of the shuttered baker's shop across the street, and set herself to wait for her prey to appear."

"How do you know that?" one of the guests interrupted. "How do you know that her shawl wasn't warm, or that there was a baker's shop where she could wait for the man?"

"I know," Whittenfield said with a faintly superior air, "because she kept a diary, and I've read it. She devoted a great many pages to this unfortunate time in her life. Her description of the rooms where she lived with her children almost make me itch, so deeply does she dwell on the filth and the vermin that lived there." He shuddered as proof of his revulsion.

"Well, you've got to expect that poor housing isn't going to be pleasant," Twilford observed, appealing to the others with a wave of his hand. "Some of the tenant farmers I've visited—appalling, that's what it is."

"Now who's digressing?" Whittenfield asked.

"Charles is right," Dominick admitted. "Let it keep, Twilford."

"Well, I only wanted to let you know that I had some comprehension of what—" Twilford began but was cut off.

"We can all agree that we're shocked by the reduced circumstances of your whatever-many-times-great-aunt," Lord Graveston said portentously. "Get on with it."

Whittenfield glared around the room to be certain that all his guests had given him their attention. All but one had. His sixth guest was staring at the spider glass with a bemused smile on his attractive, foreign face. Whittenfield cleared his throat and was rewarded by the sixth guest's reluctant attention.

"Pray forgive me," he said politely. "That glass . . ."

"Precisely," Whittenfield said. "That is why it has remained intact for so long, I am convinced. In any case, I was telling you about how Sabrina Grossiter came to try to rob this foreigner in Antwerp. She took up her post outside the baker's shop, hidden in the shadows, and waited for many long hours. She had thought that the foreigner used the house for romantic assignations, but that did not seem to be the case, for no woman came to the house, or man either, for that matter. Well after midnight a middle-aged man in servant's livery left the building, but the foreigner remained. It was cold, very cold, and Sabrina's hands and feet were numb by the time she saw the lights in the upper windows go out. She hoped that the foreigner was going to leave so that she could at last try to take his purse. There was no one else on the street; even the beggars had found whatever shelter they could."

"Sounds a foolish thing to do, wait up half the night for a man to walk out of his house. Not very sensible for her." Twilford looked to the others to support him.

"All the women in our family are like that," Dominick said, at once proud and disgusted.

"She was desperate," the sixth guest said.

"In her journal," Whittenfield went on more sharply, "she remarks that it must have been an hour until dawn when the man came out. She did not remark him at first, because he was dressed all in black, and at night, in the shadow of the buildings, he was little more than another shadow."

"He was a knowing one," Lord Graveston said to the air. "Should stay away from such men, if I were her."

"But she didn't," Whittenfield put in, downing the last of his wine before going on. "She couldn't, you see. She says herself that hunger and worry had driven her slightly mad. She believed that there was no other course, but when she saw the man start away from the building, she all but failed. It was only the click of his heels on the pavement that alerted her to his departure. It may be that she dozed, though her journal insists that she did not. However it was, she did not have quite the element of surprise she wished for and took after him, stumbling in the dark so that the foreigner turned and reached out a hand to her to keep her from falling."

"Did she abandon the idea of robbing him then?" Lord Graveston asked as he filled his pipe a second time.

"No," Whittenfield said with half a smile. "She thought this might be to her advantage, so she leaned up against the man and reached out for his belt. You know how they wore them then, over the padded doublet and a trifle below the waist in front? She thought she might be able to release the buckle and pull the whole belt away. Most men carried their purses on their belts in those times, and if she got the belt she would also have the purse."

"A clever woman," said Peter Hamworthy, who had been listening in silence. "Surprising she had so much gumption."

Whittenfield glanced over at the speaker. "Gracious, Peter, I thought you were asleep," he said with sarcastic sweetness.

"Not quite, merely dozing a bit," Hamworthy responded affably. "I'm finding your tale, though circuitous, interesting."

"You relieve me," Whittenfield said, then went on. "I've told you that it was a cold night, a very cold night, and that Sabrina's hands and feet were chilled. This probably accounted, at least in part, for her ineptness. She had not stolen before, and with her hands nearly blue with cold she had little control of her fingers, which fumbled on the buckle. The foreigner seized her hands in his and held her securely."

"And then he called the Watch, and she was taken along to join her husband in gaol. And that still doesn't explain about the glass," Twilford said, exasperated.

"But he didn't summon the Watch," Whittenfield said slyly. "He held her hands and stared hard at her. And though it was deepest night, Sabrina said in her journal that she had the uneasy feeling that he could see her plainly. He demanded to know what she was about, in Dutch, of course."

"Of course," Dominick said as he refilled his glass and poured more port for his cousin.

"She does mention that he had an accent she could not place, but that is to be expected, since she had no more than a few words of the language herself. She tried to explain that she had only fallen, but he did not believe her. He also realized that her native tongue was not Dutch, for he addressed her in French and German and then English, of which, Sabrina insists, he had fluent command." Whittenfield drank half of his port with the air of a man making a sacrifice.

"Go on, Charles!" Twilford bellowed.

"In good time; I must not abuse this wine." He drank again, less deeply, and set the glass down on the rolled arm of his chair where it balanced precariously. "So this foreigner discovered that she was English and upon learning that, asked to be told how she came to be in a back street in Antwerp. At first Sabrina refused to answer him, saying that it was her concern. He protested that since she had attempted to rob him, he was entitled to some explanation before he called in the authorities. It was that threat that caused her to tell him what had befallen her. At least that is what her journal says on the next day, though there are later entries that hint at other factors."

"What other factors?" Hamworthy spoke up. "Don't be mysterious, Charles. What factors are you talking about?"

Whittenfield lifted his wine and stared into its garnet-colored depths. His expression was slightly bemused. "Other factors . . . well, it's hard to know how much to believe, but this man was not what Sabrina had expected. She remarks, several days later, upon his kindness, which she first perceived that night. Apparently she held nothing back, and out of caprice or compassion he made a bargain with her."

"I can imagine the bargain," Twilford said, his tremendous side-whiskers bristling like the jowls of a tomcat.

"No, you can't," Whittenfield corrected him mildly. "You know what most women, and men, too, for that matter, would expect at such times. Yet that was not Sabrina's experience. She says in her journal that she wondered at first if he was one of those whose love is inverted, but it turned out otherwise. She made a bargain with this foreigner, as I say. She agreed to live in the house he had bought, to keep it for him. He did not object to her children and gave her permission to care for them as she felt best. He did not require them to serve him—"

"Well, they were what, one and three? Hardly old enough to wait upon anyone, foreigner or not," Dominick pointed out.

"There was the matter of bonds," the sixth guest said quietly.

"Precisely," Whittenfield agreed. "And this foreigner did not require that Cesily and Herbert be bonded to him, which was something of a wonder in those times. Sabrina mentions in her journal that her employer's manservant told her that he had been a bondsman, and when his master found him he refused to continue the bond."

"One of those damned humanitarian sorts." Lord Graveston sighed portentously. "The world's full of 'em."

"Doubtless an opinion shared by the children of Whitechapel," the sixth guest commented without smiling.

"Terrible state of affairs, those slums," Dominick said indignantly. "Had to drive through there once; there'd been an accident and it was the only way round. There was the most appalling stench, and the buildings looked to be held together by filth alone. The people—a complete want of conduct." Two of the other men nodded their understanding and disapproval. "One drab tried to climb into my carriage, and those who saw her make the attempt made such rude and licentious comments . . . The children were as bad as their seniors."

"This is hardly appropriate after-dinner conversation," Hamworthy opined.

"Very true," Whittenfield said smoothly. "My great-aunt's adventures with a foreigner are much more suitable." He drank down the last of his port and let the glass tip in his fingers. "Unless, of course, you're not interested in what became of her . . ."

"Oh, get on with it," Dominick said, nudging Everard with his elbow so that he would add his support.

Obediently Everard spoke up. "Yes, by all means, Charles, let's have the rest of the story."

"I still don't see how that bedeviled glass comes into it," Twilford muttered, dropping his chin forward.

"It is bedeviled, if Sabrina is to be believed," Charles said rather dreamily. "How aptly you put it, Twilford."

Lord Graveston coughed twice in an awesome way.

"Yes. Of course." Charles leaned forward in his chair and filled his glass. "I'll probably regret it in the morning, but for the present, this is precisely what's wanted." After he had settled back again and once more propped his heels on the settle, he resumed his story. "Well, as I said, Sabrina agreed to be the housekeeper to this foreigner in exchange for shelter and meals for herself and her children. She was most uneasy about the arrangement at first, because there was no saying that her benefactor might not suddenly decide to change the nature of their arrangements and make demands or her children. She was also very much aware that he could dismiss her at any time and she would be in the same sorry state that she was when he made his agreement with her. Yet she had no other choice. She could not return to England, she had no one she knew who would protect her in Antwerp, or indeed any European country and there seemed to be no other way to get money. The foreigner settled a small amount of money on her to enable her to buy cloth from the mercer so that she could dress herself and her children."

"Sounds like one of those missionary types," Twilford growled. "They're always doing that kind of thing."

"There were, naturally, certain restrictions to her duties," Whittenfield continued, "and they caused her some alarm. There were rooms of the house where she was not allowed to venture, and which were locked day and night. The foreigner often received heavily wrapped parcels from many strange lands. Gradually, Sabrina began to fear that the Count was engaged in nefarious or criminal activities. And she became convinced of it some seven months after she entered his employ. There are three entries in her journal that are at once baffling and thought-provoking. She mentions first that the Count did not often go abroad in the day. At first this disturbed her, but she saw him more than once in sunlight and noted that he did cast a shadow, and so her fear that she had fallen into the hands of a malignant spirit was lessened. Oh, you may all laugh if you choose," he said in a wounded tone. "In those times there were many with such fears. It was a superstitious age."

"And this one, of course, is not," the sixth guest said, his fine brows raising in courteous disbelief.

"Oh, those uneducated and unintelligent masses, I daresay, are still in the throes of various dreads, but for those of us who have the wit to learn, well, most of us cast off the shackles of superstition before we were out of lead strings." He took a meditative sip of his port. "Still, I suppose we can understand a little how it was that Sabrina felt the dread she did."

"Well, women, you know . . ." Hamworthy said with an indulgent smile. "Wonderful creatures, all of them, but you know what their minds are. Not one in a thousand can think, and the ones who can are always distressingly masculine. That Frenchwoman, the writer with the English name . . . Sand, isn't it? That's a case in point."

"My Great-aunt Serena was another," Whittenfield said, frowning a trifle. "Wasn't a man in the county cared to trade words with her. They respected her, of course, but you couldn't say that they liked her. Nonetheless, most of us loved her when we were children."

"Will you get back to Sabrina?" Dominick asked plaintively.

"Oh, Sabrina; yes. Told you, didn't I, that she was afraid of malign spirits? Of course. And she made up her mind that it was not the case. She thought for a while that her employer must have a mistress somewhere because of the strange hours he kept and the absolute privacy he maintained. There was always the chance that he was working for the Spanish or the French, but she found no evidence of it, and after the first few months she was looking for it. She feared that if the man was working for another government and was discovered, she would suffer as well, and after enduring so much she did not wish to expose herself to such a hazard. She came to believe that the Count was not, in fact, an agent of any of the enemies of the state. And that intrigued her even more, for there did not seem to be any reasonable explanation for his behavior, if he was not keeping a mistress or doing some other questionable thing. So she set herself the task of finding out more about her employer and his locked rooms."

"Very enterprising," Hamworthy interrupted. "Dangerous, too. I wouldn't like my housekeeper prying into my activities."

"Sabrina also had to deal with the manservant, who was as private and aloof as his master and whom she suspected of watching her. She describes him as being of middle age or a trifle older, lean, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, and yet she did not think that he was from northern Europe as such characteristics might indicate. Once she heard the manservant in conversation with the Count and she thought that they spoke in Latin, though she had not heard the language much. Their accents, if it was indeed that tongue, were strange to her, quite unlike what little scholarly intercourse she had overheard in the past, and not at all like the doggerel of the Roman Church. Yet there were a few words that made her think it was Latin, and for that reason she was more curious than ever. So she set upon a series of vigils, and after many months her patience was rewarded to a degree."

"To a degree," Lord Graveston repeated derisively. "Speak plainly for once in your life, Charles."

"Of course. I am speaking plainly. This story is not easily told, and the wine is playing great hob with my thoughts. You must make allowances for the excellence of my port, Graveston."

"I'll make allowances for anything that gets on with the tale!" was the acerbic answer.

"I'm doing my poor best," Whittenfield said in a slightly truculent manner. "I'm not certain you appreciate the intricacies of Sabrina's life."

"Of course I do. She was serving as housekeeper to a mighty private foreigner in Antwerp and her circumstances were badly reduced. There's nothing incomprehensible in that." Lord Graveston emptied out his pipe and gave Whittenfield a challenging glare through the tufts of his eyebrows.

"And that is not the least of it," Whittenfield insisted.

"Probably not, but you have yet to tell us that part," Dominick put in.

"Which I will do if only you will give me the chance," Whittenfield remonstrated. "Each of you, it seems, would rather discuss your own adventures. If that's your desire, so be it."

"Oh, Charles, you're being temperamental." Everard had dared to speak again, but he laughed a little so that his host would not think he had been reprimanded.

Whittenfield stared up at the ceiling in sublime abstraction, his eyes faintly glazed. "You know, when I first read her journal, I thought that Sabrina was indulging in fancy, but I have read a few things since then that lead me to believe she was telling the wholly accurate truth about her experiences. That disturbs me, you know. It means that a great many things I used to regard as nonsense may not be, after all."

"What are you talking about, Charles?" Dominick demanded. He had selected another cigar and paused to light it.

"You haven't read the journal, have you?" He did not bother to look at his cousin. "Naturally not. But I have, several times now, and it is a most—unnerving document."

"So you persist in telling us," Hamworthy sighed. "Yet you have not particularly justified your claim."

"How little faith you have, Peter," Whittenfield said with an assumption of piety. "If you would bear with me, you will find out why I have said what I have about Sabrina and that glass. I wasn't the one who brought the subject up; I have merely offered to enlighten you." He drank again, licking away the crescent it left on his upper lip.

"Then be kind enough to tell us the rest," said the sixth guest.

With this clear invitation before him, Whittenfield hesitated. "I don't know what yon will make of it. I haven't sorted it out myself yet, not since I realized she was telling the truth." He smiled uncertainly. "Well, I'll leave it up to you. That's probably best." He took another nervous sip of wine. "She—that is, Sabrina, of course—she continued to watch the Count. She was up many nights, so that it was all she could do to work the next day. During that time she took great care to do her work well. And she made herself as useful as possible to the manservant so that she might stay in his good graces. In her journal she related that he never behaved in any but the most polite way, and yet she felt the same sort of awe for the servant that she did for the master. And she feared to face him directly, except when absolutely necessary. When she had been the Count's housekeeper for a few months, she had enough coins laid aside to enable her to purchase a crucifix—she had sold her old one the year before—and she mentions that the Count commented on it when he saw it, saying that it was merely gold plate. She indignantly reminded him that it was the best she could afford, and that the gold was not important, the faith it represented was. The Count acknowledged her correction, and nothing more was said. Then, two weeks after that, he presented her with a second crucifix of the finest gold, finished in the Florentine style. It was in the family for some time, I recall. Aunt Serena said that her grandmother used to wear it. That was a great surprise to Sabrina, and she promptly took it off to a Roman priest, for all she did not trust him, and asked him to bless the treasure, just in case. He did as she asked, after he had satisfied himself that though Sabrina was one of the English heathen, yet she knew enough of religion to warrant his granting her request."

"And did her Count vanish in a puff of smoke next morning?" Dominick ventured sarcastically.

"No. He was unperturbed as ever. From what Sabrina says, he was a man of the utmost urbanity and self-possession. She never heard him raise his voice, never saw any evidence that he abused his manservant, never found any indication of moral excesses. I've been trying for years to puzzle out what she meant by moral excesses. Still, whatever they were he didn't do them. Finally one night, while she was keeping her vigil on the stair below one of the locked doors, being fatigued by her housekeeper's tasks during the day and having spent the better part of most nights watching, she fell asleep, in this case quite literally. She tumbled down the stairs, and in her journal she states that although she does not remember doing so, she must have cried out, for she does recall a door opening and light falling on her from one of the locked rooms."

"Was she much hurt?" Everard asked. "I fell down the stairs once, and ended up with torn ligaments in my shoulder where I'd tried to catch myself. Doctor said I was fortunate not to have broken my skull, but he is forever saying such things."

Whittenfield's brow puckered in annoyance. "She was much bruised and she had broken her arm—luckily the right one, for she was left-handed."

"Ah," Twilford said sagely. "That accounts for it."

"The left-handedness?" Whittenfield asked, momentarily diverted. "It may be. There are some odd gifts that the left-handed are supposed to have. Come to think of it, Serena was left-handed. There might be something to it."

The sixth guest smiled wryly. "And the ambidextrous?"

"I don't approve of that," Lord Graveston announced. "Isn't natural."

"You don't think so?" the sixth guest asked, but neither expected nor got an answer from the crusty old peer.

"Back to Sabrina," Dominick ordered.

"Yes, back to Sabrina," Whittenfield said, draining his glass again. "Remarkable woman that she was. Where was I?"

"She had fallen down the stairs and broken her arm," one of the guests prompted.

"Oh, yes. And her employer came out of the locked room. Yes. She swooned when she fell, or shortly after, and her next memory was of being carried, though where and by whom she could not tell, for her pain was too intense to allow her much opportunity for thought. She contented herself with closing her eyes and waiting for the worst of her feeling to pass."

"Only thing she could do, probably," Everard said grimly.

"It would seem so. This employer of hers took her into one of the rooms that had been locked, and when she came to her senses she was on a splendid couch in a small and elegant room. You may imagine her amazement at this, for until that time she had thought that the house, being in one of the poorest parts of the city, had no such finery in it. Yet there were fine paintings on the walls, and the furniture was luxuriously upholstered. And this was a time when such luxury was fairly rare, even among the wealthy. This Count was obviously a much more impressive figure than Sabrina had supposed."

"Or perhaps he was a rich tradesman, amusing himself with a pose, and that would explain the remote house and the lack of company," Dominick said cynically.

"I thought that myself, at one time," Whittenfield confessed. "I was sure that she had been hoodwinked by one of the best. But I made a few inquiries and learned that whoever this Count was, he was most certainly genuine nobility."

"How curious," the sixth guest said.

"And it became more curious still," Whittenfield went on, unaware of the sardonic note in the other man's voice. "The Count dosed her with syrup of poppies and then set her arm. She describes the whole event as unreal, and writes that she felt she was floating in a huge, warm bath though she could feel the bones grate together. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but could not bring her thoughts to bear on any of them. Then she once again fainted, and when she woke she was in her own chamber, her arm was expertly splinted and bound with tape, and her head felt as if it were filled with enormous pillows."

"And her employer? What of him?" Twilford inquired, caught up now in spite of himself.

"He visited her the next day, very solicitous of her and anxious to do what he could to speed her recovery." Whittenfield paused for a reaction, and got one from Everard.

"Well, she was his housekeeper. She was of no use to him if she could not work."

"He never told her that," Whittenfield said, gratified that one of his guests had said what he had wanted to hear. "She made note of it in her journal. Finally, after ten days she got up sufficient courage to say something to the Count, and he reassured her at once that he would prefer she recover completely before returning to her duties. There is an entry then that hints at a more intimate exchange, but the phrases are so vague that it is impossible to tell for sure. Mind, that wasn't a mealy-mouthed age like this one. If something had passed between them, there would be no reason for her to hide behind metaphors, unless she feared the reproach of her husband later, which I doubt. When at last Sir James was released from gaol, he hired on as a mercenary soldier and went east into the pay of the Hapsburgs and nothing is known of his fate. On the other hand, at the end of her three years with her Count, Sabrina came back to England and set herself up in fairly good style. She never remarried but apparently had one or two lovers. Her journal is fairly explicit about them. One was named Richard and had something to do with Norfolk. The other was Henry and was some sort of relative of the Howards. She is very careful not to be too direct about their identities except in how they had to do with her. Doubtless Sir James would have gnashed his teeth to know that his wife ended up doing well for herself. Or he might have liked to live off her money."

"But surely your great-aunt did not become wealthy through the good offices of this Count, did she?" Twilford asked, eyeing his host askance.

"Probably a bequest. Those Continentals are always settling great amounts of money on their faithful servants. I read of a case not long ago where a butler in France got more than the children—" Lord Graveston stopped in the middle of his words and stared hard at the sixth guest. "No offense intended."

"Naturally not," the sixth guest said.

"You're a Count, too, they say?" Dominick inquired unnecessarily.

The sixth guest favored him with a wry smile and a slight inclination of his head. "That is one of my titles, yes."

"Smooth-spoken devil, aren't you?" Dominick challenged, his eyes glowing bright.

"In the manner of my English . . . acquaintances," he replied, adding, "if I have erred, perhaps you will be kind enough to instruct me."

Everard stifled a laugh and Dominick's face reddened.

"Let it alone, Dominick, can't you?" Twilford said before Dominick could think of another insult to launch at the sixth guest.

"Get back to Sabrina, Charles, or you'll have Dominick asking to meet your foreign guest at dawn." Lord Graveston sounded both disgusted and disappointed.

"Yes, I will," Whittenfield said with alacrity. "She had broken her arm and took time to mend, during which time her employer was most solicitous of her health. He saw to it that she was well fed and that her children were cared for so that they did not impose upon their mother. Sabrina was astounded and grateful for this consideration. She had never expected such charity from a stranger. And the more she learned about the Count, the more curious she became. He was without doubt wealthy, and had chosen to live in this poor part of Antwerp so that he would not be put upon by the authorities, she suspected. Yet she doubted that he had broken the law or was engaged in espionage. Eventually she wondered if he were doing vivisections, but she never found a body or any part of one in the house, though she did once find the manservant with a large piece of raw meat. With every doubt that was quelled, another rose to take its place. She did not dare to approach him directly, for although he had never shown her anything but kindness, Sabrina reveals that she sensed a force or power in him that frightened her."

Twilford shook his head. "Women! Why will they endow us with godlike qualities?"

Dominick stifled a yawn.

"It was Sabrina's daughter, Cesily, who first stumbled upon the Count's secret, or one of his secrets," Whittenfield said, and took time to top off his port. He was enjoying the sudden silence that had fallen. Slowly he leaned back, smiling in delight with himself.

"Charles . . ." Dominick warned.

"The secret was one that Sabrina said she should have guessed. How it came about was—"

"You'd try the patience of half the saints in the calendar, Whittenfield," Everard said, attempting an amused chuckle with a distinct lack of success.

Whittenfield refused to be rushed. "Cesily came running into her mother's chamber one afternoon with a large glass beaker clutched in her small hands. She said she had come upon it in the hallway near the locked door, but upon close questioning, she admitted that she had found the door unlocked and had decided to explore. You may imagine how aghast Sabrina was to hear this, and she trembled to think how the Count would react to the news that the child had invaded his private rooms. She thought it best to be prepared for the worst, and determined to approach the Count before he came to her. She had a little money set aside, and if the worst came to pass she was fairly confident that after she had paid for the damage she would still have enough money left to afford passage to England, though she did not know what she would do once she got there."

"Just like a woman," Everard said, attempting to look world-weary, though his young features did not easily lend themselves to that expression.

"Whittenfield, have you had pipes put in, or must I seek the necessary house in the garden?" Lord Graveston asked unexpectedly.

"You'll find what you need by the pantry door, my Lord," Dominick said, a malicious undertone to his good manners.

"Thanks, puppy," the old man said, getting out of his chair. "Should be back in a little time." He walked stiff-legged to the door and closed it sharply behind him.

"Well . . ." Whittenfield said, rather nonplussed by Lord Graveston's departure, and uncertain now how to pick up the threads of his narrative. "As might be expected—" he covered his awkwardness by pouring himself yet another glass of the excellent port "—it took her some time to convince herself that it was appropriate to interrupt the Count at his work. She did not want to go to that locked door and knock, for fear of his wrath. She also realized that she was not eager to be dismissed. The man was a generous master and had treated her far more kindly than she had thought he would. Yes. You can see her predicament. But if the broken beaker were not acknowledged, then it might go unpleasantly for her and her children. Sabrina was not a foolish woman—"

"What woman is not foolish where her children are concerned?" Hamworthy inquired piously. He often remarked that heaven had seen fit to visit seven daughters on him, as others were visited with plague. It was tacitly acknowledged that one of his reasons for attending this gathering was to talk with Everard about a possible alliance with his fourth daughter, Isabel.

"Be that as it may . . ." Whittenfield said more forcefully, glad that the general irritation with Hamworthy for once worked to his benefit. "Indeed, Sabrina feared for what would become of her and her children. There were several possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. She could be dismissed. That was not desirable, but she could manage, if she acted with caution. If, however, the Count decided to take action against her or, more horribly, her daughter for her actions, then it might go very badly for them. Her thoughts were filled with tales she had heard of the fate of children in prisons, their abuses and their degradation. At the very contemplation of such a possibility, Sabrina was filled with overwhelming fright. She considered taking her children and leaving under the cover of night, and getting as far from Antwerp as she could. Lamentably, her resources would not allow her to fly a long way, or rapidly. She had to hope that she could persuade the Count that any restitution he demanded, no matter how severe, should be taken from her and not from her children. Imagine what terrors filled her as she went up the stairs—the very stairs down which she had fallen—to knock on that sinister locked door."

"Why did she not simply talk to the manservant, and ask him to explain what had happened?" Twilford suggested.

"Apparently she did consider that, but decided that if she had to face the count, she would prefer to do it at once, rather than go through the ordeal twice. It's an understandable attitude, don't you think?"

"And this way she would have the strategic element of surprise," the sixth guest said quietly.

"Just so," Whittenfield said emphatically. "You understand me very well, Count." He drank again, inwardly delighted at the increased attention he had been given. "So she knocked at the door. A gentle rap at first, and then a stronger one. You would have thought she was far more brave than she claimed to be, so boldly and directly did she present herself. In her journal she says that she quaked inwardly, and there was almost nothing she could do to keep her hands from shaking, yet she did not allow these considerations to hold her back."

"Females, so precipitous," Twilford muttered.

"In a general, that quality would be called audacity, and would earn glory and praise," the sixth guest pointed out.

"Not the same thing at all," Twilford said, much shocked.

"Of course not," answered the sixth guest.

"To return to Sabrina," Whittenfield said sharply, "she knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response, she knocked a second time, hoping all the while that the Count would not be there or, for whatever reason, would not answer. She had begun to worry again: what if this man were hiding men and women in those rooms? What if he had a cache of arms or gunpowder? What if there were other sorts of equipment, things that would not be favored by the officials of Antwerp? Was she required to report what she saw, assuming the Count allowed her to leave the house at all? When she had knocked a third time, she was convinced that the Count was away, and she turned with relief to descend the stairs. And then the door behind her opened and the Count asked her why she had disturbed him. He spoke reasonably, her journal says, telling her that her errand must be of great urgency, for she had never before gone contrary to his orders regarding that door. Sabrina gathered up her faltering courage and told him what her daughter had done, then stood silent, waiting for his wrath to fall on her, for it was not rare for a master to vent his wrath with a belt or a stick on servants who did not please him. That's not done much anymore, but in Sabrina's time she had every reason to think that she might be beaten for her daughter's offense, and Cesily might be beaten as well. She tried to explain to the Count, then, that Cesily was only a child and had not intended to harm his property, or to trespass in his private rooms. She had got halfway in to her tangled arguments when the Count interrupted her to say that he hoped that Cesily was not hurt. Dumbfounded, Sabrina said that she was not. The Count expressed his relief to hear this and assured Sabrina that he was not angry with her or her child, but that he was upset to realize they regarded him as such an object of terror. Sabrina demured, and tried to end this awkward interview, but it was not the Count's intention to allow this. He opened the door wider and asked her if she would care to see what lay beyond. Poor Sabrina! Her curiosity was fired at this offer, for she wanted to enter those rooms with a desire that was close to passion, but at the same time she knew that she might be exposing herself to danger. Had it been only herself, she wrote in her journal, she would not have hesitated, for a moment, but again, her consideration for her two children weighed heavily with her and for that reason she did not at once accept his offer. After a moment, her curiosity became the stronger force in her, and she went back up the stairs to the open door."

"They'll do it every time. They're as bad as cats," Twilford said, and looked to Hamworthy for support.

"Charles, you're the most infuriating of storytellers," Dominick said as the door opened to readmit Lord Graveston, who made his way back to his seat without looking at any of the others in the room.

"Doubtless," Whittenfield said, quite pleased with this encomium. "Let me go on. I think you'll find that most of your doubts will be quieted. For example, I think all of you will be gratified to learn that this mysterious Count was nothing more ominous than an alchemist."

"Of course!" Everard said as the others nodded in varying degrees of surprise.

"That was the great secret of the closed rooms. The man had an alchemical laboratory there, as well as a library where he kept some of his more . . . objectionable texts for perusal." He smiled at this revelation and waited to hear what the others might say.

"Alchemist!" Dominick scoffed. "Demented dreamer, more like."

"Do you think so?" the sixth guest asked him.

"Base metal into gold! The Elixir of Life! Who'd believe such trash?" Dominick got up from his chair and went to glare into the fire.

"Who indeed," murmured the sixth guest.

"You're going to tell us that all your aunt's precious Count was doing was pottering around among the retorts, trying to make his own gold?" Hamworthy demanded. "Of all the shoddy—"

"Yes, Sabrina's employer was an alchemist," Whittenfield said with completely unruffled calm.

"No wonder he bought a house in the worst part of town," Lord Graveston said. "That's not the sort of thing that you want put into a grand house. Smells, boilings, who knows what sort of flammable substances being used. He had a degree of sense, in any case, if he had such a place for his work."

"Exactly my opinion," Whittenfield said at once. "I decided, as did Sabrina, that the Count was a sensible man. He showed her his laboratory and his equipment and warned her that it was not wise for Cesily to come in because there were various substances that might harm her in the laboratory. He showed her where he made his glass vessels by blowing them himself, and the oven where many of the processes were conducted. It was called an athanor, Sabrina says, and was shaped like a very large beehive made of heavy bricks. The Count showed her, since he was not involved in any experiments at the moment, how the various vessels were placed in the athanor, and told her how long and in what manner they were heated to get the results he desired. She watched all this with great fascination and asked very few questions, though she longed to pester him with them. At last he told her he would appreciate her discretion, but if she had any doubts about remaining in his employ, she would have to tell him and he would arrange for her to have passage back to England. She was. taken aback by this suggestion, for she believed that the Count wanted to be rid of her now that she had learned his secret. Apparently he discerned something of this in her countenance, and he assured her at once that he did not wish her to leave, but he was aware that there were many who did not view alchemy kindly and wished to have nothing to do with it. If that expressed her own feelings, then he wanted her to tell him at once in order to make proper arrangements for her. He had, he told her, another house in Antwerp, and he would send her there if she felt she could not remain in good conscience so near his laboratory. Sabrina was startled by this consideration, which was a good deal rarer then than it would be now. She told the Count that she would inform him in the morning of her decision, but she wrote in her journal that she was determined to stay, and had been since she was shown the laboratory. In the morning the Count sought her out and asked to know her decision, which she told him at once. He, in turn, declared that he was very pleased to have her be willing to stay on with him. She then inquired what sorts of experiments he was making, but he did not wish to discuss that with her, not at that time. He did give her his word that he would present her with a few of the results of his labors in due time, which she, perforce, agreed to. She mentions in her journal for the next several days that she saw little of the Count because he was occupied in his secret room working on some new experiment. It isn't precisely easy to tell, but it seems she put some stock in his skill, for she states she suspects the crucifix he gave her might have been made from alchemical gold."

"Absurd!" Hamworthy declared.

"Oh, naturally," Whittenfield said. "And no doubt the Count had his own reasons behind his actions."

"Wanted to put her at her ease," Twilford ventured.

"Still, a crucifix is hardly appropriate to give an Englishwoman. It seems much too Roman." Lord Graveston had paused in his fiddling with his pipe to give his opinion, and having done so, went back to scraping out the burnt tobacco so that he could fill it again.

"Queen Bess herself was known to wear crucifixes," Everard mentioned, his face darkening from embarrassment. "Probably the Count, being a foreigner and a Roman Catholic—most of them were, weren't they?—wanted to make a friendly gesture. It's a more circumspect gift than any other sort of jewelry would be."

"Everard, your erudition astounds me," Dominick said with a nasty grin at the young man. "Read Classics, did you?"

"History. At Clare." His voice dropped to a mumble and he would not look at Dominick.

"Clever lad," Hamworthy said, as if to take the sting out of Dominick's remark.

"What else did your great-great et cetera aunt have to say for herself?" Twilford inquired with a polite nod away from Dominick.

"She said that her employer continued to treat her well, that her arm healed completely, and aside from twinges when the weather changed, it never troubled her in all her years. She did not have much opportunity to view the laboratory, but she found that the manservant, Roger, was much inclined to be helpful to her and told her once, in a moment of rare candor, that he liked her boy Herbert, and said that he had once had a son of his own, but the boy had died many years before. Sabrina was shocked to hear this, for she had not thought that he was much used to families. He offered to assist her with Cesily and Herbert when her duties made it awkward for her, and she thanked him for it but could not bring herself to trust him entirely, so aloof did he hold himself. In the end, she asked Herbert if he would like to go with Roger when he purchased certain items from the great market in the center of town. Herbert, having turned two, was developing an adventurous spirit, and he was eager to explore a greater part of the world. Roger spoke English, albeit with an accent, and told Sabrina that he would be happy to keep the boy talking in his own language, or teach him German or French. He admitted that his Dutch was not very good and his Flemish was stilted, but he would not mind being Herbert's tutor. In a moment of boldness, Sabrina said that she would rather Cesily be taught the languages for the time being, and Herbert could learn in a year or so, when he had a better grasp of speech. She did not think that the man would accept this, but he did, and inquired what languages Sabrina would like her daughter to speak. When Sabrina expressed her surprise, he reminded her that Queen Bess spoke seven languages quite fluently and it did not seem intolerable to him that other females should do likewise. So little Cesily became his student, learning French, German, Spanish and Italian. He must have been an excellent teacher, for Cesily was noted for her skill in these tongues for all her life."

"Damned silly waste," Twilford said. "If you ask me, it's a mistake to educate females. Look what happens. You start sending them to school and the next thing you know, they want to vote and who knows what else."

"Reprehensible," said the sixth guest with an ironic smile.

"It isn't fitting," Hamworthy declared. "What could your great-aunt have been thinking of, to put her daughter forward that way?" He straightened up in his chair. "Charles, you're not serious, are you? The girl didn't try to be a scholar?"

"It seems to have taken her remarkably little effort to be one," Whittenfield answered. "She took to it like a potentate takes to vice. In the next year she showed herself to be a most ready and enthusiastic pupil. She started to read then, so that by five—"

"Started to read? So young? Was Sabrina lost to all propriety?" Lord Graveston demanded.

"She must have been. Herbert soon joined his sister in her studies, but lacked her aptitude, though he did well enough. To Sabrina's surprise and, I think, disappointment, there were no further invitations to enter the laboratory, though on one occasion the Count presented her with a fine silver bracelet set with amber. She says in her journal that there was nothing remarkable about the amber or the silver except that the workmanship was exceedingly good. I wish I knew what became of that bracelet," Whittenfield added in another voice. "We have the mirror, which is an object of considerable speculation, but not the bracelet, which might have had a great deal of value, both for the materials and the antiquity."

"Don't talk like a merchant, Charles. It's unbecoming," Hamworthy interjected.

"You're a fine one to talk about merchants, Peter," Dominick said to him with false good humor. "Didn't your sister marry that merchant from Leeds?"

Peter Hamworthy's face turned an amazing shade of raspberry. He stared at Dominick with such intense anger that the rest fell hopefully silent. "My sister's husband," he said at last with great care, enunciating each syllable with hard precision, "is not a merchant. His family started the rail shipping business in Leeds over eighty years ago, which hardly counts as being shop-stained."

"Naturally, naturally, and the money he brought to the family had nothing to do with it, though your father was almost ruined and your sister twenty-six years younger than her husband." Dominick strolled around the room.

"What about Sabrina and the glass?" Lord Graveston asked in awesome accents. He puffed on his pipe and waited.

"Yes, Charles, what about the glass?" Everard echoed.

"That is coming," Whittenfield said, shooting a blurred, hostile look at his cousin. "I've told you that Sabrina had been given a bracelet and that she had been in the employ of the Count well over a year. That is important to remember, because she had a fair familiarity with the man and his habits. She knew that he spent much of the night in his laboratory and a fair amount of his time otherwise in study and reading. He went out fairly often, but irregularly. If he had friends, she knew nothing of them, though she assumed he must occasionally receive them at his other house, wherever it was. She appreciated his kindness and the attention he gave to her and her children. When she had been working for him about eighteen months, her tone changes slightly. She is not more wary or more forthcoming, but she admits once or twice that he is an attractive and compelling man, and that she has had one or two vivid dreams about him. You may all guess the nature of those dreams. At first, she only mentions that she did dream that he came to her in her bed, and later her descriptions become more detailed and . . . improper. She mentions that after one such dream she met the Count in the morning room where she and her children were eating, and to her amazement she found herself blushing as she looked at him. She records in her journal that until that moment she was unaware of the penetrating strength of his eyes, which she describes as being dark and large. The Count, she says, saw her blush and smiled enigmatically, but made no comment to her. He had come to talk to Cesily in Italian, as Roger was out of the house on an errand to the docks."

"Perhaps he read her journal. M' mother always said that it was wise to read the diaries of your servants. She always kept records of what her maids said among themselves and in their diaries," Hamworthy announced with portentous confidence.

"And did she allow the maids to read her diary?" the sixth guest asked gently, dark eyes turned on Peter Hamworthy.

"What?" Hamworthy protested loudly.

"They probably did, you know," Dominick said bitterly. "My valet reads mine, though I've told him thousands of times that he must not."

"Sabrina doesn't seem to think that he did read it. She considered the possibility, but her attitude is one of disbelief. For more than a week she had no dreams, and then they began again. After three or four months she began to anticipate them with pleasure, and was disappointed when nights would pass without them. During the day she continued to be the sensible woman she was, looking after the house and caring for her children and overseeing their meals. Apparently her employer did his cooking in the laboratory, for he never asked Sabrina to serve him at table. She speculated that he must have his banquets and other entertainments at his other house, for never did such an event take place where Sabrina lived. She commented on it once to Roger and he told her that the Count dined in private, as it was a custom with him to take sustenance with no more than one other person. Roger himself ate alone, but he kept his meat in the cold room below the pantry."

Twilford, who had been drinking heavily, looked up with reddened eyes. "No fit place for an Englishwoman, if you ask me," he remarked. "Shouldn't have stood for it, myself."

"The children enjoyed their lives in that place, though both lacked playmates. In England there were cousins and others who would have been available to them. In that house in Antwerp there were only the poor, ragged urchins of the street nearby, and so Cesily and Herbert learned to entertain themselves. Roger became a sort of uncle to them, alternately teaching them and indulging them. Sabrina says in one of her entries that he had the remarkable knack of obtaining their obedience without beating or berating them. The Count was regarded with more awe, but neither child was afraid of him, and he often was willing to spend time with them correcting their accents in various languages and telling them tales that Sabrina commented were unusually vivid. Cesily was particularly fond of the adventures of a woman named Olivia, whom the Count cast in different roles and different times in history. Sabrina once questioned this, telling the Count that she was not sure tales of the corruption in early Rome were proper for children of such tender years. The Count told her then that he was being mild, and reminded her that there is a marked difference between ignorance and innocence, though one is often mistaken for the other."

"Sophistry!" Lord Graveston insisted.

"And patently false," Hamworthy added. "Haven't we all had cause to observe how quickly innocence departs when too much learning is present?"

"Your brother, I believe, is a don at Kebel in Oxford," the sixth guest said to Hamworthy. "A most learned man, and yet you remarked this evening that he is as naive and innocent as a babe, and it was not entirely complimentary."

Peter Hamworthy glowered at the elegant foreigner. "Not the same thing at all, Count. You're foreign . . . don't understand."

"I doubt I'm as foreign as all that," the sixth guest said mildly.

"When do we get to the glass, Charles?" Twilford asked plaintively. "You've been going on for more than an hour."

"I'm coming to that," Whittenfield said. "You have all come to understand, I trust, that this household was not a usual one, either for this country or any other in Europe. Sabrina had been with the Count for almost three years. She had put aside a fair amount of money and was beginning to hope that she would not have to return to England as a poor relation to hang upon some more resourceful relative. She writes in her journal that it was the greatest pleasure to think of her condition at that time compared to what it had been before she entered the Count's employ. Then Sir James, her husband, was released from gaol, and came searching for her."

"You said he became a mercenary, Charles," Twilford reminded him.

"He did. That was after he saw his family. He came to the house late one evening. Apparently he had been celebrating his liberation, for Sabrina says in her journal that he was half drunk when he pounded on the door, demanding admittance. She had, of course, left word with the warden of the prison where she might be found, and the warden had told Sir James. He was a pugnacious man, of hasty temper and a touchy sense of honor. A lot of men like that, then," he observed reflectively as he turned his glass of port by the stem and squinted at the reddish light passing through it. "He was most unhappy to find his wife serving as a housekeeper to a foreign Count, and in the wrong part of the city, at that. At first Sabrina was somewhat pleased to see him, and commiserated over his thinned and scarred body, but she quickly realized that the reunion was not as happy as she had intended it to be. First he berated her for her scandalous position, and then he shouted at their children, saying they were growing up among ruffians and thieves. When Sabrina tried to convince him that they were being well cared for and educated, he became irate, shouted at her, and struck her."

"As you say, a hasty temper," Twilford commented with a slow, judicious nod of his head. "Still, I can't say I'd like to see my wife in such a situation. A man can be forgiven for imagining any number of things, and if Sir James was touchy of his honor, as you say . . ."

"Probably he suspected the worst. Those three years in prison can't have been pleasant for him," Hamworthy observed.

"Poverty wasn't pleasant for Sabrina, either," the sixth guest pointed out.

"A different matter entirely," Hamworthy explained. "A woman needs the firm guidance of a man. Very sad she should have had such misfortune, but it was hardly unexpected." He reached over for a cigar and drew one out, sniffing its length with enthusiasm before reaching for a lucifer to light it.

"I see." The sixth guest sat back in his chair.

"I'm baffled," Everard confessed. "If her husband returned for her, how does it happen that she came back to England and he went into Europe? And what has the glass to do with it?"

"Yes, you keep holding that glass out as a lure, and I can't see any connection between Sabrina and it," Twilford complained.

"Have patience, have patience," Whittenfield reprimanded them gently. "Let me get on with it. You recall that I said that Sir James struck his wife? They were in the receiving hall of that house, which was quite small, about the size of a back parlor, I gather. Cesily and Herbert both cried out, for they were not in the habit of seeing their father discipline their mother. Sir James was preparing to deliver a second blow as Sabrina struggled to break free of his grasp when the inner door opened and the Count stepped into the room. Sabrina says that she is certain he knew who Sir James was, but he sharply demanded that the man desist and explain why he was assaulting his housekeeper. Sir James, astounded and enraged, turned on this new arrival and bellowed insults at him, calling him a seducer and many another dishonorable name. The Count inquired if Sabrina had said anything that led him to this conclusion, to which Sir James replied that she had, in fact, denied such accusations, which made her all the more suspect. He demanded to know who the Count was, and why he had dared to take in Sabrina and her children, knowing that she was a woman in a strange country and without benefit of male protectors. The Count gave a wry answer: he would have thought that Sir James should answer that question, not himself. Sir James became more irate and demanded satisfaction. He ordered his wife and children to prepare to leave the Count's house at once, that he would not tolerate this insult to his name one night longer. In vain did the children scream their dismay. Sir James reminded them that he was their father, with rights and obligations to fulfill. The children besought their mother to refuse, but it was the Count who stayed the question."

"Impudent foreigner!" Twilford burst out, straightening up in his chair with indignation.

"How dared he?" Lord Graveston demanded.

"What did he do?" Dominick asked in a low, harsh tone.

"He said that he would not allow any man to hurt a servant in his employ. At first Sabrina was greatly shocked to hear this, for in the time she had been the Count's housekeeper he had been most respectful and rarely mentioned her subservient position in the household. But what he said again stayed Sir James's hand. Sir James was furious at the Count for making his wife a servant, and explained to him that well-born Englishwomen were not to be hired as common servants. He insisted that he had endured unbearable insults from the Count and would demand satisfaction of him. Now, in Sabrina's journal she says that the Count laughed sadly and asked her whether or not she wanted her husband to die, but I doubt he was so audacious. Whatever it was, the Count promised to meet him at midnight, in the great hall of his other house. Sabrina, in turmoil from this, begged both men not to embark on anything so foolish, but her husband insisted and the Count told her that if this were not settled now, she would have to leave his employ and go with her husband, and in her journal Sabrina admits that that prospect was no longer a happy one. She turned to her husband and asked that he rescind the challenge, but her husband chose to interpret this request as proof of an illicit relationship between his wife and the Count, and only confirmed his belief that Sabrina was the mistress of the Count. He told her as much and asked for directions to the house the Count had mentioned and vowed he would be there. The matter of seconds was a difficult one, as Sir James, being just released from prison, had no one to act for him. The Count suggested that the matter be private and that each fight on his honor. Sir James agreed with alacrity and went off to find a sword to his liking."

"He did not insist that Sabrina accompany him?" Everard asked, quite startled.

"No, he said that if Sabrina had taken a lover, she could remain with him until he avenged her honor, not that any was left to her." Whittenfield gave a little shrug. "Sabrina says in her journal that at the moment she wished she had become the Count's mistress, for the thought of parting from him was a bitter one. Until she saw her husband, she says, she did not realize how she had come to trust and rely on her employer. At last, the night coming on and the hour of the duel approaching, she searched out the Count as he was preparing to leave the house and told him that she would pray for him, and that she hoped he would not despise her for turning against Sir James. He answered that he was grateful for her prayers and did not fault her for seeking to stay away from Sir James—if not for her own sake, then for the sake of her children, who must surely suffer at his hands. She agreed with some fear and told the Count that she wished she had not told the warden where she could be found, so that Sir James might never have found her. The Count did not chide her for this, but reminded her that she had chosen to follow her husband rather than turn to her family when his cast him out. She did not deny this, but said that part of her fears were that she would become a drudge if she appealed to her father or her uncles for maintenance. With two children to care for, she had decided it would hurt them, and when she and Sir James had come to the Continent, it was not too bad at first. The Count heard her out and offered to provide her with funds to allow her to return to England and set herself up in reasonable style. He told her that no matter what the outcome of the duel was, he feared it would be most unwise for her to continue living under his roof, for doubtless Sir James would spend part of the time before the meeting in composing damning letters to send to various relatives. Sadly, Sabrina admitted this was true. Shortly before the Count left, she asked him why he had not made her his mistress. He had an equivocal answer for her: that surely her dreams were sweeter."

"Why, that's outrageous!" Lord Graveston burst out. "And she tolerated it? The effrontery of the fellow."

"How could he know?" Everard wondered. "If she never told him, it may be that he was telling her that he did not fancy her in that way."

"Any real man fancies an attractive woman in that way," Hamworthy said with a significant and critical glance at Everard.

"Whatever the case," Whittenfield said sharply, "the Count left her and went to his other house. And after debating with herself for the better part of an hour, Sabrina got her cloak and followed him. She remembered the directions the Count had given Sir James, and she went quickly, avoiding those streets where taverns still did business and roistering songs rang through the hollow night. It took her some little time to find the house, and once she feared she was lost, but eventually she came upon the place, a great, sprawling manor three stories high, with an elegant facade. Most of the windows were dark, but there were lights in the area she thought might be the kitchen, and a few candles flickered in one of the other rooms. Now she was faced with the problem of how to enter the building. There was a wrought-iron gate, but she was confident she could climb it; but the house itself puzzled her. She hitched up her skirts and grabbed the ornamental scrollwork . . ."

"What a hoyden!" Dominick sniggered.

"I think she's jolly intrepid," Everard said, turning slightly rosier.

"Sounds like just the bubble-headed thing she would do, judging from the rest of your narrative," Twilford sighed.

"Well, no matter what we think, gentlemen, the fact remains that she did it," Whittenfield said with a hint of satisfaction.

"Does she tell whether or not she stopped the duel?" the sixth guest asked. He had been still while Whittenfield talked, giving his host polite attention.

"She was stymied at first, she indicates in her journal. She looked around the house and judged, from the number of rooms she could see that were swathed in covers, that the Count was not much in attendance there. It was by the veriest chance that she found a door at the far side of the house with an improperly closed latch. With great care she opened the door and entered a small salon with elegant muraled walls she could not easily see in the dark. Realizing that if she were caught by a servant she might well be detained as a thief, she hesitated before entering the hall, but recalling what danger her husband and the Count had wished upon themselves, she got up her courage and went in search of them. It was by the veriest chance that she stumbled on the room where Sir James and the Count were met. Apparently they had already exchanged one pass of arms, and Sir James was breathing hard though the Count, according to Sabrina, seemed to be unaffected by the encounter. At the sound of the opening door, the Count reminded one whom he supposed to be a servant that he was not to be disturbed, at which admonition Sabrina revealed herself and hastened forward to confront the two men. Then, just as she neared them, Sir James reached out and took hold of her using her as a shield as he recommenced his attack on the Count, all the while taunting him to fight back. At first the Count retreated, and then he began to fight in a style quite unknown to Sir James. Sabrina does not describe it adequately, but I gather that he would switch his sword from one hand to the other with startling rapidity, and instead of hacking and thrusting with his sword, he began to use it as if it were some sort of lash. Remember, the art of fencing was far from developed at that time, and the swords used were not the fine, flexible epee we know now, for sport, but sharp-edged lengths of steel. Yet the Count had a flexible blade that did not break, and it terrified Sir James. Finally the Count pressed a fierce attack and, while Sir James retreated, was able to wrest Sabrina from his grasp and to thrust her away from the fight. Then, in a move that Sabrina did not see clearly and does not describe well, the Count disarmed Sir James. Sabrina states that she thinks that the Count leaped forward and passed inside Sir James's guard, clipping his shoulder and knocking his sword from his hand. That's quite a feat, no matter how it was done, but Sabrina's impression is the only information we have, and so it is nearly impossible to guess what the man actually did. The Count held Sir James at swordpoint and politely inquired of Sabrina what she wanted done with him."

"Disgusting!" Twilford said.

"But the Count didn't kill Sir James, did he?" Everard asked eagerly. He had a certain apologetic air, as if he did not entirely want to be against his countryman but liked the gallantry of the situation in spite of the Count's arrogance.

"No, he didn't kill him, though the thrust to his arm could have done so, Sabrina thought, if he had intended it to," Whittenfield said. "Sabrina said that she wanted Sir James out of her life, and to this the Count told Sir James that he had heard the verdict of his wronged spouse. Sir James began to curse roundly, but the Count brought his blade up and warned him that such behavior would not be tolerated. Sir James lapsed into a sullen silence and barely acknowledged his wife's presence. The Count informed him that on his honor—since Sir James was so jealous of it—he must leave within twenty-four hours and take up whatever station he wished with any noble or fighting company east of the Rhine, and he was not to seek out his wife again, either in person or by message. He required Sir James to swear to this, not only by the oaths of the Church but by his sword. Grudgingly, Sir James did this, and then the Count let him go."

"And that's all there was to it? Charles, you disappoint me," Dominick remarked.

"That is not quite all. There is still the matter of the glass," Whittenfield pointed out.

"Ah, yes, the glass," the sixth guest murmured.

"The Count escorted Sabrina back to his house where she had lived for almost three years, and as they walked, he inquired why it was that she had come. She admitted that she feared for him and did not want him to come to hurt. He told her that was highly unlikely, but did not explain further until she asked if it was an alchemical secret that protected him. Again he gave her an equivocal answer, saying that it was something of the sort. Before they entered his house, she confessed to him that she would not refuse him if he wished to pass what remained of the night with her. He told her that he was much moved by this, for women did not often make that request of him, which, in her journal, Sabrina finds amazing, for according to her the Count was a pleasing man, of middle height and compact body, with attractive, slightly irregular features, who was most fastidious about his person and somber in his elegance. Once in the house, the Count led her to the laboratory and lit a branch of candles, then opened a small, red-lacquered cabinet which seemed to be of great age, and removed the glass. It was not in the frame it has now, as I believe I mentioned, but it was rimmed with silver. The Count gave this to Sabrina, telling her that when she could see the spider in the glass, he would come for her. She did not believe this, but he assured her there was the image of a jeweled spider set in the very center of the glass, and that when one stood directly in front of it, under special circumstances, it could be seen."

"Very neat," Dominick approved with a jeering toast of his glass. "I must try that myself, one day."

"Did the poor woman believe that?" Lord Graveston demanded with a shake of his head. "And you have kept that worthless piece of glass?"

"There's a bit more to it," Whittenfield remarked. "Apparently that night the Count did spend some time with Sabrina, and though she does not record what passed between them—"

"It's not difficult to guess," Hamworthy said with marked disapproval.

"I gather that it was not precisely what Sabrina expected. She mentions that the glass was put by the bed and lit with the branch of candles—"

"Really!" Twilford's expression was livid with disapproval.

"Decadent foreigner!" Hamworthy ejaculated.

"And," Whittenfield went on, giving them little attention, "Sabrina says in her journal that for one joyous, incomprehensible moment she could see the spider—that it sat in a fine diamond web, a creature of ruby and garnet and tourmaline. And she was elated at the sight, though she says in a later entry that she does not expect to see it again. She left it to Cesily with the admonition that it be kept in the family as a great treasure."

"A woman's whim for a trinket!" Dominick scoffed.

"It may be. But, as you see, it is still in the family, and no one is willing to part with it. Serena had great faith in it, and she was not given to superstition. I remember her standing here, saying that if it had brought such good fortune to Sabrina we would be fools to be rid of it. My mother wanted to put it away, but it never happened, and I admit that I'm so used to it, I would miss having it. And every now and again I stare at it, hoping to see the spider."

"Oh, Charles," Dominick sneered.

"Did you see anything?" Everard asked.

"Only my face. If there is a spider in it, only a man who cast no reflection could see it," Whittenfield leaned forward and put his glass down.

"Do you mean that after sitting here for well nigh two hours, you have the effrontery to offer us nothing more than a third-rate ghost story?" Hamworthy demanded.

"Well, that is the story of the glass, as it's put down in Sabrina's journal. She returned to England and set herself up well, saying that she had been given a legacy that made this possible. And you will admit that whoever her Count was, he was something of an original."

"If you look into it, you'll find he was just another charlatan," Lord Graveston said with confidence. "Generous, it seems, but nonetheless a charlatan."

"Why do you believe that?" the sixth guest asked him. There was no challenge in the question, just a certain curiosity.

"It's obvious," Lord Graveston said, rising. "Well, if that's all you're giving us, Whittenfield, I'll take myself off to bed. Excellent port and brandy." He made his way through the room and out the door.

Peter Hamworthy groaned as he got to his feet. "The hour is very late and I like to rise early. I had no idea how long this would be. It's what comes of telling stories about females." As he went to the door he made a point not to look in the direction of the Spider Glass.

"I'm for the billiard room, if anyone cares to join me," Dominick said, staring at Everard. "You may come and do your best to . . . beat me, if you like."

Everard was suddenly nervous. "I . . . in a moment, Dominick." He turned toward his host. "I thought it was a good tale. I don't understand about the mirror, but . . ." On that inconclusive note he left the room in Dominick's wake.

"Whittenfield, that was the damnedest farrago you spun us," Twilford admonished him. "Why did you begin it?"

"You asked about the glass, that's all." Whittenfield had got to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, beside his Queen Anne chair.

"Then I was an ass to do so." He turned on his heel and stalked majestically from the room.

The sixth guest turned his dark, ironic eyes on Whittenfield. "I found your story most . . . salutary. I had no idea . . ." He got up and went toward the old mirror as if compelled to do so. He touched the glass with his small, beautiful hand, smiling faintly.

Glistening in the mirror, the spider hung in its jeweled web. The body was red as rubies or fresh blood. The eight, finely-made legs were garnet at the joints and tourmaline elsewhere. It was delicate as a dancer, and though the mirror had faded over the years, the Count could still take pride in his work. Beyond the image of the spider the muted lamps of the Oak Parlor shone like amber in the glass.

For, of course, le Comte de Saint-Germain had no reflection at all.

Table of Contents

- Introduction

- THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT SHAKE HANDS by Stephen King

- YOURS,—GUY by Robert F. Young

- THE BELONGING KIND by John Shirley and William Gibson

- CALLING COLLECT by Barry N. Malzberg and Arthur L. Samuels

- HEARING IS BELIEVING by Ramsey Campbell
- THRESHOLD by Deirdre L. Kugelmeyer
- A VISIT TO BRIGHTON by Alan Ryan

- ECHOES FROM A DARKENED SHORE by Cherie Wilkerson

- THE BLUE CHAIR by Tabitha King
- MEOW by Tanith Lee
- THE GIVEAWAY by Steve Rasnic Tem
- NEED by Lisa Tuttle
- WAITING FOR THE KNIGHT by Beverly Evans
- UNDER MY BED by Al Sarrantonio

- THE HOUR OF SILHOUETTE by Juleen Brantingham

- SNOW, COBWEBS, AND DUST by John Keefauver

- THE SPIDER GLASS by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro