Fictional Interlude: Fair Game

The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket.  Revolution, legality–counter-moves in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom identical.  -  Joseph Conrad

“You’ve done quite well the past few years, Simon,” said Andrew, looking around the apartment at the expensive furnishings.  “Honestly, I’ve always agreed with Dad; I never thought you’d amount to much.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m only trying to say that I was wrong.  Not everyone’s good at study, very few have what it takes to succeed at politics, and none of our family has a head for business.  But you’ve really managed to capitalize on these new laws.”

Though he lacked Andrew’s intellectual brilliance, Simon was by no means stupid when it came to people; he knew his older brother was sneering at him.  “We can’t all be college professors.”

“No, that’s true.  And though you started much later, it looks like you’ve passed me in the income department.  But aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”

“What do you mean, ‘caught’?”

“Well, bounty hunting is technically illegal; a felony, in fact.  And that means you’re just as vulnerable under the Citizen’s Law Enforcement Act as anybody.”

“Not really; they have to tolerate it or the whole system falls apart.  You know as well as I do why they passed CLEA:  crime rates were skyrocketing while revenues were tanking, and all the available police manpower is tied up suppressing riots and fighting the big crime gangs.  Polls show it’s a very popular program; the bounties cost far less than police salaries and benefits, and they’re more than covered by the seized assets of captured criminals.”

“Some people call those riots ‘protests’, and point out that the crime rates wouldn’t be soaring if the government didn’t keep inventing new crimes.  Some even say that the program is nothing more than a way to rob the citizenry under color of law.”

“Whatever.  You and I both know that’s not going to change anytime soon, and I’m going to get mine while I can.  As you pointed out, I haven’t exactly succeeded at any other kind of work.”

“No, you haven’t.”  Simon thought for a moment he was going to say something else, but apparently he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut for a change.  The conversation turned to the wars in Nigeria and Venezuela, the upcoming Super Bowl and their mother’s health, and after he left Simon got himself a snack and looked over the evening’s plans on his phone.  He then showered, shaved and dressed and headed out for his appointment.

He was really looking forward to this one; it had involved considerable research, and as Andrew would happily point out that wasn’t his strong suit.  But it looked like the tip would prove worth the money he had paid for it; there was a high bounty on sex traffickers, and his cut of her assets would be worth much more than that.  Best of all, he would be able to get the kind of sex he liked best before bringing her in, with no chance of getting in trouble for it.

As arranged, he met “Regina” at an exclusive restaurant and he immediately paid her by bumping phones.  The fee was high and the dinner would be as well, but one had to be willing to spend money up front to succeed in this business.  For instance, he could never have passed her screening without the pricey undercover alias service to which he paid out four figures a month, nor could he have been reasonably sure she was the woman he was after without expensive software to crack the distortion all escorts now used to protect against facial recognition programs.  And the miniature DNA analyzer was vital for ensuring he didn’t open himself up to a ruinous lawsuit by bringing in the wrong person.

But none of this would be worth a damn without the natural skills his pompous ass of a brother could never recognize as such:  the hunter’s instinct that helped him track his quarry, and the gambler’s poker face that now allowed him to chat charmingly with a beautiful woman without giving as much as a hint of a sign that he was planning to rape her, abduct her and turn her over to the police for years of prison followed by a lifetime of Registration.

Everything so far had gone according to plan, and when she went to the ladies’ room after dinner he took the opportunity to activate the app which interfaced with the DNA analyzer; it was a positive match.  Her surprisingly-flattering mug shot came up on the screen, along with her real name and criminal record: Dorothy Jenkins, born September 29, 1988; convictions for pandering, money laundering and conspiracy.  That gave him his threshold; she was fair game.

They returned to her incall, where he was pleased to see that she trusted her screening methods; there was neither bodyguard nor maid, which would make his job even easier.  They relaxed for a while, had drinks on the sofa, continued the conversation, and then when the time seemed right headed for the bedroom.  She undressed him, caressed him, and massaged his back with a fragrant oil; she then slid off the bed, removed her earrings and did something on her nightstand…and suddenly Simon felt searing pain tear through his entire being.  He tried to scream, but couldn’t; every muscle in his body seemed frozen in place.  The pain came again, and once more, and then through blurry, watering eyes he saw her bending over him, reading from the screen of her phone.  And he heard her voice as though it were at the far end of a tube:

“Simon Bailey, born April 18^th, 1985; convictions for assault on a police officer and illegal gambling; suspected of 67 counts of human trafficking for the purpose of exploitation of the Citizen’s Law Enforcement Act.  Bounty hunting’s a felony, smart guy, and that makes you fair game.”

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Fictional Interlude: Genius Loci

The southwest furthers.
The northeast does not further.
It furthers one to see the great man.
Perseverance brings good fortune.  -  I Ching, hexagram 39

Every policeman in Central Headquarters had avoided the Chief Inspector yesterday; he had arrived at work in a nastier mood than usual, collected a number of files and then left on a trip to the capital to meet with the Commissioner of Police.  And though he had abominably maltreated everyone who had the misfortune to cross his path, nobody really blamed him because they knew the reason for that meeting.  And now, as the Chief Inspector waited to be called in to his superior’s office, he was fervently wishing that he could be almost anyplace but here.

Fortunately, he did not have long to wait; he was admitted to the beautifully-appointed office he had last seen just after his promotion five years ago and bowed deeply.  The Commissioner acknowledged him with a perfunctory nod, gestured toward a chair in front of his desk, and began speaking as soon as he was seated.

“As I told you in our communication yesterday, I have observed a most strange anomaly in the figures for prostitution arrests in your city,” he began, pointing at a computer screen to his left.  “You assured me that you could explain, but that it would be better for you to do so in person.  Accordingly, I have made time for you in my busy schedule.  Please proceed.”

The Commissioner always spoke that way.  He was a former Professor of Criminology, renowned for his erudition and problem-solving ability, and had been rewarded for years of distinguished service with this choice political appointment.  So although he was not a large man, he could be extremely intimidating, especially to a lower official with an apparently-insurmountable problem.  “Yes, sir.  Well, sir, I’m afraid I must begin by telling you that the situation is actually worse than the official figures make it appear.”

“Oh?” he asked, with the barest trace of annoyance.  “Considering that your city has the largest red-light district in the entire country, yet for the past several years has had the lowest number of prostitution arrests by a considerable margin, I am at a loss to understand how it could be worse.”

He swallowed hard.  “Well, sir, those arrest figures have actually been, ah, inflated somewhat.  They’re not even as high as reported.”

“And how many have there been, actually?” That last word was as menacing as a gun-barrel.

“Um, well, it’s been dropping for a long time, and in the past six months there have been very few, but then this month we reached an all-time low of, ah, none.”

“None whatsoever?”

“No, sir.”

“Considering that your performance of your duties has been exemplary in every other way, I am absolutely certain you have some credible explanation for your pronounced deficiency in this particular area.  As you well know, our foreign aid from the Americans requires the production of sufficient human trafficking arrests to satisfy their moral crusade.”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware of that, and when I first took over the post from my predecessor I noticed the numbers were quite low and resolved to correct the situation.  So I increased the number of raids, and instituted harsh discipline against any man caught taking bribes from the madams.  Yet still, the numbers kept shrinking, for no discernible reason.”

“What do you mean, ‘no discernible reason’?  Surely all the prostitutes didn’t mysteriously vanish?”

“But that’s just it, sir; it was as though they had.  Whenever I sent a squad out to raid a brothel, they found it locked and shuttered.  When officers were dispatched to a bar, they found only men drinking.  When they went to bring in street women, they found all the usual areas deserted.  Even when informants told us of activity taking place, it was not so by the time we arrived.  It was as though someone was warning them that we were on the way.”

“Obviously, the pimps and madams have a confederate inside your office.”

“That was what I thought at first, sir, so I tried not announcing the raids; I would just suddenly come in, order a group of men to follow me, and take them to the red light district myself.  I found the same thing that had been reported to me: locked doors and deserted streets.  I assumed that it was a trick, and that there was some secret way of gaining admittance; so we started breaking down doors, only to find the buildings empty.  Yet my informants told me they were doing a thriving trade again the next day, all doors and windows open.”

The Commissioner no longer appeared angry; now he was the professor again, considering the complexities of an abstruse problem.  “What did you do next?”

“I reshuffled the entire department, bringing new staff into my office and reassigning the entire vice squad.  Then I took officers from other divisions on the raids, to no avail; the numbers continued to drop.  Every arrest we have had in the past year was obtained by officers bringing in known prostitutes who were buying groceries, eating in restaurants or riding in public conveyances, or else beggars we charged with prostitution to hide our disgrace.”

“Do you have any theory at all to explain this strange phenomenon?”

“Yes, sir, but I was afraid to tell you lest you think me mad.”

Now the Commissioner was intrigued.  “Do go on.”

“Well, sir, I asked the same question of all my senior officers; I even promised a promotion to the one who could explain it.  Finally a group of them came to me one afternoon, and told me that they knew exactly what was responsible.”

He hesitated for so long the Commissioner finally spurred him on with, “Yes…?”

“It’s because of, um, a spirit.”

“A spirit?!?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you actually expect me to believe that the ghost of some dead prostitute is going around warning her colleagues about our raids in time for them to flee?”

“Well, not exactly, sir.  I mean, yes and no.  We don’t think she’s that kind of spirit.”  This time the Commissioner did not prod him, so he swallowed and went on.  “You see, sir, I was so desperate by this point that I was willing to try anything, so I brought in a priest to perform an exorcism.”

“A novel solution to a novel problem, but clearly it failed.”

“I’m afraid so, sir.  The priest went to the red-light district, and talked to the prostitutes, and performed some sort of spiritual investigation, including research in many books.  And then he came to me and said, ‘I cannot help you; this is not a restless spirit reluctant to be reborn, but rather the guardian spirit of the area.  As such, it would be wrong for me to attempt to drive it out even if I could.’  I know this priest, sir; he is a wise and holy man, and I trust his judgment on this matter.”

The Commissioner thought for a moment.  “This district has been associated with the flesh trade for centuries, yet nobody has ever seen this spirit before.”

“Well, sir, that’s not exactly true.  Part of the priest’s research was historical, and he showed me records telling that though the spirit has never appeared during a time when prostitution was tolerated, it has often been seen during periods of intolerance.  In fact, the priest warned me that the manifestations would become more powerful, and more dangerous to my men, should we persist in harassing the women and their business.”

The Commissioner grew quiet.  He turned in his chair to look out at the rain; then he rose and paced back and forth for a few minutes.  Several times he looked as though he were about to ask a question, then thought better of it.  After a while he sat down and worked on his computer, intently examining the data displayed on the screen.  Then he turned sideways in the chair again, fixing his eyes on one of the awards on his wall, and sat quietly for a time.  The Chief Inspector did nothing to disturb him; he merely prayed silently, grateful he had not been fired on the spot.

Finally, the Commissioner spoke.  “We will turn this to our advantage.  First, you will announce that the human traffickers have grown so dangerous, you can no longer allow representatives of NGOs to go into the red-light district unless accompanied by a police officer; if this spirit warns the prostitutes of our approach, that will allow us to later demonstrate to the Americans that we have ‘cleaned up’ the district, since there will never be any prostitutes about when they go to look.”

“A brilliant idea, sir!  But, won’t they want to see the women we’ve ‘rescued’?”

“I was coming to that.  I will announce – completely unrelated to your announcement, of course – that we are expanding opportunities for women in the police force, and will begin actively recruiting them immediately.  This will also please the Americans, who will no doubt provide some grant to help us train them.  We will then disguise the new policewomen as prostitutes, send them out to the district, pretend to arrest them, and send them to a new ‘rehabilitation center’; we will keep NGO members away from the center due to ‘concern for the women’s privacy’ so they can’t discover that it is a false front.  Then we send the same women out again to be ‘arrested’ again, until we can credibly claim to have ‘rescued’ a large fraction of them.  The Americans will be happy; our government will collect more money; you will be lauded as a champion against trafficking; the prostitutes will be free to work in peace; the men will be able to hire them without fear of exposure; and the spirit will be placated.”

“Magnificent!  What a plan!” the Inspector cried, rising spontaneously to his feet.  “I am a fool for not having brought this problem to you sooner.”

“Nonsense.  You are a practical man, trained to deal with mortal criminals; it would be unreasonable of me to blame you for fearing my reaction.”

The Chief Inspector, now smiling like a child with a new toy, bowed excitedly, thanked the Commissioner again, gathered up his documents and set forth to implement the new plan, relieved of the burden under which he had struggled for so long.  And once he had gone, the Commissioner silently thanked the Buddha for a most interesting mental exercise and asked his secretary to bring him a pot of tea.

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Mulberry Street

With sincere affection and admiration for the work of T.S. Geisel; all illustrations done specifically for this presentation by Ricardo Cortés. 

When I first joined the Rescue League
The leaders said to me,
“Marcia, you must open up,
The truth will set you free.”

But when I talked about my life
To the assembled band,
They looked at me and sternly said,
“Your story’s much too bland.

“It just won’t do, your tale so tame.
To fight prostitution you must re-frame.”

So, what can I say
To reporters today?

They all want me to say
That I was “prostituted”
And the money I made
By “exploiters” was looted.
But I walked into hooking
Upon my own feet,
And my usual stroll was
On Mulberry Street.

That’s nothing to tell of,
That won’t make the score…
Just a typical street
And a hard-luck-case whore.

That can’t be my story; their interest will fade.
I’ll say that a PIMP forced me into the trade!
He played on my trust, and he threatened to beat,
And he sent me to turn tricks on Mulberry Street.

Yes, the pimp is just fine,
But his method is weak;
Being talked into hooking
Makes me look far too meek.
The story would really be better, I hope
If the pimp had controlled me by giving me dope.
A dope-addled hooker is something to meet,
Looking for johns out on Mulberry Street!

No, that’s much too mundane…
Why not say he used pain?

Brutal beatings are better;
Give the sadists a treat,
To visualize that
On Mulberry Street.

Hold on a minute!
I just had a brainstorm!

It would really feed their tragedy-hunger
If I claimed that I started out very much younger.

It would be a more pathetic scene
If he turned me out at age thirteen.

Hmmmm…a teenage runaway…

But that whole thing’s been done to death;
The runaway hooker on crystal meth.
If I can’t do better, I’m wasting my breath.

If I ponder this problem, I’m sure I can lick it…
A whole GANG of pimps!  Now there’s the ticket!

I’ll invent one with plenty of power and size:
I was the white victim of forty brown guys.
And then, just to make them a little more vile,
I’ll say they tattooed me in some branding style.

SAY!  That makes a story that no one can beat,
When I say it all happened on Mulberry Street.

But now I don’t know…
It still doesn’t seem right.

Even if I could see fifty clients a night,
Split up so many ways would be income too slight.

It would be worth their fuss
Were there eighty of us!

To provide for that many would take lots of dope;
Half the gang would be needed in order to cope.
I’ll make them drug dealers!  Then some of their stash
Can be used for the hookers who bring them more cash.

But for drug-dealing on that kind of scale,
It would make far more sense if they bought it wholesale.
They’re top-level importers, real kingpins of crime,
And they smuggle in girls at the very same time.

But now there’s a hitch of a whole new order;
Mulberry Street isn’t close to the border.

A trafficking business on that kind of scale
Needs special protection, or else it would fail.

Organized crime will do the trick;
Those big-time gangsters are mighty slick -
And shady lawyers don’t miss a trick.

They know just who to lean on, and just who to pay
To ensure the police will not get in their way.

They’re bribed not to see things that just might look “funny”,
And they stick out their hands for a cut of the money.

Other public officials are on the take, too,
In every town in the Red, White and Blue.

And that is a story that NO ONE can beat
When I say that it happens on every street!

The pimps sell their sex-slaves through ads on Backpage,
And they’re fed on dog food, and are kept in a cage.
And that makes a story that’s really not bad!
But it still could be better.  Suppose that I add…

…GPS trackers placed in the girls’ purses…
A black magician casting curses…
Each girl makes 300 grand a year…
No time for more, the press is here.

I heard my name called
And I felt my heart sink;
As I walked up the steps
I just couldn’t help think,

“There no way that these writers will buy all this bunk!”
As a sex-trade “survivor”, I knew that I stunk.

But they listened intently
To all I averred,
And I saw they believed me…
Yes, every last word.

I was wholly amazed; were they really this dumb?
Were their critical faculties totally numb?
They started applauding; each rose from his seat,
And continued to clap as they stood on their feet.
What a wonderful day!  How it made my heart beat!

And I knew once I learned it through endless repeat,
I’d believe my own story of Mulberry Street.

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Links #142

Most of the Vulcan kids didn’t like Spock because he was half human…He was very lonely and no one understood him…But it was only the need for popularity that was ruining his happiness.  -  Leonard Nimoy

This was such an incredibly busy week for links, I’m not going to waste much of your time in this introduction except to point out that the SCOTUS rejected the publishers’ demands for control of the secondary market in Kirtsaeng vs. Wiley,  the case discussed in last week’s second video; this means that for now, resale businesses (including flea markets, thrift stores, pawnshops and businesses that buy, sell and trade books, movies, music, games, etc) are still legal, though not free to operate without government harassment.  Our top contributor this week was Radley Balko, who sent every link down to the first video (an excellent parody of conspiracy theory videos which he also provided).  The second video was called to my attention by Popehat, who also contributed “librarians”.  The other links between the videos were supplied by Jesse Walker (“McDonald’s” and “ad-blocking”), Luscious Lani (“garbage can”), Wil Wheaton’s cat (“redshirts”), Mike Siegel (“book covers”), Aspasia (“nose pusher”), Grace (“deportation”), and Marginal Utilite (“drug war benefits”).

• Citywide panic over an umbrella.
• I thought The Onion only featured parodies?
• The nauseating sound of an academic licking the boots of power.
• Bureaucrats crack down on the scourge of employing autistic teenagers.
• “…It’s prudent and wise to protect children” by warrantless raids over Facebook photos.
• One of Obama’s secret service agents could be a reptilian Zionist alien Illuminati shapeshifter.
• “Prosecutors acknowledged the detectives had misbehaved but depicted them as likable scamps.”

• Wonderful 1968 advice letter from Leonard Nimoy to a biracial teenage girl who asked how young Spock coped with bigotry.
• Original McDonald’s menu included tamales & “aristocratic hamburgers”.
• Hungry homeless man cited for “disturbing contents of a garbage can.”
• Red shirts are less dangerous than previously believed.
• 20 embarrassingly bad book covers for classic novels.
• “I’m going to push your nose through your brain.”
• Woman faces deportation for barking dogs.
• Canadian government muzzles librarians.
• 15 benefits of the “War on Drugs”.
• An early attempt at ad-blocking.
• This week’s edition of “Fascism in Action”.
• Jack Parsons, rocket scientist and sorcerer.
• Never call the cops for any reason whatsoever (rape edition).
• Why “gender differences” may actually reflect societal progress.
• A new short-short story by Neil Gaiman, “Down To a Sunless Sea“.
• What if Nic Cage was every single one of the original 151 Pokemon?
• Judge refuses to allow dozens of past incidents as evidence in case against murderous cops because it would take too long.
• “If you want the government to truncate his rights because you judge him as ‘the other’, then realize that you’re giving the government full license to truncate your rights too.”

From the Archives

• No intentional parody could mock journalistic credulity and police self-contradiction as well as this incompetently-written mess does.
• In India, a sex worker’s child can be prosecuted if he doesn’t move away from home and support himself the day he turns 18.
• New Long Island police commissioner is “on the same page” as the DA who blames whores for being murdered.
• In reality, men nearly always say “I love you” first and it’s women who shun commitment.
• “The nudes of art are not so distant from pornography as prudish pedants pretend.”
• Statistics disprove prohibitionist claims about “trafficking” in Amsterdam.
• Dr. Hernando Chaves:  there’s nothing wrong with seeing a sex worker.
• Some men use honest cash rather than trickery to obtain their first sex.
• The time Nicholas Kristof, master of doublethink, sent me a lot of traffic.
• The 19^th-century Chinese whore who became the greatest pirate ever.
• South African police punish sex workers for daring to demand rights.
• Yet another Asian prostitute study confirms what we already know.
• The asinine waste of funds that was the Anna Gristina prosecution.
• “Moral Panics in the Last Decade” has one conspicuous omission.
• “Last Rescue in Siam”, a cute spoof made by Thai sex workers.
• How trafficking fetishists imagine themselves as white knights.
• The “gateway” fallacy is a perennial favorite of prohibitionists’.
• The many parallels between our era and the Victorian.
• A few journalists begin to question prohibitionist lies.
• How to recognize police doubletalk in news articles.
• Impotent Swedish politician caught hiring a hooker.
• My two previous columns for the vernal equinox.
• A statement from two human books.
• Another truck-driving serial killer.
• The truth about Foxconn.
• Death of a hypocrite.

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Fictional Interlude: Mercy

Thou art no longer lonely in the world.  -  Nathaniel Hawthorne

I sometimes feel sorry for those who don’t have a calling.  In the course of my life, I meet so many people whose jobs are nothing more than a way to earn a living; not a source of satisfaction or meaning, nor a sacred duty or trust, nor a labor of love, but rather just a means of keeping body and soul together.  Now, that’s not so bad for young men who are working their way through school, or young women who are just marking time until the right man comes along.  But for the poor women forced to lead lives of drudgery, or the men whose sacred fire has been quenched by years at a dead-end job, it must be horrible.

That’s why I’m so very thankful to be one of those who feel called to my work; as a young girl in Padua I was well-educated but quite sheltered, and since my dear father left me with more than enough to support me in great comfort I was quite content to while away the years in the study of medicine, philosophy and literature, and to amuse myself puttering in the garden.  And so things might have remained had not Fortune declared otherwise; with the collapse of my country’s economy after the last war I was ruined, and so I took what remained and, like so many of my countrymen, came here to the New World to start a new life.

Though I probably know more of the secrets of the healing arts than all but the most gifted physicians, my learning was drawn entirely from my father’s tutelage and my own extensive studies after his death; I had no diploma from a university to set before the eyes of the stolid old men who ran the hospitals, nor could they be bothered to administer to a woman (let alone one for whom English was not her mother tongue) the practical and oral examinations by which I could have proved my skill.  But while my sex and heavy accent presented barriers to my gaining employment as a doctor, they also provided me with the tools necessary to charm my way into a position as a nurse.  And this proved a blessing in disguise, for it was through that situation that I eventually awakened to my true vocation.

The hospital at which I worked was recognized as a leader in caring for those who had been mutilated by traumatic injuries, both in their immediate care and in the complications that might arise in the months and years to come.  It was soon recognized that I showed not the slightest revulsion or faintness in dealing with even the most horrifying disfigurement, and so naturally I was always assigned to deal with such cases.  I firmly believe that they err who treat all maladies as merely things of the body, and that the spiritual component cannot be neglected; accordingly, I spent as much time as possible conversing with my patients, giving them encouragement in order to prevent their sinking into despair due to the great misfortunes which had come upon them.  My long-term patients and those with chronic complaints soon came to rely upon me to lift their spirits, and would often share their troubles to me.

I had been working there some two years when I had the conversation which changed my life, with a young man who had left most of his lower body behind when he was brought home from the Argonne.  The consequences of his injuries were severe, recurrent and worsening, and the prognosis was that he had not long to live. He often spoke to me of his troubles, and one quiet night when the ward was otherwise empty we were able to have a long and intimate conversation, because there was no one else I had to attend to; it was then he confided the source of his greatest pain to me.

“It’s not the dyin’ part,” he said; “’cause I knew when I went ‘over there’ that there was a chance of that, an’ livin’ as half a man ain’t really livin’ anyhow.  It’s just that – an’ I’m sorry to be so blunt, Bea, but I don’t know how else to say it – well, I sure wish I could’ve enjoyed a lady before I went.”

Then and there, I knew what I had to do.  I had never kissed a man before, but I had seen enough of it in the cinema to know how it was done; moreover, I was fully aware of the effect it would have.  I stole a glance to be absolutely sure we were alone, and then I gave him as long and passionate a kiss as I dared.  A look of wonderment crossed his face, and I whispered a promise in his ear and told him I would return later.  He passed peacefully sometime before morning, with a serene and contented smile on his face.

At first, I found all of my gentlemen in a similar fashion, and arranged to meet them at their homes when I was off duty.  But after a time I realized that it was not only the maimed who needed me, but others as well – the chronically ill, the very old, the hopelessly alienated, the desperately lonely – all of them could benefit from my ministrations. And as I grew more worldly I recognized that I could make a far more comfortable living at my new calling than I ever could as a nurse; furthermore, there were men in want of my help all over this great country, so I could hardly afford to be tied to any one place.  As the years went by I got very good at seeking them out, at determining which of them really needed me and which I should pass by, at securing payment in advance, and at avoiding those who could not accept my profession and would surely have harassed or even imprisoned me had they recognized what I was doing.

Now the world is embroiled in another great war, and some say America will soon enter it as well; if that does happen, I will be ready to give peace to its victims.  My father, Heaven forgive him, employed his esoteric skill to “protect” me from men by making it impossible for any living thing to survive contact with my flesh; the process thus rendered me immune to disease and decay, and I look today much as I have for well over a century.  Through decades of experiment I succeeded in rendering casual contact harmless, yet I am still poisonous to the core; any man with whom I am intimate will within hours fall gently and painlessly into the sleep from which there is no awakening.  So though normal relationships and children are forever forbidden to me, I have at last found a vital role in the world as the handmaiden of Death, calling him to those for whom his presence is not dread, but welcome.

(With grateful acknowledgement to the work of Nathaniel Hawthorne).

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Fictional Interlude: Point of View

This month’s story is a bit of a departure; it’s quite short, and there really isn’t a whore in it, but I think you’ll enjoy it anyway.  The Muse whispered it to me one evening in early January and…well, I’ve explained how she is when she wants my attention, so here it is.

“How many of them do you think are out there?”

“I don’t know, sir; far too many for us to fight off, that’s for sure.  I can hear them moving all through the tree line, and they’ve sent several scouts out into the open.”

The chieftain tried not to show his concern, but he knew the young warrior would sense his feelings anyway.  “They could attack at any time.”

“I’m afraid so, sir, and if they do we’ll surely be overrun.”

“That must not happen,” he said firmly; “Our mission is to protect the domain from invasion, and we will not fail while I am alive.”

“No, sir,” said the young one, though he lacked his chief’s resolve.

The leader drew himself up.  “There is no choice, then; we must call upon the gods for assistance, lest we fail in our sacred duty.”

“But sir, were we not taught that the Holy Ones hate to be disturbed?”

“Only without sufficient reason, and I feel this is more than sufficient.  We cannot allow the infidels to defile this sacred soil with their filthy presence, and surely the gods will understand when they see our dilemma.”  He turned to the others, who had drawn up behind him, and addressed them:  “My people!  We must lift up our voices to the sky, in the hopes that the gods may hear our prayer and look with favor upon us.  We must ask them to smite our enemies, or we are surely lost!”

He then began the Prayer of Summoning, lifting his face to the moon and chanting the ancient rite.  The others joined him, and together their shouts rose up toward the sky and spread out through the night.  As if in answer the invaders began their own chant, crying out to whatever strange deities they worshipped in their rude and barbaric tongue.

Suddenly, the square was filled with a radiance like that of a tiny sun, and the form of the goddess appeared in their midst; she took no note of them whatsoever, but glided to the barricade and looked out into the darkness.  When she beheld the enemy, she lifted her staff and Behold!  She smote them with a thunderbolt!  The people trembled, but they had faith that she would not turn the terrible power upon them; the same could not be said for the barbarians, who fled in terror lest her divine weapon destroy them all.

When they saw that the danger was over, the people rejoiced and performed a victory dance; the goddess then smiled upon them, and with a gesture spread before them delicious foodstuffs.  And then she was gone as suddenly as she had appeared, and the people shared the feast and praised her goodness and generosity.

**********************************************************************

“What were the dogs barking about?” her husband called from the bathroom.

“Oh, just coyotes,” she answered.  “I scared them off with the shotgun.”

“Honey, you didn’t have to do that; I would’ve taken care of it after I got out of the shower.”

“It’s no big deal,” she shrugged; “I had to go out to give them those table scraps anyhow.”

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Fictional Interlude: Bucket List

Striving toward a goal puts a more pleasing construction on our advance toward death.  -  Mason Cooley

Anthony trudged down the filthy street, pulling his cloak down as far as he could to keep out the evening rain.  Anyone who observed his erratic course would have thought him drunk, but every sane Roman was out of the beastly weather and Anthony’s weaving route was shaped by the necessity of avoiding puddles while yet getting close enough to the signs to read them in the darkness without having to uncover his head.

He had occupied himself thus every night for most of a week, making inquiries and crossing palms with sestertii in an effort to discover the location of his quarry, and he was beginning to despair; he felt as though he had walked every muddy, narrow, winding back-street in the city, and the foul weather had dampened his spirits as thoroughly as it had his clothes.  His schoolboy Latin was insufficient to the task at hand, and his outlandish accent and incredible ignorance of mundane matters marked him as a barbarian at best and a madman at worst; he feared that small-time hucksters were now pointing him out to one another as one who could be taken for a few coins merely by pretending to know of the strumpet he sought so assiduously.  If he spent much more he would be unable to pay her fee, however nominal it might be; he therefore resolved that if he could not find her by the end of the night (or maybe sooner than that), he would simply pass her by, move on to the next name on his list and return here after he had done enough research to limit his possibilities to a few easily-investigated locales.

The very worst disappointment was the sheer number of bad leads; in any era the stage-names of whores tended to be predictable and repetitive, and some girls were willing to pretend to be the one for whom he was looking.  But so far, none of the six Lyciscas he had met had been the right one; each had been too old, too young, too thin, too ugly or too dark to be the Lycisca he wanted to hire.  So tonight, he would follow a different strategy; he would simply go into each lupanar he found, quiz the villicus about the women available that night, and then ask the name of any who fit the correct description rather than supplying them with the means of deceiving him in order to deplete his rapidly-diminishing funds still further.

But just when he was ready to give up, Fortuna smiled upon him.  The streets and the buildings had all begun to look alike, so he was not surprised when the cashier at one of the brothels greeted him as a returning customer; he was about to turn to go when he realized he had been asked a question in which the name “Lycisca” had been embedded.

“What you saying?” Anthony asked, realizing the grammatical error as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“I said, aren’t you the fellow who was looking for Lycisca a few days ago?”

“Yes,” he replied wearily, expecting another con.

“Well, she’s here tonight.  She wasn’t last time you came, so I tried to give you another girl,” he said with a grin.  “But I promise, this is really the Lycisca you’re looking for.  Here, I’ll call her out where you can see her in the light.”

Anthony guessed that the willingness of the villicus to make this extra effort was due to the poor traffic on such a foul night, but he just couldn’t get his hopes up…and then he saw her.  The quality of her blonde wig was out of place in such a cheap establishment, and the quality of her health out of place in a low-end Roman prostitute.  Despite her imposture of a common whore he could see the hauteur and breeding in her manner, and the difference between her Latin and that of the plebeians with whom he had been dealing for the past few days was obvious even to his foreign ears.  He quickly paid her fee and tipped the cashier extra for remembering him, returned with her to her grimy little room and eagerly did what he had come so far and worked so hard to do.

He awakened to firm but gentle shaking, and opened his eyes to the smiling face of Leon, the one orderly he genuinely liked.

“Good morning, Professor!  I’m sorry to disturb you, but I know you don’t want to miss breakfast!”

“Good morning, Leon.  And thank you for waking me.”

“Did you scratch another name off of your list last night?”  Then in response to the older man’s puzzled expression, “It’s the only time you oversleep.”

“How well you know me!  Yes, I’ve just returned from a tryst with Valeria Messalina, Empress of Rome.”

“How’d you get an empress to sleep with you?  I thought you just saw hookers?”

“Messalina was, as you young people say, ‘kinky’.  She liked to sneak out of the palace while her husband was asleep and work as a common prostitute.”

“Wow, is that so?  How was she?”

He considered for a moment, cleaning his glasses before putting them on.  “Neither as talented as Nell Gwyn nor as beautiful as La Belle Otero, but she made up for that with her sheer exuberance.”

“Gee, Professor, I sure wish I could learn that astro-whatsis…”

“Astral projection.”

“…astral projection,” he repeated, “so I could visit all those historical places like you do.”

“Well, Leon, it takes years of study and practice, but I’m sure you could learn if you set your mind to it.”

“Naw,” he said sheepishly, helping Anthony with his bathrobe, “I’m just big and dumb, I was never good at studies.  Who’s the next lady you plan to see?”

“I think I shall brush up on my Greek,” he said wistfully; “I seem to have a yen for empresses these days.”

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Fictional Interlude: Visions of Sugarplums

They err who thinks Santa Claus comes down through the chimney; he really enters through the heart.  –  Mrs. Paul M. Ell

It all started when I got a call from my very best client, offering me several days at one of the most beautiful resorts in known space, during which he’d be busy every daylight hour and most of the evening; all I had to do is look beautiful, be incredibly charming at dinner, make sure his suits were perfect and laid out before bedtime, give him massages when necessary, spend 15 minutes on my back most nights, collect my pay and be home in time for Christmas.  Best of all, it was his wife’s idea; she despises space travel and would rather delegate consort duties whenever her husband goes offworld.  All in all, just about the nicest, cushiest booking imaginable.  And it did turn out okay in the end, but…

Hang on, I’m getting ahead of myself.  The trip out was uneventful, and these new diplomatic ships are so damned fast we arrived at Alinor in only three days.  And that’s when I got my first unpleasant surprise; like a complete dorp I had forgotten that Alinor is a whole planet, and though there are indeed lots of gorgeous resorts in the temperate zone, we were in the tropics.  And not Hawaii or Tahiti-type tropics either, oh no; we’re talking thirty-five degrees in the shade, eighty percent humidity tropics.  See, the Tsath – those are the aliens my client was there to negotiate with – are rather like enormous frogs, and cool, dry air can make them sick.

But I’m nothing if not professional, so I smiled and resolved to make the best of it.  “Just be friendly,” he said; “you’re certainly good at that.  Think of yourself as a goodwill ambassador.”

“What, to the Tsath?  Do they speak English?”

“Remarkably well.  They’re linguistic prodigies; the consul herself speaks at least eleven that I know of.  But their thinking is emotive and subjective; they rely on intuition over logic and prefer art to science, so we’re trying to work out a deal to provide them with technicians and automated factories.  Just between you and me, they’re really very backward.”

“Is that why you in particular were sent here?”

“Yes.  We’ve been trying to finalize this deal for months, but though the Tsath are clearly eager to trade with us, we just can’t seem to come to an understanding.  It’s as though they were waiting for something.”

“Well, maybe they are.  You said they were intuitive and backward; maybe they’re waiting for an omen or an auspicious conjunction.”

He looked at me as though I had said something he hadn’t thought of before and said, “Maybe they are, at that.”

**********************************************************************

One of the locals had told me about clothes of a fabric designed to draw heat and perspiration away from the skin, which made the climate quite bearable; so, I decided to make an early start on the second day and go out into town to buy an outfit or seven, but as I was crossing the lobby I suddenly found myself face-to-face with the Tsath negotiator.

“Good morning, Miss Kane!  You are just the person I wanted to see!”  Her English was absolutely flawless, but what really amazed me was that she could tell humans apart so easily; she had only seen me once, at last night’s dinner, and to me she was nearly indistinguishable from the others of her party but for her insignia of rank.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a moment in the Tsath gesture of respect, then said, “You do me honor, Madame Consul; what can I do for you?”

“When I asked Mr. Ituro if you were his wife, he explained that you were a paid companion.  Is that correct?”

I inwardly panicked for just a moment; if these people were backward, might they have a primitive prejudice against whores?  But her voice sounded pleasant and friendly; I decided honesty was the best policy.  “Yes, it is.”

“Ah, I didn’t know Earth people had the trade, too!  Well, if you don’t mind, I have a contract for you.”

Before I could think of a reply, she called out to someone, and a Tsath child emerged from behind a display she had apparently been reading.  She was cute, in a 30-kilogram-deep-purple-tree-frog-with-spindly-limbs kind of way; fortunately for me, though the Tsath had no visible sexual dimorphism my unschooled eyes could discern, their customs of dress were coincidentally like traditional Western ones: one could tell a girl by her skirts.

“How fortunate I am to have found someone who could keep Nahgi company while I am embroiled in negotiations!  Whatever price you ask will be fine with me; you have an honest face so I know you’ll be fair.”

“I’m, uh, very pleased to meet you, Nahgi,” I stammered, totally unsure how to handle this.

“I’m pleased to meet you too, Miss Kane,” she squeaked in perfect English.  “I just know we’re going to have ever so much fun!”

“I’m sure we will,” I agreed, feeling very trapped as I watched her mother vanish into the lift.

**********************************************************************

Though it was rough going at first, I eventually realized she wasn’t all that different from a human seven-year-old, and though I hadn’t baby-sat since I was sixteen it came back quickly enough.  I got to see their intellectual dimorphism firsthand: though technical things seemed to confuse or fascinate Nahgi far more than they would a human child, her facility with languages was quite remarkable.  She spoke three in all, and despite the fact that she had never heard English at this time last year, she now sounded like a native.  I soon realized that she found endless amusement in puns, rhymes and silly word games, though not nearly as much as she found in my painfully-incompetent attempts to pronounce even the simplest words in her language.  She was very excited by my promise to teach her a bit of Mandarin the next day, yet at the same time was mystified by my ability to add up the prices of items in my head.

And so, in spite of my initial reluctance, I actually found myself enjoying the day.  The marketplace was climate-controlled for human comfort, so I had bought her a little winter suit to keep her warm; she laughed at herself in the mirror and I laughed to see the contrast of my pale human skin in summer clothes with her hairless purple head sticking up from a faux-fur collar.  Fortunately, she had been taught which human foods she could eat, but when I took her to the penny arcade after lunch I found that most of the games either bored or frustrated her.  Since I was feeling generous and growing genuinely fond of my little charge, I suggested she show me the sorts of playthings she liked in the toy department; this was met with the same enthusiasm one would expect from a human child, so off we went.

When we arrived, I thought her already-huge eyes would bug completely out of her head.  The proprietors of the shop had decorated it for the holidays in the antique style of centuries past, with old-fashioned garlands and colored lights; dolls and toy animals ran about the floor, and aircraft flew in formation or performed aerobatics.  A wide selection of Christmas music from many different times wafted through the air, as did the savory smell of baked goodies presented on trays for the taking.  Artificially-created snow was falling in an enclosed playground out front, and colonial children who had never seen the stuff except in video romped and howled, building snowmen and pelting each other with snowballs.  And presiding over the whole from his throne at the back of the area was Father Christmas himself, in the same costume he’s worn since before children first accompanied their parents to the stars.

“Who is that?” Nahgi asked in a hushed voice.

“He’s dressed as a legendary figure called Santa Claus, who is the symbol of our most popular festival.  That’s what all these decorations are for.”

“Is Santa Claus a god?”

My stomach dropped.  I had no idea what Tsath religious beliefs were like, though her question seemed to indicate polytheism.  On the one hand, I might start an interstellar incident by insulting their faith, but on the other hand, I wasn’t about to tell a child of any species that Santa wasn’t real.  So I opted for the diplomatic approach.

“Well, a saint.  Sort of a demigod, I guess; I’m not an expert in theology.”  Oh, good grief; what an inane answer!  As soon as it was out of my mouth I wanted to drown myself in the wassail bowl.

But Nahgi didn’t think it was stupid, at all.  “So, this is a priest dressed as him for a ceremony!”

“Something like that.”

“Why are the children setting on his lap?  Is he blessing them?”

“Well, sort of.  They tell him what gift they would like, and the legend says that if they’ve been good, he brings it to them on Christmas Eve, which is six days from today.”

She was so excited I thought she would wet herself, if Tsath do that.  “May I sit on his lap, too?”

For a moment, all I could see was a vision of myself standing neck-deep in a hole, which I was digging deeper and deeper.  “Well, I would suspect so, but let me ask permission first, OK?”  She gave that closed-eye nod, and I approached Santa to ask; as it turned out he was a retired xenobiologist and was absolutely thrilled to share the ancient ritual with an alien child.  I beckoned her to the throne, and though she at first approached with awe she was as quick as any human child to clamber into his lap once he bade her do so.  And as I watched the timeless scene unfold for a little girl to whom it was wholly new, I thanked the goddess of my profession for tear-proof makeup.

Once she had whispered her Christmas wish to him, hugged him and climbed down, she scampered gaily to my side and took my hand.  “I’m ready to go back to the hotel now, if you are,”  she said.

“What did you ask him for?” I asked, my heart in my fallen stomach.

“For our people to reach an agreement soon,” she said.

I felt a pall of doom descend upon me.  “Sweetie, I’m not sure he can bring you that.”

“Yes, he can,” she said matter-of-factly.

**********************************************************************

She was right.

By dinner the next day, the talks were concluded; the Tsath had clearly received whatever omen they had been waiting for, and the agreement had fallen into place as quickly and neatly as one might negotiate the sale of a used robot.  My patron was mystified; he had no idea what had happened, but being male he was satisfied with the assumption that his own skill at negotiation had somehow broken the impasse.  The consul thanked me at dinner for taking such good care of Nahgi, and the child herself came to see me the next morning, to hug me goodbye and to ask for my address so she could write; neither of them said anything about the resolution, either.

I’ll tell you what I think happened, though.  The Tsath are creatures of intuition; the negotiators probably projected the typical human “serious grown-up business” demeanor, which may have made them uncomfortable and wary.  But when I spent a day with one of their children, and allowed her to see that Earth people were capable of generosity, humor and tenderness, it forged a connection that wasn’t there before.  Maybe the Tsath have a kind of Santa Claus, and the discovery that we do as well showed them our two peoples aren’t so different after all.
(With grateful acknowledgement to the work of Zenna Henderson).

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Fictional Interlude: The Screening

Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different.  -  William James

Walter savored the Cohiba and poured himself a second tumbler of Glenfiddich, then turned to look down on the city.  Since the year this whiskey went into its cask he had worked to build his business, and after the most recent deal he felt that he had at long last arrived.  In all that time he had rarely relaxed, seldom taken a vacation and never allowed himself the luxuries other businessmen did, but all that was about to change; perhaps he might even restrict himself with the kind of business ethics he had always totally disregarded before.  But now that he had finally reached the goal he set himself at eighteen, he could afford morality as easily as he could expensive indulgences.

With that thought, he turned back to his computer screen and hit “send”.  His days of cheap cigars, second-rate liquor and reasonably-priced escorts were over; now he was playing in the big leagues, and could easily spend the money for a companion of real quality.  For him that meant Sibyl, the woman who had fascinated him since he first encountered her website months ago.  Still, he had hesitated; though her price was well within his comfort zone, he found her screening requirements rather daunting.  He did not like the idea of identifying himself so clearly and definitely to a stranger about whom he knew absolutely nothing, but two generous servings of Scotch had helped to steel his resolve and now he was committed.

Walter wasn’t sure how long Sibyl would take to get back to him, but he certainly didn’t expect it to be within minutes.  Perhaps it was just an autoreply, though it didn’t sound like one:

My Dear Mr. Grey,

Thank you for sending the information I requested!  Though I know you’ve been frightfully busy with that important deal you mentioned in your last letter, I was beginning to think you had perhaps changed your mind about meeting me.  I’m glad to see you haven’t, and I look forward to meeting you in person after I’ve finished my screening process, which I’m sure you will understand must be very thorough.  I’ll let you know by Friday afternoon, but as my preliminary inquiries have indicated that you’re exactly the sort of man I like to see, I don’t imagine any difficulties.

Very Sincerely Yours,
Sybil

Friday!  What kind of damned screening could take three whole days?  Walter shrugged, closed the email program, and barely even noticed the fleeting error message which flashed on the screen during the shutdown procedure.

***********************************************************************

He had thought about taking the next day off, but he was a creature of habit and so eventually found himself at his office again, though several hours later than usual.  It was more than early enough; there weren’t really very many loose ends to tie up, and he would’ve been done in plenty of time for a round of golf had he not been required to deal with a long column of annoying emails on a computer which seemed uncharacteristically sluggish, while at the same time dealing with phone calls from the accounting and contract departments.  It was a singularly frustrating day, and while it was not bad enough to completely ruin yesterday’s celebratory mood, it did demonstrate exactly how much the intense negotiations of the past few months had exhausted him; after his date with Sybil this weekend, a long vacation in the Caymans would be in order.  In the meantime, though, a leisurely day tomorrow would help; he had been cooped up in this damned office for so long he kept receiving the bizarre impression that his computer was watching him, and that the screen was its enormous, unblinking eye.

The night’s sleep did not alleviate the delusion at all; if anything, the next day was even worse.  Every screen he passed or used – his plasma TV, the stereo display in his car, even the touch-screen on his iPhone – seemed to be watching his every move, carefully examining him, peering through his clothes and skin to the nerves, dissecting his brain and smearing his soul onto a slide to be viewed under some impossible, intangible microscope.  Walter was far too rational and self-assured to actually believe what he thought he saw; it was perfectly clear to him that this was merely the inevitable but long-delayed result of years of intense stress which would have destroyed a lesser man, but was now catching up to him.  Sybil would do him a world of good, and he had already told his secretary he might be out of touch for weeks after he left for his holiday next Tuesday.  And though there would be far too many screens at the airport and on the airplane for his liking, he would be far away from the hateful things on a lovely beach in the Caribbean.

In the meantime, though, the scrutiny from the peering eyes behind the screens grew almost unbearable.  They watched him from his golf partners’ phones after he turned his off, and later from the windows of stores after he covered the car’s console screen with his jacket.  He felt so surrounded in the restaurant that he was forced to cut his dinner short, and though there was a movie he wanted to see the thought of sitting for over two hours in front of a screen twenty meters wide was absolutely unbearable.  So he instead went directly home, took a bottle and glass into his bedroom, and closed the door so he wouldn’t have to see the huge flat screen in the living room.  He then tried to read for a while, but mostly drank until he sank into terrifying dreams of gigantic, long-lashed eyes prying into every corner of his home.

***********************************************************************

When he at last awoke to the sound of a ringing telephone, the day was already half gone.  The nightmares had finally ceased about dawn, and the beautiful, sultry voice on the other end of the phone heralded a far brighter day than yesterday as Sybil told him that she was done with her screening, and would be happy to see him tomorrow evening as he had requested.  She told him the address at which he could pick her up, and suggested they begin the evening with dinner at a restaurant he had heard good things about, but never tried for himself.  He hung up the phone with a smile on his face and a much lighter heart, and he dismissed the lingering scent of a strange and spicy perfume as a figment of his imagination brought on by the unsettling presence of the television set within view of his breakfast table.

Friday afternoon passed without incident, and Walter enjoyed the postponed movie as much as the reviews had assured him he would.  A lovely late dinner and a good bottle of wine made for the perfect conclusion to the day, and back at home he laughed at yesterday’s ridiculous fears as he flipped channels to relax before bed.  His sleep was peaceful and unhaunted by ghastly disembodied eyes, and he awoke the next morning refreshed and optimistic about his date with Sybil and his life in general.  He had always regarded his doctor’s warnings about overwork with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, but now he recognized that he had been wrong and resolved to apologize at his earliest possible opportunity…after his vacation, that is.

He hurried out for a haircut, had his car washed and went through all the other preparations he would have made for an unpaid date; though he knew Sybil was a professional, he also knew she was very selective and might refuse to see him again if he made a bad impression.  He arrived exactly at the agreed-upon time, having already made an electronic payment to her account yesterday as instructed.  She was more beautiful than he imagined; her face and body were flawless, her style impeccable and her personality enchanting.  The only thing which kept her from total perfection in his eyes was her perfume; it was strange and spicy, yet vaguely familiar and somehow associated with the unpleasant memory of Thursday.  But that one sour note soon vanished into the symphony of her presence, and the disquiet it caused was more than drowned out by his rising passion for her.

The next few hours passed in a blur, and Walter felt as excited and nervous as a teenage boy on the drive back.  Her house was nearly as intriguing as she was, and her parlor adorned with all manner of beautiful, unique and obviously expensive furnishings and curios.  She offered him a drink, then suggested with a mysterious smile that it was time for her to change…but he felt an unaccountable chill sweep over him when she glided off to a shadowy corner of the room and slipped behind an ornate Oriental screen.

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Fictional Interlude: Pandora (Part Three)

This is the concluding chapter of a longer-than-usual story I wrote a few months before starting the blog; the first part appeared Wednesday and the second yesterday.  Happy Halloween!

And Pleasant Dreams.

The evening passed with aching slowness; she wanted nothing more than to go to bed so she could finally see the end of the whole weird business.  The dream-world had become so real to her, so important, that it was beginning to feel more real to her than waking life; she could remember the events of her dreams with crystal clarity, but real-life events had begun to grow fuzzy and hard to remember from day to day.  Her husband repeatedly asked if she was sleeping well, and had even suggested she see a doctor; she knew that his suggestions would soon turn to insistence if things continued this way for even a few more days.  But she was absolutely positive that tonight would see a resolution; she knew that as soon as she reached the top of those stairs, the greatest mystery of her life would be solved and everything would fall into place.  She would return to the happy life she had once known and again be able to devote herself to her wonderful husband, the man who had loved her and cared for her and tolerated her shortcomings with rarely more than a cross word.  So she made a supreme effort to be pleasant and engaging and fun this evening, while secretly counting the minutes until bedtime.

Once they were in bed she offered herself to him, and as he made love to her she thought how this, too had changed.  Once she had looked forward to their time together, had lost herself in his embrace; in the past few months, however, she had found it impossible to stop thinking of the buried city even while with him, and it had become merely a duty to her.  Oh, she had pretended of course, in order to spare his feelings, but she sorely missed the true physical intimacy that had once come so naturally to her in his arms.  After tonight, she told herself, this, too would return to normal.

As soon as he was asleep she set out for the marketplace, where she bought a pair of trousers and some sturdy boots, then a set of the odd claw-like appliances which she had once seen a man use to scale the cathedral’s steeple in order to effect some maintenance.  She doubted she could use them with anything like the agility displayed by that worker, but she would only need them if she had to climb over some bad spot on the immense staircase.  The merchant looked at her strangely when she requested the items, but asked no questions and simply handed them over once she had paid the requested price.  Her next stop was the hiding-place of her cloak, and thence to a spot where she could wait until the guard had passed in his rounds.

Once he had passed she flew to the door and slid back the bar; it moved just as smoothly as it had the previous night, and with less noise.  A moment more and she was through the door; this time she closed it, hoping that the drawn bar would escape notice for long enough for her to ascend out of reach of any pursuit.  Gathering her skirt with her free hand, she took the steps as quickly as she dared, stopping eight flights up – that is, two complete circuits of the stairwell – to replace skirt with trousers and slippers with boots.  She paused to look and listen for long enough to satisfy herself that her trespass had not yet been detected, then donned her cloak and set out to make the arduous climb.

She was careful to pace herself; there was no way of knowing how high the staircase was, since its top was lost in the gloom.  Though the city was brightly lit by day, the staircase was wrapped in the same shadowy light by which she had first seen it last night.  After a while she grew tired of carrying her skirt and slippers and so discarded them; she then donned the climbing appliances under the assumption that they would be less cumbersome worn than carried.  Hour after hour she climbed, until her legs screamed in protest and her lungs ached with the unaccustomed effort, but still the impossible stairway stretched above her, flight upon flight upon endless flight.  At first she tried to count them, but lost track somewhere above five hundred; she must now be miles above the city.  She moved like an automaton, her agony conquered by the overwhelming determination to reach the top no matter how long it took or what it did to her body.

After what seemed an eternity, she came to the sudden realization that the echoes of her plodding footsteps sounded different somehow; without stopping, she veered toward the railing so she could look up for the first time in hours, and her heart leapt as she saw the unmistakable outline of a peaked roof some ten flights above her.  Though she had awakened from the trance-like stupor in which she had climbed for a very long time, the anticipation of reaching the top at last allowed her to force the pain back down and continue climbing.

She had cleared four more flights when she heard an ominous boom from above, like the slamming of a massive door, and a shock of terror ripped through her when it was followed by a sound which could only be heavy footfalls coming down the staircase toward her.  She came very close to blind panic at that moment; the idea that the top of the stairway might be guarded like the bottom had never entered her mind.  But somehow she found the calm center of the emotional storm which threatened to engulf her, and looked down at the climbing appliances strapped to her hands and boots.  She gambled a quick look up the stairwell to make sure that the unknown intruder was not in sight of the edge, then swung herself out over the railing and climbed along the underside of the wooden steps until she could rest against the wall in a desperate effort to conserve what little strength she had left.

Her cloak now hung uncomfortably from her neck, but she dared not remove and drop it for fear that it would land on the stairs below and thereby draw the climber’s attention upward when he passed below her.  So she waited and waited, her heart pounding against the inside of her ribs, as the footfalls came closer and closer and ever closer…and stopped directly above her.

She began to weep silently, and held her breath so as to suppress any sniffle or sob which might betray her presence, but it was obviously too late; it was not by accident that the other had stopped where he did.  As she looked out from her hiding place, hoping against hope that the descent would resume, a long, rough-skinned neck as thick as her waist and the color of dried blood came curling down from the stairs above; it was surmounted by a reptilian head the size of a tiger’s, and as she watched in helpless terror the monstrosity turned its head completely around on its neck and stared at her with huge, glowing green eyes.  Its lower jaw fell open as if unhinged, revealing many sharp teeth accented by four prominent fangs shaped like those of a cobra, and it emitted a hiss more like steam escaping from a pipe than anything a living creature might make.  Her nerve shattered completely, and she screamed and let go of her precarious perch, dropping heavily to the stairs beneath.

It was difficult to see the hideous thing clearly from her new position, but the green glow of its eyes stood out in the gloom.  Oddly, it hesitated for a moment, and that gave her enough time to rise to her tortured legs and begin to run downward, back the way she had come.  Her headlong flight appeared to incense the creature, and it began to run down the stairway after her.  Even in her profound horror she realized that it would be impossible to outrun the monster; not only were its strides worth three of hers, it was fresh from descending only a few flights while she was absolutely spent from her ascent of hundreds.  Whether by intuition or reason or pure repetition, she swung out over the edge of the staircase again in the wild hope that it might overlook the possibility of her pulling the same trick twice.  And by some miracle it worked; the loathsome thing was so caught up in the pursuit that it shot past above and then below her without as much as a glance in her direction.  As soon as it turned the corner below her she scrambled up onto the stairs again, taking the steps as quickly as her ruined legs would carry her, and threw open the door at the top of the stairs without breaking her stride.

She instantly found herself lying in her own bed, her legs twisted with cramps, and burst into tears born from a mixture of fear and relief.  She clutched at her husband and he turned to hold her gently, then with infinite sadness he asked, “Why did you have to go through the door?”  But she was unable to answer; she merely stared in mute horror at his eyes glowing green in the dark.

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