Rudy Rucker

Realware

                                For Isabel, Rudy Jr., Georgia, and Pop

This is a  work of fiction.  Names, characters, places,  and incidents
are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously  and
are not  to be  construed as  real. Any  resemblance to actual events,
locales,  organizations,  or  persons,  living  or  dead,  is entirely
coincidental.

EOS

 

CONTENTS

Chapter One 

PHIL

February 12/1 February 14 / 10 February 19 / 24 February 20 / 38

Chapter Two 

YOKE

February 20 / 46 February 21 / 73

Chapter Three

PHIL

February 21/98 February 22/104 February 23 / 128

viii • Contents

Chapter Four

YOKE

February 23/155 February 24 / 181 February 26 / 195

Chapter Five 

RANDY, PHIL, BABS, PHIL

Randy / February 26 / 203

Phil / February 23-25 / 219

Babs / February 26 / 232

Phil / February 26 / 244

Chapter Six

YOKE, BABS, RANDY, YOKE

Yoke / February 26 / 255 Babs / April 1 / 268 Randy / May 1 / 282 Yoke
/ June 1 / 296

 

CHAPTER ONE

PHIL

February 12

"Wake up, Phil. It's your  sister on the uvvy. Something's  happened."
Kevvie's breath was alkaloidal and bitter in the dawn.

Phil woke slowly. He liked to take the time to think about his  dreams
before they evanesced. Just now he'd been dreaming about hiking again.
For  some reason,  he always  dreamed about  the same  three or  four
places, and one of the places was an imaginary range of mountains,  an
arc of icy little peaks  that were somehow very—domesticated. Easy  to
climb.

"Wake  up!"  repeated  Kevvie.  Her  voice  was,  as  usual,  flat and
practical,  though  now  a  bit louder  than  before.  As  Phil's eyes
fluttered  open  an interesting  thought  occurred to  him:  maybe the
mountains were his teeth. Sleepily he started to tell Kevvie his idea.

"My teeth are the mountains that — "

But she wasn't listening. Her blue eyes were intent, her fox-face  was
pinched with urgency. "You talk to Jane right now," she said, plopping
the little uvvy onto the pillow next to Phil. The uvvy was  displaying
a tiny holographic image of Phil's sister.

Calm, practical Jane.  But today Jane  wasn't calm. Her  eyes were red
and wet with tears.

"Da's dead,"  quavered Jane.  "It's horrible.  A wowo  got him? Willow
says they were in bed and all  of a sudden their wowo got really  big,
all bright and swirly,  and it jumped inside  of Da and the  light was
shining out of his eyes like searchlights and he was yelling and  then
his body  collapsed and  the wowo  sucked him  inside and crushed him.
Da's gone! Willow's  covered with his  blood. It's so  gnarly?" Jane's
voice twisted up an octave on the last word and she began sobbing.  "I
can't believe it. Wowos are just a toy. Da and Tre made them up."

Phil felt a savage torrent of emotions, too fast to nail down. Relief,
terror, joy, wonder, sorrow, confusion. His father was dead and he was
free. No old man  to judge him for  not doing anything with  his life.
His father was dead and he was alone. No stand-up old guy between  him
and the Reaper.

"Dead? What you
explain what happened when it got my father?"

" 'She,' not 'it,' " said  the bronze Ptah. His body echoed  Shimmer's
perfection of human form.  "Om is the God  of Meta-mars. She lives  in
the higher dimensions. Our  race first reached a  working relationship
with her some thousand of your years I ago. Some other aliens  brought
her to us. Om lives outside  of ordinary space and time. Whenever  one
of Om's people travels somewhere, a manifestation of Om comes there as
well. Our god follows us. She  can appear in various guises, but  most
commonly she shows herself as a four-dimensional hypersphere."

"Four-dimensional?" murmured Phil uneasily. He sensed the imminence of
a batshit math-rap, bound to make him feel dumb.

"Jawohl,"  boomed  the  German-accented  Josef.  He  was  perched   on
Shimmer's lovely shoulder. "I am taking this question. Although I feel
that Om is  surely of an  infinite dimensionality, she  usually enters
space as a  powerball. Her  surface is  : a  bounded region  of three
dimensional space that has no edges: a hypersphere. Do understand that
the fourth dimension of space is not to be confused with any dimension
of time.  If you  doggedly wish  to refer  to your  time as the fourth
dimension, then  the  powerball   can  of  course   be  called  five
dimensional.  But it  makes an  easier manner  of speech  to use  'the
fourth dimension' for the extra dimension of space."

"I'm not going to touch  that one," said Phil, momentarily  distracted
from finding out about his father. "Let me ask this instead. If Om can
jump all around  the cosmos, why  do you travel  as personality waves?
Why not just ask Om to take you where you want to go?"

"We never know where we going in first place," said Siss. "What we  do
is to chirp into personality wave,  let wave travel to place where  it
get decrypted into body, to find family there, to teach about Om,  and
then to chirp further. Travel is our way."

"But what does Om want?" asked Phil. "Why did she swallow up Ptah  and
my father?"

"Om is curious about everything," said Josef. "Your father caught  her
interest with his wowo display. Om thought this was a very interesting
patterning of space. So one supposes that she had a curiosity to get a
better acquaintance with your father. She could perhaps return him  to
the world at some time. As for why she ate the original Ptah — Ptah?"

"Om wished  to see  what kind  of body  a Metamartian  on Earth  might
occupy,  so  one  of  us was  selected,"  said  Ptah.  "The trip  into
hyperspace was painful for my original self, yes, but it was an honor.
Om chose me at Josef’s suggestion; Josef knows I come from the noblest
Metamartian stock. The little beetle says he admires me —and I suspect
that he envies  me as well.  His choice only  heightens my glory.  All
must recognize that it was I,  Ptah, who once led the most  harmonious
weave of lives in our two-dimensional time, and it is I, Ptah, who has
been the first to travel from Earth to the bosom of Om."

"Well-spoken, Ptah," said Peg. The unicorn had a contralto voice and a
theatrical way of talking. "Isn't it droll how one chains one's  words
together here? Like  threading pearls upon  a necklace. Phil  wots not
that the Metamartian mode of speech is as a fractally branching fan."

"Yadda yadda  yadda," said  Phil. "Why  do you  have to keep jabbering
about math?"

"When she talk about a fan, she mean Metamars be in a place where time
spreads out nice and fat," said Wubwub comfortably. "Like it  supposed
to be. In fat time, no one thing really matters, know what I'm sayin'?
It's grim and down to live the way you do, Phil. One poor little  time
thread all by its lonely self. You folks deserve to have the allas."

"You said it was your fault the powerball killed my father," Phil said
to the pig. "Tell me more about what happened!"

"He ain't dead," said Wubwub. "You got dirt in your ears, my man? Your
daddy's  in  hyperspace. When  Om  sweep through  your  space it  like
someone's hand scoopin' up a water-strider bug. One second the bug  on
the water, second later  it on the back  of the hand. One  second your
Daddy  in bed,  next second  he on  Om's powerball.  He probably  just
kickin' it. Om's powerball got light and air, and a built-in alla  for
food."

"My father's alive?" exclaimed Phil, finally getting it. As when  Jane
had  uvvied him  with the  news of  Kurt's disappearance,  he felt  a
dissonant mixture  of emotions.  Joy that  his father  could be saved.
Relief that  the old  man's forgiveness  could still  be obtained.  An
impatient weariness at having to deal  with him all over again. And  a
primal horror of meeting the undead. "Up in hyperspace?"

"It's called  'ana,'" said  Ptah. "Not  'up'. We've  investigated your
scientific  literature, and  'ana' and  'kata' are  the names  of the
directions of the fourth dimension."

"I know that," sighed Phil. "My  father was a math teacher. I've  been
dreaming about him a lot. Do you think Om can affect my dreams?"

"I  no  know,"  hissed  Siss.  "Metamartians  have  no  dream,   Phil.
Metamartians  live in  endless parallel  worlds—no need  dream world.
Wubwub right, most  likely your father  alive, and is  together with a
few others Om take."

"Like my original self," said Ptah.

"And two  women," said  Wubwub. "Yes  indeed. First  thing Om  did was
scoop up that  juicy Darla. Yoke's  ma. Om got  old Tempest too  —and,
let's see, got Tempest's dog, a  toy moldie, and part of an  oak tree.
How I be so wise? Each time one of us get corporated here, Om ask  the
new Metamartian what  be the most  stuzzadelic sample she  might scoop
up. Om always do  that. Likes to see  the world through a  spang fresh
eye, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Would you like each of us to tell our story?" asked Siss.

"Not really," replied  Phil. He felt  dizzy and confused.  Surely they
were lying about Da. "I have to think about what you told me. It's too
wiggly. I want to go back out onto the beach."

"Oh tarry in  our sea cave  just a bit  longer," said Peg.  She was in
fact standing so as to block  the passage where Phil had entered.  Her
horn, though red and swilly, was also quite sharp and long. "What does
your poet  say? Till  human voices  wake us  and we  drown.' Marvelous
beads of meaning, each just so."  She lowered the horn and fixed  Phil
with her great blue eyes. "Phil, you should harken to our tales  while
there's time."

"I'll tell first," said Shimmer, "Attention, please!" She drew herself
up and laid her hand stagily upon her breast. "My powerball  swallowed
a miniature moldie  from Willy Taze's  isopod. What they  call a Silly
Putter; it's like a  doll or a pet.  Between a DIM and  a moldie. This
particular one was  named Humpty-Dumpty. It  happened to be  the first
living thing I  laid eyes on  — at least  I thought it  was alive—so I
pointed it out to Om."

"And then Shimmer made me tell Om that—" began Ptah.

"The way you  got here was  as a copy  of the original  Ptah," Shimmer
interrupted Ptah.  "You didn't  tell the  powerball anything.  So I'll
tell the original Ptah's story." She cleared her throat, struck a  new
pose and continued talking. "When I decrypted Ptah, I was down in  the
ocean and there really wasn't much of anything around for Ptah to tell
Om's powerball to swallow. Ptah  may think he's perfect, but  he's not
all that creative. So I suggested that Ptah tell Om to get Darla Starr
on  the Moon.  Space doesn't  mean much  to Om,  she can  spang out  a
powerball wherever she wants. She's our god on Metamars, and now we're
way across the cosmos, but as soon  as one of us is born, why  there's
Om to greet us. Om can go anywhere. Praise Om."

"Praise Om," murmured the other Metamartians comfortably.

"Why eat Darla?" asked Phil.

"Why Darla?" said  Shimmer. "You might  jump to the  conclusion that I
was angry with  Darla for trying  to kill me.  But of course  no human
could  ever hurt  a Metamartian  anyway. And  I really  wasn't angry.
That's not a Metamartian emotion at all. I just thought that Darla was
the fiercest, most interesting human I'd seen so far. Yes. I was  torn
between suggesting  her and  Stahn Mooney,  as a  matter of  fact, but
Darla seemed more spirited. And  you don't have to look  so impatient,
Ptah, because now I'm done. Peg?"

"When I was reborn on Earth,  Om asked me what was interesting,  and I
knew not  what to  say," said  the unicorn.  "She showed  me that  she
already had Humpty-Dumpty and Darla. Within our sea-dome I could  only
see Shimmer, Ptah, and the grass.  I humbly asked Om what she  herself
longed to behold next.  Om granted me the  image of something she  had
seen in  Darla's room,  a merry  shape yclept  a 'wowo.'  Om coveted a
wowo. So I hastened to enter your Web, where I sought the bravest wowo
in creation. This wowo of all  wowos I found upon the greensward  of a
woman named Starshine,  in the hamlet  of Santa Cruz,  California. And
thither did I direct Om's gaze. It came about that Starshine's aunt, a
crone named Tempest Plenty, was tilling the earth there in the company
of a dog  named Planet. Joyful  at the girth  of the wowo,  Om took so
bosky a powerball scoop that she snared those two as well as the  wowo
prize. I've told my tell, let Wubwub speak as well."

"Now  Om just  fascinate with  that wowo;  she asked  me to  find the
brainiac what dream it  up," said the black  pig. "And that be  Phil's
dad. So Om done  gobble down Kurt Gottner  and half of his  wiener-dog
Friedl  —I say  half because  that wiener-dog  fuss so  much she  got
pinched in two. Old Kurt's hand got rotorvated as well, and the space
waves knotted  his wedding  ring, which  leads straight  into the next
tale, you know what I'm sayin', Siss?"

"Om not really ask me what  to do either," sang the pale  green snake.
"She already decide to  go flip Kurt's ring  to make another sign  and
see if any humans get excite. I do give her small idea to swallow some
of oak tree so she can find out about plant."

"I'm  last," said  the iridescent  beetle Josef.  "And I  told Om  to
swallow Ptah. It was time  for her to take one  of us, so why not  the
most perfect?" There was perhaps a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Who you think  be next?" Wubwub  asked Phil. "We  wonderin' 'cause we
'bout ready  to decrypt  Metamartian number  seven. And  like we  been
tellin' you,  every time  there someone  new, Om  celebrate by  eatin'
something."

"Don't do it!" cried Phil. "She might get Yoke!"

"Cappy Jane has a nice  new Metamartian personality wave prepared  for
us to incorporate, Phil," said Shimmer. "We're not about to waste  it.
It's important that there finally be seven of us. A complete  family."
The bland sweetness of her voice sent chills down his neck. "Sit  back
and watch."

Phil shoved Peg's horn to one side and tried to push his way past  her
into the passage, but Wubwub nudged the backs of Phil's knees in  just
the right way to make him fall down. Siss the snake was on the  ground
to cushion his fall—and to wrap herself around him.

Lying on his back, Phil noticed  for the first time that the  light in
the cavern was coming from a  small hole up above, a hole  that opened
to the sky.

Shimmer used her  body's internal alla  to project a  bright-line cube
that actualized itself into a knee-high block of imipolex. "All right,
Cappy Jane,"  called Shimmer.  "Beam it  down." Some  signal must have
come to her from the satellite then, for as Shimmer laid her  gracious
hands upon the cube of plastic, the stuff began to twist and writhe. A
figure formed and rose  up in the shape  of a man-sized bird,  a black
and white Indian mynah bird with yellow feet and a great yellow  beak.
Its dark  head was  decorated with  a pattern  of yellow feathers that
made it look as if it were wearing a burglar's mask.

The mynah cocked its head and stared at them with its bright,  inhuman
eye.  It made  a preliminary  cawing noise  that sounded  almost like
"Hello." Phil felt like the bird  was about to peck him. "Let  me go!"
he cried, struggling against Siss's tight coils.

"Not yet," said the snake. "We no want you go shit crazy."

Shimmer must have  uvvied some information  to the mynah,  for now its
demeanor grew less blank, a  subtle effect achieved by a  softening of
the lines of its beak.

"Good afternoon," said the giant mynah. It cawed to clear its  throat,
whistled a few musical notes, listened to the echoes, and spoke again.
"Something's badly wrong here, isn't it?"

"We're in a land with but one line of time," said Peg, gesturing  with
her red horn. "This is all there is. Seek as you will, you'll find  no
other time but the short woven threads of brief ghost futures.  Praise
Om that you've come, for now we are seven and soon we can mate."

"Who—Who  is  seeing  this for  real?"  asked  the mynah,  tentatively
stretching out its wings. "Why this very one thread?"

"Ain't got no notion,"  said Wubwub. "Could be  the Light do it.  What
you gonna use for a name, mynah bird?"

"Call me  Haresh," said  the mynah.  "An Indian  name. I  find it most
oppressive here. It is  jolly good that we  are seven. We'll help  Om,
and mate, and then we'll chirp further." The bird twitched his head as
if hearing something. "Om is speaking to me. It is almost time for her
manifestation.  I must  pick something.  She has  already swallowed  a
Metamartian?"

"Yes," said Ptah. "Me. So don't do that again."

"This here  is a  'human,' "  said Wubwub,  using his  snout to  nudge
Phil's foot. "Om  got three of  those already, but  might be she  want
some more."

"How soon is the powerball going to spang out?" asked Phil  anxiously.
"That's the word you use, right? 'Spang.' Floaty word. You guys are so
brilliant. Let me go, Siss!"

"Not till powerball come," said  Siss. "Om still looking things  over,
waiting for Haresh form some impressions of world. Since we see little
bit of future,  we going know  just before Om  decide. But until  then
very hard to guess what she going to do. Om follow odd kind of  logic.
Odd for you, not quite so odd for us. Logic of higher dimensions. Like
human dream maybe."

Siss kept chattering, and  Phil had a bad  feeling about what she  was
getting  at.  He  kept  thinking  about  the  sequence  of  what  Om's
powerballs  had  swallowed so  far:  a toy  Humpty-Dumpty  moldie near
Shimmer on the Moon; Darla near a wowo on the Moon; Tempest Plenty and
Planet and a big wowo in  Santa Cruz; Kurt Gottner and part  of Friedl
in Palo Alto; half  an oak tree near  Kurt's ring in Palo  Alto; Ptah;
and —

"Yes, she going to take you, Phil," said Siss, suddenly slackening her
coils. "Run."

"Praise Om," said Peg. "She calls Phil to be with his father."

"Don't wrassle with her, Phil," said  Wubwub as Phil got to his  feet.
"If you wrassle  Om, you end  up like that  wiener-dog, know what  I'm
sayin'? When Om come, you just  ball yourself up and let her  gulp you
down. Look out fo' the churnin' when she break free."

"Will it hurt?"

"I think very much," said Siss.  "Run, Phil, run! I no want  powerball
come near me."

"Thanks  for nothing,"  snarled Phil,  aiming a  kick at  Siss but—of
course—the  prescient  snake flipped  her  body to  where  Phil's foot
wasn't.

"You have but two more minutes," said Peg. "Pray use them nobly."

So Phil walked out  of the cave to  the beach and sat  hunkered there,
staring at  the blank  sky and  the eternal  waves, no  different than
before. And  now he  would probably  die. So  this is  how it happens,
thought  Phil.  It's not  really  so hard.  Part  of him  felt  weary,
paralyzed, and almost glad.

But there was another Phil that knew he hadn't really started to  live
yet. He  called Yoke  on his  uvvy. She  picked up almost immediately.
"Phil?" Behind  her Phil  could see  laboring Tongan  sailors and  the
great open hold of a ship. Vaana and the King were there as well.

"Hi, Yoke. The powerball is about to  get me. I'm on the beach at  the
other end of the island. The aliens are holed up in a cave here.  They
just  decrypted a  new Metamartian,  and Om's  going to  celebrate by
swallowing me."

"Oh noooo!" Yoke's face bunched up and she burst into tears.

"I love you, Yoke."

"Don't die!"

"The Metamartians claim I won't be  dead. That I'll be in a  bubble in
hyperspace. But I — I don't really believe it. The fourth dimension is
bullshit. I'm just  glad I met  you, Yoke. I  always said my  life was
good, but it wasn't  really until I met  you. At least we  had one day
together."  Phil  thought he  saw  something flickering  out  over the
water. An isolated glint of strange perspective. "It's coming for  me,
whatever  it is.  And, Yoke,  it was  definitely Om  that got  Darla.
Shimmer told her  to. Stay away  from the Metamartians,  or they might
kill you too."

"Wait, Phil, wait. How is it that you might not die?"

"Some crafty math fabulation. I'll find my way back if there's a  way.
Here it comes."

"I'll wait for you in San Francisco."

"I love you."

The powerball  came in  across the  water, low  down at  Phil's level,
flying straight at him. Phil  braced himself, wrapping his arms  tight
around his  knees. The  powerball looked  like a  big, glowing crystal
ball, reflecting and refracting light, though not so smooth as a glass
ball, perhaps a bit more like a drop of water.

As it drew closer  there was an odd  effect on the rest  of the world:
things seemed to  melt and warp,  distorting themselves away  from the
magic ball.

Closer and closer it came, yet  taking an oddly long time to  actually
arrive.  It  was  as if  the  space  between Phil  and  the  ball were
stretching nearly  as fast  as the  ball could  approach. The ball was
like a hole opening up in the world. Everything was being pushed aside
by it; the sky and waves were being squeezed out along its edges.

Phil looked back over his shoulder;  there was still a little zone  of
normality behind him —the nearest  section of the rocky cliffs  looked
much the same. But  so strong was the  space warping of the  powerball
that the beach to the left and right seemed to bend away from him and,
as Phil watched, this effect grew more pronounced. In a few moments it
was as if  Phil stood out  on the tip  of a little  finger of reality,
with the glowing  powerball's hyperspace squeezing  in on every  side.
Back there at the other end  of the finger, back in the  world, Wubwub
and Shimmer were peeking out of their cave entrance watching him,  the
cowards. He fought down an urge to run at them, and forced himself  to
turn back to  face the engulfing  ball. What could  he see within  the
ball? Nothing  but funhouse  mirror reflections  of himself:  jiggling
pink patches of his skin  against a blue background filled  with moons
and stars —his shirt.

And then,  like a  mighty wave  breaking, the  warped zone  moved over
Phil.  He  felt  a deep  shock  of  pain throughout  his  body,  as if
something were pulling and stretching  at his insides. His lungs,  his
stomach, his muscles, his brain —every tissue burned with agony.

"Phil! Phil!"

Phil didn't dare turn; he felt  as if the slightest motion might  tear
his  innards  in two.  But,  peering from  his  pain-wracked eyes,  he
realized there was no need to turn, for with the powerball centered on
him, his view of the world had changed. The entire world was  squeezed
into a tiny ball that seemed to float a few feet away from him like  a
spherical mirror the size of a  dinner plate. And there in the  little
toy world, like animated figurines, were Cobb and Yoke. Running toward
him. Phil instinctively reached out towards them but—swish — something
flashed past his fingers like  an invisible scythe. And then—pop  —the
little bubble that had been the  normal world winked out of view,  and
Phil was alone in the hypersphere of the powerball.

Phil's guts snapped back to normal; the pain and its afterimage faded.
He found himself comfortably floating within an empty, well-lit  space
that contained glowing air, his  body and seemingly nothing else.  The
Metamartians had been right, up to a point, but where were the  others
that had been  swallowed? When the  powerball finished examining  him,
would he dissolve?

"Hello?" called Phil. "Om?" No answer.

The  space  bent  back on  itself  so  that Phil  saw  nothing  in any
direction  but endless  warped barbershop  images of  himself, of  his
sunburned hairy limbs  and his billowing  shirt's blue field  of moons
and stars.

Phil remembered one  of his father's  stories about A  Square stuck to
the  surface  of the  sphere,  with all  of  his A  Square  light-rays
traveling along  great circles  of the  sphere's surface  as well.  In
every direction, A Square sees  only himself. Here in the  hypersphere
of the powerball, Phil could see  the back of his own head,  the blond
hair shaggier than he'd realized. He wondered if he'd meet Da soon.

Since there were no other objects in the space with Phil, it was  hard
to tell if he could really move. But after a while he noticed that the
space  wasn't completely  uniform. There  was one  particular spot  up
ahead where the images of himself were always fractured. He wanted  to
go over and look at this  little flaw, but at first he  couldn't think
of any way  to move. Finally  it occurred to  him to throw  one of his
shoes over his shoulder. Sure  enough, the shoe-toss set him  drifting
forward in  the direction  of the  flaw. Just  as he  got within arm's
length of  the special  spot, his  shoe came  tumbling toward his face
—the shoe  had traveled  clear around  the little  hypersphere of  the
power-ball. Phil moved his head to  one side, and the shoe grazed  his
shoulder, which slowed his forward motion.

He stretched  out his  hand toward  the flawed  region. As his fingers
entered the crooked space  they disappeared. Phil convulsively  pulled
his hand back; there was no damage to it. He felt into the flaw  again
and wiggled his fingers. An  odd sensation: his fingers couldn't  find
his thumb, and his thumb couldn't find his fingers. Just then the shoe
came orbiting past again and caught him full in the chest. He  drifted
away from  the anomalous  spot with,  whew, all  of his  fingers still
intact.

A little later Phil started being hungry and thirsty. He wondered  how
long he'd been in  here. He consulted his  uvvy for the time,  but its
clock was stuck at 11:37 a.m.—presumably it hadn't received any update
signals since he entered the power-ball. He made a halfhearted attempt
to make an uvvy  call to Yoke, but  as he'd expected, it  didn't work.
Any  signals  he  could  send  would  circle  around  and  around  his
hypersphere just like the rays of light. But then he noticed something
new in the uvvy. It was showing him just the kind of amorphous  mental
image he'd seen when he tried to  use Yoke's alla. It seemed as if  Om
had a built-in alla he could use!

Phil tried to nudge the  alla catalog's grayish start-up image  into a
representation of  food. But  Om's catalog  for this  alla wasn't  for
humans, it was for aliens —presumably for Metamartians? Though he  was
trying for the image of an apple, he ended up with a representation of
a  spiky  red  leathery  thing that  was—what?  The  alla  catalog was
multisensory, so Phil took a  virtual sniff of the possible  fruit; it
had a faintly  acrid odor, but  maybe that was  just the smell  of the
rind. Phil said, "Actualize." He wasn't sure if anything would happen;
after all, Yoke's alla  had refused to obey  anyone but Yoke. But  the
powerball's intrinsic alla seemed willing to work for him. A  brightly
outlined alla mesh formed and — whoosh — the spiky pouch became real.

When Phil hungrily pulled one  of the spikes loose, sick  yellow cream
dribbled out of the  rip in the tough  red skin, stinging his  hand. A
reek like ammonia assaulted his eyes and nose. Phil focused in on  his
uvvy and  wished very  hard for  the alien  pod to  disappear. To  his
relief, an alla mesh formed around  the fruit and it reverted to  air,
taking most of the corrosive smell with it. Maybe he wasn't hungry yet
after all.

He gave up on food and wandered about in the mental maze of the  alien
alla catalog,  marveling at  wonderful baubles  and bizarre  forms. He
even actualized three of the objects for himself.

First,  there   was  something   resembling  a   little  pearl-handled
pocketknife, but when  he folded out  the single "blade,"  it revealed
itself as  a waving  broom of  tiny metallic  tentacles, each  of them
subtly articulated. Resisting the temptation to touch the metal  fuzz,
Phil folded it back away and pocketed the object.

Second, he actualized a golf-ball-sized sphere that resembled  perhaps
a goldfish bowl with  luminous fish in it.  Not that they were  really
fish; they were more like plankton. The little globe was velvety black
with bright, glowing  globules and disks  within. The odd  thing about
the globe was  that its image  kept changing according  to subtle cues
that Phil could  barely tell he  was giving. Every  time he moved  his
head, the bright little creatures  inside the globe would swim  to one
side or the other. And every time he focused on one particular  little
denizen of the bowl, that "fish"  would seem to swell up in  size, and
all the others would rush away from it.

Third, Phil picked from the catalog a necklace with a single large gem
that seemed to  embody an endless  variety of possible  formations. It
was a ruby, emerald, diamond, sapphire  — all of these, one after  the
other, and more. Not  only did the gems  color change, the cut  of its
shape kept shifting as  well. It was gorgeous.  Phil vowed that if  he
ever saw Yoke again, he'd give it to her.

Though Phil still wasn't ready to try tackling any more alien food, he
was getting  seriously thirsty.  He found  his way  to a  part of  the
Metamartian alla catalog that seemed to be devoted to beverages. Using
the uvvy's  virtual odor  feature to  avoid drinks  that smelled  like
gasoline or  acetone, he  was eventually  able to  actualize something
that seemed to be a flagon of water.

Carefully he tasted of it, and it was indeed plain water, so he  drank
it down, then used the alla to turn the empty flagon back into air.

Phil looked around  the alla catalog  a little more,  trying to figure
out the appearance of the Metamartians in their home world — if indeed
the catalog was for Metamartians and not for some completely different
kind of alien. He couldn't find any pictures of intended users of  the
catalog, but  he did  stumble across  an area  with what  seemed to be
clothes. The aliens seemed to wear loose robes or caftans, things with
a head hole  and two arm  holes. There was  nothing like trousers  and
nothing like shoes.

After a while Phil tired of exploring the alla catalog, and he  simply
hung there doing nothing, looking back  on his life. What had he  made
of  his  twenty-four  years on  Earth?  He'd  survived childhood,  his
parents' divorce, his overbearing father. He'd gone to UC Berkeley for
two years, but when he was twenty he'd gotten sick of jumping  through
the  hoops.  The  hoops  weren't  his,  they  were  societies  and his
father's. Bogus. He'd dropped out,  getting a series of kitchen  jobs,
eventually  becoming  the assistant  chef  for a  top  restaurant. Big
whoop.

One other accomplishment was that  he had stayed Straight Edge:  clean
and sober. But what else had he ever done? Was it really enough to  be
serene and balanced? Da certainly didn't think so. And deep down, Phil
wasn't really so serene. Deep down he was frightened.

It would  be nice  to have  a family  and children  someday; the worst
mistake he had made along those  lines was to hook up with  Kevvie. At
least that was over. And he'd almost had a chance at Yoke. But now his
life was apparently done.

Phil let himself imagine what he  might do if he got a  second chance.
Hang onto Yoke for sure. And  what else? Stay sober, yeah. Cook  for a
day-job, but maybe finally try  and move on. Dare to  express himself.
With blimps? Who could tell? Could  be that now he'd never know.  Phil
sighed,  making an  effort to  free himself  of self-pity.  He said  a
simple prayer: "God, please help me."

Usually a prayer like this would dissolve out into the glowing  aether
of the great  buzzing world-mind. Phil  would feel the  better for it,
but there wouldn't be any  obvious response. It was just  something he
did, choosing to act as if there were a God who cared. The  occasional
prayers helped Phil keep his  thinking clear enough to stay  sober. He
murmured the prayer again, felt more centered, and dozed off.

He hadn't slept for long when his prayer seemed to get a very  literal
answer. The hypersphere began talking to him. "So you're ready to move
on?" came a rich,  thrilling voice, the voice  of Om. "Here we  go." A
dream: But then Phil woke to the sound of a pop near his feet.

When he looked down he saw a tiny ball with some people in it. Was  he
coming back to Earth?  The little ball grew  up toward him very  fast,
and as it engulfed him, there was another stretching sensation in  his
viscera, though not quite so violent or prolonged as before. And  then
the queasy pain was over. But Phil wasn't back to Earth. He was  still
in a hypersphere, only it was  six or seven times bigger than  before.
Phil's hypersphere and a larger hypersphere had joined together like a
pair of soap bubbles merging. Like two fingers of Om's "hand."

The new space smelled of dog, moldie, sweat, and alcohol. It held half
an oak tree, and perched in the tree were a bony crone in overalls and
a  plump, nude  matron. There  was a  big bright  wowo, an  egg-shaped
moldie, and  an orange  and white  collie-beagle dog  as well, the egg
with a colorful  belt—or cravat?—around his  middle. But all  this was
just a flash in the background,  for right up in Phil's face  was none
other than —

"Da!"

"Phil! Oh no,  you can't end  up here too!  Your poor mother."  Phil's
naked father  gestured awkwardly.  His left  hand ended  in a  scabbed
stump. "I'm scared about what comes next."

Phil spoke the biggest thing in his mind. "I'm sorry I was mean to you
the last time we talked, Da."

"Oh hell,  I started  it by  picking on  you. What  you said to me was
nothing. I wouldn't have taken it  so hard if I hadn't been  drinking.
Of course I forgive you! But, hey, you can't very well say the  fourth
dimension's bullshit anymore, can you?"  There was alcohol on the  old
man's breath.

'Tour poor hand," said Phil.  "Jane says your wedding ring  is already
proof of the fourth dimension."

"What do you mean?" asked Kurt.

"You didn't know? When this  ball chopped off your hand,  your wedding
ring got knotted. And then later it flipped into its mirror image."

"Gnarly!" Kurt looked ruefully at  his stump. "It's healing up  really
well. Maybe it's  like the way  a corpse's fingernails  grow fast. Old
Tempest helped with  it a lot.  Let me introduce  you. Darla, Tempest!
This is my son!"

The two women scrambled closer through the oak tree, which provided  a
handy method  of moving  around in  the hypersphere.  Though Darla was
nude and a bit overweight, she seemed unembarrassed about it. She  had
a wound  on her  foot; it  looked like  one of  her toes  was missing.
Tempest was a lively old  woman in overalls. She  was carrying a half
empty squeeze-bag of wine. The woman greeted Phil with avid  interest.
Clearly everyone in here was getting cabin fever.

"Your old  man's been  telling me  about you,"  said Darla. She talked
like a hipster. "That's wavy  that you've got alky-junky genes.  I can
really relate. And hats off  for being Straight Edge. I'm  gonna clean
up too one of these days. Kurt and I were thinking it could be  stuzzy
if you met one of my daughters."

"I did meet Yoke," said Phil. "At Da's funeral. She came with Tre  and
Terri Dietz. In fact I was just now visiting her in Tonga."

"My funeral!" interrupted Da, totally  into himself as usual. "Was  it
big?"

"I think I dreamed about you asking me this," said Phil. "And maybe  I
dreamed about  me asking  you," said  Kurt. "I've  been having  crazy,
lucid dreams in here.  It seems the whale  talks to Jonah." He  looked
around, a bit  wild-eyed. "I think  this hypersphere is  alive, and it
comes into my brain  when I'm sleeping. But  now we're awake. Tell  me
about my funeral!"

So Phil told his father all about  it. The part Da liked the best  was
how Phil had buried the ashes by the oak tree.

"You're a good  son to have  done that. I  bet some of  the ashes were
Friedl's. That dog." He gestured  at the great twisted trunk  with its
branches and dead leaves. "So this is our special tree? Small world."

"Too dang small," said Tempest  in her Florida cracker accent.  "Can I
finally  get past  howdy and  ask some  questions? I  happen to  know
Darla's Yoke too, Phil. Just before this here ball done gobble me  up,
I was a-visitin' my  niece Starshine in  Santa Cruz while  Yoke was a
stayin'  with Starshine's  neighbor. You  sweet on  that little  Yoke,
Phil? She's a honey. Smart as a whip too."

"I like her a lot," said Phil.  "We were about to have a really  great
time in Tonga."

"What's Tonga?" asked Darla.

Darla was so nude and female and voluptuous that Phil was  embarrassed
to look directly at  her—but Da was staring  at her all the  time. And
now Da put his arm around her waist as if to steady her. Gross.

"Tonga's a cannibal  island," said Tempest.  "Don't you know  nothing,
Darla? Go on,  Phil. Tell about  you and Yoke  in Tonga. Were  you two
shacked up?"

"Back  off!" said  Phil, desperate  to change  the subject.  This was
turning into real torture. And there was no way to escape. Desperately
he fixed his eyes on the hypersphere's other two occupants. "You got a
dog and a Silly Putter in here?"

"That's Planet  and Humpty-Dumpty,"  said Tempest.  "Planet's my  good
boy. Come  here, Planet,  come to  Auntie Tempest."  Clumsily the  dog
clawed his way  through the branches  of the oak  tree, finally losing
his footing and flying through the  air to bump into Phil, tongue  and
tail wagging. Phil and the  dog drifted around the whole  hypersphere,
coming to rest back  at the splintered base  of the oak tree  with the
others.

"What were you and Yoke doing  in Tonga?" asked Darla as soon  as Phil
caught his breath.

"We've only just met," said Phil. "We were getting to know each other,
and  snorkeling,  but  then  I   ran  into  Shimmer  and  some   other
Metamartians."

"Metamartians?" spat Darla. "Is that what they call themselves?"

"Shouldn't  there  be  one  of them  in  here  with  us?" asked  Phil,
continually avoiding looking at Darla. "A Metamartian named Ptah?"

"Darla and me done chased his ass outta here!" cackled Tempest. "I got
the magic wisher to  make us some grain  alcohol to set him  on fire."
She patted the uvvy on the back of her neck. Phil noticed that Da  and
Darla  didn't  have  uvvies.  They'd  both  been  abducted  at  night.
"Couldn't catch him nohow," continued Tempest, "but he got so sick  of
it that he done took off out the hole. Ptah said pfuck it!"

"There's a hole up there where you can stick your head out," explained
Da, pointing toward the other  end of the tree. "Into  raw hyperspace.
Very creepy."

"You said you dreamed this hypersphere talks to you," said Phil. "Does
she call herself—"

"Om," said Kurt,  just as Phil  said it too.  "Yes, she calls  herself
Om."

"The  Metamartians  call  her  that,"  said  Phil.  "She's  their god.
Wherever they go,  Om comes too.  She scooped you  up because she  was
curious about the wowo."

"So it's true?" said  Kurt. "I hadn't been  sure. Om only talks  to me
when I'm dreaming. But it's slow going because I'm always drunk.  Hard
to think logically. The shock. I keep thinking we're all dead."

"Pass around the wine, Tempest," said Darla. "It's time for a drink."

"I'm half in a bag already, Phil," said Kurt apologetically. "I should
explain that we've been partying hard. Tempest figured out how to make
wine. Well, it's similar to  wine, anyway. We've been drinking  enough
of it."

"Could you make me some  food?" asked Phil. His stomach  was rumbling.
"I haven't figured out how to find it."

"These  things  are tolerable  good,"  said old  Tempest.  She made  a
gesture and  a bright  alla mesh  pattern formed  to whoosh  out a big
crisp golden shape, fat in the  middle and pointed at both ends.  Phil
nibbled at  it. It  seemed to  be something  like a  deep fried  sweet
potato. Fibrous,  oily, not  too bad.  He took  a big  bite, and  then
another and—crunch — hit something like a vein of wiggly cartilage.

"Like a rubber bone in there, huh?" said Tempest. "Reminds me of a hog
snout."

Phil peered at the greasy object he'd been eating. "What is it?"

"Hell if I know," said Tempest. "I call it a yam-snoot. You should  of
seen some of  the other vittles  we tried. Alien  food, I guess."  She
took a  pull from  her sack  of liquid  and tried  passing it to Phil.
"Hope you ain't a tight-ass, Phil," she said as he refused the sack.

"No, no," said Phil, though his heart sank at the thought of being  in
here with three drunk pheezers. "Da, tell me more about that hole?"

"It's a kind  a flaw, a  place where the  space of this  sphere has an
edge. According to my reasoning,  when you stick your head  out there,
your head is in four-dimensional hyperspace. I've only tried it for  a
few seconds. It's cold  and you have to  keep coming back for  breath.
And there's this freaky  light. I wouldn't try  it, Phil. But if,  God
forbid, you do stick your head through the hole, be very sure to  hang
onto the tree  so the rest  of you doesn't  slide out." Da  squirted a
stream of wine into his mouth,  and then some into Darla's. A  rivulet
dribbled down her chin  and onto her big  breasts. "Don't stare at  us
like that, Phil.

I know I shouldn't be getting fucked up, but I'm far enough into  this
run that I've  got to finish.  After I sleep  it off, I'll  get myself
together  and we'll  talk about  our chances  of getting  you back  to
Earth."

"Hey, Da!" said  Phil. "This is  xoxxed. Can I  at least make  you and
Darla some clothes?"

"Oh  bless  his  heart," cackled  Tempest.  "Hear  that Darla?"  Darla
responded by striking a coy pose with one hand over her crotch and one
over her boobs. Phil realized she was quite drunk.

He quickly  found the  clothing area  of Om's  Metamartian catalog and
actualized two of the colorful loose caftans. He made Darla one with a
pattern of  unearthly biological  shapes that  might have  been purple
flowers; Da got one with flickering red shapes like flames. The fabric
was some unknown material that was slippery but not sticky. A bit like
silk, but with no sign of threads.

"Give me one too," said Tempest. "A blue one."

"All  right," said  Phil, and  made Tempest  a Metamartian  robe that
resembled a waterfall. "I'm outta here for now, losers."

He pulled himself  toward the other  end of the  oak tree, pausing  to
study the  glowing holographic  knot of  the oversize  wowo. It  was a
roughly  doughnut-shaped  pattern  of  steadily  changing mathematical
curves and surfaces. Tre Dietz may have turned off all the wowos  he'd
sold, but he hadn't been able to reach this one. It was going  strong.
Phil  liked to  think a  wowo looked  a little  like a  glass pelican
continually crawling farther and farther up its own butt, while at the
same time emerging  from its own  beak, somehow changing  into its own
mirror image in the process. Mind-boggling and gnarly.

Phil proceeded onward to  the other end  of the tree.  The toy Humpty
Dumpty was sitting there, clamped onto a branch like an owl. Phil gave
him a  gentle poke,  and the  egg smiled  ingratiatingly. A  low husky
laugh floated up from Darla at the other end of the tree.  Fortunately
there were enough  dead leaves between  them that Phil  didn't have to
see what the old folks were doing.

Just as Kurt had said, right beyond  the end of the tree was a  flawed
spot like Phil had seen in his own little hypersphere. He took a  deep
breath and stuck his head through it.

CHAPTER FOUR

YOKE

February 23

After dropping Phil at the dock in Neiafu, the navy motorboat  ferried
Yoke, Cobb, Onar, and  Kennit to a big  aluminum ship anchored in  the
harbor. The flagship of the  Tongan Navy. Its rounded lines  made Yoke
think of a beer keg. Amidships was a tower of cabins surmounted by the
bridge; aft was a flexible whip-cannon poised like a cobra head.

The King was waiting  for them on board.  He was wearing a  white coat
and peaked cap for this nautical occasion. His green moldie girlfriend
Vaana was at his side.

"Good morning, Yoke," said the King. "And it's an honor indeed to meet
the famous Cobb Anderson. Welcome aboard." He glanced around the deck.
"We can  speak quite  freely. The  sailors barely  know English, while
Kennit and  the bodyguards  are completely  to be  trusted. Greetings,
Onar! Anyone need a coffee? Champagne?  No?" He led them aft to  stand
by a big open hatch in the  deck. Above the hatch was a crane  mounted
on a high triangular brace.  "You've brought the alla, Yoke?  Ah, it's
that little  tube thing.  Excellent. I  look forward  to seeing  it in
action. Slugs  of gold  and imipolex  all morning  long. Yum  yum!" He
smiled and rubbed his hands. A dozen Tongan sailors

were sitting around, ready to start work. Kennit joined two of

the King's bodyguards, who were ensconced up on the bridge,

playing a game of cards with a Tongan man in a captain's hat.

"Won't the ship sink if it gets too full?" Yoke asked the King,

"Oh, I'm not so inordinately acquisitive," said the King, a

cheerful twinkle in his eye.

"Captain Pulu gonna  keep an eye  on the tonnage,"  said Vaana, waving
toward the bridge. "And Yoke, child, I want you to make twice as  much
imipolex as gold."

"You owe me  an apology, Vaana,"  interrupted Cobb. He'd  been staring
fixedly at the  sexy green moldie  since they'd come  aboard the ship.
"You almost killed me with that betty the other night." Yoke  recalled
that Cobb had also mentioned having sex with Vaana.

"Ain't my  look-out," said  merry Vaana.  "You was  partyin' with  the
best. We do it again sometime, hey? You a lift, old Cobb."

"A man your age  should have the maturity  to own the consequences  of
his self-destructive behavior, Cobb," said Onar primly.

"You're a devil,  Vaana," said the  King. "Let's get  started with our
day's work, shall  we, Yoke? I'd  suggest your rhythm  be to create  a
pair of hundred  kilogram cylinders of  imipolex followed by  a single
hundred kilogram ingot of  gold. One-two-three, one-two-three, and  so
on. The sailors will  load them onto pallets  and lower them into  the
hold."

"I forget," said Yoke. "Why am I doing this for you?" "It's thanks  to
HRH and me that you have the alla in the first place," said Onar.

"I thought it was Shimmer who gave it to me," said Yoke. "Yes, but  we
guided you to her," said the  King. "Be a sport, Yoke. Just  one day's
work. And then  you're perfectly free  to go." "But  Cobb and 1  could
leave right now, if I wanted to," said Yoke. "Right?"

"You should know that HRH's bodyguards are well-armed,"

said Onar. "And this is,  after all, a warship,  complete with a whip
cannon that can shoot a sea gull out of the sky."

"No  need to  take that  tone, Onar,"  said the  King. "As  you and  I
discussed earlier, our policy is persuasion, not force."

"Speaking  of  bodyguards,  where  are  Tashtego  and  Daggoo  today?"
wondered Cobb.

"They'll be here  in a bit,"  said the King.  "They flew over  to Fiji
very early this morning. They're looking into the imipolex market  for
me."

So  Yoke  grasped her  alla  and started  turning  air into  gold  and
imipolex at  a rate  of one  pulse every  second or  two. The  sailors
stepped lively, stowing the booty. With each transmutation, a  hundred
kilograms worth  of air  would rush  into a  bright-line alla  control
mesh, making a big whoosh and  thud that caused the ship to  bob. Yoke
figured out in her head that a  hundred kilos of air took up about  as
much  space  as an  apartment's  living room.  The  cumulative rocking
effect of the  repeated gusts  became a  little sickening  after three
quarters of an hour. Yoke took  a break and alla-made herself a  glass
of fresh orange juice.

The King was sitting in a deck chair smoking a cigar. Vaana lolled  on
the deck beside  him, looking like  a thick, sexy  serpent. Cobb stood
behind the pair, discussing something with Onar. Now Onar patted  Cobb
on the back and took a  chair next to the King. Cobb  remained stiffly
erect, his face gone oddly blank.

"Are you all right, Cobb?" called Yoke.

"Yes," said Cobb shortly. Perhaps he and Onar had argued?

"Captain Pulu's estimates make  it that you're one-third  done, Yoke,"
said the King, squinting up at the man on the ship's bridge.

"What are you going to do with all this stuff?" asked Yoke.

"Refurbish Tonga's credit in world banking circles!" said the

King happily. "I'm going to ship this load straight to Suva in

. Fiji and sell it. Tonga will be in the black for the first time this

century. Not that our debt is all that large, mind you; it's well

under a hundred million dollars. We've been prudent, but we can  never
quite get onto the good side of  the ledger. This will make me a  hero
to my people."

"You're going to give every bit of it away?" asked Vaana. She  sounded
surprised. "I  thought you  said half  the imipolex  would be  for the
Tongan moldies."

"Strictly speaking,  there are  no Tongan  moldies,' "  said the King.
"Only  a native-born  flesh-and-blood Tongan  can be  a citizen.  This
isn't the  U.S. with  its quixotic  Moldie Citizenship  Act. I have to
take care of my own people first. You moldies are only our guests." He
held up his hand to stave  off Vaana's anger. "You of course  can have
all the imipolex you require for your personal needs at any time, dear
Vaana. And  I promise  you that  once I've  taken care  of the  Tongan
national debt, I will try and do something for our very honored  guest
moldies."

"A  promise ain't  enough," snapped  Vaana, standing  up in  her full
womanly form. "My people been counting on me to get us a fair deal."

The King shook his  head. "My local standing  is already shaky due  to
the  gossip  about  our  relationship,  Vaana.  For  my  own political
survival,  I can't  be put  in a  position of  seeming to  give a  too
preferential treatment to —"

At this  point Yoke  lost the  thread of  their conversation because a
nightmarish call came in on her uvvy. It was Phil, standing on a beach
looking desperate. He'd encountered Shimmer  and the aliens in a  cave
at the end of the island. The powerball was about to eat him.

When Yoke sprang across the deck  and pulled Cobb around her, the  old
man moldie was maddeningly sluggish in his responses. "Faster,  Cobb,"
urged the  frantic Yoke.  "You have  to fly  me to  the far end of the
island!"

"Why?" drawled Cobb. "You're not finished filling the ship."

"The powerball  is about  to get  Phil! Oh,  hurry! Maybe  we can save
him."

"One certainly hopes not," said Cobb with unexpected venom. His  voice
sounded all different. "But, very well, I'll take you there. It should
be amusing."

"What  is  wrong with  you?"  cried Yoke,  but  Cobb gave  no  answer.
Silently he flew Yoke to the island's end as directed.

When they landed on the beach, Yoke quickly popped herself out of  the
moldie. It  was too  late. A  big warped  ball of  space had slid onto
Phil, and his form was swollen up like a balloon. Even though she knew
it was  hopeless, Yoke  ran toward  Phil, calling  his name, with Cobb
trotting along behind her.

The warped sphere of the powerball snapped loose from normal space—and
Phil was gone. A nauseating ripple of distortion passed through Yoke's
body. And then nothing. The world going on the same as before. With no
Phil. Right at the end he'd said he loved her. Yoke realized that  she
could have loved him too.

Cobb was standing just  behind Yoke, looking sarcastic  and unhelpful.
And down the  beach a ways  was a hole  in the cliff  with some of the
aliens watching. Yoke could make out the pale glow of Shimmer and  the
dark snout of Wubwub.

"We have  to get  back to  HRH and  the ship,"  said Cobb.  "We're not
nearly finished there."

"Whatever,"  said Yoke,  striding down  the beach  toward the  aliens.
"Shimmer! You have to help bring them back. I want Phil and I want  my
mother!" On an impulse, Yoke used her alla to create a flaming  wooden
torch. "Moldie flesh burns, Shimmer!"

Calmly the pale woman and the dark pig stared out at Yoke.

Did she really have any chance against these superhuman? Not

likely. But she held her little torch up high. "Help me or else!"

Before the scene could play itself out, Yoke was tackled from

behind. By Cobb. The old man moldie knocked the torch from

her hand and flowed forward, enveloping and immobilizing her.

"We really must be on our way," said Cobb. "HRH wants

us back immediately."

And then they were rocketing up from the beach, arcing back across the
island to where the roly-poly  aluminum Tongan Navy ship waited.  Yoke
tried to  talk to  Cobb, but  it was  no use.  It was  as if he'd been
hypnotized or turned into a zombie.

"I put  a leech-DIM  on him,"  explained the  smirking Onar  when Cobb
split open to disgorge Yoke back  onto the deck of the ship.  "As long
as Cobb's wearing  it, he's an  extension of me.  I slapped it  on him
while you were busy making the gold and imipolex. I let Cobb take  you
to watch Phil get eaten because I was curious too. Too bad about that,
really. Phil was a decent sort. No mental giant, though. In any  case,
it's time to get back to work, Yoke. Break's over."

"You heartless prick." Now that she knew what to look for, Yoke  could
see the leech-DIM on Cobb's back,  knotted into his pink flesh like  a
purple scar. She reached  out to see if  she could tear it  loose, but
Cobb's body twisted away.

"Do as Onar says," said Cobb, his voice a slavish replica of Onar's.

"That leech is comin' off right now!" yelled Vaana. She'd become  very
agitated as soon  as Onar pointed  out Cobb's leech-DIM.  She gave the
King's shoulder  a shake.  "Bou-Bou! You  can't sit  here and let this
skanky white dook put a leech-DIM on a moldie. Tonga's a free zone!"

"Yes, but a free  Cobb might take Yoke  and her alla away  from us too
soon," hissed  Onar. "Surely  even you  can understand  that, you fat,
stinking sex-toy."

"Understand this" said Vaana. Her arm lashed out snake-fast to  strike
a concussive blow against the side of Onar's head. Onar collapsed like
a rag doll, and so did Cobb.

"Oh, you shouldn't have done that, Vaana," said the King, very  upset.
"I'm sorry about the leech-DIM.  Onar talked me into it.  Greed, don't
you know." He waved  both arms, making a  broad "calm down" signal  to
his  bodyguards on  the bridge.  "The guards  may think  they have  to
defend the Tu'i  Tonga, Vaana. They're  obsessed with the  notion that
you might harm me."

But Vaana was too agitated to pay proper attention. "You actually gave
Onar the okay, Bou-Bou?  You told him he  could use a leech-DIM?"  She
grabbed the  King and  gave him  another rough  shake. "I  thought you
loved moldies!"

Up on the bridge the  bodyguards were frantically conferring with  the
captain, and now the whip-cannon at the rear of the ship twitched into
life. Yoke dove onto the deck next to Cobb to get out of the way.  The
whip-cannon snapped like a huge towel. A heavy puck of metal flew into
Vaana, cutting  her completely  in two.  The puck  punched through the
deck and  the side  of the  hull —fortunately  above the waterline—and
plunged violently into the sea.

"No!" screamed the King. "Vaana!"

With what  seemed like  her dying  effort, Vaana  opened her mouth and
made a cracked warbling noise. And then both halves of her were still.
Kennit came pounding down the  companionway from the bridge. "Are  you
all right, Your Majesty?" he shouted. "Thank God we saved you."

Onar began twitching, starting to wake back up, and Cobb was twitching
too. If Yoke waited any longer it would be too late. Quickly she  made
herself a knife with  her alla and rolled  Cobb over so she  could cut
the purple scar of the leech from his back. But Kennit darted  forward
to take the knife and the alla from her.

"Don't hurt the girl!" shouted the King. "You've done enough damage."

"No weapons near  the King," said  Kennit. "I'm going  to handcuff her
till I figure out what's  happening." And then he yanked  Yoke's hands
behind her  back and  snapped some  tight bands  of plastic around her
wrists. Kennit pushed her down into  the deck chair next to the  King,
then threw the knife into the ocean and handed her alla to Bou-Bou.

"I'm sure Yoke's no danger," said the King, taking the alla. "She  was
only trying to  help her friend.  As was Vaana,  you were glad  for an
excuse to kill her, weren't you, Kennit? You and the guards have  been
waiting for—for—" The King's voice broke and he put his hand over  his
eyes. 'You  can't understand  this, Kennit,  but I  loved her." "Yis,"
said Kennit.

There was a minute  of silence. At Yoke's  feet lay the two  halves of
Vaana, inert in a reeking  puddle of straw-colored moldie ichor.  Onar
was  sitting  woozily upright  on  the deck  next  to the  dismembered
moldie. It seemed as if the bad guys had won.

"If I give you back your alla,  will you finish your work for me  now,
Yoke?" the King asked. He was  fiddling with the alla as if  desperate
for a distraction  from the sight  of the shattered  Vaana. "Curious,"
continued the King. "Just an empty  tube, though if I look through  it
the world seems to  be twirling." He knitted  his brows as if  willing
something to happen, but nothing did. "It won't make anything for  me.
Yes yes, it really  is keyed to you,  Yoke. You're the goose  who lays
the golden eggs. A fine role."

"No eggs if the farmer mistreats the goose," said Yoke. "Unshackle  me
so I can take the leech-DIM off of Cobb. Until then I'm not making you
anything more. Once you  free us, I'll still  keep my promise to  fill
your ship with imipolex and gold."

"Oh, but we can make her do much more than that, Bou-Bou," said  Onar,
his voice slurred. He  squeezed his eyes shut  and rubbed the side  of
his head, gathering his forces. Moving slowly and carefully, he got to
his feet and sneered down at Yoke with something like his old  energy.
"Yes, Bou-Bou, I have  another trick up my  sleeve. I can make  little
Miss Snooty Britches do anything I  want her to. Look." Onar pulled  a
twitching piece of imipolex  out of his pants  pocket, a fat dark  red
slug of a thing.

"Be careful,  that's a  thinking cap!"  exclaimed the  horrified Yoke,
who'd been warned about them many times before. "A moldie can make  it
crawl up a person's nose to take over their brain!"

"Yes, my dear," said  Onar. "Up your nose.  I'll use the leech-DIM  to
run Cobb, and  Cobb will use  the thinking cap  to run you.  A baroque
little chain of command, no?" He paused and giggled. "I have an  idea,
Bou-Bou. Why don't I smear Yoke with Vaana's ichor and get her to have
sex with you. Little Yoke's a rather good shag, don't you know."

"How revolting," said the King coldly. "I'm shocked at you, Onar.  Set
the girl free, Kennit. She's  perfectly willing to finish filling  our
ship. And do something about having poor Vaana's body stored away. I'm
going to give her a proper funeral."

"But Yoke was holding a knife, Your Majesty," said Kennit. "I have  to
protect you."

"Do you presume to disobey  my direct command?" said the  King, rising
to his feet. Kennit temporized by  continuing to talk, and the two  of
them went to stand over the remains of Vaana. Meanwhile Yoke was still
sitting in the deck chair with her hands cuffed behind her back.

While Kennit and the King continued debating, Onar handed the  nastily
twitching thinking cap to Cobb —  who had no power to do  anything but
accept  it. At  the activating  touch of  Cobb's moldie  fingers, the
thinking cap bloomed like a blob  of ink in a glass of  water, sending
out long, greedy feelers. Now Onar darted around behind Yoke and  held
her by the shoulders. The enslaved old Cobb shuffled forward,  holding
the excited thinking cap out toward Yoke's face.

"Help!" said Yoke,  but her voice  came out small  and squeaky. Stupid
Kennit and the King weren't even  looking at her. It was like  a dream
where you try to run and your legs are knee-deep in molasses. Onar had
her shoulders pinned in a grip of steel. The dark red thinking cap was
coming closer. This was happening too fast!

It occurred to Yoke that perhaps she could control her alla even  when
she wasn't  holding it.  She reached  out for  mental contact with her
alla and—yes! She alla-made a quick hydrogen-oxygen explosion at waist
level between Kennit and the King.

The blast was  encouragingly loud. The  King bellowed, Kennit  roared,
and Onar  and Cobb  were so  startled that  Cobb dropped  the writhing
thinking cap  onto Yoke's  lap. Yoke  quickly exploded  a much  bigger
sphere of hydrogen and oxygen in a spot that she guessed to be  behind
Onar. He  came tumbling  onto her  from over  her right  shoulder. The
chair  collapsed. With  a quick  twitch of  her legs  and torso,  Yoke
maneuvered Onar's head to be  near the thinking cap. The  thinking cap
crawled onto  Onar's face  and shimmied  into his  left nostril.  Onar
screamed for Cobb to catch it, but he was too late. With a last filthy
wriggle, the  thinking cap  had disappeared  all the  way into  Onar's
nose. Onar's limbs twitched as if in an epileptic fit.'

And now  Cobb began  twitching too.  He and  Onar were  in a  feedback
control  loop.  Onar's  leech-DIM  was  controlling  Cobb,  but Cobb's
thinking  cap  was  controlling   Onar.  They  sprang  together   like
wrestlers,  like magnets.  The Cobb-directed  Onar tired  to claw  the
leech-DIM out of  Cobb's back and  the Onar-directed Cobb  probed into
Onar's nose in search of the wily thinking cap. Yet at the same  time,
Onar was directing Cobb not to direct Onar to tear out the  leech-DIM,
and Cobb was telling Onar not to tell Cobb to try and get the thinking
cap. Not to mention the fact  that Cobb both was and wasn't  trying to
choke Onar. With all the  contradictory impulses in the loop,  nothing
was accomplished, and the two  could only flail about in  chaos, their
spastic motions cycling through a Wrestle-mania strange artractor.

Meanwhile  Kennit  had placed  the  muzzle of  a  pocket-size rail-gun
against  the side  of Yoke's  head. "If  you make  one more  speck of
trouble," he growled into her ear, "I'm going to blow off your head."

Now a  new complication  arrived. Moldies  were flying  in from  every
side, seemingly drawn  by Vaana's distress  cry. Up on  the bridge the
captain began using the whip-cannon to flail out metal pucks in  every
direction, and the  two other bodyguards  opened up automatic  weapons
fire. Kennit let go of Yoke and began firing his gun at the moldies as
well. But there were too many  moldies and they were too fast.  A half
dozen of them homed in on the whip-cannon and cut the thing off at its
base. Yoke  watched all  this, sitting  handcuffed on  the deck. She'd
scooted herself away from the  flailing Onar and Cobb. The  King still
had her  alla, and  after Kennit's  threat she  was scared  to use  it
again.

As the  whip-cannon fell  into the  sea, Tashtego  and Daggoo suddenly
arrived. They came  running across the  deck, teeth bared  like joyful
pirates.

"Hold your  fire!" the  King called  to his  bodyguards. "These are my
best agents! Tashtego, Daggoo, can you revive Vaana?"

Instantly taking in the scene,  the great Daggoo bent over  Vaana, his
rapid fingers  beginning to  splice the  halves of  her body together.
Tashtego disappeared into the ship's hold.

There was a steady thud of more and more moldies landing on the  deck.
Each of them  went immediately belowdeck  and moments later  flew back
out of the  hatch, two or  three times as  big as before.  Most of the
ship's crew had jumped overboard. Cobb and Onar continued to wrestle.

"Who dealt this  mess?" said Kennit,  looking around despairingly.  He
gave  a shrill  whistle and  the two  other bodyguards  came down  the
companionway. "We're taking  HRH back to  the secure island,"  he told
them. They started across the deck.

"Let's not leave quite yet, Kennit," implored the King. "I want to see
if  Daggoo  can  fix  Vaana."  Tashtego  reappeared  from  below, much
fattened, and carrying a spare slug of imipolex that he gave Daggoo to
use on Vaana. From the water came the sound of the ship's motor launch
starting up. One of the  bodyguards yelled down that they  should wait
for the King.

"Take off my handcuffs," called Yoke. "And give me back my alla. I can
use it to save Cobb."

"Do it,  Kennit," said  the King.  He handed  Yoke's alla  to the  big
Tongan.

Kennit crossed  the deck,  holding his  rail-gun out  at the ready. He
removed Yoke's plastic handcuffs and  pressed her alla into her  hand.
"Just remember, Yoke,  if anyone comes  near HRH, my  boys and I  will
waste them." He went back to the other side of the ship.

Now that she had  her alla, Yoke realized  she didn't need a  knife to
take the leech-DIM out of Cobb.  She could simply alla it into  air—if
she could place the control mesh steadily over the leech-DIM, that is.
She explained the situation to  Tashtego and Daggoo, and the  three of
them knelt on  Cobb to hold  him still, with  Daggoo fending off  Onar
with one long arm.  At the last instant  Onar managed to lunge  in and
push his hand in as if to protect the leech-DIM. When the alla  turned
the contents  of its  control mesh  into air,  it took  a chunk out of
Onar's thumb too. He started bleeding profusely from the wound.

But the main thing was that the  leech was gone. Cobb got to his  feet
and with one glance  made Onar crouch  down motionless. With  no leech
DIM  to counter  the commands  of the  thinking cap,  Onar was  Cobb's
slave.

"Good show!" called the King. "And how's Vaana doing, Daggoo?"

"She  almost back,"  said the  huge, black  moldie, who'd  turned his
attention  back  to  his injured  comrade.  "Yaaar."  And indeed,  the
sinuous green shape of Vaana was lazily beginning to shift about.

"That's twice you've saved my life," said Cobb, hugging Yoke. "And now
I own Onar? I'd sooner own a rabid baboon."

"I'll take him," said Vaana,  sitting up and rubbing her  eyes. "Thank
you, Daggoo.  I'd like  to do  something special  with you  soon." She
flowed up Daggoo's body  like a vine growing  up an oak, then  twirled
free. Even as Yoke watched, Vaana's body was continuing to heal.  "Hi,
Bou-Bou," called Vaana, waving to the King.

The King  waved back  a little  uncertainly, but  when he  saw Vaana's
smile he tried to come over.  His bodyguards grabbed his arms to  hold
him back.

"How would I give Onar to you?" Cobb asked Vaana.

"Let me uvvy into you and I can grep your thinking cap control  code,"
said Vaana.

So Cobb and Vaana did the info transfer, and right away Vaana set Onar
to dancing  a jig  like an  organ grinder's  monkey, the  blood freely
dripping  from his  hand. Onar's  jaw was  pumping, but  Vaana wasn't
letting him say anything. His eyes  were coals of fear and anger.  His
forced capering was a ghastly, melancholy sight.

"Oh stop,"  said Yoke.  "Don't torture  him, Vaana.  We should bandage
that cut."

"I've got a better idea," said  Vaana, turning so she faced away  from
the bodyguards and the King. "A  way to finish it. Come here,  Onar, I
want to ask you to do  something." Onar stood before Vaana, tense  but
obedient, oblivious of his bloody hand.

Before Vaana could  speak, Yoke interrupted.  "Onar, did you  kill Mr.
Olou on purpose? Make him answer, Vaana."

"Yes," said Onar, his voice strained and cracked. "It was my idea."

"Go git HRH," said Vaana softly. "Don't slow down for them guards.  Go
git Bou-Bou."

Onar charged across the deck as if hell-bent on attacking the King. At
this, the  bodyguards reached  their flash  point. Moving  as one, the
three of them raised their weapons and blew off Onar's head.

"Takes care of the thinking cap too," said Vaana.

Onar fell  heavily and  lay still,  his neck  spurting. Yoke  retched.
Three days ago she'd made love to this man; his body had been warm and
strong, turgid with  the same blood  that was puddled  on the aluminum
deck. What a waste, what a pitiful end.

And then the  sky seemed to  fall in, as  something big came  crashing
into the ocean  next to the  ship. The object  came down so  fast that
there was an  ear-splitting sonic boom.  A great wave  rolled the ship
far to one side like a tin  toy, tossing Yoke and the others into  the
sea.

By a happy accident, Yoke and Cobb ended up next to each other,  along
with Vaana and the King. The ship, now some distance off, had  righted
itself. The other  moldies and the  bodyguards were out  of sight. And
floating  between Yoke  and the  ship was  the great  object that  had
caused the splash. What the hell?  It was a flattened disk —  a couple
of centimeters  thick and  ten meters  across —  with two dozen lively
beaked heads  sticking out  of it.  Yoke thought  of the nursery rhyme
about four-and-twenty blackbirds baked into a pie. A pizza pie.

"It's Cappy Jane," said Vaana, noticing Yoke's wonderment. "The Tongan
geosynchronous  satellite.  Hi,  Bou-Bou,  looks  like  we're together
again." She  wrapped her  arm around  the King,  who was struggling to
stay afloat.

"Dear Vaana," said  the King. "I  was devastated when  that fool of  a
captain shot you. Thank heavens you recovered."

"Don't let it happen again," said Vaana. "One more thing, Bou-Bou. You
got any more leech-DIMs?"

"I don't!" cried  the King. "It  was all Onar's  idea. He got  what he
deserved. Disgusting person. I  never should have befriended  him." He
was  dog-paddling  hard,  weighed  down  by  his  heavy  clothes. "I'm
sinking, Vaana."

Vaana sucked  in volumes  of air  and positioned  herself between  the
King's legs like an inflatable sea horse.

"I hope Kennit and the  boys don't start shooting again,"  fretted the
King. "With Cappy  Jane here they  must be going  mad. I never  should
have given them guns."

Vaana grew her  neck up twenty  feet to have  a look. Her  head snaked
around for a minute up there like that of a slender green sea serpent.
"They're way  over by  the ship.  The launch  circlin' around  to pick
everyone up.  We cool  for a  while. Man,  when I  chirped for help, I
didn't expect  Cappy Jane  to come.  Twenty thousand  miles in  twenty
minutes? She must have curled up like javelin for the trip down."

"Remember that it's important that the moldies don't find out who Yoke
and I are," Cobb whispered urgently  to Vaana and the King, using  his
voice rather than the  uvvy. "Or they're going  to be hounding us  for
Yoke's alla.  That's why  you set  up the  Squanto and  Sue Miller  ID
viruses for us, right?"

"That's right," said the King.

"Here, Cobb," murmured Yoke. "I'll uvvy you their identity codes." 

"Beautiful," whispered Cobb. "I'll put  those out for the Cappy  Janes
to see. We don't want them and  their pals to follow us home for  more
free goodies."

"Where's our imipolex?" squawked one of the bird heads sticking out of
the big disk of Cappy Jane. "Yeah, Vaana," said another of the  heads,
clacking its beak. "You called for help and promised us more  imipolex
than we've ever seen,  so where the fuck  is it?" A third  head craned
toward the aluminum ship. "Is it in the hold of that tub?"

"The local moldies done cleaned us out," said Vaana. "Nothin' left  in
there but gold."

"Ah, the superstitious  human worship of  rare minerals," said  one of
the Cappy Jane heads bitterly. "Too bad they don't know what it's like
to have to  buy the flesh  to make their  children." A different  head
eyed Yoke  and piped,  "Is this  the girl  who's supposed  to have the
magic wand? Who is she?"

"I'm Sue Miller," said Yoke. "And this is my moldie Squanto. How  much
imipolex would you like? How about a thousand tons!" She felt gay  and
reckless from  so many  crazy events.  If things  kept up  as weird as
this, maybe Phil could come back too.

Yoke gripped her alla and grew  a large bright-line box in the  water,
keeping it a safe  distance from her and  the others. She could  sense
the location of the  alla box through her  uvvy, as if from  a phantom
limb.  How big  could it  get, anyway?  Though she  tried to  push it
farther,  the cube  seemed to  max out  somewhere between  twelve and
thirteen meters on each side. About forty feet. Well short of touching
the sea floor.

"Get ready for a jolt!" she  cautioned the others. "I'm going to  turn
that big cube of water into imipolex. Actualize!"

Sproing!

Something like an enormous cube of gelatin was now bobbing in the sea,
just barely  afloat. A  giggly, shuddery  gelatin, alive  with pulsing
colors. Truly  something for  nothing. What  was that  Josef had  said
about the working of the alla? "Quark flipping is like jujitsu. As  if
to look at something and then to look at it in a different way."

'Tow!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  Cappy  Jane  bird  heads,  eyeing the
imipolex.

Ordinarily,  moldies  reproduced  in pairs,  each  acquiring  half the
necessary imipolex for new scion  and each contributing about half  of
the newborn's nervous  system and software.  But given an  opportunity
like this, a moldie could reproduce all alone. If you gave a moldie  a
seventy  kilogram  chunk of  imipolex,  it could  replicate  itself in
seconds — provided it hadn't done so within the last six months.

The  six-month  condition  had  to   do  with  the  fact  that,   when
reproducing, a moldie's system generated a growth hormone that spurred
its mold-and-algae nervous system to speed-grow a fresh nervous system
into virgin imipolex. Six months was how long it took a moldie's  body
to generate a sufficient amount of its reproductive growth hormone.

The big  Cappy Jane  pie undulated  over to  the cube  and began madly
pecking away.  Minutes later  there were  two pies.  Due to the growth
hormone  limitation, the  Cappy Jane  moldies couldn't  reproduce any
further than that, but for a while they kept pecking, bulking up their
bodies with additional imipolex. Each of them grew to as large a  size
as  his or  nervous system  could handle,  and then  they pooped  out,
leaving most of the gnawed imipolex cube still floating in the water.

"Urp," belched the nearest Cappy Jane  beak. "What a blowout. A  clone
fest. I wish I had enough mold in me to breed over and over and  over.
Where did you get that terrific tool, Sue?"

"From some aliens," said Yoke, not thinking to lie.

"Yeek!"  screeched  the  pie-bird.  "Aliens!  Find  them!  Kill  them!
Emergency!" The pie lifted awkwardly out of the water, little take-off
jets firing out of  its underside. It was  slow and heavy from  having
incorporated as much imipolex as it could possibly hold.

"Being a grex down here sucks,"  cawed one of the birds in  the flying
pie, and  twitched itself  free. The  disk broke  up into pieces then,
into twenty-four awkward-looking moldies.  For now the other  pie kept
its integrity, floating there in the water. The freed Cappy Jane birds
looked like featherless pelicans. Or maybe pterodactyls.

Back beyond the pie and the squawky birds, Yoke could glimpse the navy
launch trying to circle around  toward them. A figure was  standing in
the bow, tiny at this distance.

"The Metamartians are our—" Yoke had been about to say "friends,"  but
then  she  remembered  Phil's  last  warning.  About  how  Shimmer had
deliberately told  the powerball  to swallow  her mother.  But if  the
Cappy  Janes wiped  out the  aliens, that  might scotch  any hope  of
getting Phil and Darla back.

"What?" croaked the closest Cappy  Jane bird. "What did you  say about
the aliens, Sue? Metamartians you call them?"

"I'm not sure they're enemies," said Yoke lamely.

"Who knows  where the  Metamartians are?"  screeched one  of the birds
still in the pie. "I  want our grex to be  the one to get them!  Let's
test some poofballs, guys!" Like a flock of pistons, the birds in  the
pie rose and fell, successively belching out little balls of  imipolex
that burst into flame once they were well up into the air.

"Yee haw!" crowed one of the  birds raucously. "Follow me to kill  the
Metamartians! I just found out their location from Squanto!"

"Ooops," said Cobb.

"Oh, Squanto," said Yoke.

"It's hard, dammit," said Cobb. "That Cappy Jane kept nosing at me and
asking stuff about  Vava'u and somehow  an image popped  out. I showed
her the aliens looking out of that cave on the beach. But that's  all.
I'm sorry. Anyway, you're the one  who really blew it. 'Where did  you
get that wonderful tool, Sue?' "

Rather than probing any further,  the Cappy Jane creatures lifted  off
in hot  pursuit of  the aliens.  The leathery  birds spread  out their
rumpled new wings. The great wobbly pie launched itself on steamy jets
and, once airborne, began flapping like a stingray.

"I hope  they find  "em," said  Vaana. "Aliens  mean trouble, Bou-Bou.
Especially  for  moldies.  They  can move  their  minds  right  into a
moldie's body. They  talk about freeware,  'cept we the  ones that get
taken for free. It's just as well if things get back to normal here."

"I suppose so," said the King. "And we're still lovers?"

"Sho'," said Vaana. "And the rest of the imipolex here, that's for  my
people, right?"

"We already had a lot of  your 'people' clean the imipolex out  of our
ship, Vaana. It was  — daunting. I think  it best to get  rid of this.
We've already had too much attention."

"Let me fill up," said Vaana, and assimilated as much of the  imipolex
as she could hold —swelling to perhaps twice her usual size. "I'm  not
quite ready to reproduce yet," she said. "But Lord knows when the time
comes I'll be  ready. You say  all the other  locals got some  plastic
too?"

"I don't know about all, but it sure seemed like a lot of them,"  said
Yoke. "I think the King's right about getting rid of this evidence."

"Okay," said Vaana.

Yoke sent  her control  mesh out  over the  sullenly floating imipolex
cube and turned it back into seawater, complete with an assortment  of
local diatoms and plankton.

"Cobb and I are ready to leave, aren't we, Cobb?" said Yoke.

"Okay," said the old man. "Did  we finish doing whatever we came  here
for?"

"Diving," said Yoke. "I came here  to dive. And Phil came to  find me.
We did have one good morning  of snorkeling. I saw a wonderful  little
fish in a staghorn coral. And a giant clam."

"Don't forget the whale and squid," said Cobb.

"Do you think the Cappy Janes will kill the aliens?" asked Yoke.

Cobb's answer  was drowned  out in  the roar  of the  navy launch that
pulled up next to them.  Aboard were Kennit, the two  bodyguards, four
sailors, and Tashtego and Daggoo.

Kennit and the bodyguards were grinning ear-to-ear, obviously thrilled
at finding their king  in good shape. It  didn't look like they  cared
one bit anymore  about seeing HRH  so cozy with  Vaana. There were  no
guns in sight. "We got a ladder in the rear," said Kennit. "Watch your
step, Your Majesty. I think we ought to haul ass out of here.  There's
some  sharks  in a  feeding  frenzy on  the  other side  of  the ship.
Finishing off Onar."

"Let's bail,"  Yoke said  to Cobb.  "Before everyone  starts in  on me
again."

"Okay," said Cobb.

"Thanks awfully,"  said the  King, still  bobbing on  Vaana's back. He
extended his hand and Yoke shook it. "Do come visit Tonga again. Could
I ask you one last favor?"

"You want more gold," groaned Yoke.

"Just, you know, as  you're flying away, buzz  the ship and put  a few
more tons in the  hold? I'll tell the  captain not to fire  on you. It
would be  so lovely  to have  our budget  balanced. I  did get you the
alla,  you know.  You're fixed  for life  now, Yoke.  You're a  golden
goose."

"Honk honk," sighed Yoke, looking down at her alla. "Though I may  end
up throwing this thing into the  ocean. So all right, one last  favor.
And in return, Bou-Bou, I want you to do whatever you can to block any
publicity about  me and  the alla.  Don't tell  anything to  the Cappy
Janes. Stick to the  Sue Miller and Squanto  cover-up. And I hope  the
Tongan moldies don't know too much?"

"Tashtego and Daggoo know more  than the others," said the  King. "But
so far I've been able to trust them as much as Vaana. The moldies  who
came and stole all the imipolex from the ship didn't know who you were
or where it came  from. And the local  people won't talk much  —and if
they do, nobody will believe them. Nobody listens to Tongans. Let's do
our  best  to  consider  this  entire  interlude  expunged  from   the
historical record. Deny, deny, deny. It's best this way for all of us.
I wouldn't want the Fijians to know I'm selling fairy gold."

So Cobb and  Yoke cautiously buzzed  the navy ship,  Yoke averting her
eyes from the avid gray sharks who'd eaten Onar.

Captain Pulu waved  a friendly go-ahead.  They landed long  enough for
Yoke  to  outdo  herself  by making  a  perfect  one-meter  gold cube,
weighing in at just under twenty tons. The cube was quite the  elegant
objet d'art.

But, in the  event, making so  massive an object  out of thin  air was
fairly drastic.

As Yoke  later calculated,  if one  kilogram of  air takes  up a cubic
meter, twenty tons of air takes up a cube some twenty-seven meters  on
a side. A volume the size of a ten-story office building. Fortunately,
she thought of making herself a pair of earplugs before she did it.

The whirlwind of so  much air being sucked  into the alla-cube made  a
thunderclap  that knocked  Cobb and  Yoke off  their feet.  The ocean
sloshed sullenly and some loose  debris blew off the deck.  But nobody
was hurt,  and the  ship's hull  didn't burst,  and the captain didn't
shoot at them, and Yoke and Cobb flew on up into the sky, leaving  the
Tongans with nearly one hundred million dollars worth of gold.

"But wait, Cobb," said Yoke as  the ship began to dwindle below  them.
"We have to  stop by the  place where we  slept last night.  I want to
bring my souvenirs."

"What souvenirs?"

"Oh, just some little things. Come on, Cobb. We'll do it fast."

Ms. Teta, the housekeeper with  the glossy bun, greeted them.  She was
dozing  in the  shade with  the cook  and the  maid. "You  want lunch
today?"

"We're going home," said Yoke. "We're all finished."

"You been back for a while?" asked Ms. Teta. "I thought I heard you in
your room."

"No, I've been out on the ship with the King all morning."

"Well, maybe it was your boyfriend."

"Um,  maybe?" said  Yoke, her  heart beating  faster. She  opened her
room's door with a mixture of hope and fear. But it looked the same as
before, except that the beds had been made.

"So what are we taking?" asked Cobb.

Yoke picked up her glass sculpture and the looped metal band with  the
ants embossed on it. Phil had been with her when she'd made them.  She
spotted  Phil's dirty  shirt from  the day  before, picked  it up  and
sniffed it. His smell. She wrapped it around the sculptures. And there
was the big green bean Phil had been so proud of. Of course, that  had
to come too. Yoke's eyes filled  with tears. Last night had felt  like
the first of an endless series  of similar nights —hard to believe  it
could have been the only one.

"Let's go, Cobb."

As they arced up into the sky, Cobb used telephoto vision to peer down
at the beach where the aliens had been. Yoke shared in his vision  via
the uvvy. It looked like a pelican rookery and UFO landing field  down
there, with all the Cappy Jane birds and the giant disk. And —

"Oh Lord, they caught them," said Yoke. "Why didn't they run away!"

Cobb's telephoto vision had a nearly unlimited zoom ability; Yoke  was
able to dial it up to see that the Cappy Janes had captured all  seven
Metamartians down there. They had Shimmer, Ptah, Peg, Siss, Wubwub,  a
new  one  that  looked  like a  man-sized  bird  and  —dialing up  the
magnification a bit more — Yoke  could even see that one of  the Cappy
Jane  birds  was holding  the  little beetle  Josef.  The Cappy  Janes
kindled a fire in which the seven unresisting aliens were consumed.

"It's hard to believe," said Cobb.

"Maybe it has something to do with coming from two-dimensional  time,"
said  Yoke. "They  might not  have much  of a  survival instinct?  But
that's not how I saw Shimmer acting that time on the Moon. It's weird.
But, oh Cobb, with the aliens gone, how can I ever get Phil?"

"I don't know," said  Cobb. "Could be you'll  have to give up  on him.
There's more fish in the sea,  Yoke." He powered up for a  bit longer,
finally reaching a point where he could cut off his jets and let  them
coast along their trajectory.

"I just noticed  that the Cappy  Janes are locked  onto our location,"
Cobb said. "They're tracking us. Unless we do something, they'll track
us all the way to San Francisco. And eventually hunt us down."

"Can you make yourself invisible?"

"I can block the Squanto ID  locator signal I'm putting out, but  then
they might want to follow us in person. One of them might tail us."

"Why don't we send off a decoy?  I can alla you some imipolex and  you
can copy yourself just like the Cappy Janes did."

"Two—two of me?" said Cobb hesitantly. "I'm not sure I'm in a mood  to
reproduce."

"Can you just make  a dumb minimal clone  that sends out your  Squanto
signal and flies — I don't know — out into space or something?"

"I could do that. In fact we  can send Squanto on a trip to  the Moon.
That'll make sense to them, even if the 'Sue and Squanto' cover breaks
down. The Moon is exactly where you might expect Cobb and Yoke to  go.
Tell you what, Yoke,  use your alla to  customize a piece of  imipolex
shaped exactly like me.  And I can put  a partial nervous system  into
it. The air's  very thin up  here. Anything you  make will just  coast
along next to us. Can you stick your alla out through my skin?"

"1 don't need to stick it out. I can move the control mesh to wherever
I like. There it is." A bright-line copy of Cobb's form appeared  next
to them, and then — whoosh — it was virgin imipolex.

Cobb stretched  out a  mold-filled tendril  and began  programming his
dummy. "Something else,  Yoke," he said  after a minute.  "I think you
should make a big piece of human flesh that we can seal inside him  so
he looks like he's still carrying you. In case the Cappy Janes  really
focus in on him."

"There's no human flesh in  the alla catalog. The Metamartians  didn't
want it to be easy for us or  the moldies to try and use the alla  for
reproduction. But, hmm, they do have a human skeleton. Remember,  it's
like every possible  catalog in the  world got folded  into the master
alla catalog. And this skeleton I'm looking at is like what you buy to
use for anatomy classes. I guess it's kosher for the alla, since  dead
bone doesn't have living cells. And, oh wow, of course it's tweakable.
I can make it just the same proportions as me!"

"Do it."

"I'm getting it ready  in my head. The  way you do realware,  Cobb, is
you completely get  your image all  together before you  make the mesh
and  actualize  it with  the  alla. Instead  of  just making  a  naked
skeleton, I'm going to wrap the skeleton up in something of about  the
right density. I could use bologna but — " Yoke suddenly giggled. "How
about tofu!  Sue Miller  as the  ultimate vegan!"  Another whoosh, and
there was a tofu-and-bone fake Yoke flying along next to them.

The fake Cobb  opened up and  sealed itself over  the fake Yoke.  Cobb
turned  off his  own locator  ID signals  and brought  up the  dummy's
signals at the same time. And then the fake Yoke and Cobb —or the fake
Squanto  and Sue  Miller —blasted  on up  away from  them, presumably
tracked by the Cappy Jane's surveillance signals.

The flight back  to San Francisco  was uneventful; Yoke  slept most of
the way. She woke as they  plummeted down toward the thumb of  the San
Francisco peninsula.  The sun  was setting  and the  buildings of  San
Francisco looked lovely and gold.

"Back to Babs's?" asked Cobb.

"Yeah," said Yoke. "I like her. And she seems to have a lot of room. I
hope she doesn't mind putting us up."

"She talks  tough, but  she's a  soft touch,"  said Cobb. "Hell, she's
even letting my great-grandson Randy stay there. I like Babs too. Wait
till she sees your alla!"

"We should keep that  quiet for now, Cobb.  I don't want to  end up in
the middle of another feeding frenzy."

Nobody paid much notice when  they landed on the dead-end  street with
Babs's warehouse. There was a homeless woman fishing in the bay,  some
kids working on an ancient old truck, a woman bent over her garden,  a
long-haired boy  sitting on  some steps  strumming his  guitar, a  man
walking down the  street with a  bag of groceries.  And now here  were
Cobb and Yoke again, back in the thick of it.

They walked in through the  open garage door to Babs's  warehouse. The
little plastic chicken Willa Jean cackled a warning. Randy Karl Tucker
looked up from a nanomanipulator, surprised to see them. "Shit  howdy!
I thought you'd be gone till next weekend, Cobb."

"Well, we — um — "

"We pretty much did everything in Tonga already," said Yoke.

"Did Phil come back too?" asked Randy.

"Not yet," said Cobb after a quick glance at Yoke.

"I hope you ain't gonna try and  rush me off to that dang Moon,"  said
Randy. "I'm Win' it here. Hey, Babs! They're baaack! Quiet down, Willa
Jean."

The little chicken walked over and pecked at Cobb's foot. And Yoke and
Cobb's gaze fell upon the  twisted purple leech-DIM embedded in  Willa
Jean's back.  With a  grunt of  anger, Cobb  lashed down  with an  arm
suddenly grown  long. He  caught hold  of the  wildly squawking  Willa
Jean,  formed  his  other  fingers  into  scissors,  and  excised  the
offending strip of limpware. And  then he dropped the chicken  and cut
the leech-DIM into teensy tiny bits.

"God damn  you to  hell, Cobb!"  Randy picked  up the  wounded plastic
chicken and cradled  her to his  chest. "Willa Jean's  been my special
pet since India!"

"She'll live," said  Cobb. "You  got any  more of  those xoxxin' leech
DIMs around here?"

Randy sullenly refused  to answer, and  Yoke got right  into his face.
"Phil told me you were  bragging about leech-DIMs, Randy. If  you have
any, cough them up. I wasn't going to talk about it, but down in Tonga
we saw some shit that—"

"What's all the psychodrama?" asked Babs Mooney, ambling out from  the
warehouse's colorful, fabric-hung depths.  "You sound like a  bunch of
snap-heads!"

"Did Randy give you any leech-DIMs yet?" asked Yoke.

"Tomorrow Aarbie Kidd is supposed to — "

"Call it off, Randy," said Cobb. "Or I'll tell Willy to disinherit you
without a cent. Frankly, he'd love the excuse."

"Oh, fuck my ass and call me Barbie," said Randy. He sighed and made a
voice  connection with  his uvvy.  " 'Sup,  brah? No,  that's why  I'm
calling. No can do. Problem at  this end. Yeah yeah, a shitty  diaper.
Reet. Later." He glared over at Yoke and Cobb. "Satisfied?"

"What excitement," said  Babs, sitting down  on a sofa.  "Tell me what
came down in Tonga. The way you two look, it must have been savage."

Yoke so much wanted to pour out her heart. She'd been meaning to  uvvy
her twin sister Joke on the Moon, but Babs was right here, and she was
cozy and  easy to  talk to.  And even  Randy, in  his oddball way, was
comforting too. "Can you really really promise to keep a secret, Babs?
Randy? Not tell a single soul outside this room?"

"I'll close the front door if you like," said Babs.

"You should," said Cobb. "If we're going to spill everything. And then
you'll understand  why I  got so  upset, Randy.  I'm sorry about Willa
Jean. I bet  we can rig  up a safe  workaround. You don't  need a full
leech-DIM  to remote-run  a chicken,  for God's  sake. I'll  help you
design something simpler."

"Okey-doke," said Randy. "Hell, it's  just as well not to  be startin'
up again with Aarbie Kidd."

So for the next two hours Yoke and Cobb told Babs and Randy the  whole
story of what had happened in Tonga. As they talked they made a supper
of what Babs  had around her  kitchen: half a  loaf of bread,  a green
pepper, jack cheese, old salsa, hibiscus  tea, a liter of beer, and  a
gnawed  Hershey bar.  Cobb, of  course, didn't  eat anything,  and he
decorously held his  pores closed so  as not to  exude an unappetizing
smell.

"Show me how you make something  with the alla," asked Babs when  Yoke
finished talking.  It was  dark outside  and the  kitchen was lit with
candles.

"I don't want to," said Yoke. "Not  today. I did it way too much  this
morning.  The cubic  meter of  gold. Did  I mention  that I  put Andy
Warhol's signature on it?" She smiled and yawned, then got out the two
sculptures  wrapped  in Phil's  shirt.  "These are  more  the kind  of
realware I'd like to get into." They looked good to her: the chunk  of
glass  glinting in  the candlelight,  the ants  shiny on  the band  of
metal.

"Those are great, Yoke," said Babs, handling them. But Yoke could tell
Babs wasn't all that impressed. Babs only liked art that did things.

"There's so many possibilities," said Yoke, running her hand over  the
embossed ants.

"Realware," said Babs. "I'd love to make some."

"I'd  like  to meet  Shimmer,"  said Randy  thoughtfully.  "I bet  she
escaped the Cappy Janes. Shimmer can  give an alla to most anyone  she
wants to, right? I wonder what I'd make with an alla?" Randy looked at
the healed up Willa Jean in his lap and gave a country chuckle. "Maybe
a sexier chicken."

"Randy!" said Babs.

"After  Tonga, I  think the  best thing  to make  would be  allas for
everyone," said  Cobb. "So  people don't  beg you  and hassle  you for
things."

"Can you make an alla with an alla?" asked Babs.

"Josef said it was possible,  but that the Metamartians don't  want to
tell us how,"  said Yoke. "And  speaking of chickens,  they put living
things  into  their  preprogrammed alla  catalog  too.  Everything but
moldies  and people.  I want  to make  a real  reef and  then try  to
limpware engineer an imipolex reef to copy it."

"I'm starting to think being a  moldie is better than being flesh  and
blood," said  Cobb. "By  the way,  Randy, you  would have gone bananas
over Vaana. Did I mention that we fucked?"

"How do moldies actually do it, Cobb?" asked Randy, his voice  turning
low and husky. "When it's just the two of you, one on one."

"I'm outta here," said Yoke, getting to her feet. "Can I sleep in  the
same place as before, Babs?"

"Sure. And I'm so sorry about Phil."

"Me too. Thanks." Yoke found her  way to a foam mattress on  the floor
in a corner of  the. warehouse, next  to a giant  red and purple  wall
hanging. She took off her clothes and put on Phil's shirt to sleep in.
She set Phil's funny big bean pod next to her bed. The bean had  seven
odd shiny spots on it, a little patch near the summit of each  bulging
seed.

February 24

"Yoke?" "You're going to wake her?" "Shh!" "What's she going to  say?"
"This feels fine, doesn't it?"  "I don't like being small."  "Will she
help us?"

Yoke woke to the sound of mutterings, of squeals and hisses and a  few
very clear notes  of tiny bird-song.  Her eyes flickered  open. For an
instant she flashed back to a Christmas morning when Whitey and  Darla
had left  her and  her twin  sister's new  toys on  the floor right by
their  beds. Today  seven tiny  live action  figures were  set out:  a
woman, a man, a unicorn, a beetle,  a snake, a pig, and a mynah  bird.
Cute.

Yoke sleepily closed her eyes, drifting back toward her dreams.

"Did she see us?" "She's  asleep again." "I thought she'd  be scared."
"I want to get big." "Wake her up!" "Where are we?" "Yoke!"

Yoke opened her eyes again. The seven little figures were still there.
The Metamartians?!

"Good morning, Yoke," murmured little Shimmer, half the size of Yoke's
thumb. The miniature woman, man, and five animals were crawling around
on Phil's bean, which looked somewhat the worse for wear. There was  a
hole in each  of its seven  bulging seeds. Evidently  the seven little
figures had tunneled into the seeds like weevils, sealing their  entry
holes over with plugs of green imipolex.

"You stowed away," murmured Yoke.

"I  knew you'd  keep the  bean," said  Josef the  beetle. Of  all the
Metamartians, he  alone was  the same  size as  before. "I  showed the
others how to make copies of  themselves as small as me. And  I copied
myself too. We're the copies. We flew to your room and got inside your
bean."

"Go away," said Yoke. "I don't want the powerball to eat me too."

Wubwub  answered. "Aw,  we not  gonna decrypt  any more  Metamartians.
Seven's all we need for a  complete family, you know what I'm  sayin'?
We got the  family now, we  gonna look around  a little, make  a baby,
maybe help Om spread the allas, and then we move on."

Yoke sat up, fully waking. "I thought the Cappy Janes killed you. Cobb
and I saw them burning you on the beach."

"We're copies," said Ptah. "Like Josef said. We left before the  Cappy
Janes got  there. Our  original selves  died; they  let themselves get
killed so the Cappy Janes would think they'd won. We're seconds; well,
actually, I'm  a third.  Like I  told you  when Om  ate my first self,
Yoke, losing a life isn't a  big deal for us. Every day,  every minute
of my life on  Metamars, I saw one  of my time-lines end.  Letting the
Cappy Janes kill versions  of us was a  small price to pay  so that we
can observe your people in peace. Do you mind if we settle in here?"

"I don't want to help unless you can bring Phil and Darla back."

"Are you not  grateful for the  boon of your  alla?" asked the  little
unicorn Peg.  She was  the Metamartian  Yoke liked  the least.  Such a
tacky-looking thing, with her swilly, corny style of speech.

"I could live without it," said Yoke airily. "It caused me nothing but
trouble in Tonga. I went there to do some diving and I ended up  being
a golden goose. In fact, here,  you can take it!" She pulled  the alla
tube out from under  her pillow and tossed  it at the little  figures,
who hopped about in  kind of a cute  way. "I'm not grateful  one bit,"
continued Yoke. "As far as I'm concerned, you can turn yourselves back
into personality waves and find a different world to xoxx with."

"She a tiger," said Siss admiringly.

"It's too late to stop it now," said Ptah. "How this all comes out  is
up to Om."

"Are you talking to yourself, Yoke?" said Babs, suddenly appearing  in
Yoke's  field  of  view.  "Oh  my  God,  what  are  those  wavy little
figurines? And they're moving! Did you make them with your alla?"

"Hi,  Babs.  These are  the  aliens I  was  telling you  about.  Okay,
Metamartians, this is Babs. And  Babs, this is Shimmer, Ptah,  Wubwub,
Siss, Peg,  Josef, and—the  seventh one's  new. The  little bird  that
looks like he's wearing a yellow mask."

"I'm Haresh," said the bird, his voice loud and melodious even  though
he was but one centimeter long.  "An Indian my-nah. I am very  pleased
to be meeting you, Miss Yoke and Miss Babs."

"Did you tell the powerball to eat Phil?" said Yoke accusingly.

"Yes, but it  was Wubwub's idea  that I so  do. I am  very sorry about
this. Can you help us find shelter?"

"They're  so  little,"  said  Babs,  leaning  over  the  Metamartians.
"They're really from another world?  Oh, I'd do anything for  them. Do
you guys  want to  live in  one of  my cupboards?  Or I  could find  a
dollhouse."

"It's too risky, Babs," said Yoke. "As soon as people —or the  moldies
— find out about them, they're  going to want to kill them.  The place
could be  bombed. We'd  all die  and the  Metamartians would escape as
usual."

"I ain't livin'  in no dollhouse,"  said Wubwub "I'm  gonna alla me  a
right-size body." There was a sound like a loud handclap and a  bigger
copy of Wubwub appeared, knee high and pig-sized. "I'm gonna get  more
respect if I'm this size," said  the fresh Wubwub. "You know what  I'm
sayin'?"

"I want  to be  large as  well," said  Shimmer. Ptah,  Peg, Siss,  and
Haresh chimed in too. "I'm no insect." "The floor is vile with  dust."
"Someone might step on me." "I'll be tall, not small."

There were five more explosive sounds as the necessary volumes of  air
were converted into patterned imipolex. And now Yoke's sleeping corner
was crowded with  a marble woman,  a bronze man,  a blonde unicorn,  a
green python, a black pig, and a giant bird with a yellow mask  around
its eyes.  This made  thirteen Metamartians  in all:  a single  Josef,
still the size of a beetle, plus big and small versions of each of the
six others.

"Praise Om," said the new Metamartians.

"This is insane," said Babs. "What happens to the little guys now?"

"We feel it's ecologically unsound for one of us to have more than one
body in a  given time-line," piped  the tiny Shimmer.  "Farewell." And
the six small Metamartians dissolved  into poofs of air —  effectively
killing themselves.

"I don't think people could ever act that way," marveled Yoke.

Josef buzzed over  to perch on  Yoke's pillow. "I'm  happy to see  you
again, Yoke," he said.

"What happened to you on Vava'u?" asked Yoke. "You disappeared when  I
needed you. When all those Tongans were crowding in on me."

"There was no  way out for  you," said Josef.  "You'd painted yourself
into a corner, as one says. Remember that we can see a little way into
the future. I didn't want to be there when Tashtego and Daggoo arrived
to deliver the great scolding."

Babs was all agog, smiling at  and touching the aliens. "I don't  know
what  to  ask  first,"  she  laughed.  "Where  you're  from,  what you
want—this  is  wonderful.  At  first I  thought  you  were  just Silly
Putters, or moldies."

"Our essence is energy,"  said Shimmer. "We can  incorporate ourselves
in various ways. The moldie form seems to be convenient. For now." She
glanced up  at the  sunlit windows  high in  the warehouse walls. "I'm
ready to get out and about and  see some things. To be a tourist!  Our
plan for now is  to blend in and  mingle. And then Om  will spread the
allas, and we'll mate, and we'll move on."

A warning gong sounded, meaning  that someone had just entered  Babs's
front door. "Maybe that's Randy  and Cobb," said Babs, looking  upset.
"They went out last night and they never came back." She hurried off.

"Great day in  the morning!" came  Randy Karl Tucker's  voice. "You're
all paisleyed up there, Babs. Checkerboard paisley everywhar!"

Cobb's deep voice  murmured something. And  then there was  a crash of
someone knocking over a chair.

"You  gross  cheeseball. Randy!"  cried  Babs. "And  you're  lifted on
camote? Here I thought  we might start a  relationship and you act  so
—so disgusting! You're a sporehead and a cheese-ball. I wish I'd never
seen you! And, no, you can't go back there."

The low  rumble of  Cobb's voice  came again,  and then  Randy's voice
lifted in incoherent ranting that segued into words. "Hiiigh as a kite
tail! Babs don't  want me to  head this-a-way, Jose?  Well that's whar
I'm  a-goin'!" Another  crash, followed  by snorting  sounds and  more
yelling.  "Fee-fie-foe-fum,  I smell  fuck  plastid" A  pile  of books
tumbled over, and then Randy appeared, followed by Cobb and Babs.

Yoke  had never  seen Randy  like this.  Instead of  his usual  timid,
introverted self, he was wild and expansive. For his part, Cobb looked
the way he had after all  that betty in Tonga. Quivery. Evidently  the
two of  them had  spent the  night on  the Anubis  getting lifted  and
having sex with  hooker moldies.  Like great-grandfather,  like great
grandson. Icky,  sad, and  kind of  funny. Yoke  felt sorry  for Babs.
She'd obviously had hopes for Randy.

At the sight of the aliens,  Cobb hiccuped and sat down on  the floor,
his  skin  rippling with  rapid  wrinkles. Randy  made  a beeline  for
Shimmer, shoving Peg the unicorn to one side.

"Dog with  an antler,  what the  hell. Look  at this  milky mama."  He
lurched forward, throwing his arms around Shimmer's neck and  sniffing
deeply. "Hey thar. Want to make twenty bucks the hard way?"

"Greetings, Randy. I am Shimmer from Metamars."

"Whoah!" said Randy.  "I'm in looove.  Sex with an  alien! He ardently
embraced Shimmer, and instead of  pushing him away, the alien  lowered
herself down onto Yoke's bed with Randy on top of her. Yoke sprang up,
getting well  out of  range. "If  we do  it, can  I have  an alla too,
Shimmer?" Randy was saying. "I'm the natural man to show you the facts
o' life."

Even though Shimmer was making a noise that could have been  laughter,
Ptah and  Wubwub dragged  Randy off  of Shimmer,  Ptah pulling Randy's
legs and Wubwub pushing his chest with his snout. Siss wrapped herself
around Randy's body, strapping down  his arms. Haresh the giant  mynah
bird strutted over to peer at Randy's face.

"Is this  typical human  mating behavior?"  asked Haresh,  cocking his
head.

"Don't even," said Babs. "He is so far from any semblance."

"Randy's a  cheeseball," explained  Yoke. "He  likes to  have sex with
moldies. He thought you were a moldie, Shimmer."

"Who says  she ain't?"  said Randy,  trying to  raise his  hand to his
face, seeming not to understand that his arm was held I down by Siss's
coils.  "The  nose knows."  Randy  kept on  trying  to move  his  arm,
soddenly struggling against Siss.

"Let him go," said Shimmer. "He's harmless."

"I wouldn't trust him," said  Ptah. "What if he somehow  pollutes your
plastic?" But Siss went ahead and uncoiled.

"Once I git naked,  I'll do some harm  on you all right,"  said Randy,
crawling  forward  to rest  his  head facedown  in  Shimmer's lap.  He
inhaled deeply. "The nose knows."  This time Randy managed to  lay his
finger against his nose, but in the process he rolled off of Shimmer's
thighs, bounced off the edge of  the bed, and clunked his head  on the
floor. "Ow," said Randy, and fell asleep.

"What a colorful individual," said Shimmer.

"I pick the absolute worst men," said Babs.

"I hope you have some other prospects," said Yoke.

"There's always Theodore," said Babs. "I'm going to do a mental reset,
Yoke. Like 'Randy  is just a  friend and I  have no feelings  for this
man.' Reset, reset, reset. Yes, I'm going to call Theodore today. He's
been wanting to take me out to a brain-concert."

"You go, girl," said Yoke. "I wonder if I'm going to have to wash Cobb
again."

"What do you mean?" asked Babs.

"He's high on betty. Last time he got like this he almost died. I  had
to knead him with my feet for ten minutes in the shower."

"Betty's bad," said  Babs. "My mother  took it once  and — ugh."  Yoke
recalled that Babs's  mother Wendy Mooney  was a human/moldie  hybrid.
That is, Wendy had  a tank-grown human  body that was  run by a  scarf
shaped moldie that did all the actual thinking.

Now Babs went  back to marveling  at the aliens.  "Randy's right," she
said, petting Peg's mane. "You seem just like moldies. But—prettier. I
don't mind  if you  stay here  for a  while. I  don't really  mind the
moldie smell, you know. It reminds me of my mother. Tell me more about
where you come from. It's called Metamars?"

"Yes," said Josef. "That's where we began. But now we travel  forever.
Our near-term goal  when we  depart is  to get  back to  a zone of two
dimensional time." He flew from Yoke's pillow to Babs's shoulder,  and
started talking to her about  higher dimensions, with Haresh and  Siss
listening and adding comments.

While they talked, Yoke crouched down and touched Cobb. He didn't seem
nearly so  shaky and  blotchy as  he'd been  in Tonga. Presumably this
time he  hadn't taken  an overdose.  So she  left Cobb  to sit  there,
grinning and shivering.

Yoke needed fresh clothes. The alla was still lying on the floor where
she'd thrown it; she picked it up. She popped out black tights, silver
boots like  Phil's, a  shrimp-colored skirt,  and a  thick black  wool
turtleneck.

"So  you do  enjoy the  miraculous alla,"  said Peg.  "And our  superb
catalog."

"They're okay," said Yoke casually.

"Can  I  have  an  alla?"  asked  Babs,  interrupting  Josef's science
lecture. She'd been closely watching Yoke make her clothes.

"Well. . ." said Shimmer. She  was sitting on the edge of  Yoke's bed,
keeping an eye on Randy.

"You barged into my house and  stole my man," said Babs, not  entirely
joking. "It's the least you can do."

"Oh ja, let's give Babs an alla," said Josef. "Om wants us to." Yoke's
alla has worked out well enough and Om feels it's safe to try more."

"I'm down with it," chimed in  Wubwub. "Allas for the people. Why  not
one for this Randy-neck  too? That could be  kinky, you know what  I'm
sayin'?"

"Here, Babs," said Shimmer, rolling  her thumb against her fingers.  A
subtly flickering silver tube appeared  in her hand. "Om made  it look
different  from Yoke's  so you  don't get  mixed up.  Take it.  You're
wearing an uvvy? Good. That's what the alla uses for an interface.  An
alla registers itself as  owned by the first  person who picks it  up.
It'll  show  a  rapid-fire  series of  images  so  Om  can learn  your
personality, and then it'll feel around in your body to teach Om  your
physical form. Once that's done, it's registered."

Babs held the  tube in her  hand, eyes closed  to better see  the uvvy
visions  in  her  head.  "Cathedral  window,  tree-branch,  sand," she
murmured, each word faster than the one before, and then she was going
too fast to talk out loud. The descriptions sounded familiar to  Yoke;
probably the alla was showing Babs  the same images it had shown  her.
Yoke could tell  when the body-mapping  part of the  alla registration
happened, because Babs briefly twitched all over.

"Stuzzy," breathed  Babs, opening  her eyes  and looking  down at  the
little alla tube. "I've been memorized by Om."

"Now  I'll  transfer our  human-oriented  alla catalog  to  your uvvy,
Babs,"  said Ptah.  "Josef and  I made  the catalog,  and it's  quite
complete. We got it by combining every existing catalog we could  find
on the Web. Basically, I figured  out how to make everything. Here  it
comes."

"Once you get the hang of  it, Babs, you can design original  realware
of your own," added Shimmer. "And now for Randy's alla."

"Nay, nay!" protested Peg. "That youth is base and foul. His  crafting
will be full unsavory."

"Peg's right," said  Ptah. "I realize  that you don't  need for me  to
defend you, Shimmer,  but I really  feel that this  kind of degenerate
individual is a serious threat."

"It good  practice to  include deviant  in test  population, I think,"
said Siss. She  listened into herself  as if silently  conversing with
something. "And, yes, Om agree."

"I'll do it," said Shimmer.  She rolled her thumb against  her fingers
again, producing an alla tube in gently fluctuating shades of  copper.
She gracefully leaned over to tuck the vibrant tube into the  sleeping
Randy's shirt pocket. "Let's wake him  up so he can register it,"  she
urged.

"Don't wake him  now," said Yoke.  "Not while he's  still lifted. I'll
make sure  he registers  it later.  And I'll  uvvy him  a copy  of the
catalog."

"Whu-Whu-Whu about me?" said Cobb, shuddering away on the floor.

"No," said Wubwub. "We ain't ready to start in with moldie allas too."

"I'm nuh-not a moldie," protested Cobb. "I'm human." It was just  like
back in Tonga, when Onar had told Cobb he couldn't come to the  dinner
at the King's because it was for humans only. It made Yoke sad to hear
Cobb insist he was human. Why not  face the truth? As far as Yoke  was
concerned, being human meant being  made of flesh and blood.  And poor
old Cobb hadn't had a human body since 2020.

"If you want something, I'll make it for you, Cobb," said Yoke gently.
"But  for now,  you don't  get an  alla. Especially  not when  you're
lifted. Maybe you should go get in the shower. Wash those spores out."

"Yeah," said the old man moldie.  "I gotta shake this betty shit."  He
shuffled off towards Babs's bathroom.

Meanwhile Babs had been sitting silent on the floor, uvvying around in
her alla catalog. And now she produced a bright-line shape that became
a cup of coffee in a ceramic mug shaped like the head of an ant.  Babs
liked ants as much as Yoke did.

"Oh. My. God!" said Babs. "I love it!"

"Don't  get so  grateful that  you let  the Metamartians  stay here,"
cautioned Yoke. "If they don't  kill you, someone else will  by coming
after them. I like Shimmer's idea. The Metamartians should go out  and
blend in. You don't have to  look like exactly a pig, do  you, Wubwub?
And Peg, could you possibly bag the unicorn thing? I mean why not pass
yourselves off as regular moldies? Unless you just want to be birds or
insects. Nobody  cares about  them. Nobody  would notice  if a bird is
plastic."

"I am proud to  be a bird," said  Haresh. "From scanning through  your
Web, I am learning very much about them. The only small cloud is  that
to be called a 'birdbrain'  is by no means a  compliment. Nevertheless
there is a very famous poem of this name. Birdbrain! by your  immortal
Hindu bard Allen Ginsberg. So I am even proud to be a birdbrain. But I
do not accept your suggestion to be a small plastic bird which  nobody
notices.  I too  would like  to be  freely mingling  with humans  and
moldies on  an equal  basis. I  want to  be accepted  as a  full-sized
moldie."

Cobb came ambling back from the shower, looking pink and fresh  again.
"That did me a world of good."

"What kind of look do a moldie generally have?" asked Wubwub.

"Here in the city they  look like people," said Babs.  "Approximately.
Like  caricatures. It's  considered dooky  for a  moldie to  look too
exactly  human,  though  Shimmer and  Ptah  are  so over-the-top  that
they'll be okay. No humans are that beautiful.

And the  way they  look like  marble and  bronze makes  it clear  that
they're not trying to pass for  people. Now you, Wubwub, you can  be a
pig-man. A person with  a face like a  pig. Keep your snout  and ears,
but change your body and legs. That's good. Legs a little longer.  You
need more than two fingers on your hands, try three, no, four counting
the thumb. All right. And, yes, keep the tail, in fact make it  bigger
and curlier. Like a corkscrew. Wavy. Now your mouth — it's too  scary.
Here, let me — " Babs stepped forward and began molding Wubwub's face.
Wubwub generated dancing  bright alla-lines to  effect the changes  as
fast as Babs suggested them. "We'll curve the lips up at the end,  put
in a  smile wrinkle,  make the  snout a  little shorter, shorten those
snaggle teeth, arch the eyebrows, fold that one ear over, and, oh, how
about  a big  white spot  around this  eye? That's  perfect. You  look
darling. Look at  yourself through my  uvvy. You don't  like the white
spot? Oh, all right, get rid of it, then. Fine. You look handsome  but
tough."

"Come to my aid, Babs," said  Peg, elongating and taking on a  womanly
form. "What think you of my horn?"

"A unicorn  horn is  more of  a guy  thing," said  Babs. "It's  a dick
symbol. You'd do better to have, um, two little horns."

"Like a cow?" asked Peg. There was a flicker of bright mesh-lines  and
her face grew broader.

"Oh yes, Peg," put in Yoke unkindly. "Be a cow."

"Don't listen to her," said Babs.  "You want to be a devil-girl.  Sexy
and with curvy red horns and reddish skin. Yeah, yeah, okay, but  make
your  T and  A bigger.  That's good  — if  only it  were so  easy for
everyone. And, um, fine, keep the blonde hair. Usually devil-girls are
brunette, but you can be a Val devil-girl. Better make your skin  more
pink like sunburn instead of that coppery Native American hue. Oh, and
don't forget to make your tail all leathery and with a little arrow at
the tip. That's a dick symbol too, but on a devil-girl it's hot.  Like
a strap-on dildo. Oh, you've got it now, Peg, you're moanin'. Next?"

A few minutes later six of the Metamartians were the shape and size of
well-proportioned humans resembling,  respectively, a marble  Venus, a
bronze Apollo, a pig-man, a devil-girl, a snake-woman, and a bird-man.
For his part, Josef stayed resolutely the same.

"I'll observe,"  said Josef.  "A deep  participation is  not my style.
I'll be the fly on the wall. The beetle."

"Haresh  looks  like  that  Egyptian  god,"  said  Yoke.  "Thoth." The
Metamartian had left his head exactly in the shape of a bird's.  "What
a birdbrain."

"Zoom!" exclaimed Babs.  "Egyptian! You Metamartians  can go join  the
Snooks family  on the  Anubis. After  last night,  Cobb here must know
those moldies  pretty well.  Right, Cobb?  You can  tell Thutmosis and
Isis Snooks that  these six are  friends of yours  just down from  the
Moon and that they're looking for work."

"Work doin' what?" asked Wubwub suspiciously.

"Oh, the Snookses are into all  kinds of things," said Cobb. "You  can
tell them you're a —a burglar, Wubwub. Just secretly actualize  things
like liquor for the Anubis bar and say that you stole it. And that can
be your contribution to the family. You don't necessarily have to fuck
the cheeseballs, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm  not  worried about  that,"  said Shimmer,  staring  down at  the
sleeping Randy Karl Tucker. "It might be fun."

"I'm  going to  call Theodore  right now,"  sighed Babs,  walking off
toward the front of the warehouse.

"Babs likes Randy," Yoke explained  to Shimmer. "It makes her  unhappy
to think of him having sex with you. So don't do it, please."

"Oh!" said Shimmer. "I hadn't realized."

"It's not  our affair  if the  vile youth  lacks wholesome passion for
Babs," said Peg snippily.

"What kind of  sex system do  you Metamartians have?"  asked Yoke. "Do
you have any kind of clue?"

As usual, Josef wanted to be the one to answer the question, but  Siss
made as if to swat him.

"I the one who sexy, Josef. You let me speak."

Siss had a face of pale humanlike skin with large, almond-shaped eyes.
Her nose was little  more than two flattened  holes and her mouth  was
immensely long  and thin-lipped.  Instead of  hair, she  had a  skull
fitting hood  of shiny  green snakeskin  that flowed  down to join the
snakeskin which covered  the rest of  her body, save  her hands, which
had humanlike skin and long green fingernails. The hood had a dramatic
widow's peak  in the  middle of  her forehead.  Siss looked  decadent,
Asian, androgynous.

"We have something like boy/girl too," she explained. "One got  stick,
one got hole. Each of us  is 'stick' in some lives, 'hole'  in others.
Many lives across two-dimensional time. Stick to hole, hole to  stick,
like  big crocodile  sex zipper."  Siss showed  her fangs  and made  a
gentle  biting motion,  her long  curved fangs  sliding into  matching
sockets in her jaws. "Everyone both girl and boy."

"But  there's  more to  it  than that,"  piped  up Josef.  "We  zipper
together in loops of  seven. Why seven? It  has to do with  a feedback
resonance in the strange attractor of our metagenome. In ancient times
we mated only on Metamars, but now we've chirped out into the  cosmos.
When seven of us  nomads can meet and  mate — it's a  wonderful thing.
Seven of us landed here, but eight of us shall leave."

"I  for one  am eager  to be  getting on  with our  adventures," said
Haresh. Other than Josef,  he looked the least  human. "Can we go  and
meet the Snooks family now?"

"Stay  uvvied  in with  me."  said Cobb.  "If  they ask  you  any hard
questions, I can feed you the answers. Now is a good time to show  up.
Most of them are going to  be asleep or hung over. Remember,  you guys
come from the  big Nest on  the Moon. And  you're going to  promise to
give  the Snookses  half the  imipolex you  earn, in  return for  them
letting you join their family."

"Let's do it!" said Shimmer.

They waited by the warehouse's front door until they could see a time
line in which  no passersby would  notice them. Cobb  and the six  big
Metamartians  jumped out  onto the  street with  little Josef  buzzing
along above them.

"Look at them  go, Yoke," said  Babs, just ending  her uvvy call  with
Theodore. "What a sight."

"Anubis, ahoy!" said Yoke. "We  better not stare after them.  We don't
want it to be totally obvious  that your warehouse is where they  came
from. How was Theodore?"

"Oh, fine. Thrilled that I called. We made a date, not a dinner  date,
a meet  date. We're  going to  meet at  the Fillmore  and see  Larky's
brain-concert. Larky's this guy who uses really big sheets of imipolex
for his audio and  video. Sort of like  Saint and Onar were  doing the
other day, but more professional. I like Theodore — I guess."

"I told Shimmer to leave Randy alone," said Yoke.

"What? I don't believe you, Yoke. What'd she say?"

Yoke put on her Val voice. "Shimmer was like, 'Oh I didn't know.'  And
that swilly Peg is  all 'It's not our  problem.' And I'm like  'Do you
have any clue about  sex?' And Siss goes,  'We're bi.' But then  Josef
says they do it by sevens."

Babs laughed and gave Yoke  a hug. "Whatever. Randy is  pretty skanky.
Let's get our allas and do art!"

"What about Randy's alla?" said Yoke.

"Maybe we should take it away?"  said Babs. "Maybe give it to  someone
else?"

"At least hide it for now,"  said Yoke. "He might do something  really
gnarly with it if he's still lifted when he wakes up."

So they tiptoed back to Yoke's sleeping corner. Willa Jean had perched
herself on Randy's  chest, as if  guarding him. Though  Cobb and Randy
hadn't yet  fixed up  a new  DIM link  between Randy  and the  plastic
chicken, Willa Jean was still quite loyal to the Kentuckian.

Yoke held Willa Jean's beak shut  while Babs took Randy's alla out  of
his pocket.

"This  is what  happens to  stoned rednecks,"  hissed Babs,  pocketing
Randy's alla. "Their powers disappear." Willa Jean let out an outraged
cackle when they released her, but Randy slept on unperturbed.

And then  Yoke and  Babs went  out to  the front  of the warehouse and
started making things.

February 26

"I'm kind of  waiting to see  what's going to  happen next," Yoke  was
saying. It was two days later, Thursday, February 26, 2054, about  two
in the afternoon. Yoke  was on the uvvy  with her twin sister  Joke on
the Moon. The  to-and-fro response time  for a message  was about five
seconds,  due  both  to  the  large  Earth-Moon  distance  and  to the
intricate diffusion-encryption software they were using for the  call.
Diffusion-encryption sent each byte  of the message along  a different
path — to  prevent there from  being any traceable  signal binding the
speakers together. It took a lot of computation.

With the five-second lag, the best  way to converse was to take  turns
sending long blocks of speech  and images. It was  more like a fast  E
mail exchange than a normal conversation.

Yoke continued her turn: "Babs and I have been making the best things.
I already showed you some of my static sculptures, but now let me show
you  one that  moves." The  uvvy transmitted  the images  direct from
Yoke's vision  centers. She  was looking  at a  sweeping loop of shiny
wire  with bright  shapes sliding  along the  wire. "I  made this  on
Tuesday. The rail is chrome steel and there's a linear induction field
in it.  The power  comes from  a quantum-dot  generator embedded right
inside the rail. The shapes  are the Platonic and Archimedean  solids,
remember them?" Two of the polyhedra collided and reversed directions.
They swooped along the track's  twists and loops, rising and  falling.
The  beautiful,  shiny  polyhedra were  tinted  crystal,  grown around
magnetic metal cores. "It's a magpie kind of thing. And I keep  making
myself more clothes. Look  at my outfit." Yoke  stepped in front of  a
fancy  full-length  wood-framed Art  Nouveau  mirror to  show  off her
latest clothes, a short thin red leather jacket over baggy shin-length
pants and a white  T-shirt inset with lace  spirals. "And Babs made  a
bunch  of furniture.  Like this  mirror for  instance. It  was from  a
Sotheby's  auction  catalog.  And  she made  a  silk  couch  with ants
embroidered all over  it and a  canopy bed. I  made myself a  bunk bed
like we used to have on the Moon, only big enough this time. The thing
Babs is proudest of  so far is over  here, check it out.  Like a glass
bowl of living spaghetti." Yoke  pointed her gaze at a  cubical quartz
box holding  a wriggling  mass of  imipolex worms  of every  color and
thickness.  The sharp  edges of  the square  box contrasted  with the
lively  antics  within.  "Babs could  never  have  afforded this  many
plastic worms before.  I think there's  two hundred thousand  of them,
all custom made by her—well, you can tell the alla to make a whole lot
of copies  of something  in a  row, but  I guess  that's still custom.
Custom  mass-produced?  Anyhoo,  see how  the  same-colored  ones band
together and flow along like gouts  of lava? I love it. Okay,  now you
talk."

Joke's message started coming in: "Your clothes are floatin', Yoke.  I
have so many clothes  ideas I want you  to make. Like polka  dots with
the dots being cutouts. Look." The signal showed Joke's hands  quickly
sketching  a girl  with an  outfit. Beyond  Joke's hands  was a  lunar
workshop crowded with equipment for making Silly Putters: shelves  and
shelves of chemicals, a hulking injection molder, and a workbench with
imipolex-machining tools such as  a piezomorpher and a  volume-filling
airbrush. Joke was living  with her somewhat gnarly  artist boyfriend,
Corey Rhizome, who was visible at the other end of the workshop. A few
of Corey's Silly Putters were hopping around; they were plastic pets a
little  like  Willa  Jean,  but  smarter  and  more  autonomous.  Yoke
recognized two of the Silly Putters:  the small green pig of a  "rath"
and the football-shaped, orange-beaked "Jubjub bird," the two  forever
engaged in mutual battle. Joke set down her pen and continued talking.
"I  hope you  bring that  alla back  here really  soon! Oh,  and your
sculptures are terrific.  I never knew  you could be  such the artist,
Yoke. That wire  thing with the  sliding blocks is  sooo weightless. I
guess you  could make  a really  big one?  I mean,  like as  big as  a
carnival ride, with each of the sliding thingies hollowed out so  that
a person could ride inside? I'm wondering if there's any limit to  the
power of the alla. I mean, could you hollow out a huge biosphere under
the Moon's surface and fill it  up with dirt and rivers and  lakes and
an atmosphere and maybe  even a little fusion  sun? There's no end  to
what  people might  ask you  for. So  you're right  that it's  really
important to figure out  how to copy the  allas so that it's  not just
you and Babs being golden geese when everyone finds out. I'm glad that
the people  and moldies  from Tonga  haven't tracked  you back  to San
Francisco.  I guess  the King  is keeping  quiet and  the Cappy  Janes
really fell for the  decoy. The tofu Sue  Miller! We knew a  girl just
like that, remember Simmie Lipsit? I wonder if one of the Cappy  Janes
has chased down the tofu Sue by  now. You know, I'm going to ask  Emil
and Berenice to check on the moldies' chat lines right now. While I do
that, tell me what's up with Cobb's great-grandson. Did you ever  give
him his alla?"

Yoke: "Oh, that was so  wild. All afternoon Tuesday, Randy  was moping
and dragging around all hung over while Babs and I made wavy stuff. He
was wishing he had an alla and wondering where the aliens went, and we
were like, 'Serves you right  for getting so trashed.' But  then after
we alla-made a  bunch of soup  and bread and  cheese for supper,  Babs
finally gave Randy his alla and it registered itself to him. That's  a
trip in itself, it's  like the alla is  memorizing your body and  your
mind — your wetware and your  software — the whole package. I  was for
holding out on Randy, but Babs keeps wanting to be nice to him. Or get
his  attention or  something. And  then as  soon as  she had  Randy's
attention, Babs did  a head-trip on  him by going  out on a  date with
this new guy Theodore. I have  a feeling she's using Theodore to  make
Randy  jealous.  Anyway,  Randy  and  I  were  alone  together Tuesday
evening.  I  showed  him  how  the  alla  works,  and  the  very first
customized thing he did was to  make a safe DIM control patch  for his
plastic chicken, Willa Jean. Willa Jean is sort of the same thing as a
Silly Putter, except Randy has a control feed into her, and she's  not
as smart. Randy was using an illegal leech-DIM before, and he got Cobb
to approve  the new  one as  safe around  real moldies;  in fact  Cobb
helped him design  it. Hey, there  goes Willa Jean  now." Yoke trained
her  vision  on  Willa Jean  wandering  across  the floor,  ostensibly
pecking  for stray  crumbs of  imipolex. "I'm  surprised that  plastic
chicken's here,  because Randy's  gone out  on his  new motorcycle.  I
wonder if he's  using her to  eavesdrop on me.  If so, you're  a geek,
Randy."  Yoke swung  her alla  through the  air to  launch a  buzzing,
bouncing spark-machine  that frightened  Willa Jean  off into  the far
corners of the warehouse. "But I still haven't told you the best part.
After Randy fixed Willa Jean, he was tired, so he made himself a  good
bed and  lay down  on that  and started  creating all  sorts of little
samples of every kind  of material he could  think of, each sample  in
the shape of a Lego block, and he was snapping them together and  then
—this is  the rich  part-Randy fell  asleep while  he was  wearing his
uvvy, and he ended up hooking into his alla and making something  that
he'd  been  dreaming,  God  you  should  have  heard  him  scream. The
screaming started at  like three in  the morning and  Babs wasn't back
yet, so it was just me and Cobb to deal. Randy's realware dream  thing
was a giant snail with his mother's face. It was chasing him. A  giant
imipolex snail actually crawling around the warehouse at three in  the
morning, knocking  things over,  and I  mean a  snail this  big." Yoke
stretched both arms up high,  shaking with mirth. "I really  shouldn't
be laughing  because it's  very sad,  his mother  died at  the end  of
November and Randy had totally been neglecting to stay in touch and he
missed  the  funeral  and  apparently  he  has  these  recurrent guilt
nightmares about a giant snail, it  has to do with being too  late. It
was crawling  after him  all around  the warehouse  and wailing  'What
taahm is it?' in this bewildered, Kentucky-accented voice. 'You  goin'
be  late  for  school if  you  don't  hurry up,  Randy  Karl.  When is
Tuesday?'  Except  it said  'whiyun'  instead of  'when.'  " Yoke  was
struggling  to keep  her voice  level, but  now and  then letting  out
shrieks of  laughter. "It  had a  silver-frosted black  shell, like  a
middle-aged lady's hair. And there was some incest thing in there too.
It wanted to sit on his face.  I heard it say 'Ah'm real hot  to crawl
on  you, Randy  Karl.' Randy  was just  completely freaking  out. And
finally he was cornered and the snail really did crawl onto him, right
across his body  and up onto  his face, I  think it must  have weighed
four hundred pounds.  It moved a  lot faster than  you'd expect. Randy
would have  suffocated if  Cobb hadn't  been able  to drag it outside;
Cobb can  be really  strong. We  burned the  imipolex, but the shell's
still there. I'll show it to you in a minute."

Joke: "I can  see where you'd  think that's funny,  Yoke. Not everyone
would. But  that's why  we love  you. It  sounds like  Randy could run
amok, a gunjy dook  like that. You're going  to push him too  far. Not
everybody appreciates your sense  of humor. Though Corey's  loving it.
I'm telling him some of the  stuff while it's coming in." Joke's  view
showed  a greenish-skinned  man with  square vertical  goatee and  the
sides of his head shaved, grinning and leaning forward as if hungering
for  information.  "No, Corey,  you  can't uvvy  in.  This is  totally
diffusion-encrypted.  Emul customized  some cryp  code just  for this
call. Yes, Corey, you heard me right, a giant snail with his  mother's
face wanted to crawl on him. Back off-ski! Okay, Yoke, while you  were
telling about Randy just now, Berenice did an anonymous search of  the
moldie chat-lines and found out a few things. The aliens'  sacrificial
clone trick went over; the moldies really think they killed them  all.
But they're suspicious about Squanto  and Sue flying to the  Moon. The
dummy is halfway here and nobody wants to bother chasing it down,  but
they're doubting it's real. They've posted the Sue Miller  information
all over the place,  along with one of  the Cappy Jane images  of you.
But it isn't you. Look." Joke flashed the Sue Miller ID sheet with the
photo image of a short-haired hollow-cheeked girl with black hair.  In
addition,  there  was  a  holographic still  image  of  Yoke  and Cobb
floating  in the  Vava'u bay,  with the  giant cube  of imipolex  just
behind them. But  Yoke's face was  replaced by Sue  Miller's, and Cobb
looked like a plastic American Indian.

"The moldies didn't  notice you searching,  did they, Berenice?"  Joke
paused,  looking into  her head,  which was  partly inhabited  by the
wetware-coded personalities  of two  old-time boppers  called Berenice
and Emul. Quickly receiving  her answer, Joke continued  talking. "No,
you're safe for now, Yoke, but you better believe the shit's going  to
hit the fan one way or another. You didn't say where Randy went on his
motorcycle. And what about Babs?"

Yoke: "Well, yesterday was pretty calm, and we were nice to Randy  and
made things together, so don't worry too much about him going amok. He
made the motorcycle this morning. A really tough machine, all big  and
black and loud, though of course  it's electric. Like I say, he's  out
riding it  now, but  I don't  know where.  Babs was  so impressed with
Randy's motorcycle that she made herself  a car, look, you can see  it
out in front  of the warehouse."  Yoke peered out  the warehouse's big
square  door at  an incredibly  decorated dune-buggy  outside. It  was
covered all over with drawings  of girls, done in a  casual sketchbook
kind of style, and its fenders  were curled up in funny squiggles.  It
looked like a live cartoon,  bright in the afternoon sun.  Standing by
the buggy  was Babs  herself, talking  to a  burr-cut man  with little
round glasses. "That's Babs's new friend Theodore. He slept here  last
night. Believe  it or  not, Randy's  jealous of  him. As  if he  had a
right. I think that's why he took off on his big bad motorsickle  this
morning. And then Babs made herself  the car just to show she's  still
on top. She thought  about it for a  couple of hours and  when she was
ready  she  alla-made  it  real  fast  when  nobody  was  looking. She
transmuted  some heavy  garbage instead  of just  air, so  that there
wasn't this  like big  thunderclap. Theodore  and our  neighbors don't
know about the allas yet, thank God. If the word gets out, it's  going
to be a zoo. I'll go ahead and step all the way outside so you can see
down the street. Hi, Babs, I'm talking to my sister Joke on the  Moon.
See Cobb lying in  the street next to  the car sunning himself,  Joke?
It's the third sunny day in a row. Say hi to Joke, Cobb, you lazy  old
slug." Cobb stuck a  head and arm out  of his puddled form  and waved.
"And  see the  giant, charred  snail shell  across the  street by  the
water, Joke? Isn't that too much?"

Joke: "Keep looking, I want to sketch the shell for Corey. He wants to
make a Silly Putter pet Tucker Snail. And then look down the street so
I can see the Anubis, Yoke. I'm getting really nice image quality. And
also I want to talk about how soon you're coming home. I don't want to
lose you. You should leave before the heavy kilp starts happening."

Yoke stared at the  shell and the Anubis  for a minute, then  wandered
back into the warehouse. It was two in the afternoon. "Phil's the  big
issue to me, Joke, and of course Ma too. I'm sorry, but I don't want a
clone with a Happy Cloak for my mother. According to the aliens,  Phil
and Darla and the others  are off in the powerball  hyperspace bubble,
maybe not so far away. In  the fourth dimension. I told Phil  I'd wait
for him  here. If  I hang  here just  a little  more, maybe he'll come
back. Oh, and look, I didn't show you yet what Randy, Babs, and I made
yesterday." Yoke gazed at a chest-high aquarium filled with delicately
shaded plastic jellyfish. "These are imipolex, like Babs's worms. It's
very easy  to program  an artificial  jellyfish, at  least it was with
Randy helping. See how we put a different mandala onto the surface  of
each one? The kind of realistic ones are Babs's and the more  abstract
ones are by me. I think Babs  is right that moving art is better  than
art that just sits  there. Next I want  to make some simulated  polyps
that build  a coral  reef. I  wish I  knew more  limpware engineering.
Randy's good at it,  believe it or not.  Of course, playing with  real
life would  be more  exciting, but  the aliens  say it's  going to  be
impossible for us  to use the  alla to really  program biological life
until we  completely figure  out all  of the  wetware engineering  for
ourselves, and who knows when that'll  be. They don't want to tell  us
too much, because they don't want it to be easy for us or the  moldies
to actualize  a  billion instances  of  ourselves and  instantly  over
populate the planet. They think we're that dumb."

Joke: "Too true. I wish  you'd come back home, Yoke.  Those allas—they
could be dangerous. What if someone  were to turn one against you?  It
sounds like things could so easily get out of control. Does Randy Karl
Tucker realize  that the  aliens are  in bodacious  moldie bodies just
down the block?"

Yoke made  a little  marble head  with her  alla, an  image of how she
felt. An open-mouthed face:  excited, anxious, aware. "We  didn't tell
him yet, no. But I think we might go see them tonight."

CHAPTER FIVE

RANDY, PHIL, BABS, PHIL

Randy, February 26

Randy steered his motorcycle south out of San Francisco, taking  Route
1 down along the coast past Pacifica. Though it had been sunny over at
Babs's warehouse, it was foggy and  cold on the coast. He pulled  over
and alla-made  himself gloves  and a  set of  biking leathers. Awesome
what the little coppery tube could do. It had been great making things
with Babs and Yoke yesterday. That Babs was really something. And now,
just when he was  starting to go for  her, she was slipping  away from
him,  which was  majorly depressing.  Maybe it  was time  for him  to
change.

Randy tucked  the alla  tube inside  his right  glove just  in case he
needed it all of sudden. He'd never ridden a motorcycle before, and he
had a notion that if he were about to collide with something, he might
be able  to use  the alla  to turn  the obstacle  into thin  air. Just
project a bright-line  cube on out  there and zap  whatever it was:  a
rock, a  tree, or  even another  vehicle. Though  if he  couldn't have
Babs, then why  bother? Randy caught  himself and pushed  that feeling
away.

Riding the bike proved quite easy. Randy had picked a  top-of-the-line
model out of the alla catalog, and it was very stable.

It had a big quantum-dot electric motor and imipolex DIM wheels. South
of Half Moon Bay, Randy decided to stop and make himself a snack.  Not
seeing any official beach, he simply drove his bike across a field  of
dead brussels sprouts to the edge of a hundred-foot bluff at the  edge
of the sea. The smart wheels  had no problem picking their way  across
the furrows.

Randy parked his bike upright on its stand, then used his alla to make
himself an energy bar and  a can of Bharat  Jolly-Zest soda, an anise
flavored Indian soft  drink he'd become  fond of in  Bangalore. He was
pleased to find it in the truly exhaustive alla catalog. After eating,
he kept sitting on the bluff, amusing himself by designing a series of
little  realware  glider  airplanes and  flinging  them  out into  the
eddying winds. He couldn't stop thinking about Babs Mooney.

Babs's sudden  relationship with  Theodore was  bothering Randy  a lot
more than he would  have expected. Up until  a few days ago  he'd been
thinking of Babs as  basically an easy mark  whom he could sponge  off
of, as well as being a pretty good person to kill time with. It's  not
like she was knock-down gorgeous or anything. But now all of a  sudden
things were getting complicated, the way women were said to like  them
to be.

Randy's experience  thus far  with women  was very  limited, one might
even say stunted. The  sum total was this:  in high school he'd  had a
hot and heavy  affair with a  bisexual older woman  named Honey Weaver
who — it later developed — had really just been using him as a way  to
get at his mother,  with whom Honey also  had an affair. It  was Honey
who'd  gotten  Randy  interested  in  cheeseball  sex.  She'd  had two
memorable moldie sex toys: the dildo Angelika and the versatile rubber
sheet Sammie-Jo.

The day after Randy graduated from high school — lordy lord, that  was
nearly four years ago —Honey  had converted to Heritagism and  cut him
off without so much  as a kiss good-bye.  "All them things you  and me
did was wrong, Randy Karl," she'd said. "I'm through bein' the goddamn
Whore of  Babylon. It  was only  because of  your mother  that you was
important to me."

Honey  had used  him and  ditched him,  and then  the same  thing had
happened again  —only this  time with  a moldie  named Parvati.  Randy
lived  with  Parvati while  he  was working  for  an imipolex  fab  in
Bangalore, India. In the end it came out that Parvati really and truly
only wanted him for the imipolex he could give her. There'd been a bad
last  scene  involving poisoning  and  knife-play; Randy  ended  up in
possession of one of Parvati's  buttocks, which had become none  other
than Willa Jean.

Randy didn't  tell anyone  that particular  story because  it was  too
ludicrous, like  so much  of his  sorry-ass life.  From the inside, of
course, his life didn't feel funny one bit. Just because most people's
lives worked out so goody-goody bone-normal, did that make him a  Bozo
clown that anyone could take a shot at?

He sighed, staring down at his bright-line alla mesh and tweaking  the
wing shape of  another glider. No  way to deny  that it was  his fault
Babs thought  he was  a fool.  First of  all, he'd  come in  loaded on
camote on Tuesday morning. He had  a painful memory of trying to  hump
one of those  aliens, just like  a dog getting  on someone's leg.  His
eyes all rolling back to show  their whites. Ow. Since then he'd  been
too ashamed to talk about the aliens, or even to ask Babs where they'd
gone.

And then there'd been the  second thing. Tuesday night, before  he had
any kind of chance to reestablish his credibility, Babs had left for a
date—a date!—and in the night he had his godawful recurring  nightmare
about the  snail that  followed him  everywhere, the  snail that would
always catch up no matter how fast or how far he ran.

Sitting alone on  the bluff, Randy  writhed in agony,  remembering the
raw terror of waking  up in the night  with everything not okay,  with
the nightmare  snail big  and real  and truly  after him, dragging its
realware shell through the sad real world, the snail talking like  his
poor dead mother, its voice loud and clear so that Yoke and Cobb could
hear it, could hear all about how the snail wanted to sit on his  face
so nasty. "Ah'm real hot to crawl on you, Randy Karl."

He  was no  motherfucker, he  didn't deserve  this kilp,  but try  and
explain it  to Babs  after she  heard all  about it  from that  little
loonie twist Yoke; Yoke laughing her  ass off about it every time  she
brought it up, twenty times so far if it was one.

And this morning  Yoke had told  that slick Theodore  about the snail.
Since they were keeping the allas secret, Yoke had to talk all  around
everything to avoid  spilling the beans.  She'd made it  sound like he
had hand-built  the monster  while he  was lifted  or sleepwalking  or
something.

So who  was Babs  gonna go  for, Bozo  the hillbilly  or Theodore  the
smooth-talking California scene-maker, always with the right  opinions
about the right things —shit, the dook even worked at an art  gallery,
which had to be Babs's perfect wet dream. Theodore had slept over with
Babs last night. The guy was already gettin' on her. Randy felt a sick
rush of self-loathing. All the  twisted, rotten things he'd done  over
the years —how could any regular woman love him?

Randy set the next glider on fire and watched as it warped and burned,
spiraling down into the pounding  surf. "That's me," he muttered,  and
damned if he didn't half feel like jumping off the cliff himself.  Get
it the hell over with. The way he was, nobody could ever love him.  He
was better off dead. Randy inched closer to the cliffs edge,  watching
as some dirt crumbled under  his weight. Better off dead?  All because
of that noisy, plump-cheeked little Babs Mooney? "Come on, Randy  boy.
Tat tvam asi."

He thought  of a  better thing  to do,  reckless enough  to slake  his
death-wish  without being  sheer suicide.  He found  the alla-catalog
image of his motorcycle, located an image of a full-size glider plane,
and mentally attached the titanium-braced imipolex wings of the glider
to the bike. He studied the image, adjusted the bends of the wing, and
said "Actualize." The alla projected a bright-line wire mesh near  the
edge of the bluff, then filled it  in with Randy's newly designed fly
bike.

The ocean wind beat at the twenty-foot wings, threatening to push  the
motorcycle-glider over on  one side. Randy  bulked up some  dirt mound
supports for the wings and added a rocket-pod to the rear of the bike.
And then he took  another look at the  ocean. The restless waves  were
gray and  cold, utterly  heedless of  human comfort.  It would xoxx to
full in. Fuck death! He didn't have to die; he could change! It wasn't
too late yet. There had to be a  way. Randy decided to launch the fly
bike in an unmanned  test-run. Whether or not  it worked, it would  be
easy enough to  alla up another,  and while he  was doing all  this he
could think about how to make himself more lovable.

So  as  to  properly  weight  the  trial  vehicle,  Randy  alla-made a
mannequin of—why not polished madrone wood? That was one of the nicest
materials he had  seen so far,  a fine-grained reddish  wood nearly as
dense and  heavy as  flesh. The  lustrous madrone  figure looked  very
floatin' sitting on the motorcycle-rocket-glider. Yaaar. Give it green
glass eyes and a shit-eating grin. Randy fired up the rocket to launch
the combine off  the cliff. One  of the wings  twisted; the bike  spun
into the cliff  and tumbled out  of control. Meanwhile  the rocket was
blasting and—splash—the bike  punched into the  water at easily  forty
miles  per.  The crouched  wooden  rider floated  facedown,  the waves
beating the figure against the rocks.

"That's the  old me,"  laughed Randy,  relieved not  to be down there.
"This boy's startin' up a new leaf." He still had a chance with  Babs.
He'd stay away from camote, stop fucking moldies, and quit doing deals
with sleazebags like Aarbie Kidd. Yaaar. Better straight than dead.

The wrecked motorcycle-glider looked bad  down in the ocean, so  Randy
sent his alla  control-mesh down there  to surround it.  It was stuzzy
how you could just wish the mesh out to wherever you wanted it to be.

Once Randy had the mesh around the smashed motorcycle, he had to tweak
the mesh, as  the smashed-up machine  wasn't shaped the  same anymore.
The alla  hookup was  intense enough  that Randy  had a direct sensory
feeling for the contents of the mesh; there were some rocks in  there,
a couple of little  fish, lot of mussels  —would have been a  shame to
wipe out all those things. He tightened the mesh in on the busted fly
bike and turned the machinery into  water. But he left his wooden  man
to keep bumbling about in the rocks and surf. The bad Randy. "One more
taahm," muttered  Randy, and  made a  new motorcycle  with wings. This
time, though, he  gave it some  wing-flexing controls hooked  into the
handlebars, plus  a better  rider, one  more likely  to steer the test
vehicle  in  a  helpful  way. He  actualized  an  imipolex  figure and
equipped  it with  camera-eyes, an  uvvy, a  rudimentary niobium  wire
nervous system, and a control patch like he'd given Willa Jean. Like a
ventriloquist throwing his voice, Randy put his awareness out into the
imipolex rider, looking through its  eyes and twitching its limbs  and
fingers. The more of this he did, the less he felt like dying.

Vooden-vooden,   screeched   the  fly-bike's   electric   engine,  and
kkkroooooow went the rocket. Out into the air the jury-rigged  machine
flew. Fully into the virtual  personality of his stand-in, Randy  felt
himself to be riding it.  He twitched the wings, adjusted  the rocket,
gained some altitude, but then — damn! — a gust of wind crimped down a
wing and  he was  flying straight  back at  the cliff.  Frantically he
manipulated the wings and — yes!—he was turning, he was going to  make
it, but—double damn — there was  one jutting rock that was just  going
to catch the  tip of his  right wing—quick, alla-blast  it out of  the
way!

Randy got  the uvvy  on the  plastic rider  to send  his alla a direct
signal that—boom  — turned  a protruding  knee of  rock into  thin air
but—uh-oh! —  turning so  much rock  into air  made a  shock wave that
threw the fly-bike further off balance. The bike rocketed downward. So
as to make the cleanup simpler  this time, Randy snapped an alla  mesh
out there and turned the machine  and its plastic rider into air  just
before they crashed  into the rocky  shore. He was  seeing out through
the eyes of the rider right up to the instant when it dissolved, which
was a very strange feeling.  Somehow the experience made him  think of
that poor moldie Monique whom he'd kidnapped and sent off to her death
last fall. "I'm sorry, Lord," said Randy out loud, not that he'd  ever
been a praying man. "Please forgive me." And that was the moment  when
Randy felt that change was really going to be possible.

He'd been a fool too  long. It was time to  go back and talk to  Babs.
He'd abandoned any thought of  riding a fly-bike. They'd served  their
purpose now, they'd kept him from killing himself.

He was thirsty again, but when he uvvied into his alla to make another
soft drink, a strange thing  happened. Instead of producing a  control
mesh, the alla began talking to him.

"Greetings," said the alla. "Shall I actualize a new Randy Karl Tucker
or shall I execute a fresh registration?" As it spoke he felt a series
of tingles in his body, as if the alla were checking him out.

"Hey," said Randy, confused. "We already done this before. I am  Randy
Karl Tucker."

"Original user identity is  ninety-eight percent confirmed," said  the
alla,  as  if  not  even listening  to  him.  "The  Randy Karl  Tucker
actualization  option   is  withdrawn.   For  full   confirmation  and
reactivation, we must now execute a fresh registration. Please give  a
name and thought association for each image." And then it showed Randy
the same  series of  images it  had used  before to  learn his  mental
software. The first three  flicked past: a symmetric  circular pattern
of colored lights, a crooked forked line, and a uniform patch of rough
texture.

Just like the  first time, Randy  said they were  like a mandala  he'd
seen the first time he got  high on camote in Bangalore with  Parvati,
like a dried up creek-bed out at the London Earl Estates trailer  park
south of Louisville, and like the skin of a dead moldie he'd seen in a
jar at a Heritagist church fair.

After the  dizzyingly rapid  and thorough  quizzing came  a series  of
tingles throughout  Randy's body,  and then  the alla  said, "You  are
registered as  my sole  user for  life. Feel  free to select something
from my catalog."

And at this  point Randy realized  what had happened.  The complicated
hookup through  the imipolex  dummy had  temporarily tricked  the alla
into the belief that it  was the real Randy who'd  been alla-converted
into air. The alla thought it had killed him.

Once he was dead the alla could either—what had it said? —"actualize a
new Randy  Karl Tucker"  or "execute  a fresh  registration." Had  the
first option, so quickly withdrawn,  meant that the alla could  make a
duplicate of  him, a  second Randy  identical in  mind and  body? That
would be floatin'.

"Go ahead and make that copy  of me," Randy told the alla,  not really
thinking  through  the  consequences.  His  pulse  was  pounding  with
excitement. "Make a Randy Karl Tucker Two."

Again there  came a  series of  tingles in  Randy's body. "Ninety-nine
point nine eight  seven confirmation that  you are Randy  Karl Tucker.
Request to actualize multiple instances of yourself is denied."

Oh well.  Come to  think of  it, if  there were  a Randy  II, he'd  be
competing with Randy  for Babs. Theodore  was already trouble  enough.
Still, it would have been nice. Randy had grown up an only child; he'd
always wished he had a sibling who understood him.

Just about then another thing about the alla's behavior struck  Randy.
If he really had been dead and some other guy had picked up the  alla,
then maybe  the alla  would have  actualized a  fresh Randy,  but more
likely the new guy would have chosen to register the alla to himself.

Randy looked around, suddenly  anxious that someone might  be watching
him. But he was alone at the edge of the bluff. There were a couple of
liveboard surfers  out in  the ocean,  but they  were quite  far away.
Nobody was watching him. But what if someone saw him use his alla  and
became maddened  with the  lust to  own it  —what if  someone saw this
wonderful tool and killed him to take it away?

The alla would offer the murderer a choice like, "Do you want to bring
back the  sap you  just killed,  or do  you want  to enjoy the endless
power of this magic wand?" And  of course the killer would choose  the
second option.

The alla would go ahead and  register a new "user for life,"  probably
forgetting the old Randy Tucker body and mind pattern entirely.

This meant that once the news of allas and their transfer-ability  got
out, owning an alla would  become seriously hazardous to your  health.
To his health, and  that of Yoke and  Babs. There was a  slight chance
the "new you" option might still save your ass —but someone would have
to like you enough to  ask for it and, truth  be told, it was hard  to
believe it would really work.

While he was thinking all this, Randy sent out a control mesh to alla
make a plug  of sandy yellow  rock to fill  in the smooth  square hole
he'd punched out  of the cliff.  It was starting  to get dark.  He got
back onto his original motorcycle and rode across the field toward the
narrow track of Route 1, his electric motor loudly purring.

When he'd started  out this morning  he had a  vague idea of  visiting
Aarbie Kidd down in  Santa Cruz to look  up some fresh hell  to raise.
But that would have been the vicious, self-destructive old Randy,  the
same guy who'd been using  leech-DIMs to kidnap moldies. And  from now
on, that Randy was history. He  was going to make amends and  do right
by moldies and people alike. There was no reason to see Aarbie at all.
Hell, if Aarbie saw his alla, he might kill him for it—and be able  to
start using it as his own. No point in him getting killed just when it
was time to start a new life!  The only place the new Randy wanted  to
go was back to San Francisco.

Randy tooled along northward, with  the winter sun setting off  on his
left. The thing to do was to go right back to the warehouse and make a
serious play for  Babs. Tell her  that she was  the nicest woman  he'd
ever met.  Tell her  he was  sick of  being a  heartless crouched-over
piece of wood. What would Babs say? It did seem like the girl was kind
of sweet on  him, at least  it had at  first. He just  had to undo the
damage of his camote trip and the realware snail. And, hey,  yesterday
had been  pretty mellow,  what with  him, Babs,  and Yoke making those
plastic jellyfish. Maybe if he flat out spilled his heart, Babs  would
kick out Theodore and let him into her canopy bed.

Which led to a new problem. If  it got down to the dirty, would  he be
able to have sex  with a normal girl  his age? Fella wouldn't  want to
come up limp for a dynamo like Babs. That would be a real strike three
for Bozo the country  clown. Now, if Babs  could see her way  clear to
her and  him layin'  on a  moldie rubber  sheet, there'd  be much less
chance of a problem. And, you know, Babs had said something about  not
minding the smell of moldies. Her mother Wendy was supposed to be part
moldie in some way.

Randy got kind of excited thinking about him and Babs on a  Sammie-Jo.
Yaaar. Just  put some  moldie-flesh in  the picture  and there'd be no
doubt about what would occur. Not that he wanted to fall back into his
old ways.

He was motoring  in through the  city now and  it was dark.  He had an
intense desire to get laid. As he rolled into Babs's neighborhood,  he
saw  the lights  of the  Anubis by  the side  of the  road. The  great
beached ship  was alive  with glowing  moldies and  capering revelers.
Maybe he should  pull on in  there and rent  some time with  a moldie?
He'd had quite a session with Isis the other day—but, no, that  wasn't
the way he wanted to act anymore. With Babs he had, for the very first
time, a real chance at a  real woman. "Don't lose it, Randy  Karl," he
said aloud, motoring past the Anubis and toward Babs's warehouse.

Just as he pulled into her street, he saw a funny-looking cartoon  car
go driving by. Babs  in her new electric  dune buggy. And next  to her
was that goddamn Theodore. Babs smiled and waved —and kept on driving.

"Babs!" said Randy, reaching out to her with an urgent uvvy call.  Not
wanting to lose sight of her, he swung his bike through a tight U-turn
and began following her.

"Hey, Randy," came Babs's cozy  voice on the uvvy. "Where've  you been
all day?" She turned a corner and drove in toward the city down  Third
Street. She didn't realize yet that he was right behind her.

"I was cruising the coast. I was gonna see Aarbie Kidd, but I  decided
not to. I'm gonna change. I feel like I got off on the wrong foot with
you, Babs. Are you coming back to the warehouse soon?"

"I'm just giving Theodore a ride to work. He has the evening shift  at
the Asiz Gallery. What's on your tortured mind?"

"I figured out two  things today, Babs. The  first thing is about  the
—the 'toy' I  got. I found  out that if  I die, the  'toy' will either
make a copy of me or work just as well for the next person that  picks
it up."

"Bizarre." A long pause while Babs thought it over. "Good news and bad
news, isn't it? But I don't think we should be discussing this on  the
uvvy." Randy saw  her glance into  her rearview mirror.  "Hey, is that
you following me?"

"Right on  your sweet  tailfeather, baby.  Look, I  gotta tell you the
second thing in person. Pull over, would you?"

"Okay." Babs pulled  her funny car  over to the  curb and hopped  out.
Theodore stayed in the car, looking anxious and annoyed. Randy  parked
his  motorcycle  and  held out  his  arms  to Babs.  Babs  took  a few
uncertain steps closer and spoke to him without benefit of the uvvy.

"What is it? I hope you're not lifted again, Randy."

"You're—You're not like any gal I ever met, Babs. I didn't realize  it
at first, but I could really go for you."

Babs blushed, glanced back at Theodore, took another step closer. "Are
you serious?" A little smile played across her lips.

"I know I been  acting screwed up. But  you're the only woman  I could
care  about,  Babs.  I  had  me  kind  of  a  peculiar  childhood. The
cheeseball thing—well, I  was thinking that  your ma's part  moldie so
maybe it's okay. I mean if you and I was to —I'm just worried I  might
need some—well, if you wouldn't  mind layin' on a moldie  rubber sheet
is — "

Babs's voice  was loud  and hurt.  "What do  you think  you're talking
about!"

"I'm gettin' ahead of myself, sorry," said Randy. "Just a-thinkin' out
loud. Don't  sweat the  details, right?  You and  me, Babs,  we got  a
future, huh? It'll work. You're  the best gal I  ever met. I'm just  a
scared I'll blow it."

"Are you all right, Babs?" called Theodore, getting out of the car.

"Yes, yes," said Babs. "Just a second."

"Don't go off with Theodore  now, Babs," begged Randy. "We  gotta talk
some more."

"How did you find out about what your alla does if you die?" whispered
Babs. "Is what you said really true?"

"You're going  to make  me late,"  said Theodore,  walking over.  "Hi,
Tucker. Seen any giant snails today?"

"Oh, leave Randy alone," said Babs. "Look, Theodore, you just take  my
car for now.  In fact, keep  it overnight and  show it to  Kundry Asiz
tomorrow and see if she'll take it for the gallery. I talked to Kundry
on the uvvy about it already, and I think she's interested."

"But-"

"Something's come  up," said  Babs, and  gave Theodore  a peck  on the
cheek. "Bye. I'll uvvy you tomorrow."

So Babs got  on the back  of Randy's motorcycle  and rode back  to her
warehouse with him.

"One thing," she  said as they  got off the  bike. "I am  not going to
fuck you on any gross moldie  sheet. Not that I'm saying I'd  fuck you
at all. Hi, Cobb."

"Back so soon?"  Cobb was slouched  in the warehouse  doorway, sort of
guarding the place. "Yoke was just saying maybe she should go back  to
the Moon. Talking to her sister made her homesick. Hi, Randy, good  to
see you. You  don't want to  go to the  Moon yet, do  you? There's too
much happening down here, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I feel like things  are just starting," said Randy.  "Hey, come
on inside, Cobb, we four oughtta  have a little talk. If Yoke  can lay
off raggin' me."

"Help," hollered Yoke, seeing Randy in the doorway. "The attack of the
giant snail!"

"I'm gonna whomp your butt!" shouted Randy, charging after her. He was
tired of drag-assing around and  being humble. Yoke shrieked and  ran,
firing off a  few hydrogen-oxygen  air-bombs in  her wake.  Randy alla
made a big cushion right in  front of Yoke, and she stumbled  over it.
He stood over her, with Willa Jean loyally at his side. "You've teased
me enough, Yoke. I  know I done acted  like a clown, but  I'm gonna be
different now. You hear that, Cobb  and Babs? I'm gonna be a  new man.
Worthy of my great-grandpa, and worthy of the woman I love."

"Huh?" said Yoke.

Babs  walked over  and put  her arm  around Randy's  waist. "I  think
Randy's cute. So be nice to him."

Randy smiled and kissed Babs's  cheek, then went ahead and  threw both
arms around  her to  give her  a full-body  hug. As  he hugged her and
inhaled her warm fragrance, he realized that, if he ever got her  into
bed, he wasn't going to be needing any sex-aids.

"Okay," said  Babs, worming  away. "But  now we  better talk about the
alla thing you mentioned before."

So Randy  told the  other three  about how  he'd learned  that an alla
would freshly re-register  itself to whoever  next picked it  up after
its last owner died — although there was supposedly a possibility that
it could instead actualize a fresh copy of you.

"So in this fairy tale, the greedy peasant who kills the golden  goose
gets the goose's powers," said Yoke. "Xoxx it."

"Unless he chooses to actualize a fresh, live instance of the  goose,"
pointed out Babs.

"Me, I've known my share  of peasants," said Randy. "Ain't  no peasant
in the world would ever wish that goose back."

"So either we keep  the allas secret forever,"  said Babs. "Or we  get
murdered. Or we throw our allas away. Or we figure out how to give one
to everyone  in the  world. Four  possibilities. And  the first  one's
impossible. Secrets get out.  Especially with the aliens  hanging with
random cheeseballs and lifters all day long."

"They're on  the Anubis?"  said Randy.  "That's where,  isn't it?  Why
didn't anyone tell me?"  He was sitting next  to Babs; Willa Jean  had
nestled in between them.

"We assumed that if  you knew, you'd instantly  run over there to  try
and fuck  Shimmer again,"  said Cobb.  "I, for  one, wanted  to see my
great-grandson's poor bod get a few days rest."

"I —" Randy's voice cracked. "I ain't doin' that no more. Not while  I
got a chance with Babs."

"How touching," said Yoke in a voice that struggled to stay level. She
paused to clear her throat. "Let's think. What Babs said boils down to
this. If we don't want to get  killed, we either get rid of our  allas
or we figure  out how to  give an alla  to everyone. I'm  for everyone
getting an alla. We just have to find out how to tell an alla to  make
an alla."

"I'm not  sure about  that," said  Babs, absently  petting Willa Jean.
"People are too stupid. If everyone gets an alla, every square inch of
the world  will be  full of—crap.  It's been  fun making  art with the
alla, but I was an artist before I got my alla, and I'll be an  artist
when it's gone. Maybe I'd rather  just throw it away than have  idiots
use it."

"Well, that's great  for you, Miss  High and Mighty,"  said Yoke. "But
I'm an artist too. Only there was never an art-form I felt really good
at till the alla came along. Does that make me a clumsy peon? I'm  not
giving up my alla, Babs."

"You're great  with your  alla, Yoke,"  said Babs  soothingly. "And  I
didn't mean to sound like I don't think you're an artist. But actually
you could do art  even without the alla,  you know. I was  just saying
that most people aren't artists at all."

"Most people are dumb shits," said Yoke, still feeling feisty. "But if
everyone has an alla, then what a fool does is fixable. If one  person
does something stupid, someone else can undo it."

"Are you sure?" said Babs. She projected a mesh over a potted  African
violet and turned it into an  ugly plastic flower jabbed into a  chunk
of Styrofoam the shape of a cat. "This is what people will do. Can you
fix it?"

"Yeah," said Yoke slowly. "The alla can make plants. Here you go." And
a  new African  violet appeared.  "I had  the alla  give it  standard
potting soil complete with bacteria, bugs, and worms, though I admit I
don't have any way of knowing exactly what was there before."

Babs  leaned  over  the  plant  examining  it.  "I'm  impressed,"  she
admitted. "I like it. This gives me hope. And you know, come to  think
of it, I can't bear the thought  of losing my alla. I was just  scared
to admit  it before.  This could  really work."  Babs laughed happily.
"Yes.  I have  this image  of some  dook turning  a beautiful  woodsy
hilltop into a gross puffball  McMansion with three stories and  forty
thousand square feet.  And then his  greenie neighbor turns  the house
back into a  woodsy hilltop. Back  and forth all  day long. Maybe  the
dook would only put up his house at night."

"There'd still be  zoning laws in  any case," mused  Yoke. "That would
put some limits on the houses.  If the gimmie could enforce them.  And
there's a limit to how big a volume the alla can transform at one  go.
A cube something like forty feet on a side."

"But even so, everyone would build  out to the legal max," said  Babs.
"They'd alla up their giant houses one section at a time. And homeless
people would pitch  houses for themselves  just anywhere, even  though
they don't own any land. But  that's actually good, isn't it? No  more
homeless."

"Squatters  deluxe,"  mused  Randy. "They  wouldn't  need  no plumbing
hookups. Use the alla to fill  your bathtub, and use it again  to make
the dirty water go away. Wouldn't be so bad. You could put up a  house
anywhere.  Use the  alla to  make batteries  for any  electricity you
needed."

"But  what kind  of kinky  kilp would  psychos make?"  said Babs.  "A
thousand ton turd in the middle of Union Square! A statement turd, you
wave? And of course there'd  be giant crucifixes everyplace. And  just
imagine solid, three-dimensional graffiti. You try to open your  front
door and there's  a fifteen-foot solid  chrome freestyle 'Yuki  37' in
the way." Babs laughed again. "Actually I can't wait to see it."

"People could alla that kilp  back into air," said Yoke.  "If everyone
did it as  a matter of  course, then cleaning  up wouldn't have  to be
anyone's full-time job. It wouldn't  be as hard as picking  up litter,
you wave. You'd only have to  look at something and wish it  away. You
said turds, crosses, and graffiti? You forgot porno and political ads.
Uh-oh, I'm  seeing another  problem. What  if someone  allas something
that  you  like into  air.  Like your  new  car, Babs  —someone  could
vaporize it because they don't like the way it looks. Just like  you'd
get rid of a giant turd."

"If  she saved  a software  map of  her buggy,  she can  alla it  back
whenever she needs it," suggested Randy. "Parkin' is hell in this city
anyhow. Just turn your car back  into air instead of parkin' it.  Long
as you got the alla and the software map, you only need to bring  back
your realware when you  actually wanna use it.  In the end, the  allas
should be good for Nature.  We won't have to manufacture  nothin'. You
want paper or lumber,  you alla it up,  'stead of cuttin' down  a live
tree. Alla up oil instead of drilling for it. No more factories!"

"This is making me dizzy," sighed Babs, putting her hands to her head.
"It's like  a beautiful  dream. If  only people  can —  oh, wait, what
about nuclear explosions?"

"That could be the  biggest problem of all,"  said Cobb. "It would  be
easy to alla up a twenty-five-pound ball of plutonium. A supercritical
mass. Instant atomic bomb."

"Shit,"  said  Babs. "There's  got  to be  a  way out.  Will  the alla
actually make plutonium? Let's check."

Randy, Babs, and  Yoke uvvied inward,  examining their alla  catalogs,
and sure enough, plutonium was listed.

"Don't try making any of it," cautioned Cobb. "It's highly  poisonous,
even in small amounts."

"We have to get the aliens to talk to Om," said Yoke. "To tell Om  not
to let the allas make  nuclear fuel. Uranium, plutonium—no evil  heavy
metal. Om ought to be able  to control what the allas can  do. They're
all connected to her, you know."

"Yes," said Babs. "And then everyone gets an alla."

"Here we are gettin'  all worked up," said  Randy. "And we don't  know
how to copy no alla in the first place.

"The Metamartians  do," said  Cobb. "Remember,  Yoke? Josef  said they
know how to use the  alla to make an alla.  We should ask them how  to
copy the allas  and at the  same time get  them to tell  Om to not let
allas make uranium or plutonium. Let's go to the Anubis now!"

"Have you ever been on the Anubis before, Babs?" said Yoke.

"My brother and I went there right before I moved in here," said Babs.
"Just to look it over. It seemed kind of sad. Lots of xoxxy people. If
we go over there, I think we should have a plan. We're supposed to beg
the aliens to tell us how to make an alla with the alla? And to  block
plutonium?"

"Begging is about all we can do," said Yoke. "We can't really threaten
them or anything. I mean, they have built-in alla power, and they  can
see a little way into the future. No way we can hurt them."

"Maybe I can get  Siss hot for me,"  said Cobb. "When Randy  and I got
onto Kleopatra and Isis the other night, Kleopatra said I was good.  I
think Siss is kind of interesting."

"Who knows, Babs, if we beg, maybe the Metamartians will help us," put
in Randy, eager to move the conversation forward. "From what Yoke  and
Cobb say, Om does plan for everyone to get the alla. And it's not like
she's out to destroy the planet.  All Om wants is to memorize  us each
and every one. It's like the allas are the ultimate reward for filling
in your questionnaire."

"Do you think you can handle being on the Anubis, Randy?" asked  Babs.
"Without going on another sporehead cheeseball rampage?"

"If you with me, girl," said  Randy sticking out his hand. "You  all I
see. We'll leave Willa Jean here to watch over things."

Phil, February 23-25

Phil spent four days in the powerball — from the Monday when Yoke flew
back to San Francisco through the Thursday when things came to a  head
on the Anubis. The first three days went as follows:

MONDAY

While his dad guzzled wine with Darla and Tempest, Phil pulled himself
to the other end of the oak  tree. Right near the last branch was  the
flaw in their hyperspherical space. Things looked funny near the flaw.
Goaded on by the inane chatter of the drunk pheezers, Phil got a  firm
grip  on the  branch, took  a deep  breath, and  pushed his  head out
through the hole.

His viewpoint swung about with uncontrollable rapidity, like the  view
from a video camera left running while it dangles from a  wrist-strap.
Phil saw an endless  landscape of curved pink  surfaces— it was a  bit
like an ant's-eye view of  a million-mile tall woman's body,  not that
the surfaces  had the  order and  symmetry of  a human  form. Awed and
dizzy, he let his eyes follow along six metallic tendrils that led out
of the  cosmic pink  form. The  tendrils eventually  ran into  a great
circular expanse of  rock and mud  that wavered and  became a disk  of
water. When Phil turned his head a bit farther, he saw blinding bright
light.  Around then,  Phil's face  began to  feel frostbitten  and he
realized he was desperately out of breath. For one panicked instant he
couldn't  figure out  how to  pull back  his head  — so  formless and
disorienting was hyperspace. It took  a special effort to remember  to
bend the arm  belonging to the  hand holding the  branch. This quickly
brought his  gasping head  back in  through the  hole. Anxiously, Phil
patted his face, but the skin wasn't frozen, just very cold.

He needed something like a limpware bubbletopper space-suit if he were
going to explore  out there. But  it seemed futile  to try and  find a
human spacesuit  in  Om's Metamartian  alien  alla catalog.  The  "yam
snoot" Tempest had fed  him —had that even  been food? His mouth  felt
greasy and nasty.

Phil's eye fell on the Humpty-Dumpty doll, big as a watermelon. It was
made  of good  moldie imipolex  and could,  in principle,  serve as  a
spacesuit. But would he be able to get it to stretch itself over  him?
It didn't  look very  intelligent. Silly  Putters weren't  exported to
Earth from the  Moon, so Phil  had never actually  handled one before.
They  were said  to be  poised halfway  between DIMs  and moldies  in
intelligence. Supposedly, the famous inventor Willy Taze had developed
an  algorithm   to  keep   them  from   unexpectedly  tunneling   into
ungovernable moldie consciousness.

"Come here," he said,  beckoning ingratiatingly to the  Humpty-Dumpty.
The fat egg smiled uncertainly.  Phil decided to try uvvying  into it.
The mind of the Humpty-Dumpty was what one would imagine the mind of a
dog to be: a simple, affectless reflection of the passing scene. "Come
here," repeated Phil.  "I need for  you to help  me. Come on,  Humpty.
Come to Phil." Slowly the egg inched closer along the branch.

"Can you wrap one up?" asked Phil, forming a mental image of a man  in
a bubbletopper. "Can you act like a spacesuit and give me air?"

Humpty-Dumpty's  face  split  in  a  big  smile,  and  it  uvvied back
something that sounded like  prerecorded ad copy. "Yes,  Humpty-Dumpty
can act as a spacesuit. Every genuine Corey Rhizome Silly Putter  doll
is usable as an emergency  bubbletopper. It's just another reason  why
every loonie family should own at least one!"

The egg  waddled closer,  opened its  mouth wide  and gently  bit onto
Phil's arm. And then its  plastic flesh liquefied and flowed  all over
Phil,  sealing him  up inside  a full-body  suit. Cheesy-smelling  air
trickled out of an indentation over Phil's nostrils, and the  imipolex
over his eyes became a transparent visor.

Grabbing the branch again, Phil stuck his head out into hyperspace for
a second time. Again,  the first thing he  saw was a great  expanse of
pink —it had to be the body of Om.

In an  effort to  keep his  viewpoint from  thrashing about, Phil made
every effort to hold perfectly still, even though he was holding  onto
a drifting tree with  a dog and three  drunk old people at  the tree's
other end. Phil  tried to compensate  for the jiggling  by turning his
head this  way and  that, but  he couldn't  quite put  it together. No
action seemed to have the expected consequence; it was like trying  to
do  something  with  his  hands  while  watching  them  in  a  mirror.
Everything was upside down, backward, and maybe even inside out.

Even so, he was able to get  a better look at some of the  things he'd
seen  before.  He  found  that  when  he  unexpectedly  lost  sight of
something, he could wobble his head to scan back and forth to find it.
Wobbling had the additional effect  of sometimes showing him a  series
of views that his mind could integrate into a solid whole. Some of the
endless   pink   surfaces  were   spheres   that  seamlessly   blended
together—surely  these  were  views  of  the  hyperspherical powerball
finger of Om whose hypersurface enclosed the rest of his body. And the
pink curves beyond the spheres? Further sections of Om's body—Phil got
the feeling she was astronomical in size.

When Phil glanced down at himself, he discovered a truly gnarly sight.
Where he'd expected to see his  chest and shoulders, he instead saw  a
cross  section  of his  body.  One part  of  the image  was  regularly
twitching,  and  the twitches  matched  the beating  of  Phil's pulse,
clearly audible in the hush of hyperspace. The twitching thing was his
heart. But in this odd view, his heart appeared not as a whole  organ,
but as a cross section, a muscular ring filled with surging blood.

Next to  the heart  were cross-sectional  views of  his flexing lungs,
which looked like ovals of fractal broccoli. And arranged outside  his
innards  were  layers  of  muscle inset  with  circlets  of  bone —rib
sections. The pink curve  of the powerball's hyper-sphere  blocked any
view of his stomach and its contents.

Now one of  the geezers heavily  bumped the tree,  and Phil completely
lost his orientation. The same  intense bright light as before  glared
in his eyes. Phil squinted against it, trying to make out some detail.
As he  looked into  the light,  he picked  up a  sense of serenity and
grandeur.  Wobbling  his  head  to  scan  the  adjacent  environs   of
hyperspace, he made  out a flickering  around the light,  as if things
were swarming into it. What a fine  thing it would be to fly ana  into
the Divine Light.

But now heavy hands  grabbed Phil's waist and  pulled him back in.  It
was Da, drunker  than before. Phil  felt like hitting  him. Stupid old
man.

"You have to be  more careful or you  might fall out," Da  was saying.
"Good thing I thought to check on you."

"I was doing fine," said  Phil, pushing the cowl of  Humpty-Dumpty off
his face. The  Silly Putter assumed  its duties were  over and crawled
off, firming itself back into its original form. "Leave me alone, Da,"
continued Phil. "We'll talk after you sleep."

"I'm tired of sleeping," said  old Kurt. "That's when Om  always comes
for me."

"Just get  away," said  Phil, and  pushed himself  off from  the tree,
floating out into an  empty region of the  hypersphere. It had been  a
long day, and he  was exhausted. He used  Om's invisible alla to  make
himself a  cup of  water, and  drank it  greedily. That  lightened the
unpleasant load of the  yam-snoot in his gut.  He closed his eyes  and
let his limbs go slack, missing Yoke and thinking about the new things
he'd seen. Before long he was asleep.

TUESDAY

Tempest woke Phil by  tapping his mouth  with one of  her greasy food
spindles. "It's a new  day, Junior. Hope you  ain't still mad at  your
Dad. Here's a naahce yam-snoot for your breakfast."

"Xoxx it, Tempest, I can't eat this scuzzy kilp. Show me where in  the
alla catalog you found it. There's got to be something better." Though
Phil was quite  hungry, his queasy  stomach categorically forbade  any
further yam-snoot.

"Hyar 'tis," said  Tempest, and she  uvvied Phil a  bookmark into Om's
alien alla catalog.

None of  the objects  near the  yam-snoot seemed  to be  food at  all;
indeed, Phil soon got the impression that the yam-snoot was in fact  a
Metamartian cleaning product. "God help me," he sighed.

And the instant he said that, the catalog altered its display to  show
a veritable buffet table  of pleasant, normal-looking breakfast  food:
fruits, breads, cheeses, and pouches of juice.

"Actualize," said  Phil quickly,  and the  cornucopia of  food floated
around him and Tempest. "Thank you, Om."

Phil listened for an answer, but he couldn't seem to hear Om while  he
was  awake.  The dream  conversations  with her  last  night had  been
intense. Yes, Om  had been talking  to him most  of the night,  avidly
going over all of the  memories and impressions that she  could dredge
out of  his twenty-four  years of  life. It  was like  the time he had
tried camping out with Kevvie,  and she'd stuck a methedrine  patch on
herself for the hike and then forgotten to take it off. Though  unlike
Kevvie, Om had  wanted him to  do most of  the talking. Tell  me this,
tell me that, and when you said that other thing, what exactly did you
mean? No wonder he still felt tired.

But  the breakfast  foods were  delicious. Tempest,  Darla, Kurt,  and
Planet the dog joined in. And afterward, when everyone skulked off  to
relieve themselves, Om turned their  waste right into air. Phil  could
pee, and the  stream would just  vanish into breezy  nothingness a few
inches from the tip of his dick.

"No drinking for me today," intoned Da solemnly when they drifted back
together. "My son and I have to talk."

"The fourth dimension," said Phil. "It's real."

"That was a good idea of yours to use Humpty-Dumpty for a  spacesuit,"
said Da. "I didn't  think of that. I've  only grabbed two quick  peeks
out of the hole so far. It scares me shitless."

"But it's what you've been talking about your whole life," said  Phil.
"Hyperspace! Some of  the things you  taught have been  coming back to
me. I was seeing cross sections of  my body, and I saw a whole  lot of
different spheres that must have been sections of this hypersphere."

Kurt  looked  uneasy. "I  —  I don't  remember  if I  brought  this up
yesterday, but—don't you think it's at least possible that we're dead?
That this is an antechamber before we go on into the Light? That's why
I can't  get too  enthused about  anything. You  know I hate religion,
Phil. It's not my bag. I thought that when I died everything would  be
over. And now it looks like I  might end up facing the fucking God  of
the rednecks."

"The Metamartians say Om  is God. So maybe  we've already met God.  In
our dreams.  She talked  to me  all night  long. Asking  about life on
Earth."

"You too,  huh?" said  Kurt. "In  my worst  moments I  think Om is St.
Penis-at-the-Pearly-Gates's assistant, deciding whether or not to send
me to Hell. But mostly  Om's been picking my brain  about mathematics.
It was  the wowo  that got  her attention.  Advanced as  they are, the
Metamartians never happened to make this particular model of the Klein
bottle. It  reminds Om  of her—childhood?  That's not  the right word.
Origin, maybe."

"She didn't tell me anything about her origin."

"She says there's a higher-level  God that she comes from.  And that's
the God I'm worried about. He's supposed to be made of Light. I  think
maybe  I saw  Him when  I peeked  out into  hyperspace. Light  with a
capital L."

"I saw that Light for a  long time yesterday," said Phil. "There  were
wonderful vibes coming off it. I'm  not scared of God like you,  Da. I
even pray. It helps me stay sober."

"You're a better man  than me, son. I  wish I could be  more like you.
But I'm too old to change."

"It's never too late."

Kurt put his hands to his head. "What a hangover. So the Light  didn't
dart over and grab you when you looked at it? Let's go stick our heads
out and have a good look around. I'll try using Humpty-Dumpty like you
did. If there's any way  for us to get back  to Earth, it's got to  be
through that hole."

So Kurt  and Phil  got hold  of Humpty-Dumpty  and took  turns looking
through the  flaw in  the hypersphere.  Kurt finally  agreed with Phil
that the Divine Light had good vibes.

"It doesn't feel like a judgmental God," allowed Kurt. "It feels  like
a God of Love. Like the Light cares and wants to help me. Weird."

"I think we get to decide what our God is like," said Phil.

"God is so different from us that any of our notions is inadequate. So
why not  assume God  is good  and loving?  All right,  Da, I  see your
expression, I'm not going to harp on this, I don't want to sound  like
the usual bullshitting religious pricks.  Next topic: Do you have  any
ideas about that big  disk of rock and  mud that sometimes looks  like
water?"

"Those are  slices of  the Earth,"  said Kurt.  "It's good  they're so
detailed. That  means we're  not at  a very  great hyperspace distance
from home."

"Earth!" exclaimed Phil. "Teach me  some math, Da. I need  a refresher
course. Why do Earth and my body look like cross sections? Talk  about
A Square."

Kurt smiled. He loved to talk about A Square. "All right! So think  of
A Square on a sphere floating above the plane of Plat-land. We're  the
same, with-every dimension one notch higher.' O

We're on a hypersphere floating ana the space we come from. A Square's
sphere has a little  ledge on it, a  place where he can  slide his eye
corner off. That's like Om's flaw. When A Square wags his eye back and
forth, what does he see?"

"Weird shit," said Phil.

"Indeed. Let us analyze. When we  look at the world, we see  little 2D
patches on our 2D retina, and we use these to build up a 3D image of a
world. A Square sees little ID patches on his ID retina —imagine  that
his retina is a line at the back  of his 2D eye —and he uses those  to
build  up a  2D image  of a  world. But  when he's  up above  Flatland
looking down,  he doesn't  see Flatland  as a  whole. Instead  he sees
what's in the particular 2D world  of his eye plane. The plane  of his
eye intersects the plane of Flatland in a ID line. A cross section  of
Flatland.  And  if  the cross-section  line  intersects  some Flatland
object, then A  Square is seeing  the innards of  that object. In  the
same way,  the 3D  space of  your eye  intersects the  3D space of our
ordinary universe in a 2D  plane. And that's why you're  seeing slices
of innards."

"Whew," said Phil. "It's easier to see it than to talk about it. I saw
a cross section of my heart. Did you look down at your chest. Da?"

"I did. Right down into my tired old ticker. And when we look down  at
Earth, we see cross sections of the Earth. We see these giant disks of
dirt or  water. It  depends where  our eye's  3D cross  section of  4D
hyperspace happens to intersect the 3D Earth in a 2D plane."

"Yaaar," said Phil. "But why is  the inside of my heart lit  up? You'd
think it would be dark in there."

"That must be because there's a four-dimensional light in hyperspace,"
said Kurt. "From that divine Light we saw."

"The SUN!"  exclaimed Phil.  "Cobb Anderson  talked about  it at  your
funeral. I asked him what it had  been like to be dead. The God  Light
must be what Cobb called the SUN. Capital S-U-N."

"The SUN," said Kurt. "That's a  good name. As long as you  understand
that the SUN has nothing to do with our regular Sun."

"The SUN's light is inside  everything," said Phil slowly. "It's  like
our world is made of  stained-glass pieces with the God  Light shining
through. A cathedral  window lit by  the SUN. How  can you be  scared,
Da?"

"You know,"  said Kurt  after a  long pause,  "I have  this feeling  I
should fly into the SUN. Maybe if I sacrifice myself, then Om will let
you go."

"Oh man, with you getting so wrecked all the time, you don't know what
you're talking  about anymore,"  said Phil.  "Put that  shit away. I'm
gonna look at the Earth again. Crawl on me, Humpty-Dumpty."

With his father hanging onto his legs, Phil leaned way out of the flaw
in Om's hypersphere.  He flopped around  until he saw  a huge disk  of
rock and dirt; this  time he noticed a  glowing region at its  distant
center. The Earth's core. Now Phil began delicately wobbling his  head
to make the cross-sectional disk smaller and smaller. Right before  it
disappeared it became  a great lake  of water. He  moved back the  way
he'd come, and this time he  could see that there were some  bumps off
on one side of the water, some circles of dirt and—yes! — some angular
shapes that must have been the cross sections of buildings. He studied
it  for  ten or  fifteen  minutes, minutely  adjusting  his angle  and
focusing  all  of his  attention  down into  the  squares. There  were
moments when the image bore a  more than passing resemblance to a  map
of San Francisco. Yoke had said she'd wait for him there. Oh, Yoke.

Da pulled Phil back inside  and took another turn with  Humpty-Dumpty.
He said he wanted to get a good look at the I SUN. After a few minutes
he came back inside the hypersphere looking very jangled.

"I do believe  it's happy hour,"  said Kurt. "God,  I wish I  had some
pot."

Sure enough, three minutes later  Tempest and Darla floated over  with
fat reefers burning in their lips.

"Looky what I just found in the catalog!" twanged Tempest. "It's  like
Om's learnin'  herself to  make ever'thang  we need.  This is  Heaven,
ain't it?"

"Or Hell," said Phil, and pushed himself away.

WEDNESDAY

Phil woke up earlier than the others. He put on Humpty-Dumpty and  got
to work trying to  see San Francisco again.  This time he took  closer
notice of the six metallic tendrils leading kata from Om toward Earth.
The tendrils seemed to be in pairs: two were golden, two silvery,  and
two copper-colored. All six led down toward the grid that seemed to be
San Francisco. Was there any chance he might glimpse a slice of  Yoke?
Phil asked Om for help.

"Can you move us closer, Om?"

There was no audible answer,  and Phil expected none. In  last night's
dream  conversations,  Om had  explained  that she  was  accustomed to
talking only to Metamartians, to beings who lived in endless layers of
parallel time. Om's utterances were so diffuse that a human needed  to
be asleep in order  to achieve a state  of mind subtle enough  to hear
her voice.

But even though  the waking Phil  couldn't hear Om's  answer, he could
see that his request had been  noted, for now the grid pattern  of San
Francisco began to  expand. The  crazy, shifting  angles of  the cross
sectional buildings were no more  than a few thousand yards  off. Phil
felt sure Yoke was down there. What if he jumped kata toward her? This
might  work —  or it  might not.  He might  end up  like an  animated
sidewalk painting of a  man with all his  innards on display. Or  fall
through Earth-space entirely. Or not intersect it at all.

Someone was tugging on his legs.  Da. Last night had been way  gnarly.
Tempest had  gone on  to find  snap and  gabba in  the ever  expanding
catalog and then, though Phil managed not to witness it, the  maddened
Da and Darla had probably fucked. Ironic, that. All Phil and Yoke  had
managed so far  was to kiss  and to lie  briefly in the  same bed. Kid
stuff.

This morning Tempest was nodded out on gabba, but Kurt and Darla  were
wide-awake on snap, very wired, very lifted. Why did people do this to
themselves?  "I've got  it, Phil,"  chattered Da.  "I'll go  into the
Light, and Om will be  satisfied. Sacrifice Abraham instead of  Isaac.
And then Om will let you and Darla go back to Earth."

"Calm down, Da." Humpty-Dumpty slid off of Phil, but Phil kept a  good
hold on the fat egg, lest Da try something rash. Today was going to be
xoxxy.  This was  definitely Hell  — or  at least  that's what  these
pheezers were making it into.

"He's right," said Darla, her eyes looking glazed and jittery. She was
naked again, with Planet  at her side. "Kurt  and I have been  fabbing
about it all night. Om must want one of us to jump all the way out  of
that hole. She's like  curious to see what  happens. And if Kurt  does
the deed, then Om will put us back. Why can't you wave it, Phil?"

It  occurred to  Phil that—duh!  —he hadn't  yet thought  of directly
asking Om to return them. So now he tried.

"Dear Om, please put us back on Earth. Please take us back."

Kurt and Darla  were quiet for  a minute, looking  around, but nothing
happened.

"I'm going out now," said Kurt, tugging at Humpty-Dumpty.

"Stop it!" said Phil.

"Give it to him!"  said Darla, prying at  Phil's arms. "It's the  only
way!"

"You guys are too spun to know what you're talking about," said  Phil.
"Forget it."

But then Kurt and  Darla set upon him  in earnest. The excited  Planet
began wildly barking. It  was hard for Phil  to fight back, to  strike
out at his father and at the plump, nude mother of the girl he  loved.
But he managed to stave them off— until Darla woke Tempest.

"We need  to get  the Humpty-Dumpty  doll," Darla  told Tempest  after
jabbing  her  into  wakefulness. The  old  cracker  woman's eyes  were
goofball pinpoints  of instant  rage. "Phil  won't give  us the doll,"
hissed Darla.  "Work out  on him,  Tempest." The  lean Tempest  joined
battle with a streetwise savagery.

A minute later Phil's face was bleeding from where Tempest had  clawed
him, and he was doubled over  from being kicked between the legs.  And
now  Darla had  managed to  bind his  wrists with  a knotted  loop of
material from her discarded clothes. Tempest looked like she was ready
to beat up on him some more.

"No, we're done now, Tempest,"  said Darla, shoving the vicious  crone
away. "We've got  the Humpty-Dumpty doll.  See? Kurt's putting  it on.
Time for you  to get weightless,  Tempest. Take another  hit of gabba.
That's a girl. Curl up with Planet there, Yaaar, nice furry dog.  Wavy
dreams, sistah." And then Tempest was asleep again.

"I hope you're all right, Phil," said Darla, dabbing at his wounds. "I
didn't viz that Tempest would come at you so giga nasty."

"I'm sorry, son," said Kurt. "And don't worry, I'm not just doing this
for you. My life's garbage, has been ever since I left Eve for Willow.
I don't want to go back to Earth. They've already had my funeral!  I'm
moving on. Into the  SUN. Can't be any  worse than this. And  maybe Om
really will set you back down."

"Da-"

"And one other  thing, Phil. I'm  sorry I ever  dumped on you  for not
finishing college. It doesn't matter. You'll do fine, whatever you do.
You're a good man.  You have heart and  soul. And you're every  bit as
smart as I ever was."

Hearing that made Phil feel wonderful. Like a weight falling from  his
shoulders. "Thanks, Da." He smiled. "You're good too. Now please  take
that suit off and tell Darla to let me go."

"Sorry." And with  that Kurt pushed  himself out through  the flaw and
disappeared.

"Set  me loose,  Om!" cried  Phil. And  the knots  around his  wrists
slipped free. Phil peered  into Om's ever-expanding alla  catalog, and
there,  just  where  he  needed  it,  was  a  bubbletopper  spacesuit.
"Actualize," he said, and when Darla snatched the first spacesuit,  he
made  another  one. And  then  he was  halfway  out the  hole  in Om's
hypersphere, peering out  through his imipolex  visor to look  for his
dad.

At first he couldn't  find him. He saw  a cross section of  the Earth,
the mountainous pink curves of Om, the six shiny tendrils leading from
Om kata toward Earth, and the great SUN ana everything.

And then way out there, silhouetted against the Divine Light, appeared
the brave little figure of his father, moving steadily ana.

It would have been nice to  end like that, but now something  shocking
happened. A jagged beaklike form streaked across hyperspace toward his
father. Wobbling his head this way and that, Phil could make out a few
more sections of the intruder — each view was fierce and angular, like
shark jaws, like a heraldic predatory bird. And then the beast  struck
at his father and ripped him in two.

Phil groaned in agony, as did Darla, who was next to him now, watching
as well. Phil had been wondering if he might retrieve his father,  but
he now knew there could be no restoration. The hyperspace monster tore
his father to bits. It was too sad. Da would never make it to the SUN.

But wait—now Phil glimpsed a final resolution. A form like a  tattered
butterfly  lifted  out of  the  torn fragments  of  Da's body.  Gently
beating its wings,  the gossamer shape  continued ana, ever  closer to
the final Light.

Phil passed the  rest of the  day grieving, looking  through the alien
alla catalog,  and praying  for Om  to take  him back  to Yoke  in San
Francisco. He avoided Tempest, but  he had a pretty good  conversation
with Darla, who was supertalkative  from all the snap. Finally  he was
tired enough to go to sleep.

Babs, February 26

Babs  and Yoke  alla-made themselves  some nice  new outfits  for the
evening's outing. Yoke made herself  a plush green crop-top and  black
leather pants with elastic along the  seams. Babs made herself a  form
fitting red dress with a  low decolletage, a white cashmere  cardigan,
and a funny little red flower-bud of a hat.

Outside it had turned cold, and the wind was picking up. Babs,  Randy,
Yoke, and Cobb picked their way down the street to the Anubis.

To Babs's embarrassment, Thutmosis Snooks recognized Randy from thirty
feet away. Thutmosis was, as usual, working the street out in front of
the Anubis, acting  as doorman and  barker, inchworming his  bulk back
and forth, flaunting his stylized  pharaoh beard and his striped  bine
and gold headdress.

"Randy Karl Tucker,"  bellowed the shiny  gold moldie. "Got  some more
money from home? Isis is  booked solid tonight, but—you're gonna  need
your sperm for this, my man — we've got six new moldies, three  female
and three — "

"Hey, damp it down there,  Thutmosis," said Randy. "I ain't  into that
kilp no more. This here's my lady friend, Babs Mooney."

Babs  gritted  her  teeth,  smiled  and  bowed.  "Babs  Mooney?"  said
Thutmosis,  peering  closer  at  her.  "I'm  terrible  at  recognizing
fleshers. Except for the egregious  few like our Kentucky Fried  Randy
Karl Tucker. It's an honor to have you visit us, Ms. Mooney. Give  our
very best regards  to Senator Stahn.  I'm going to  comp you and  your
party." He gave  Randy a soft  shove toward the  ship. "That means  no
charge, country cousin, so go right in. Enjoy yourself. And ah, here's
old Cobb again too. Kleopatra's been talking about you, you dog.  What
a stellar company  this is! And,  hmmm, last but  not least is  little
Yoke Starr-Mydol, isn't  it? The moon-maid.  No leech-DIMs tonight,  I
trust? Where's your friend Phil? His ex recently joined our staff."

Some passersby were hesitating as if wondering whether to come in,  so
now Thutmosis started in on  them. "Yes, noble pilgrims, you've  found
the good ship Anubis. Come aboard! You'll be beamed, steamed, dreamed,
reamed, and  triple-creamed. We  got the  biggest, juiciest, gnarliest
camote nuggets in  town. The toughest  moldie dicks and  the tenderest
moldie janes. Take a walk on the Egyptian side. Are any of you gawking
fleshapoid  hicks  experienced?  Wonderful.  Guess  what,  my floatin'
friend, we've added six, yes six, moldie staff members! And an amazing
new lady performer as well. Hurry on in and you can catch our  all-new
stage show featuring the meltingly human Kevvie in a uniquely personal
encounter with  the bird-headed  moldie Haresh.  This evening's second
performance is just starting. Pay once out here, friends, and the rest
of the evening is cost-free plus standard gratuities."

"Like your  brain and  everything you  own," muttered  Babs as she and
Randy walked  up the  gangplank, which  flowed with  a million colored
lights. "You're lucky  you didn't pick  up a thinking  cap here Monday
night Randy."

"I know  all about  that," said  Randy, pulling  something out  of his
pocket.  Two  transparent,  flexing  pieces  of  plastic,  a  bit like
limpware dental  appliances, capable  of adjusting  themselves to fit.
"These are titaniplast nose Mockers. I brought the two along so's  you
could use one too."

"Can't we  just avoid  getting too  intimate with  any moldies?" asked
Babs. "I hope you're not planning to — "

"All I'm here for  is to ask the  Metamartians about the allas,"  said
Randy. "Swear to God, Babs. And to show you a good time. But wearin' a
nose blocker  in this  kind o'  place is  what I'd  call a  reasonable
precaution."

Babs was intrigued by Randy's low-life expertise. They stepped off  to
a quiet corner of the ship's deck and she let him show her how to  put
on the  nose blocker  while Yoke  and Cobb  watched. You  had to  half
swallow it and then use your tongue and breath to push it up over your
dangling throat thingie — over your uvula — and into the back of  your
nose. And once it was there it settled itself into place. It made your
voice sound funny, and for a minute Babs and Randy stood there  making
honking noises at each other and laughing.

"Hey," interjected  Cobb. "I'm  going on  down below  to look  for the
Metamartians. See you three later."

"Thanks a lot for not bringing me a nose blocker!" said Yoke to  Randy
after Cobb left.

"Like I'm gonna be doin'  you favors," said Randy. "Little  snip. Alla
up your own nose blocker, why don'tcha. Ain't nobody watching us."

"Incorrect," said a small, deep voice.

"It's Josef!" exclaimed Babs. "I recognize his voice. That cute little
beetle? I don't think you noticed  him the other day, Randy. He's  one
of the aliens. Where are you, Josef?"

"Here," said the  beetle, and buzzed  down from the  ship's rigging to
land on  Babs's shoulder.  "It's safe  to use  your alla, Yoke, almost
everyone else  is belowdecks  for the  performance." So  Yoke popped a
small glowing mesh into the air and made herself a nose blocker.

"Is that  skanky Kevvie  really doing  a moldie  live sex show?" asked
Babs.

"That's what Thutmosis meant?" said  Yoke in a strangled voice.  She'd
just put the nose blocker in her mouth.

"This must be Kevvie's  new job," said Babs.  "I hear she has  to move
out of Derek and Calla's place  by March first. She's hustling to  get
money for a new room."

"Yes,  Kevvie and  Haresh have  been performing  together," confirmed
Josef.  "But they  already did  it once  this evening,  and Haresh  is
questioning the  validity of  repeating such  an act.  We're about  to
leave the Anubis in any case."

"Hell, I think this  tub's got a primo  buzz to it," said  Randy. "Sex
and drugs and moldies and aliens. Something waaald about a party boat,
even if it is stuck in the mud. Have you ever tried camote, Babs?"

"I did all that in high school," said Babs. "Drugs make me uptight.  I
try to see God, but I end up in a loop of neurosis. That's just how it
is for me. I'm  fine with beer, wine,  and loud music." She  let Josef
crawl onto the tip of her finger. "Anyhoo, Josef! We want you guys  to
tell us how to make allas.  Because today Randy figured out that  when
one of us dies, our alla registers itself to the next person who picks
it up. Which means, since people  are such greedy pigs, that when  the
secret gets out, we're dead meat."

"Interesting," said Josef, and fell silent for a while. "This had  not
occurred to me,"  he said finally.  "And I've just  uvvied the others,
and they hadn't thought of it either. You must realize that death  for
us is a very minor thing, what with our two-dimensional time and  many
lives. In your merely one-dimensional time, death is — "

"You gonna tell us how to copy allas or not?" demanded Randy. He swept
his hand like someone catching a  fly, trying to snatch up Josef,  but
the prescient beetle eluded him by sliding down Babs's finger at  just
the right instant.

"Force will  get you  nowhere, Randy,"  said Josef  from Babs's  palm.
"It's not our  decision as to  when you humans  can have the  power to
make an unlimited number of allas.  But I'm sure Om will give  you the
knowledge soon. Om likes for beings to use her allas."

"Who is this  Om?" asked Babs.  "You guys said  'Praise Om' the  other
day."

"Om is  our god,"  said Josef.  "She follows  us around.  Now that the
Metamartians are on Earth, Om is present."

"Om has  something to  do with  the powerball  as well  as the allas,"
added Yoke. "What about Phil, Josef? Can you ask Om how Phil's  doing?
Or can Om talk to me directly?"

Josef was quiet for a moment. "Om says Phil is fine. And that he'll be
back soon. But, no, Om can't easily communicate with humans due to the
one-dimensionality of your time."

"Shitfire," exclaimed Randy. "All this  bug can do is bitch  about our
time? What kind o'  bullshit is that? He's  wastin' our time, what  it
is. I say we go downstairs and see the show. I missed it on Monday."

"Wait," said  Yoke. "Don't  forget that  we want  Josef to  tell Om to
prevent allas from making plutonium."

But Josef had already flown off.

Babs, Randy,  and Yoke  headed across  the deck  to the  companionway.
There were a few  others grouped here and  there on the deck,  many of
them well into trips on various kinds of drugs. Their faces made  Babs
think of people sitting on the John. Listening to their bodies.

Down below there was an Egyptian-looking bar decorated with lotus-stem
columns,  a  hieroglyph  mural, and  an  overhanging  textured plastic
Sphinx head. Hieroglyphs  covered the other  walls as well,  and there
was a music mix going, a  combination of notes and sound samples.  Not
all that great,  thought Babs. But  of course people  didn't come here
because of any wonderful artistic ambiance —they came for the  illicit
things they could  do. The room  reeked of moldies,  of corruption and
decay.

A Snooks  moldie who  resembled a  partially unwrapped  mummy was busy
behind the bar,  serving up whatever  concoctions were requested.  Now
and then he  plucked a camote  nugget out of  his windings. Randy  got
beers for himself  and Babs, but  Yoke didn't want  anything. She just
wanted to run around looking for the Metamartians. Babs suggested they
meet up again inside the big show room.

As she drank her beer Babs noticed that there was a sound-DIM stuck to
the side of the bottle, and  that when she moved the bottle,  a little
bit of the music changed. When she wiggled the bottle back and  forth,
for instance, there was a  skritchy-skritch sound, and when she  moved
it up and down  there was a loop  of black rapper saying,  "Yubiwaza!"
She played with that  for a minute. "Yu-Yu-Yu-Yu-Yubiwaza!"  When Babs
got her second  beer, she kept  the first bottle.  The second bottle's
DIM  could trigger  a guitar  riff—whang —  and a  woman's deep  voice
saying, "Space  cowgirl?" With  a bottle  in either  hand, Babs  began
tweaking  the  web of  sound.  "Skritch sk-sk-skritch-itch  yu-yu-yubi
space cow-ow-ow-itchy-itch-owgirl? girl?  Wha-whang girl? girl?  girl?
Whang-a-whang yubiwaza cowgirl?" Once you  were part of it, the  music
sounded good.

Randy noticed what  Babs was doing,  and was smilingly-dancing  along.
And  there  were  three lifters  dancing  too,  doing the  flat-footed
sporehead  newt-dance. One  of them  was a  musician, he  had about  a
hundred sound DIMs stuck all  over himself. Each of his  gestures made
audible trails of  tasty media-sampled noise.  There were a  couple of
Egyptian-looking   Snooks   moldies  dancing   too,   with  gracefully
undulating arms grown impossibly long.

The people  in the  booths nearby  weren't really  into the  music, at
least  not in  any obvious  way—they were  mostly just  sitting there
sucking on soft bags  of juice and wearing  that inward look of  "When
does my lift come on?"  or "When do I come  down?" A few of them  were
peaking,  and their  expressions were  more like  a cartoon  image of
something  missing:  a  white void  with  alternating  long and  short
surprise-lines radiating out from a central lack. Like, "Huh?"

Babs saw one of the dancing Snooks moldies snake her arm down behind a
really zoned  man. A  lump moved  up the  moldie's arm  like a  rabbit
inside a python. Probably the guy's wallet.

One of the other Snooks moldies  had split himself or herself up  into
an  archipelago of  body segments,  shaped like  egg-sized two-legged
eyeballs carrying swords  and shields. There  were maybe two  dozen of
them, a few with wings as well, the eyeballs running all over the room
chasing each other, having little sword fights, jumping off of things,
and all the while piping their high voices into the sound mix.

In the far corner of the room was a big transparent-walled love-puddle
with a  bunch of  people in  it merged  together. Hard  to be sure how
many. Four, five, six? You could see the faint outlines of their limbs
through the sides of the merge tank; the limbs were temporarily fused,
but there was still a kind of wrinkle where one person started and the
other left off.

Right next to the merge tank,  some moldies were sitting around a  big
round table getting  high on betty,  rubbing each other  with ointment
from  a little  jar shaped  like a  pyramid. The  lifted moldies  were
growing their  bodies into  really odd  forms. It  was like  they were
trying to outdo each other—though none  of them was really as good  as
the fighting eyeballs, who kept  running across the betty table  as if
to  playfully hassle  them. One  of the  lifted moldies  was made  of
nothing but long, wagging, spitty-looking tongues; a second was shaped
like the Book of Mormon, with Urim and Thummim stones dangling to  one
side; and a third was a lacy hollow form a bit like wrought-iron  lawn
furniture. Babs  danced closer,  studying the  lace moldie's  pattern,
trying to  remember it  so she  could copy  it later,  but just then a
teenage girl vomited on the floor right next to her, spattering chunks
of camote all over her shoes.

"Gettin' a  little rough,"  said Randy.  "Let's go  into the big room,
Babs."

They  pushed  through  the  sound-canceling  imipolex  curtains   that
separated the  bar from  the big  room. It  was a  vast echoing space,
formerly one of the ship's  holds, with steel deck and  slanting steel
walls. Dwarfed  in the  center of  the cavernous  volume was  a little
round stage, lit  by an overhead  spotlight. Slowly-gyrating at  stage
left was a  pale purple Snooks  moldie with a  fat stomach and  a nose
that grew out like a long trumpet. Babs knew him from sight; his  name
was Ramses. Ramses was fingering his nose horn, playing soft  Egyptian
music. The note  progressions were hypnotic,  a whole different  world
from the bar's chaotic munge. Babs took a few deep breaths and  peered
around, getting a look at the crowd.

There  were no  chairs; people  and moldies  were either  standing or
sitting on the  steel deck. There  were maybe a  hundred spectators in
all —  far too  small a  crowd to  make this  enormous cold  room feel
properly inhabited. It  was easy to  pick out the  few moldies in  the
crowd because they glowed. Of the humans, it looked like there were  a
lot more men than women. Babs had never known anyone who had even  met
any woman who  was a cheeseball.  But men liked  to imagine that  such
women did exist—to imagine, in  other words, that some women  could be
such indiscriminate hump-anything horndogs as men.

Now  Babs  noticed  some  objects  moving  about  overhead, repeatedly
passing  through  the  spotlight's bright  cone  like  great, bumbling
moths. Phil's blimps! He must have  given them to the moldies when  he
left town. Babs  knew them well,  as Phil had  always brought them  to
their block parties. She pointed out the blimps to Randy, telling  him
some of their names. "That little  one is the Graf Z," she  whispered.
"And there's Led Zep,  and the big fat  polka-dotted one is the  Uffin
Wowo. And, oh look, its dots are Egyptian cartouche patterns now."

"Pssst!"  said Yoke,  sidling up  out of  the darkness.  "Most of  the
Metamartians are in here. See over there? Peg the devil-girl with  the
proverbial drunk businessman.  I asked her  if she could  help us, but
she said the  same thing as  Josef. 'It's up  to Om.' What  a bitch. I
didn't talk to  any of the  others yet. See  Wubwub over by  the wall?
With the beautiful woman on his arm? Can you even believe?"

"That's a trannie," whispered Babs. "Look at her hips." "Oh, too true.
And Shimmer  and Ptah  are sitting  together right  beside the  stage,
someone said they were about to perform."

"I don't see Siss or Haresh," said Babs.

"Siss went off with Cobb," said  Yoke. "Maybe he can get her  to talk?
Like if he fucks her?"

"What's Siss look laahk?" interjected Randy.

"Like  a snake-woman,"  said Babs,  giving Randy's  leg a  big pinch.
"Bite! Uh-oh, Shimmer and Ptah are going onstage."

Babs had been  around moldies for  most of her  life; she'd been  five
when her  father sponsored  the Moldie  Citizenship Act  of 2038,  and
there had been a steady stream of grateful moldie visitors ever since.
And of course  Babs's mother herself  was part moldie;  that is, Wendy
Mooney's  personality  lived  in  a  moldie  Happy  Cloak  that  had a
symbiotic relationship with Wendy's human flesh. In the natural course
of  things, Babs  had seen  moldies having  sex a  number of  times —
moldies weren't modest. It excited her even less than seeing two  dogs
fucking, which was not at all.

But Shimmer and Ptah certainly  did give a spirited performance.  They
bounced up onto the stage,  began embracing each other, and,  just for
the goof  of it,  Shimmer pushed  her body  right through  Ptah's, his
bronze flesh  forming itself  back together  on the  other side of the
marble  Shimmer.  Ptah  did  the  same  to  Shimmer,  and  then   they
corkscrewed themselves  together so  tightly that  they looked  like a
candy-cane or a barber-pole. To top off the foreplay, Shimmer  divided
herself up  into an  archipelago of  separate globs,  and Ptah juggled
her. While continuing to juggle, Ptah began pinching off more and more
globs of himself, until all that was  left of him was a pair of  hands
down on the platform of  the stage, incredibly keeping some  two score
white and bronze balls aloft.  And then the bronze hands  became balls
as well. Before the balls could all tumble out of the air, two of  the
white balls stuck to the ground and formed themselves into hands — and
took over the juggling. At each round another white ball stuck to  the
hands, and the hands  grew into arms, into  a torso, and finally  into
all  of  Shimmer, juggling  bronze  globs of  Ptah,  and then  Shimmer
stepped  aside and  Ptah's globs  somehow sprang  together in  midair,
reassembling the grinning bronze superman all at once.

Even Babs  had to  applaud for  this. But  now the  inevitable had  to
happen. Ramses's music took on an urgent, throbbing tone, and  Shimmer
and Ptah swooned to  the ground. They softened  their flesh to a  near
liquid state and pasted their bodies together, opening up their  pores
enough to exchange wet flows  of imipolex that carried along  cells of
their algae and their fungal mold. The mold nerve magic took over, and
they shuddered in a mutual orgasm. A musty, cheesy reek came  drifting
down from the stage.

Babs peeked over at Randy. His eyes were wide and his mouth was  open.
Emboldened by  her two  beers, Babs  couldn't resist  letting her hand
steal over to gauge the state of Randy's excitement.

"Oh yes, Babs," moaned Randy. "Please touch it."

Well, why not? Just for a  minute, anyway. She slipped her hand  under
the waistband of Randy's baggy pants. Hmmm. A girl could definitely do
something with this. But no point letting him come. After a few  quick
caresses, Babs took her hand back out.

"Later!" she whispered. "Can you  get me another beer?" Randy  hurried
off.

"What's up?" said Yoke, who was standing on Babs's other side.

"Never mind," said Babs. "I  bet Kevvie's next." Ramses picked  up the
pace of his music, managing to sound like several instruments at once:
drum, oud, tambourine, and flute.

And now, surging out  of the darkness behind  the stage, there came  a
big bird-headed moldie carrying a robed woman in his arms.

"Oh puke, it really is Kevvie," said Yoke. "I don't want to see this."

"Hold on," whispered Babs. "I want to see how it starts." After living
near Kevvie for a year or so, Babs didn't have much sympathy for  her.
"We'll leave as soon  as it gets too  rank. Oh thanks, Randy."  He was
back with her beer.

Haresh was doing a  little Egyptian dance, his  arms held out in  that
funny hieroglyph way. Kevvie sat on a low bed on one side of the stage
looking  kind  of  amused.  She  slid  out  of  her  robe  with broad,
theatrical  gestures.  And now  she  put her  hand  between her  legs,
supposedly gazing at  Haresh as if  he were a  huge turn-on. She  kept
losing her focus and zoning out, then suddenly remembering to keep the
act up. But now things got serious. Haresh turned toward Kevvie,  with
a stiff dark  penis shape rising  from his midsection.  Kevvie feigned
surprise and placed one hand over the O of her mouth.

"Don't do it, Kevvie," called Babs, but Kevvie went ahead and lay down
on  her  back  with  her  legs  wide  open.  She  gave  her  pelvis an
encouraging wriggle.

"Go for it!" shouted a man off to the right.

The Egyptian bird-god took another step toward Kevvie.

"Stop it, Haresh!" shouted Yoke. "You're too good for this!"

At that, Haresh turned his head, peering out at the crowd and spotting
them. "I  am agreeing  entirely, Ms.  Yoke," he  said, his penis going
soft and then disappearing back  into the mass of his  belly. Ramses's
nose horn went limp and his music drooled off into silence. "This show
is  nonsensical,"  continued  Haresh.  "Kevvie  and  I  have   already
simulated  a  sex  act  today. I  find  it  ridiculous  to repeat  our
unnatural congress in  search of some  unlikely satisfaction. If  your
shoddy Earth time were properly parallel, then we could have  explored
every variation within the span of one single act, but—"

"Oh maaan,"  moaned the  frustrated Randy.  "Coin" off  about our time
again?"

"Put it to her!"  shouted another man. Kevvie  had lifted her head  up
and was looking around. She drew her knees together. More people  were
yelling. Kevvie  sat up  and began  putting on  her robe.  "Don't go!"
someone else  shouted. "You're  supposed to  fuck the  moldie!" Kevvie
smiled, shook her  head, wrapped the  robe around herself  and stepped
down off the back of the stage. Haresh joined her, and the two  walked
off  into  the  darkness  together,  laughing  and  talking  like good
friends.

"We'll take an intermission now," said Ramses from the stage,  talking
loud to drown out the grumbling. The curtains to the bar pulled  away,
letting in light and music. The spotlight above the stage stayed  lit.
"And feel  free to  ask any  moldie you  see for  a 'date,"  continued
Ramses. "The next round of refreshments is on the house, and meanwhile
enjoy the zany antics of our buffoon blimps." The five blimps  drifted
down to about  twenty feet above  the stage and  began circling around
each other like  clumsily flocking birds.  "I'll have a  talk with our
performers," promised  Ramses. He  hopped off  the stage  and set  off
after Haresh and Kevvie, just  now disappearing through a little  door
in the hold's far side. Most people began drifting to the bar, and all
the Snooks moldies headed in there too.

"Those are Phil's," Babs told Yoke, pointing to the blimps. "Those are
the ones he wanted to show you last week."

"Before Kevvie ruined everything," said Yoke. "She's really something,
isn't she? What could Haresh possibly find to discuss with her?"

Just then Ramses came flying back out  of the door at the far side  of
the hold. Someone had shoved his head up his ass so far that he looked
like a wowo. It took him  a minute to get himself unknotted,  and when
he did, he took off toward the bar, probably looking for support.

"Looks like Haresh is on strike," said Yoke. "We really should talk to
him. Or to one of the other Metamartians. We have to get them to  tell
Om not to  allow plutonium." Now  the Metamartians were  all following
Haresh toward the far door— Peg, Wubwub, Shimmer, and Ptah.

"Did Josef  say they're  leaving tonight?"  said Babs.  "Maybe they're
worried the Snookses are going to hassle them. You're right, Yoke,  we
should talk to them about  plutonium. But maybe first we  need another
beer." Babs was  feeling merry. She  gave Randy her  biggest smile. "I
loved the juggling, Randy."

"You got  me in  your spell,  Babs," said  Randy gamely.  "How soon we
goin' back to your place?"

"If you're not going to talk  to the Metamartians, then I will,"  said
Yoke,  about to  take off  after the  aliens. But  suddenly her  face
changed. "Look —

"Oh God" said Babs.

Up above the stage  the air was looking  oddly warped. And the  Uffin'
Wowo  blimp  —  good  lord,  it was  swelling  up  to  the  size of  a
refrigerator,  the size  of an  automobile, the  size of  a house!  It
wobbled hugely down and then —as in some fabulous stage-magic illusion
— the spotted blimp split open to reveal a dog, a thin woman, a  plump
woman, and —  "Phil!" screamed Yoke,  running toward the  stage. "Ma!"
The air above the  stage rippled, and then  the space of the  room was
normal again. The shock of  the miracle made Babs feel  hollow inside.
Or like  it had  shaken loose  some deep  part of  her. Without really
knowing why, she was weeping. Randy seemed equally overcome. He  threw
his arms around her.

"I love you, Babs," he said into her ear.

"You do?" said Babs. "You do?"

Phil, February 26

Phil woke up late  Thursday morning, at peace  with the world. Da  was
dead, yes,  but in  the end  his death  seemed to  make sense.  Phil's
dreams last night  had included Da.  Da was happy.  He was inside  the
SUN, yet  still flying  toward it,  as if  the center  of the SUN were
unreachable. In Phil's dream,  the SUN was a  point of light inside  a
cloud of glowing butterflies.

Phil's dream conversations with Om  last night had been the  best yet.
He'd learned to understand the way that Om spoke in glyphs, in concept
blocks, expressing many variations of  a thought at the same  time. He
was bursting with new information. Today was going to be a good day.

For  once  Tempest  and  Darla  seemed  sober,  and  Darla  was   even
dressed—wearing the purple caftan he had made her.

"I dreamed Om said she's putting us back today," said Darla. "Did  you
dream that too? Tempest can't remember."

Seeing Tempest reminded Phil of what she'd done to his face, but  when
he  felt around  his eyes,  yesterday's scabs  were gone.  As well  as
remembering the dream  Darla was asking  about, he remembered  that in
one layer of his dreams Om had been healing him.

"Yes, I did dream  Om is going to  put us back," Phil  answered Darla.
"She had us inside her so  she could figure out our circuitry—and  now
she's done.  She said  from now  on she'll  just watch  people through
their allas. She's going to set us back down."

"Anywhere she drops us is faaahn with me," mewed old Tempest. "Why you
lookin' at me so funny, Phil?"

"You don't remember trying to claw my eyes out?"

"We—We was fightin'  over a doll?"  said Tempest, glancing  around for
Humpty-Dumpty, who was, of course, nowhere to be found. Tempest looked
strung-out  and querulous.  "Young fella  like you  shouldn't of  been
pickin' on a naahce ole lady like me."

Phil didn't bother answering that one. "Om said she'd home in on  Da's
wedding ring," he told Darla. "She  likes to have a specific thing  to
go for."

"Kurt's wedding ring?" said Darla. "He wasn't wearing any in here. You
know where it is?"

"I do," said Phil.  "It's inside a pet  DIM blimp I made.  I called it
the 'Uffin' Wowo,' not  that it really is  a wowo, it's just  a blimp.
It's aboard the Anubis, which is beached in the mud at San  Francisco.
A bunch of moldies use the Anubis for a nightclub."

"Stuzzy," said Darla. "I've never been to San Francisco. Your father's
wedding  ring,  huh?"  She  paused  for  a  second.  This  morning her
expression looked composed and  intelligent. "You know, Phil,  there's
something we  should fab  about, especially  since you're  such a good
friend of Yoke's.  It's — the  gunjy way I've  been acting in  here —I
mean with your father and everything—Phil, you have to viz that I flat
out thought we were dead, so — "

"I can forget it," said Phil.

"Especially don't tell Yoke," said  Darla. "She'd flame me. My  little
darling does have a  temper on her. If  she found out that  when I met
her boyfriend I was lifted and naked and —" Darla broke off, laughing.
"I'm glad we fabbed about this."

"And you say good things about me to her too," said Phil.

"You are good," said Darla. "But, no, I won't praise you to Yoke or it
might turn her against you. I've  always had to handle that girl  with
kid gloves. You know  how it is. Your  dad felt a little  the same way
with you. He was wonderful.  His sacrificing himself like that  —I bet
that's what turned Om around."

"Where is Kurt?"  wondered Tempest. She  was sitting on  the oak trunk
holding Planet and tremulously trying to light a cigarette.

"He jumped out of Om's hole to fly into the SUN yesterday," said  Phil
flatly. "You helped him."

"Don't blame me. Hell with  you." Tempest clammed up and  looked away,
squinting her eyes against her tobacco smoke.

Phil turned back to Darla. "I had so many dreams last night, Darla.  I
saw Da, and then Om was talking  to me about him. She says she  didn't
urge him to jump at all, that you and Da just found that idea in  your
own heads. But, yes, in a way, Da jumping really did make Om decide to
set us down. It impressed her, and made her feel sorry, and — I  don't
know — it was such an intense moment that now Om feels like she  knows
what makes us tick."

"Whiyun we supposed to land?" whined Tempest, hunching over  something
in her lap.

"I think tonight," said Darla. "It's just coming back to me. Om showed
me this previz  flash of how  we'd come down.  Something about a  dark
room. A stage? And don't you  be getting spun again today, Tempest,  I
see  that  wine. Give  it  here, cruster.  That's  xoxxin' right,  I'm
pouring it out.  Whirl, whirl, whirl,  Om's magic rays  are turning it
into air.  We're not  gonna come  knuckle-walking out  of here tonight
like Shasta ground sloths, you wave?"

While Darla kept an eye on Tempest, Phil went to peer out of Om's flaw
again. Sticking his head out, he remembered something else Om had told
him. The flaw was one of  Om's "fingernails." A shelf sticking out  of
the smooth curve of the powerball fingertip that contained them.

Phil  looked  ana past  the  vast, curved  pink  forms of  Om's  body,
visualizing the SUN's  bright orb as  a cloud of  winged souls. Da  in
there too.  Hi, Da.  Looking kata,  Phil once  again studied the three
pairs of tendrils running from Om's body  kata to the Earth. Two gold
colored, two silvery,  two coppery. He  and Om had  talked about those
tendrils in his dreams last night. What Om had said about the tendrils
had been esoteric, but Phil had been able to follow it. Having Da  say
Phil  was  smart  had  loosened up  Phil's  old  mental  block against
mathematics. The tendrils were in pairs because they were loops.  Each
pair was a loop like the handle of a coffee cup — with Om the cup, and
the loop a  handle that had  been stretched like  taffy, stretched all
the  way  kata  to  touch  the  space  of  Earth.  The  tendrils  were
"hypercylindrical vortex  threads" —like  four-dimensional smoke-rings
or  tornadoes.  The  big  new insight  was  that  where  these threads
intersected the space of Earth,  they looked, to the Earthlings,  like
cylindrical tubes: one gold, one  silver, one copper. And these  three
tubes  were  allas:  Yoke's  gold  alla  and,  according  to  Om,  two
additional allas that she'd recently allowed the Metamartians to make.
A silver alla for  Babs and a copper  alla for Randy Karl  Tucker. The
vortex threads carried energy  and information back and  forth between
Om and the allas.

Most important of all, now  that Phil understood what the  allas were,
he  knew how  easy it  was to  split one  in two.  And with  this new
knowledge, he was quite sure he  could use Yoke's alla to make  one of
his own — Om willing.

Phil squinted kata toward where the alla-threads met the cross section
of Earth. Slowly, slowly, Om  was moving them closer. Closer  to Yoke.
He prayed for their  landing to come soon.  As he was watching,  a new
pair of alla-threads appeared, purple ones. Someone else on Earth  had
just gotten an alla. He wondered who, but the only way to ask Om would
be to fall asleep and dream. And he wasn't tired.

Phil had lunch with Darla and Tempest, played with Planet, looked  out
the flaw  some more,  showed Darla  and Tempest  his alien "fishbowl,"
examined  Starshine's old  wowo, thought  about flying  machines, and
carved a little on the oak tree with his fuzzy alien pocketknife.  The
way the knife  worked was that  its little metal  tentacles would pick
away at something to  carve out the shape  you wanted. It didn't  have
any kind of DIM hookup;  you controlled the little feelers  by turning
the knife this way or that.  Phil carved "Yoke" and then started  on a
bas-relief of her face, as best he could remember. The carving  wasn't
coming out all that well, but learning to use the knife was a pleasant
enough way to pass the time.

And then, finally,  there was a  pop and a  dark ball appeared  in the
midst of their hyperspherical space, off to one side of the oak.  Phil
pushed off  from the  oak, drifting  toward the  black ball. "Come on,
Darla," he  called. "This  is the  exit. You  too, Tempest.  Bring the
dog."

The women hauled themselves up  the trunk and pushed toward  the black
sphere as well. Nobody doubted that this was their salvation.

As they entered the dark ball there was a hyperdimensional switcheroo.
The space inside the  dark ball became their  space, and the Om  space
they'd come from became the inside of a small bright ball behind them.

As they switched spaces, there was a stretching and pulling in  Phil's
guts again, but he didn't mind.  Anything to get back home. Darla  and
Tempest  thumped  into  him; Tempest  was  carrying  Planet. Phil  was
worried the women's impact might knock him out of the dark space,  but
he stayed well within it.

It wasn't completely black  in the new space,  there was a dim  yellow
glow, with spots. The  bright ball of the  space they'd come from  was
shrinking. Still visible within it were the warped tiny images of  the
oak tree  and Starshine's  wowo. Now  that they  were inside  the dark
space, it seemed ever brighter, and no longer so round. It was  longer
than it was wide, and dim yellow with spots on it —

"We're inside my  blimp!" exclaimed Phil,  and then— pow—  the spotted
blimp burst. Phil clearly heard the ting of his father's wedding  ring
falling to the platform of the  stage they landed on, and then  Planet
started barking. There was a spotlight shining down on them and a  few
people staring up, very surprised, but where was —

"Phil!" screamed Yoke, running toward the stage. "Ma!"

"Yoke!" Da's  wedding ring  was right  down there  by Phil's foot, the
ring finally  unknotted by  this last  disturbance of  space, and Phil
scooped it up  before Yoke jumped  onto the stage.  He hugged her  and
kissed her, and before Yoke could  say much more of anything else,  he
put the ring  on her finger  and said, "I  want to marry  you, Yoke, I
never want to lose you again," and Yoke kissed him some more and said,
"Yes, yes, me too."

And  then Yoke  began to  hug Darla.  There wasn't  really anyone  for
Tempest to hug, but Randy  Karl Tucker hugged her anyway.  Babs Mooney
was right at Randy's side, clinging to his arm; it looked to Phil like
they'd  grown  closer  while  he'd  been  gone,  which  was  kind   of
surprising, though it made sense in a way.

Phil felt  into his  pocket where  he had  the fuzzy  knife, the black
"fishbowl," and the necklace with the big gem. He put the necklace  on
Yoke for good measure. Yoke  was all smiles, squeezed in  between Phil
and  Darla.  The  gem  looked  amazing,  continually  changing between
looking like a ruby, an emerald,  a diamond, and a sapphire. And  Da's
gold ring was shining on Yoke's finger. Phil felt like his heart would
burst. They were  on the stage  of the nearly  empty show room  in the
Anubis, with most of the few remaining people wandering off to the bar
rather than pressing forward with questions; they seemed to think this
miraculous  appearance had  just been  some kind  of hokey,  overblown
magic trick.

Cobb came across the dark room  from the little door on the  far side,
his pink skin looking a little rough and blotchy.

"Phil's  back!" Babs  called to  Cobb. "Along  with this  dog and  two
women! Yoke's mother."

"I know," said Cobb. "Hi, Darla. Hi, Tempest."

"Kin you flaaah me and Planet down to Tre and Terri's, Cobb?"  Tempest
wanted to know. "I bet they been worried sick."

"Worried sick that she'll come back," Yoke giggled to Phil.

"I'm gonna  stay here,  Tempest," said  Cobb. "There's,  urn, too much
going on. And frankly I'm a bit lit. I was trying to talk to Siss, but
before I knew it I'd rubbed on some betty and started conjugating with
her. What a session.  I've got to learn  to lay off this  stuff. Whew.
It's too much fun. Hire a Snooks moldie to... um... take you to  Santa
Cruz, Tempest. Ask one of those dancers in the bar."

"Ah don't have that kind o' money."

"Here," said Yoke, pulling  a big bill out  of her purse. "Now  scram,
Tempest. You can't be the focus. We've got Phil and my mom here, we've
got seven Metamartians disguised as moldies, we've — "

"Seven aliens?" cried Tempest. "Kill them!"

"Shut your pie-hole, Tempest," said Cobb. "They're leaving anyway.  Go
the hell home."

"And don't  blab," cautioned  Yoke. "No  need for  the Snookses to get
worked up."

"You were  so dumb  to tell  her, Yoke,"  put in  Babs. "She's  such a
redneck."

"Xoxx all  of you,"  said Tempest,  and stomped  off, dragging  Planet
after her.

"You're lifted, Cobb?" said Babs. "How  lame. Did you find out how  to
make an alla? Did you get the message about the plutonium to Om?"

"I'm not  really lifted,"  said Cobb.  "Just buzzed.  And, yes, I told
Siss to tell Om to please  not let us make plutonium or  uranium. Siss
was surprised that we thought instant atomic bombs would be such a big
problem. Weird. It's the two-dimensional time thing again. On Metamars
it doesn't matter all that much  if a city gets blown up;  it'll still
be around in all the other time lines. But, yeah, she passed the  word
to Om. Check in your catalog and see if you can still make  plutonium.
And, um, as far as copying allas goes, Siss told me that Phil  already
knows how to do it. Is that true, Phil?"

"Yeah," smiled  Phil. "Om  told me.  We can  make allas  for everyone.
Everything's going to change."

"Yes!" exclaimed Yoke.

"And Om really  got the message!"  exclaimed Babs, who'd  been focused
inward on her alla. "I just checked, and plutonium is like grayed  out
in the catalog. Uranium too."

"So  maybe  I'm not  so  lame," said  Cobb  proudly. "More  news.  The
Metamartians are leaving here tonight  because, um, the seven of  them
are planning to  make a new  baby. It takes  them about three  months.
Sweet Siss is gonna be a mommy."

"They're leaving Earth?" asked Yoke. "We're off the hook?"

"Not quite," said  Cobb. "They're not  ready to leave  Earth entirely.
Like I  say, they  have to  finish mating  and, um,  gestating and all
that. And they want to kind of keep an eye on things too. To make sure
we aren't ruining  everything with the  allas. Did I  say that they're
planning to travel around in a flying saucer?"

"A saucer?" said Phil. "Have they been talking to Kevvie?"

"You hit the nail on the head," said Cobb.

"You're kidding!" said Phil.

"He's not," said Yoke. "Kevvie's been working here on the Anubis  with
the aliens since you left. She and Haresh are — "

"We have been coworkers,"  said Haresh, suddenly reappearing  from the
far side of the hold with Kevvie at his side. "Kevvie has been  giving
me insights  into your  race's mental  archetypes and  into the  rawer
forms of human emotion. Om suggested that we give her an alla to  test
in practice what such a person  might do. I must apologize in  advance
for what is about to occur. This is a necessary test."

Kevvie was striding along  with her head held  very high and her  lips
moving. She was talking to herself and making little gestures with her
hands. Phil had seen this mental state before; when Kevvie got  really
lifted, she turned grandiose as a spoiled child playing Queen—and mean
as a killer robot.

"Kevvie's a crazy,  skanky slut," snapped  Yoke. "Can't you  see that,
Haresh,  you xoxxin'  birdbrain?" Yoke  said this  quite loud.  Kevvie
heard her.

"The  man-hungry  little moon-maid  has  a nasty  mouth,"  said Kevvie
regally. Her eyes were unforgiving. "I don't tolerate it. Begone!" She
raised her hand as  if she held a  scepter. And now Phil  glimpsed the
purple tube of an alla in her hand.

It was over as soon as it started. Phil was turning to get in front of
Yoke, Randy was leaning toward Kevvie, Yoke's mouth was opening to say
something—but Kevvie's wish was fast  as thought. In the same  instant
when Phil saw  Kevvie's alla, a  bright-line control mesh  had already
sprung into tight relief around  Yoke's body and —poof—Yoke was  gone,
transmuted into a puff of air.

Yoke's gold alla clattered to the stage and rolled to one side; it was
the only  sign of  her that  remained. Numbly,  Phil picked  it up. He
couldn't  wrap  his  mind  around  what  had  just  happened.  It  was
impossible. He'd  just given  Yoke Da's  ring. They  were going  to be
married. Everything was — Phil pawed  softly at the air that had  been
Yoke. Could she really be gone?

"See, Phil!" shouted Kevvie. "See!" Randy was trying to wrestle her to
the ground.

"Kill  her!" screamed  Darla, and  she, Tempest,  and old  Cobb moved
forward to exact blood-vengeance.  But Haresh didn't want  any further
violence. The  alien sent  Randy tumbling  across the  stage. And then
Haresh picked up  Kevvie and ran  across the great  hall, disappearing
again through the far door.

"What's the use?" muttered Phil, as Darla tried to muster their forces
for further pursuit. "Yoke's gone."

"Siss  warned me  something bad  would happen,"  said Cobb,  his body
sagging. "But she said, um, Randy would know how to fix it."

"Where's Yoke's alla!" Randy was yelling, frantically crawling  around
on the stage. "Did anyone get it?"

"I got it," said Phil listlessly. "It's in my pocket."

"Well  don't despair,  old son."  Randy's voice  cracked with  an odd
jubilance. He looked around and lowered his voice. "Her alla remembers
her. Body  and mind  both. Let's  go back  to Babs's  where it's safe.
We'll see if we can't whomp up a new realware Yoke."

"I —I want my Yoke," said Phil wretchedly. "I gave her Da's ring."

"Gonna be  the same  Yoke, Phil,"  said Randy,  putting his arm around
Phil's shoulder. "That's all we are: information. Come on."

"But we're not just information," murmured Phil brokenly, as Randy led
him  toward  the  door to  the  bar.  "There's souls.  I  saw  them in
hyperspace. I  had so  much to  tell everyone.  Ow!" Ramses Snooks had
just slammed into him.

"Where are those new moldies!" Ramses was shouting. He

O

had a  phalanx of  twenty Snooks  moldies behind  him. "That old woman
said they're aliens!  We have to  exterminate them!" He  and Isis were
carrying serious-looking flamethrowers, and most of the other Snookses
were  packing O.  J. ugly-stick  rail-guns, each  of them  capable of
shooting  a  thousand  flechettes per  minute.  They  surged into  the
ballroom,  with  Tempest  following  along,  looking  bloodthirsty and
vindictive.

"They've gone up the back stairs to the deck!" called Kevvie, suddenly
appearing from the  far door again.  "Someone stop them!  They mustn't
leave without me! I'm —I'm their Queen!"

"Keep goin', gaaahs," Randy murmured  to Babs, Cobb, Phil, and  Darla.
They were already out in the  bar. "Don't go after Kevvie. Might  just
get another of us  killed. Only thing we  gotta do now is  get back to
Babs's  and fix  Yoke before  something happens  to her  alla. Up  the
stairs and out!"

So Phil stumbled up the stairs with the others. They got up top before
the Snookses did, and sure enough, the seven Metamartians were on  the
deck, standing in a circle holding hands — or legs in the case of tiny
Josef, who hung suspended between devilish Peg and sinister Siss.

Jostled by a knot of bewildered lifters, Phil was seized with a sudden
terror that  he'd lost  Yoke's alla.  He dug  out the  contents of his
pocket. His fuzz-knife, his "fishbowl," and, yes, Yoke's alla.  Wubwub
happened to  look over  at Phil  just then,  and did  kind of a double
take, as if he was surprised at the stuff in Phil's hands.

But then the Snookses had arrived. At the very last moment before they
opened fire on the aliens, the air around the Metamartians  flickered,
and  a  silvery  disk-shape formed  to  enclose  them. The  supersonic
flechettes from the  rail-guns bounced off  the silver disk  like hail
off a tin roof; the hot tongues from the flamethrowers licked  against
the disk as harmlessly as water on a stone.

The flying saucer lifted slowly into  the sky, gave a twitch and  shot
off toward the heartland at an incalculable speed. Kevvie stood in the
center of  the deck,  stretching up  her arms  and screaming  that she
wanted to come along.

Tempest and  her dog  got into  a Snooks  moldie and  headed for Santa
Cruz.

And Phil  and his  friends hurried  down the  gangplank toward  Babs's
warehouse, not looking back.

CHAPTER SIX

YOKE, BARS, RANDY, YOKE

Yoke, February 26

"Pig!" is what Yoke had been about to shout —defiant to the last.  But
the sound never made it to her lips. As soon as Kevvie said  "Begone,"
Yoke felt the alla-mesh tingling on her skin, and the next instant she
was air.

There  was  an  uncanny  moment  of  transition  when  Yoke  was still
materially  alive  —her  old flesh  patterns  fleetingly  preserved as
worming, ionized air. But the currents and charges quickly dissipated,
and then  every physical  remnant of  the pattern  that had  been Yoke
Starr-Mydol's body was gone.

I'm dead, thought Yoke. I'm a ghost!

She could sense  the people who'd  been all around  her just now,  not
that she could  see them anymore,  but she could  feel their presence:
her mother, and Babs and Randy,  and Phil — had she really  said she'd
marry him? Kevvie's vibe was out there too. Triumphant.

Yoke convulsed in  a spasm of  stark hatred. It  was disorienting, and
when she tried to find Ma  and the others again, she couldn't.  It was
like  being  blindfolded  and  feeling around  in  a  china  shop with
baseball-bat arms, even-thing getting smashed and falling apart, oh no
this was the end — but, wait, what about her alla? Randy had said  her
alla could remember her, which meant—what? Yoke couldn't seem to think
logically,  there was  dark slush  all around  her and  something was
coming for her, something making a sound that wasn't a sound.

Krunk krunk krunk.

It was  prying at  her—ow—scraping at  her like  she was  a stain on a
piece of cloth — krunk krink krunky  — oh this felt bad. And then  she
was drifting out into  some other level, she  was out of normal  space
entirely and — yes! — she could see something bright.

It was a light, a White Light. Yoke was flying gladly toward it.  God.
There were others  flying with her.  Yoke flashed a  vision of someone
driving a  car in  a snowstorm  with the  snow-flakes flying  into the
headlights, not that Yoke had ever seen snow in real life, but now she
did see it, she was the driver, tasting coffee in her mouth, and  then
she was one of the  snowflakes, rushing through the cold  black toward
the car, yet never reaching it, as if the path to the Light were being
stretched.

Yoke was a  flat little thing  endlessly tumbling after  the Light. It
felt good to do this, she was happy, getting good vibes off that Light
but—zow! — now  something shot past  in front of  her, a thing  like a
Bardo  demon,  gulping  down  a  bunch  of  the  snow-flakes,  danger,
danger—zow!—another one going by with  something like a beak, but,  oh
well,  nothing to  be done,  once you're  dead the  worst has  already
happened, right, and once you're born you're in for it too—zow!  —"Hi,
there!"

Yoke kept flying on toward the Light and kind of laughing at the Bardo
demons,  they  made  it  interesting was  all,  the  demons  were woof
shuttles for this tapestry,  with Yoke and  the other souls  the world
line warp threads on the White Light loom, it was good and—zow!!—  why
worry, the Light would take care of all things.

And then all of a sudden it was like in a flying dream when your dream
self remembers you can't really fly—and you fall, pulled down from the
heavens     by     reality's     anchor-rope    —"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaa-aaaauuugh!"

"It's okay, Yoke!"

"She's back!"

"Oh, Yoke! Dear little Yoke!"

"It's me, darling!"

"Hold her, she's going to fall!"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Huh?"

Yoke could see! She was back in good old three-dimensional space,  her
mother and her  friends all around  her, yes, Ma  and Phil, Randy  and
Babs, Cobb squeezing in too, even Planet and stupid Willa Jean, all of
them touching her,  oh dear life.  Yoke slumped to  the floor sobbing.
There was something hard  and rubbery in the  back of her throat;  she
coughed it out; it was the nose blocker.

Half an hour later she felt like her old self again, sitting on Babs's
ant-patterned silk couch talking with  the others. Phil and Darla  sat
on either side of her, and Babs and Randy were on another couch.  Cobb
was flopped down  on the floor,  his head sticking  out of a  formless
puddle. A huge  green brocade fabricant  tapestry covered the  nearest
wall.

"What happened  to your  foot, Ma?"  asked Yoke.  "Your little  toe is
gone."

"It happened when Om's powerball swallowed me on Christmas Eve,"  said
Darla. "I tried kicking my way out."

"Poor Ma. You were in there for a long time. Thank God you're back."

"I don't matter that much, Yoke. I'm old. Thank God you're back."

Yoke  kept testing  her thoughts  and looking  down at  her body,  her
precious flesh, touching herself, her leg, her stomach, her face, yes,
all of her  was back, even  the same clothes  that she'd been  wearing
—her new stretch leather pants and plush green shirt—and even the  gem
necklace Phil had given her, as well as his father's gold ring,  loose
on her finger. She was going to have to think about that one.

"Did you see the SUN?" asked Cobb.

"The  White  Light," said  Yoke.  "I saw  it."  If she  looked  within
herself, she could still  see feel the Light.  A savor of serenity,  a
sense that everything was okay.

"I saw it too," said Phil. "When I was peeking out of Om. Da flew into
it."

"It had good  vibes," added Darla.  She was wearing  a shapeless dress
with purple patterns on it. Not like something she'd normally wear.

"The best vibes ever," said Yoke. "It's wonderful to know that God  is
real. And then you guys brought me back?"

"Slick as snot on  a doorknob," said Randy.  "All I did was  hold your
alla, and it goes, 'Shall I actualize a new Yoke Starr-Mydol or  shall
I execute a fresh registration?' And I go, 'Yaaar, make me one o' them
Yokes.' And then here you come, screamin' your head off."

"It was quite a shock," said Yoke. "I was already in heaven, I guess."
The impossibly  bright memories  were fading.  "And now  I'm back to —
this." Though  life was  wonderful, it  was hard.  There were  so many
things to see and feel and think about. Phil kept putting his hands on
her, for one thing, and it  was a little bit annoying. Was  he serious
about that marriage thing?

Babs leaned forward, staring at  Phil. "What was that you  said before
about knowing how to make more allas? Is it really true?"

"It's about time I got an alla!" interjected Cobb. "Fuck this  'humans
only' bullshit. Anyway, I am human. I'm the same damned information  I
always was."

"I'm starting to  see your point,"  said Yoke. "Now  that I'm made  of
realware. Stop touching me every second, Phil."

"I want an  alla too," said  Darla on Yoke's  other side. "Just  think
what I could do to our cubby, Yoke. We could have a swimming pool. Can
you really make me one, Phil?"

"Yes, I think  I know how  to get us  as many allas  as we want," said
Phil. "As long as one of you guys with allas will help."

"Tell me what to do!" said Babs. "It's important that we start handing
out allas before people start wanting to take ours away from us."

"Om  told me  you can  split up  an alla,"  said Phil.  "You have  to
understand that an alla is part  of a vortex thread. Like the  central
line down the throat  of a whirlpool? Both  ends of the alla's  thread
are connected to Om. The thread is  a loop, and the alla is where  the
loop dips  into our  space. Just  barely skims  in. Now,  it's hard to
create  a  brand-new  vortex  thread,  but  it's  easy  to  split  one
lengthwise. That's how you make more allas."

"I can split this in two?" said Babs, holding her silvery alla in  her
palm. "How?"

"You only have to ask," said Phil.  "You can't ask an alla to make  an
alla, but you can ask it  to split. A subtle distinction." He  sounded
oddly professorial.

"I ask it, and it splits in two, and both allas will work?"

"That's  what  Om told  me.  The alla-thread  divides  itself up  like
strands of yarn  coming untwined —and  then the split  moves ana along
the loop back to  Om. You end up  with two loops of  vortex thread and
two allas. Or three,  or four, or anything  up to seven. The  most you
can split an alla into at  once is seven. Om and the  Metamartians are
big on  sevens. One  of the  allas will  still be  yours, the  same as
before,  and the  others will  be blank  slates, ready  for someone's
registration."

"So you understand all about Om now?" asked Randy.

"I've been inside Om for the last four days," said Phil. "Om's the god
of the Metamartians. She's a huge, higher-dimensional intelligence."

"Is she like that light Yoke saw?" asked Randy.

"No," said Phil. "Much more concrete.  Om reminds me of a giant,  pink
woman. A woman  the size of  the solar system.  You'd probably try  to
hump her leg,  Randy. Except that  she's four-dimensional or,  come to
think  of  it, maybe  five.  That would  explain  how she  could  have
disjoint hyperspherical fingertips."

"You a math-freak all of a sudden?" snapped Randy, hurt by Phil's dig.
"I thought that was just your dad."

"Phil made peace  with his father,"  said Darla. "It  was beautiful. I
helped them, Yoke."

Yoke glanced sideways  at Darla. There  was something in  her mother's
face that  made Yoke  suspicious. "You  met Phil's  father, Ma? Was he
nice?"

"They got  along very  well," said  Phil quickly.  "Try and split your
alla now, Babs. I want one too."

"Okay," said Babs. "I'll make one  and you three decide who gets  it."
She clenched  her alla  in her  hand and  focused inward  on her uvvy.
"Split in two," she said.

Though Yoke was staring at Babs's hand, the transformation was hard to
follow.  There was  a moment  of fuzziness,  a kind  of double  vision
around  Babs's alla,  and then  there was  a second  silver tube  that
passed through Babs's fingers and clattered to the floor.

Phil shot out of  the couch and managed  to pick it up  before Cobb or
Darla could,  and now  he was  into his  alla registration process. "A
face," said Phil, naming the  first three images the alla  showed him.
"A path. Yoke's skin."  And then the images  were coming too fast  for
him to talk.

Once again it sounded  to Yoke like the  alla's series of images  were
the same  ones she'd  seen: a  disk of  colors, a  crooked line, and a
patch of texture. It was sweet that Phil automatically thought of  her
skin.

"Show me  your alla,  Phil," said  Babs when  Phil's registration  was
complete. "My alla's paler than it was before, don't you think,  guys?
And Phil's is the same pale color as mine. Almost platinum. Let's  see
if mine still works.  Here we go." Babs  popped a little imipolex  DIM
dinosaur out into the air. It capered around in circles like a  windup
toy, now and then pausing to let out a tiny roar. "Shrank!" said Babs,
encouraging it. "Gah-rooont!"  She made three  more dinos, each  one a
different shape. They started  fighting with each other.  "Collect the
whole set!" crowed Babs. "You want my catalog, Phil? It's the one  the
Metamartians made, but  with additions by  Randy, Yoke, and  me. We've
been pooling our designs. Randy's good with DIMs."

"What about an alla for me?" said Darla. "Split yours, Yoke." "I  want
one for me  too," clamored Cobb.  Yoke eyed him  critically. He didn't
seem lifted anymore.

So she uvvied into her alla and said, "Split in three." Simple.  There
was a momentary vibration in her  hand, then a kind of breeze  passing
through her fingers, and then  two pale gold-colored tubes dropped  to
the floor, ringing like chimes. One rolled over to Cobb. Darla  leaned
forward and picked  up the other  one, which was  next to her  injured
foot. Yoke's alla was the same pale gold color as the two new allas.

"Earth," said Darla,  doing her registration.  "A vein. Cereal."  "The
SUN," said Cobb. "A wrinkle. Television." "Zap me that catalog?" Darla
asked Yoke. "I want to get some bitchin' threads like you."

"Here  you go,  Ma," said  Yoke. "Now  think about  clothes, and  the
catalog will show them to you. You can customize things too. Where did
you get that purple muumuu, anyway? You look guh-roovy."

"Too true,"  said Darla.  "Phil made  it for  me, poor  thing. When he
showed up in the powerball I was — um, so yeah, I think I'll make some
black leather moon-boots and sparkly gold leggings, and a kicky  black
skirt and —

"He saw you naked, Ma? Were you drunk?" "I was cooped up in there  for
eight fucking weeks, Yoke," snapped Darla. "A lesser woman would  have
gone crazy. Now stop grilling me and let me look for my new  clothes."
She stood  up and  marched off,  holding her  alla. She  had only  the
slightest limp from her missing toe.

"You know what I'm  going to do?" said  Cobb, fondling his alla.  "I'm
going to invent a bacteria that eats the stink right off the  moldies.
It's high time. Call it the stinkeater germ. Hey, Darla, I'll come sit
with you. You can  be the test-sniffer." Darla  made a face, but  Cobb
followed her across the room.

"Good thing Randy didn't hear Cobb's plan," Yoke said to Phil.  "Randy
likes the way moldies smell right  now." Babs and Randy, on the  other
couch, were deeply engrossed in a personal conversation.

"I'm surprised that  your alla remembered  the necklace and  the ring,
Yoke," said Phil, scooting even  closer to Yoke and touching  the gold
band around her finger. "It must  update itself all the time. And  you
got all of your memories back  too? You remember right up to  the last
instant?"

"I remember," said Yoke, bracing herself.

"I meant what I said," said Phil. "I'd like to marry you."

Yoke slipped the  ring off her  finger. "This is  too big for  me, you
know. And it's your father's."

"But I want you to have it," said Phil. "That is, if—

"Oh, I don't know, Phil. Yes, I like you very much, but what's the big
rush? Don't pressure me. It's all  too much for one day. And  you keep
this ring, I don't want it,  it's kind of creepy." She peered  down at
its inscription. "The writing's still backward."

Phil took the ring and read the engraving. " 'wolliW morf turK oT,'  "
he said.  "At least  it's unknotted."  He pocketed  it. "The  necklace
looks really good on you. You notice how the shape of the gem  changes
as well as  its color? Dynamic  Metamartian realware. You'll  keep it,
won't you?"

"Okay," said Yoke, glancing down. "And now let's stop negotiating. I'm
tired. But I'm afraid to go to sleep. Being dead wasn't all sunny  and
nice, you  know. There  were bad  things too.  Things like demons. I'm
sure I'm going to dream about them."

While Yoke and Phil were talking,  Babs and Randy finished their  tete
a-tete and now they were standing up.

"Good night,  guys!" sang  Babs. "We're  going to  hit the  hay. We'll
start handing  out allas  in the  morning." She  and Randy disappeared
behind  a  floor-to-ceiling  curtain of  red  and  yellow moire  silk,
presumably to share Babs's canopy bed.

Darla and Cobb  were over in  the kitchen part  of the room  chatting.
Darla was sipping at a split of champagne and alla-making outfit after
outfit,  asking  Cobb's opinions  about  each one.  Cobb  was screwing
around with some cryptic  biotech machinery that he'd  alla-made. Each
time Darla  would ask  Cobb about  an outfit,  he'd ask  her what  she
thought of the smell of some fresh sample of gene-tailored mold.

"Let's get in bed together?" suggested Phil.

"In here?" said Yoke, rolling her eyes toward her mother.

"We can alla-make  ourselves a nest.  Like what I  used to live  in at
Calla and Derek's."

"Where Kevvie probably  is right now.  That pig. What  happened to her
after she killed me?"

"Haresh kept us from getting to her. But then the aliens took off in a
flying saucer.  Kevvie wanted  them to  take her  with them,  but they
didn't. We didn't try to do  anything to her yet because we  wanted to
hurry back here and make a new realware you. We just left her there on
the Anubis."

Yoke  felt  a stab  of  fear. "What  if  she comes  to  get me  again?
Shouldn't you call the gimmie?"

"Oh, not the gimmie," sighed Phil. "And then everyone finds out  about
the allas? I'll do something to Kevvie myself tomorrow morning.  Maybe
I'll take her alla away. But I don't think we have to worry right now.
If I know Kevvie, she's back at Calla and Derek's, trying to snort her
way to the bottom  of an alla-made mound  of gabba. Saint and  I'll go
over there tomorrow morning and we'll take her alla while she's  still
passed out. Okay?"

Yoke found  Phil's calmness  maddening—but it  was contagious. "Okay,"
she said, leaning against him.

"Now let me make us that nest." Phil gazed thoughtfully at the girders
supporting the warehouse roof.

"Not up there, Phil. Put it where  Ma won't be staring at us. In  fact
let's put it outside. In the alley."

So they stepped out  the warehouse's side  door into a  deserted, dead
end alley. It was raining. Phil held out his pale gold alla and formed
a control mesh in the air. Raindrops fell through the mesh,  twinkling
in  its  light. It  took  Phil a  minute  to get  the  structure fully
imagined. Finally  he said,  "Actualize," and  a cozy-looking  box was
resting on  the alley's  cinders; it  was pentagonal  like a  shingled
wren's house, with a big round door on hinges and a triangular  window
next to the door.

"I had the alla  put rubber cushions under  it, Yoke, so we  don't get
cold. See?"

"Don't  come  a-knockin'  if  this  nest's  a-rockin'."  Yoke giggled,
feeling relaxed  for the  first time  since she'd  popped back. "Looks
like Babs and me are gonna scooore!" She stuck her head back into  the
warehouse. "Hey, Ma, good night!"

"You're sleeping outside?"

"Phil made us a little house. You can use my bed. Just for fun I  made
it a bunk-bed like Joke and I used to have at home. It's in the corner
over there. Cobb will show you."

"How cute. Well,  good night, dear.  What a scare  you gave me  today.
Thank God you survived. I'm going to uvvy Whitey in a few minutes."

"Don't whip him up too much  about Kevvie. Just say I'm fine  and tell
him hi from me. The big news is that you're back, Ma. He's going to be
so glad."

"I  hope so."  Darla's face  hardened a  little. "I  might just  blow
Kevvie's head off tomorrow morning.  And as for your father-he  better
not be with one of his little chippies." She held out her arms.  "Give
me a kiss."

So Yoke walked across the room  and kissed her mother good night,  and
then went back outside to get into the little nest-house Phil had made
them. Phil  had put  a bed  in their  nest, and  three lit candles for
light. They lay there cuddling for a long time, talking a little,  and
then, finally, they made love.

"That was even nicer than I expected," said Yoke when they were done.

"Me too," said Phil. "I love you, Yoke."

"I love you."

"June wedding?"

"Maybe." Yoke found herself smiling uncontrollably. "We'll see. What's
going to happen to everything in the meantime? After everyone gets  an
alla."

"We're really going to give them to everyone?"

"We were talking about that while you were gone," said Yoke. "If other
people can't get allas, they're going to kill us to take ours away."

"Does getting killed matter? If your alla can bring you back?"

"If someone shreds you  with like an O.  J. ugly-stick, and then  your
alla asks them if they'd rather  actualize a new Phil or register  the
alla for themselves, they're not going to make a new you."

"And — myoor! — I just  thought of something," said Phil, running  his
fingers through  his blond  hair. "When  your alla  brought you  back,
Yoke, it made a realware copy of you just the way you were before  you
died. And that  was fine —since  you were in  perfect health right  up
until the instant Kevvie turned you into air. But if I bleed to  death
from an O. J. ugly-stick attack, then when the alla actualizes a fresh
Phil, it's gonna be me lying there all trashed and bleeding to death —
and I die all over again."

"Gnarly! It would be torture!"

"Actually, I have a feeling that recorporation only works if it was an
alla that killed you in the first place," said Phil. "It's probably  a
kind of fail-safe feature to keep the allas from becoming a weapon.  I
think the aliens would have told us if an alla also had the effect  of
making its owner immortal."

"Why don't you ask Om?" said Yoke. "Didn't you say she'd been  talking
to you?"

"Yes, I could hear Om when  I was inside her, up there  in hyperspace.
But even there I could only do  it when I was dreaming. I don't  think
I'll be able to hear her at all down here in regular space."

It was raining hard now, and  the drops were drumming on their  little
roof. The  window was  open a  little to  let air  in, with a red silk
curtain over it for privacy. Yoke alla-made herself an orange.

"Want some?" she said, peeling it by the warm candlelight.

"Thanks. This is such  fun. I've never been  so happy. It was  good to
see my dad."

"What was that like?"

"He was nice to me," said Phil.  "And I told him I was sorry  I'd been
mean to him. He told me I was smart."

"I knew that already." Yoke smiled and touched Phil's cheek. "Are  you
going to use your alla to make blimps?"

"I have been thinking about it. I have an idea how to keep blimps from
getting pushed around by the  wind. People are always looking  for new
ways to  fly. Getting  a moldie  to carry  you isn't  that pleasant. I
mean, then you have  the moldie to deal  with. It's like taking  a cab
instead of driving."

"I don't understand  why people don't  use DIMs to  make big brainless
flapping  things  that  aren't moldies.  Kind  of  like Randy's  giant
snail?"

"The problem  is that  safely flying  a person  takes enough  mass and
enough computational ability that you'd have to give a flapping  thing
a fairly elaborate mold-based nervous system. And then it would end up
turning into a moldie and not being willing to work for you. A blimp's
brain can be  a lot simpler.  My secret is  that I'm going  to give my
blimps a kind of hair. But what giant snail of Randy's are you talking
about?"

Yoke was expecting to start laughing about Randy again, but her recent
contact with the White Light had sapped the meanness right out of her.
The  story  ended up  coming  across as  something  pathetic that  had
happened to a friend.

"Poor Randy," said Phil when she  was done. "What a story! If  all the
snail needed to do was to repeat things and to crawl on him, it  could
perfectly well be a wad of dumb imipolex with a DIM. Like those little
dinosaurs Babs just  made. The mind  boggles at the  kilp that's gonna
come down when  everyone gets an  alla. What was  all that talk  about
plutonium on the Anubis?"

"Cobb told Siss to tell Om to not let people make atomic bombs,"  said
Yoke. "Just in case. We feel like everyone on Earth should get an alla
— and there's  bound to be  someone who would  make an atomic  bomb on
purpose. And even if there  weren't, somebody might worry about  it so
much they'd end up accidentally making an atomic bomb themselves while
they were dreaming. Having a really bad dream."

"Isn't there  a way  to turn  off your  alla before  you go to sleep?"
asked Phil.

"You just take off your uvvy," said Yoke.

"Oh, right. Which of course I always do."

"Once I forgot and slept with  my uvvy on and people were  coming into
my dreams. Pervs.  Some of them  make a point  of sleeping with  their
uvvies on."

"Bad news. Are you tired yet?"

"Almost," said Yoke. "I'm looking  at my necklace." She'd set  it down
next to a candle. The gem was lazily cycling from square ruby to round
diamond and back.

"Oh, let me show you the other two things I brought back," said  Phil,
reaching out to  get his  pants off  the floor.  He took  out a  pearl
handled pocketknife  and a  black ball  with bright  spots in it. "The
knife has a fuzzy blade, it's pretty nice," continued Phil. "I already
carved your name on a tree with it, Yoke."

"Good boy. What's this little ball?"

"I think  of it  as a  fish bowl  with luminous  tadpoles," said Phil,
handing it to her.

"They're more like brine shrimp and flat little jellyfish," said Yoke,
peering in. "Funny how they jump around when I look at them. I mean  —
how can they tell?"

"Alien tech.  Who knows?  But I  like it.  I think  I'll keep it in my
pocket for good luck."

"I know  what it  is!" exclaimed  Yoke after  studying the  toy a  bit
longer. "It's an alien star map!"

"Oh, I like  that idea," said  Phil. "I bet  that's why Wubwub  seemed
interested when he noticed me holding it."

They played with the star map a little longer, and indeed, the  bright
spots were like stars  and galaxies — and  once or twice Yoke  thought
she recognized one of the constellations.

"So far, so good," said Yoke, yawning and handing the star map back to
Phil. "We still haven't figured out what's gonna happen next."

"Let's trust God."

Phil pulled the nice smooth quilt  over them, and Yoke fell asleep  in
his arms, lulled by the patter of the rain.

In the middle of the night something made her wake up. Phil talking on
the uvvy. He sounded upset. Yoke woke just as the conversation ended.

"What?"  asked Yoke,  lighting a  candle so  she could  see. Phil  was
sitting on the edge of the  bed. He looked beautiful, his hooded  eyes
thoughtful, his strong chin covered with whiskers.

"That was Derek. He found Kevvie in the bathroom. Dead of an OD."

Yoke hated to ask the next question. "Can —Can he bring her back  with
her alla?"

"Derek didn't say anything about Kevvie's alla offering to recorporate
her. It looks  like that really  only happens if  it was an  alla that
killed you. Kevvie's alla went ahead and registered itself to Derek."

"Are you sad?"

"Yes. But I'm glad you're safe."

Babs, April 1

"Well I think it's worked out fine," said Babs. "And it's going to get
better."  She was  sitting in  the living  room of  her parents'  fine
Victorian mansion  on Masonic  Avenue above  Haight Street.  Her gray
haired father, Stahn,  was lounging in  a soft, low  armchair, and her
mother,  Wendy,  was doing  aerobic  exercises with  a  little set  of
dumbbells. Wendy's personality lived in a Happy Cloak moldie  attached
to the neck of her flesh  body. Of course the Wendy 'Cloak  could have
taken off on its own, but, for whatever reason, the 'Cloak was in love
with Stahn, and chose to live with him, driving around a blank-brained
tank-grown flesh body. The Wendy  'Cloak had in fact gotten  herself a
new tank-grown flesh bod just before Christmas. Babs was still getting
used to having a  mother who looked not  much older than herself.  But
that wasn't the issue today. The real issue was the big news that Babs
had come to tell her parents. But it would have to wait till they were
done talking about  allas. The main  thing on everyone's  mind anymore
was allas.

It had  been a  little over  a month  since Babs  and Yoke  had driven
around San Francisco distributing allas, telling each person to  split
their alla into seven and to pass them on with the same  instructions.
It had worked  like a chain  letter. After a  dozen cycles there  were
billions of allas, one for every person and moldie on Earth — and that
was enough.  You couldn't  register yourself  to more  than one  alla.
Darla had gotten Cobb to ferry her back up to the Moon — so the  allas
were all over the Moon as well, though news from the Moon was  sporty.
It was harder and more expensive to uvvy the Moon these days. Many  of
the  sky-ray  satellite  moldies  like  Cappy  Jane  had  quit   work.
Fortunately there were still a handful of moldies interested enough in
money to keep a couple of the big communication satellites going.  Not
that moldies  needed to  buy imipolex  anymore. It  was free now, like
everything else except real estate and personal services. Things  were
different everywhere. Real different.

"Sure, there's been some initial problems," said Babs, "but—" "I think
it sucks," said Stahn staring out his window. He was almost sixty now,
and it showed.

"Medical  advisory, Da,"  said Babs.  "Your rectum's  showing." Wendy
tittered, set down her dumbbells and walked over to pat Stahn's  head.
"Poor curmudgeon. He's upset about our view. We used to be able to see
a little bit of the bay."

Looking out the window, the only  thing Babs could see now was  pieces
of other houses, all fresh and pastel in the sun of a mild spring day.
It seemed  like most  of the  people in  her parents' neighborhood had
tacked on extra  stories, cupolas,  widow's walks,  minarets, and  sky
decks.  Farther up  the hill,  Babs saw  an entire  three-story house
suddenly appear on what had been  a vacant lot. The big house  went up
in pieces—pop, pop, pop, pop.

"There goes another  one," said Wendy.  "It's like a  sped-up movie or
something. Some people have been changing their houses every few days.
See the big tower across the street on the Joneses' house?"

"The  one that  blocks your  view. What  are all  those boxes  in the
Joneses' yard?"

"They keep alla-making themselves new stuff," said Wendy, shaking  her
head. "Kitchen appliances, furniture, luggage, recreational  vehicles,
sports equipment, home entertainment consoles, on and on. You can  see
from the writing on the boxes.  They've been doing this nonstop for  a
month and  their house  is completely  full and  they can't figure out
where to put everything, but they won't just turn the extra stuff back
into air. People are so ridiculous. Speaking of ridiculous," continued
Wendy, "yesterday your father went over to their yard and turned their
big tower back into air—you would  have thought he was drunk, the  way
he was acting, but it's just the real Stahn coming out. Of course  Mr.
Jones allaed  his tower  right back  into place  again. And then Stahn
scuttled home, and Mr. Jones came pounding on our door and told  Stahn
he'd kill him if it happened  again. He was carrying the most  amazing
gun. At least Stahn didn't zap the tower while one of the Joneses  was
inside it."

"I wish I had," grumbled Stahn. "And there's no use complaining to the
zoning board. They've  totally punted. They  can't begin to  deal. And
it's not just the yuppie greedheads that chap my ass, it's the  stoner
yurts everywhere."

Some homeless  freak in  the Haight  had passed  a stuzzy  Tibetan hut
design on to all his brahs, and now every sidewalk, alley and  parking
spot  in the  neighborhood was  cluttered with  the muffinlike  little
people-nests. In a  hurried emergency session,  the city had  approved
the use of temporary sleeping shelters up to a certain size, with  the
proviso that the squatters removed their structures between 9 a.m. and
9 p.m. But of  course people got attached  to their little homes,  and
most of  the yurts  were starting  to look  permanent, with walls ever
more bedizened  with stick-on  alla graffiti.  Amazing stuff,  really.
Babs liked it.

"And more and more people keep showing up," said Stahn. "Nobody has  a
job anymore, and  everyone wants to  be in San  Francisco. We're being
invaded by the fucking scum of the Earth." Given that people could use
their allas to  make whatever they  needed, most factories  were going
out of business.  And the few  people who could  have kept their  jobs
were quitting work. You could pretty much live anywhere you wanted.

"That's probably what someone in a big house said when you showed  up.
Da," said Babs. "Maybe you're so uptight because you're off drugs. Not
that it isn't wonderful. Are you still going to your N.A. meetings?"

"Yeah,  yeah," said  Stahn. "The  meetings help.  More people  in the
program all the time. The ones that don't OD. Can you imagine  junkies
with allas?" He chuckled briefly, his mouth spreading in his long, sly
grin. "Some  of these  kids are  going through  twenty years  worth of
addiction  in three  weeks. There's  definitely some  learning taking
place. Do  you think  that if  I asked  Mr. Jones  to move his tower a
little to the left he would?"

"Don't even," said Wendy. "If you care so much about the view, why not
put a high deck on our house."

"I don't want to be part of it."

"Why not a tree house?" suggested Babs.

"We don't have any trees  except our avocado," said Stahn.  "It's only
twenty feet high. We'd need more like a hundred and twenty feet."

"Then alla up a redwood!"

"A redwood," mused Stahn. "You can make a plant that

big?

"It can be done," said Babs.  "Phil figured out that the maximum  size
of an alla control  mesh is four pi  meters on each side.  About forty
feet. I don't know what pi has  to do with it, but there it  is. You'd
have to make your redwood in pieces.

That's okay for a house, but it's tricky for a plant. For it to  work,
you have to make  all the pieces at  exactly the same time.  Otherwise
the cells at the seams die off and it doesn't join up and the sections
fall apart. I know  about this because we  put some big palm  trees in
front of my warehouse."

"Phil —you mean  Phil Gottner?" said  Wendy, sticking to  the personal
level. "How are he and that cute little Yoke doing?"

"They're engaged! And —" Babs broke off, still not quite ready to tell
her news. She jumped to another topic. "Speaking of building, Yoke and
Phil made themselves a nest in my alley. They keep adding to it;  it's
grown up the  side of  my warehouse  and onto  the roof.  Like a shelf
fungus. Yoke's busy  designing artificial coral  and Phil's trying  to
invent the perfect personal flying machine."

"And what about you and Randy?" pressed Wendy. "Is it true love?" Even
though  she  looked  like  a  twenty-year-old,  Wendy  still  had  the
personality of a nosy old mom.

Now would have been the moment for Babs to make her announcement,  but
Da spoke up before she could.

"The other day  I talked to  the man who  was Randy's boss  in India,"
said Stahn. "Sri Ramanujan. He called Randy a 'degenerate bumpkin.' "

"Why do you always have to  dump on my boyfriends, Da?" snapped  Babs.
"Is it a Freudian thing?"

"You  of all  people can't  be prejudiced  against someone  who likes
moldies, Stahn," put in Wendy.

"Sorry, I'm just telling you  what Ramanujan said. He's a  snothead, a
scientist mandarin, I'm  not saying I  agree with him.  If Randy makes
you happy, Babs, that's the main  thing. I wish you'd let me  meet him
for myself."

"Why don't you introduce him  to us, dear?" asked Wendy.  "There's not
something you're hiding from  us or from him  is there? Uvvy Randy  to
come over right now! He could  help us put up Da's redwood.  With four
of us using our allas at the same time we could get sixteen pi meters,
which is, urn, 164 feet and 10.95 inches." Wendy's moldie brain  could
effortlessly crunch  any calculation.  "We need  that much  because at
least thirty feet are going to get  used up by the roots. Three of  us
wouldn't be enough  to make a  proper-sized tree. Randy  will be happy
that we need him."

"Well — I'd like to," said Babs. "It's high time. As a matter of  fact
Randy and I  rode over here  together, but he  was scared to  come in.
He's wandering around looking at the  Haight. I told him I would  uvvy
him if it looked like Da could act normal. Can you, Da?"

"Of course I can. I'm sure he's a fine boy. I won't scare him off."

So Babs uvvied Randy  and a few minutes  later he walked up  the front
steps. He was  pink with self-consciousness  and his Adam's  apple was
bobbing. He  was wearing  a new  T-shirt with  an incredibly intricate
stippling of colors. Babs thought he looked so cute that she planted a
kiss on him when she opened the door.

"Come on in, Randy.  Ma, Da, this is  Randy. Randy, this is  Stahn and
Wendy."

"Hey," said  Randy, shaking  their hands.  "It's an  honor. I've heard
about you two all my life. The Heritagists back in Kentucky are  still
squawkin' about that Moldie Citizenship Act."

Babs noticed  Randy's nostrils  flaring as  he sampled  Wendy's odor..
Wendy  had  successfully  infected her  Happy  Cloak  with Cobb's  new
stinkeater bacteria last week, so  the smell was quite mild.  But Babs
didn't want to tackle  the topic of Randy  and the smells of  moldies.
"How were things down on Haight Street today, Randy?" she asked.

"Waaald. Is it  always that crowded?  Or maybe it's  on account of  it
bein' April Fool's Day. It's like a street festival, people ilk-making
shit you can't believe."

"I haven't been on Haight Street  in weeks," said Stahn. "I always  go
around the  back way.  And, yeah,  All Fool's  Day is  very big in the
Haight. What did you see?"

"Some of the stores  have their windows painted  over and you have  to
pay the owner to get in. Thanks to the individual Web address on  each
dollar bill, people can't alla  up counterfeit, so money's still  real
anyway. Not that you need it for most things."

"I noticed  those stores,"  said Wendy.  "What do  you get  if you  go
inside?"

"Well, I paid  one fella to  find out," said  Randy, looking a  little
embarrassed. "Guess I thought  he'd have something pretty  racy behind
them painted windows. But it was just a goddamn T-shirt store. He lets
you pick out  a T-shirt you  like and then  you alla yourself  a copy.
Can't hardly sell objects no more. All you can do is sell ideas."

"Exactly!"  said  Babs. "That's  what  I've been  trying  to tell  Da.
Intellectual property is all that matters now. It's wonderful."

"Yeah," said  Randy, looking  down at  his T-shirt,  which had  subtle
patterns like faces embedded in  its fractal swirls. "Notice how  much
detail this shirt's  got? I never  could have seen  it all in  time to
make a  copy just  from lookin'  at it.  The store-guy  uvvied me  the
design. Reason he keeps the  store windows covered is some  folks will
just eyeball one  of his shirts  and alla-make a  half-ass knockoff of
it. There was  a gaaah right  outside the store,  matter of fact,  who
looked me over and made a copy of my new shirt, then turned around and
sold it to a tourist. All  smudged and blurry, though. Look over  here
on the sleeve, I  just noticed this line  o' little elephants. No  way
the pirated street copy picked that up."

"I think I'm too old for new ideas," sighed Stahn. "Don't want to buy,
don't have to sell. What else did you see on Haight Street, Randy?"

"There was  some folks  in old-time  metal armor  with imipolex  power
hinges. Jumpin'  around like  silver jelly  beans. I  saw a guy givin'
away jeweled Easter eggs, all  diamonds and rubies, and when  you took
one, he'd  make it  disappear. April  fool! Another  fella was walking
down the  sidewalk poppin'  out a  concrete lawn  dwarf every  step he
took. Skinned my knee on one  of those suckers, and allaed a  bunch of
'em back into air. Some  hairfarmers made themselves a pizza  ten feet
across and didn't  eat but a  corner of it,  then just left  it on the
sidewalk so  you had  to step  around it.  Wasn't nobody  bothering to
clean it up,  and when I  went to turn  that one into  air, one o' the
hairfarmers yelled  at me  not to  waste food.  One gaaah was standin'
around naked doin' his laundry in  the middle of the street; he  had a
washin' machine hooked to a quantum  dot battery and he was usin'  his
alla to feed  the water into  it. He was  just lettin' the  wastewater
spill out on the ground. He shoulda alla-made it back into air, but  I
didn't feel up to hasslin' him. There was a peck of musicians  playin'
electric guitars hooked to batteries, and a bunch of women doing brain
concerts on  sheets of  imipolex hangin'  off the  lamp-posts —  right
confusing, all the  noise. One gaaah  had a swarm  of maybe a  hundred
dragonfly cameras buzzin' all over  gettin' in everyone's face and  he
was mixing their  video so you'd  just about go  crazy lookin' at  the
output—it was  runnin' on  an imipolex  billboard he'd  pasted to  the
wall. Lots o' cars and custom  motorcycles. One of the choppers had  a
bathtub for the driver to sit in,  and it wasn't just a tub, it  was a
merge love puddle. Can you imagine drivin' a hog while you're  merged?
Your eyeballs stickin' up on  little stalks?" Randy laughed and  shook
his head.  "I love  this city.  First place  I ever  felt normal.  The
craziest  thing I  saw in  the Haight  was two  stoners taking  turns
zapping  each other  into air.  And then  recorporatin' the  aired-out
gaaah from his alla."

"Ow," said Babs. "I wouldn't do that for anything. Yoke said there's a
real chance of not being able to come back."

"I hear  there's been  a lot  of people  getting 'aired  out,' "  said
Wendy. "And not for fun. People trying to kill each other."

"Yeah, but remember  that it hasn't  been working," said  Babs. "Seems
like Om's got it set so that a dead person's alla starts beeping after
a day. An alla is indestructible, and someone always finds it. And  if
it was an alla that killed you, your alla offers to bring you back."

"Like in The  Telltale Heart," said  Stahn. "That Poe  viddy where the
murdered man's heart under the floorboards is beating so loud that  it
shakes the room. So what else did you see on Haight Street, Randy?"

"Did I mention that it's crawlin' with moldies down there? It's a good
thing they can't  reproduce themselves but  every six months.  Even if
the average moldie don't live but two years, that makes three times as
many moldies every two years, less some-thin' makes 'em cut back. Lord
knows I'm the last one to say anything against moldies, but they could
run us outta room! They don't hardly smell like nothin' anymore. I can
tell you got that new stinkeater bug too, Ms. Mooney."

"Oh, call me Wendy," said Ma. "Yes, Cobb brought some over here before
he left with Darla. He said since I'm a public figure, I should be  an
example. So I went ahead and infected myself with stinkeater. It's not
an infection,  really, it's  more like  a symbiosis.  I benchmarked my
computation  rate  before and  after  the stinkeater,  and  there's an
eleven percent enhancement. So I'm  telling all the moldies to  do it.
Stahn likes it and I do too."

"She's moanin', huh?" said Stahn, admiring his wife. "But I'm with you
on what you  said about too  many moldies, Randy.  We three were  just
fabbing about it. Too many people, too many moldies, too much stuff. I
think the  allas suck.  Look out  there right  now. My  moron neighbor
Jones is up on his roof again. I bet he's planning a second tower  for
his house. I can't  fucking believe it. And  see the house right  down
the hill from him? Used to be a beautiful madrone tree there, and  now
Ms. Lin has  a garage.  For what?  For her  brand-new fucking electric
motor-retrofitted vintage 1956 Rolls-Royce  Silver Shadow with  twenty
four-karat-gold trim. A garage to protect her car that she made out of
air and could replace in one second."

"Don't make yourself  sick, Stahn," said  Wendy. "Let's go  out in our
backyard  and build  the tree.  Randy, we  were thinking  we'd make  a
redwood with some kind of tree house in it. And we figured out that if
each of us alla-makes  a section at the  same time, the tree  can be a
hundred and sixty feet long from  top branch to bottom root. Come  on,
we go out this way."

"Maybe  it should  be two  hundred feet,"  said Stahn  when they  got
outside. He was starting to get excited. "A monster tree. That'll show
'em." Their yard was maybe fifty feet on a side.

"Let's call Saint," suggested Wendy. "He should be here for our little
get-together. With five allas, the tree could be two hundred six  feet
and 1.69 inches. Call  your brother, Babs, I  don't want to always  be
the one to bother him."

Saint answered Babs's uvvy call  right away. " 'Sup, sis?"  He sounded
cheerful and lively.

"I'm over at Ma and Da's with Randy," said Babs.

"Yaaar. Did you tell them yet?"

"There  hasn't  been  a  good  moment.  Da's  all  uptight  about  the
neighbors. We're going to help him put up a giant redwood."

"Make a sequoia instead." Saint had a contrary streak.

"A big tree," said Babs. "I don't really care what kind, but now  Da's
fixated on redwood. Anyway, that's what right for this climate. If you
were here, there'd  be five of  us and the  tree could be  two hundred
feet tall instead of a hundred and sixty. What are yon doing anyway?"

When  Saint had  gotten his  alla, he'd  quit working  at Meta  West.
Recently  he and  Phil and  Randy had  been talking  about starting  a
business. But for now he'd been  spending most of his time riding  his
bicycle  and  playing  uvvy  games with  friends.  And  he  had a  new
girlfriend.

"I  made a  bicycle that  I can  ride on  the water,"  said Saint.  He
patched in a  view of where  he was: out  on the bay,  near the Golden
Gate  Bridge.  He  glanced  up  at  the  people-nests  encrusting  the
underside of the bridge, then turned his attention back to the  water.
There  were  exceedingly  many  recreational  watercraft  around  him.
Everyone who'd ever wanted  a sailboat or DIM  board had one now.  And
you didn't  need an  expensive dock  for your  boat—when you  finished
using it, you just turned it  back into air. Saint abruptly veered  to
avoid a collision. "This  is too much fun  to stop right now.  And I'm
supposed to meet Milla later. Whoah, here comes another boat. Just say
hi for me.

It's enough if Da's tree is a hundred and sixty feet. Tell him not  to
be so greedy. And to make it a banyan."

" 'Bye, Saint."

"Good luck with Randy and the rents."

"He doesn't want to come,"  Babs told the others. "He's  out bicycling
on the bay. And then he's  going to see Milla." She stressed  the last
word as bait for her mother.

"We  haven't  met Milla  yet,"  complained Ma.  "You  children are  so
secretive."

"You two are so hard to talk to," said Babs.

"Let's make the redwood," said Stahn. "I'm stoked."

Babs found  a redwood  in her  alla catalog,  and scaled  it up to 160
feet, including the big fan of roots at the bottom. She jiggled around
four bright-line  maximum alla  cubes and  readjusted the  image until
everything just fit lengthwise. There  was still room to spare  on the
sides, so  Babs enlarged  the redwood  some more,  then lopped off the
parts that stuck  out. This gave  the effect of  a really big  redwood
that had been topped. The trunk was thick all the way up.

"Floatin'!" said Stahn  when Babs uvvied  everyone the pattern  of the
tree overlaid with the four alla  cubes. But then he paused. "What  if
it  falls  over? Then  we  lose our  house  as well.  We  end up  with
nothing."

"We could alla-make a new house if it came to that," said Wendy. "I've
been thinking of all sorts of improvements."

"I want a real house, not a realware house," insisted Stahn.

"But just  think," said  Wendy teasingly.  "If it  falls, maybe  it'll
reach clear across the street and crush the Joneses!"

"Yaaar," said Stahn. "Tree good, house bad."

"It's not going  to fall," insisted  Babs. "Like I  said, Randy and  I
made a bunch  of big palm  trees from two  pieces each. If  two pieces
work, so will four. Now, Da, you make the roots and the bottom of  the
trunk, Ma can make the next piece, Randy will do the piece above that,
and I'm going to make the top. Oh, and we better wear earplugs."

They placed themselves in four different corners of the backyard, made
themselves earplugs, and carefully aligned their alla control meshes.

"Hold on a minute," said Babs, and privately readjusted the design  of
her section. "Okay, now I'm set. On three. Let's count together."

"One, two —actualize!" said the four.

Ka-whooomp! The ground beneath  their feet shuddered, filling  up with
the roots. Jones across the  street shouted in surprise at  the noise.
Above them towered  120 feet of  fluted trunk, garlanded  with swaying
branches whose needles shivered in the breeze. But then —

"It's falling!" screamed Stahn, streaking across the yard. "Run!"

From across the street  Jones echoed Stahn's shriek.  Frantically Babs
stared upward, projecting her largest cubical alla control mesh, ready
to convert the tumbling behemoth  into air before it crushed  her. The
tree was so big that it was too late to run. But—

The tree wasn't falling.

"April fool,"  said Stahn,  his long  smile an  icon of utter delight.
"Gotcha."

"Phew," said Randy, with a loose grin. "What a lift."

"Zerk," said Wendy,  poking Stahn. "We're  not always this  hard to be
around, Randy."

"Hey, I'm havin'  a good taaahm.  But what are  those holes up  in the
top?"

Stahn glanced up, worried. "Don't tell me there's something— "

"I put a room inside it," said  Babs. "Just like in that book we  read
when I was little.  I put a nice  room with a door  and three windows.
And a deck."

"The Little Fur Family," remembered Wendy. "How sweet."

"Is it strong enough, hollowed out like that?" wondered Stahn.

"Sure," said Babs. "Redwoods have hollow spots in them all the time."

"How do we get up there?" was Stahn's next question.

"Anemone boots and Spider-Man gloves,"  said Randy, quick as a  flash.
"Me and Babs found  'em when we wanted  to climb our palm  trees. I'll
show you in the alla catalog. They used to be made by a company  named
Modern Rocks out to Colorado.  Guess they outta business now—like  all
the other folks with goodies in the alla catalogs."

Stahn alla-made himself a set of the bulbous yellow plastic boots  and
gloves. "Stuzzadelic! I never would have bought them."

"See, he's finally getting the picture," said Babs. "With an alla  you
get all the wavy stuff you'd never buy. And then you turn it back into
air.  Consumerism  isn't  wasteful   anymore."  She  and  Randy   made
themselves  Spider-Man  gloves and  anemone  boots as  well.  "I'll go
first. Watch how  I do it,  Da." Babs stared  at the first  branch she
wanted to  get to,  then spread  the fingers  of her  right hand.  Her
Spider-Man glove shot out a thick, sticky rope of imipolex—a bit  like
a frog's tongue. The glove had a DIM linking it to Babs's uvvy, and it
knew to shoot  its tongue at  whatever Babs was  staring at. Now  Babs
relaxed  her fingers.  This gesture  told the  strand of  imipolex to
slowly contract,  pulling her  up. Meanwhile  the toes  of her anemone
boots had split into a zillion pseudopods that walked their way  along
the bark like the legs of  a millipede, preventing too much strain  on
Babs's arm,  as well  as ruling  out any  chance of  her being  yanked
around  uncontrollably.  Babs  smiled  down  from  the  first  branch,
securely anchored by her anemone boots. "Come on, Da, it's easy."

"I'm supposed to do this every time I want to visit my lookout?"

"You can  figure out  an easier  way if  you like.  That's the  fun of
having  an alla.  It lets  you try  all sorts  of new  things, and  if
something doesn't work, you get rid of it."

"Or you pile it in your yard like the Joneses."

"Sooner or  later they'll  realize they  don't have  to hoard.  Matter
doesn't matter anymore."

Stahn shot up a tongue of imipolex with each hand, and gingerly hauled
his way up to stand beside her. "This is easier than it looks. Thanks,
Babs."

Now  Randy  climbed up  to  join them.  Babs  took off  fast,  closely
followed by Randy, the two of them scampering up the tree like a  pair
of squirrels. Splat kick kick,  splat kick kick. What fun!  Babs could
see Stahn far  below them, creeping  along. And Wendy?  There she was,
swooping around  the tree  like a  sea gull.  She'd unfurled her Happy
Cloak into a huge  set of wings. She  reached the top before  Babs and
Randy.

"Oh,  this is  beautiful," she  called down.  "There's a  cute, round
room."

The trunk was about ten feet across up here. The room was carved right
into the living heartwood of the tree, with two polished bucket seats,
three little porthole windows, and an arched door. The widest part  of
the floor  was maybe  five feet  across. A  plump burl  of the redwood
bulged out to make a deck in  front of the door, with four more  seats
carved into it. Once they were all up top, they tried out  everything,
and then Ma and Da sat on the deck, while Babs and Randy sat cozily in
the little room.

"This view kicks ass!"  exulted Stahn. "I can  see the whole city  and
both bridges! I  can even see  the Farallon Islands!"  He leaned over,
chuckling with  satisfaction. "Jones  looks like  a bewildered gopher.
Should I give him the finger? Alla down a bucket of piss?"

"Don't goad him," said Wendy. "He  might turn us all into air.  That's
been happening quite  a bit, you  know. I hear  there's been too  many
killings for the gimmie to even keep track of. And not everyone's been
able to get recorporated."

Stahn winced  at the  thought. "You're  right. I  have to  be nice  to
Jones. Maybe I could  convince him to replace  his tower with a  tree.
This is where it's at, no lie. Is it stuzzy in that room, Babs?"

"You want to trade places?"

"No no, the cozy nook  should be for the lovers.  Ma and I can try  it
when you're gone. Hey, Wendy, can you viz letting me bone you up here?
Tarzan and Jane. But our feet would stick out of the door."

"You could alla-carve bigger rooms lower down in the tree," said  Babs
equably. She was accustomed to her father's gaucherie. Maybe that  was
why she was so comfortable  with Randy. Babs patted Randy's  hand, and
he  smiled at  her. The  redwood room  had a  nice, fresh  fragrance.
Tendrils of late afternoon fog were drifting by.

"We could live in a tree  like this, Babs," murmured Randy. "Maybe  we
oughta put  one up  by your  warehouse. Or  once I  get my  consulting
business goin' I can buy us a lot down in the Santa Cruz Mountains and
we can live in a tree out there."

"What kind of consulting do you  want to do, Randy?" asked Wendy.  Her
hearing was preternaturally sharp.

"Nose much, Ma?"  said Babs, implicitly  daring her mother  to ask the
question that was really on her mind.

"And you're planning to live together? That's nice . .." Wendy's voice
trailed off, begging for more information.

"We're engaged," said Babs,  finally springing her news.  "We're going
to have a double wedding with Yoke and Phil on the first of June."

Randy, May 1

To  Randy's  relief—and  slight  surprise  —Babs's  parents  gave  his
marriage proposal their blessing. He settled in at Babs's, waiting for
the big day and  working on some projects  with the others. It  seemed
important to try and  do good things with  the allas, all the  more so
because the world  news was bad.  Savage conventional wars  had broken
out in  Africa, Central  America, Quebec,  and the  Balkans. There was
sporadic gang fighting in parts  of the U.S. too, mostly  near Boston,
Dallas, Atlanta, and Los Angeles.  Needless to say, there were  almost
no women doing it, and the moldies were staying pretty well out of the
fray as well. It was just men fighting men. Everyone had all the  food
and shelter they wanted, so there was no logical reason to fight—  but
men were doing it anyway, using  all the great new weapons they  could
alla up for themselves.

It turned out that Phil was right—the allas wouldn't undo the ordinary
kinds  of  deaths. If  someone  shot you  or  blew you  up,  your alla
wouldn't save you. The alla recorporation feature was indeed  designed
only to undo any killings that  had been done by an alla  itself. Even
so, there were men  who used the allas  to make themselves weapons  so
they could beat and  rape and torture and  kill at will, growing  more
cruel and brutal every day.  The killers were killing each  other off,
but still there  seemed to be  no shortage of  them. And the  innocent
were dying as well. The only thing keeping the wars down was that  the
Metamartians'  flying  saucer  kept appearing  at  the  goriest battle
scenes. First the saucer would call for peace, and then it would  beam
down rays to destroy everyone's weapons, and if the men still kept  on
fighting,  the  saucer  would incinerate  them.  But  the Metamartians
couldn't be everywhere.

Babs was  in a  frantically creative  mode, as  if trying  to prove it
hadn't been a mistake to distribute the allas. In mid-April,  Theodore
helped her put  on a show  at the Asiz  Gallery. Theodore was  being a
good  sport  about  losing  Babs,  which  surprised  Randy,  who  kept
expecting  some Kentucky-style  sneak attack  from the  guy: a  stolen
vehicle, a midnight beating, an  arson fire, a tip-off to  the gimmie.
But it never came. Instead Theodore got Babs gallery space and wrote a
great little  catalog for  her. Randy  was unable  to comprehend  such
behavior.

Babs's show was called "Realware Worms," and it featured twenty of her
worm-farms. Some were  the ones she'd  been making before  she got the
alla: mazes of plastic tubing filled  with soil and a mixture of  real
and imipolex  DIM worms.  Just to  play with  the categories a little,
Babs  had  also  made  some new  versions  of  these,  using alla-made
realware  biological worms  in place  of "wild"  biological worms.  In
addition, she'd alla-made a half-dozen large transparent shapes filled
solid with writhing DIM worms. There were cubes of plastic worms, some
big  doughnut shapes,  and even  a mounting,  squiggly spiral  like a
moonshiner's "worm  coil" condenser.  That last  one had  been Randy's
suggestion, he was proud to say. To fill out the show, Babs hung a lot
of  her  lace on  the  walls and  alla-made  seven variations  on  her
cartoonlike dune buggy, giving  them hard "kandy kolors"  that marched
up the  spectrum: red,  orange, yellow,  green, blue,  indigo, violet.
Babs put smiling worm logos on the car doors so they'd fit the  show's
theme, and parked  the "worm buggies"  in a cutely  angled row on  the
sidewalk outside the Asiz.

The title of the  show was a good  idea, as everyone was  still in the
process of trying to assimilate what "Realware" might mean. There  was
a big crowd on opening night — decked out in freaky S.F. outfits  like
never before seen —but the sales were disastrously weak. The potential
customers seemed  to want  to go  home and  make their  own copies  of
Babs's  works with  their allas.  In fact,  one woman  with a  beehive
hairdo and a  skirt made of  dangling transparent dildos  stood out on
the sidewalk staring really hard  at one of the worm-buggies  for half
an hour and  then — whoosh  — used her  alla to make  her own version,
using the  same base-model  Metamartian alla  catalog dune  buggy that
Babs had used.  The art on  the knockoff worm  buggy wasn't quite  the
same,  for it  came out  of the  dildo-skirted woman's  head and  not
Babs's, but it seemed to suit  her well enough, and maybe better.  She
hopped in her new car and drove off, with Randy running after her down
the street shouting empty threats.

The situation with  the lace was  a bit different.  The decorations of
the worm-buggies were big and easy to mentally represent, but the lace
simply  had  too much  pattern,  produced as  it  was by  colonies  of
interacting DIM-based fabricants. No casual gallery-goer would be able
to mentally specify the twists and turns of all the lace knots for his
or her alla. Even  so, Randy did catch  a tipsy man in  orange leather
leaving the gallery wearing a  mantilla of crude knockoff lace  on his
shoulders. Rather than being  knotted, the copied lace's  threads were
simply fused at the crossings. And the overall pattern repeated itself
every four inches, instead of subtly varying all along the  mantilla's
length.

The plastic  worms were  the least  susceptible to  copying, as it was
their  living  behavior  that made  them  art.  Their flocking,  their
wriggling, their subtly oscillating hues  —all of these were based  on
limpware DIM  designs that  Babs had  invented for  them with  Randy's
help. And  there was  no way  to "see"  these microscopic code designs
just by  looking  at the  worms.  Yet everyone  was  in such  a  do-it
yourself frenzy  with their  allas that  they seemed  to overlook this
fact.

The sole person to offer to  purchase one of Babs's works was  a sleek
banker  named  Chock Fresser.  Fresser  wanted to  acquire  the show's
centerpiece: a  twelve-foot transparent  pretzel filled  with imipolex
worms in a thousand different shades of blue and green; it was  called
"Wowo Worms."

But Fresser  didn't want  to take  delivery on  the physical  item; he
wanted Babs  to uvvy  him a  copy of  the software  design so he could
alla-make the work in situ at his house. "Too much trouble to ship  it
home," said Fresser. "Packing,  unpacking— who needs it  anymore? Give
me the  code and  that way  I can  bring 'Wowo  Worms' in  and out  of
storage as needed."

The gallery owner, Kundry Asiz, was a good friend of Babs's from  high
school. When Babs suggested to  her that they shouldn't sell  the code
to Fresser since money didn't matter anymore, Kundry pointed out that,
yes, there was a sense in which money didn't matter anymore, but there
were still several senses in which it did — first of all, it was crass
human nature for people to give more attention and respect to art they
had  to pay  for, and  secondly, the  rent on  a space  like the  Asiz
Gallery was something the alla couldn't finagle them out of.

So Babs agreed, and Fresser walked off with the complete code for  the
"Wowo Worms." And a week later, tacky little desktop copies of it were
for  sale  in  ever}'  gift shop  on  Fisherman's  Wharf—with  nary an
attribution to Babs. Kundry put some heavy pressure on Fresser and got
him  to triple  the original  purchase price,  but it  wasn't a  fully
satisfying resolution.

"We gotta figure  out a way  to sell a  design for onetime  use only,"
said Randy.  He and  Babs were  sitting on  the ant-decorated couch in
Babs's warehouse. Babs's brother Saint was there too. It was the first
of May.

"Use a  one-time encryption  zip," said  Saint. "I  learned about that
stuff when I was  working for Meta West.  You can zip your  design and
send the  zipped version  to the  user with  an unzipper  that trashes
itself after its first use. Like cheap pants. The first time you  open
the fly, the zipper sticks for good. You can publish the image of your
work in  the alla  catalog, and  when somebody  orders it,  they get a
single zip  of the  design with  its own  unzipper. And  of course the
unzipper is tailored only to feed the information into an alla and not
into any kind of a storage device."

"I get  it," said  Babs. "I  could make  an art  catalog that's like a
catalog used to  be. There's just  images of things,  and you have  to
uvvy  in some  funds to  take delivery  on an  item. And  if you  want
another one, you have to pay again. That's a brilliant idea, Saint.  I
wish I'd known about that before."

"Live  and  learn,  sis,"  said  Saint.  "Just  think  about  the poor
companies  that  had  every  one  of  their  products  put  into   the
Metamartian alla catalog."

"Like Modern Rocks,"  said Randy. He  liked his Spider-Man  gloves and
anemone  boots  so  much  that he'd  looked  into  the  fate of  their
manufacturer. "I  found out  they really  did go  down the  tubes. The
Metamartians didn't leave  no holes. Whatever  the aliens put  in that
catalog is  there one  hundred percent,  the whole  design coded up in
nanotech blueprints. Those Metamartians did their homework. Now,  this
trick of yours, Saint,  is everyone gonna know  about it? It would  be
good to spread it around, so's artists and inventors can get some kind
of reward."

"Maybe I should sell my trick," said Saint. "Call it the One-Zip. If I
can actually figure  out the details.  I'm not really  that much of  a
programmer. But you two sure went for it. Yeah, I need someone to help
me productize."

"Why is everyone always talking about buying and selling these  days?"
said Yoke impatiently. She'd just  walked in. "You sound like  a bunch
of businessman numberskulls. Guys with calculator DIMs in their heads.
Phil's the worst  of all. Going  on and on  about selling his  blimps.
Money  lags!  What does  anyone  need xoxxin'  money  for anyway?  And
meanwhile people are killing each other for fun." Without waiting  for
a response, Yoke  stalked across the  room to study  the pair of  huge
aquariums she'd installed. One contained a realware South Pacific reef
with  hard  and  soft  corals.  The  biologicals  were  all  alla-made
realware: primarily coral  polyps and the  diatoms they fed  upon. The
other  tank held  Yoke's work-in-progress,  a colony  of miniaturized
limpware polyps that were supposed to build an artificial reef. Yoke's
polyps weren't doing so well today. When he'd gotten up this  morning.
Randy had  noticed that  Yoke's artificial  reef had  petered out into
ugly  little  crumbly  excrescences,  not  at  all  like  the  smooth,
branching staghorn shapes she was shooting for.

"Xoxx it," said Yoke, staring into her tanks. "This is the only  thing
I'm able to try and control —  and it's too hard. You have to  help me
tweak them some more, Randy."

"How's Phil's blimp doin'?" Randy asked Yoke.

"Oh, he's got it  spread out on the  roof," said Yoke, wandering  over
and alla-making herself a cup of coffee. "It's slowly getting  better.
The Phlyte Blimp. Can  you hear the trademark?  What is it about  Phil
and money all of a sudden, Randy?"

"Phil wants to  make a mark  on the world,"  said Randy. Looking  into
himself, Randy realized that he didn't share that ambition. He saw his
role as a background guy, not a foreground guy. A consultant.  Someone
who helped people make connections and do things. He was happy to help
Babs with  her worms,  Phil with  his flying  machines, Yoke  with her
reefs, and maybe Saint with his One-Zip realware alla code encryption.
But he wasn't into  power-driving. Hell, he was  just happy to have  a
shot at  a normal  life. If  only the  world would  let him. "For some
people money's a way to keep score," he said mildly. "Practically  all
it's good for anymore."

"Don't forget real  estate," said Babs.  "Yoke and Phil  need money if
they ever want a place of their  own. Not that I mind having you  guys
squatting on my wall and my roof. But you know, eventually—"

"We can  leave anytime  you want  us to,"  said Yoke, getting prickly.
"There's plenty of free land on  the Moon. Or Mars. Or the  asteroids.
We'd be safer from the fighting anyway."

"I don't see you wantin' to go back into space," said Randy. "No  more
than I  want to  go in  the first  place. Earth's  where it's at. And,
look, with the  allas we don't  need to waste  land on farms  no more.
That frees up a lot of cheap acreage. Or, hell, you can get an acre up
on the side  of some mountain  any old where.  With an alla  you don't
need power  or plumbing  or a  place to  shop. Everyone  can be happy,
everyone can have a nice place to live."

"So why do people keep  killing each other?" wondered Babs.  "Just for
the rush? Thank God things are still calm in San Francisco."

"I hear things are getting really tense in Oakland," said Saint.  "I'm
starting to wonder if giving out the allas was such a good idea."

"If we ever get to talk to the Metamartians again, maybe we should ask
them to get rid of the allas?" said Randy. "Hard to decide. Hey, did I
tell you  that my  father's flying  back down  inside of  Cobb? Comin'
early for the wedding. He should get here today."

"I wish Darla  had stayed," said  Yoke, looking sad.  "As soon as  she
talked to Whitey, she got all homesick and made Cobb fly her right  up
to the Moon. I think she  wanted to make double sure that  they didn't
finish growing  that new  Darla clone  to replace  her. So,  fine, now
they're all together up there, but  what good does that do me?  I want
my parents and  my sister! They  should be the  ones coming back  with
Cobb, not Willy. Whitey says I should come get married on the Moon. He
thinks it's getting too dangerous  down here. But Phil's totally  into
having the wedding with his family and you guys. Xoxx it. A  wedding's
hard enough, so why in God's name are we doing two at once?"

"Don't look at me," said Randy.  "It was you and Babs decided  to make
it a double. It was like you gals thought gettin' married to Phil  and
me was such a crazy stunt, why not push it right out to the edge. Like
a viddy soap finale or somethin'."

"I know,"  sighed Yoke.  "I can  remember the  mood, but  I can't  get
myself  back into  it. Babs  and I  were so  giggly that  night. We'd
released the allas to the public and it was going to be paradise.  And
now there's war  everywhere. Even Phil  and I had  a big fight  just a
minute ago. Not that there's any comparison."

"Poor Yoke," said Babs. "Fight about what?"

"It's Phil's  mother, Eve,"  said Yoke,  frowning. "Maybe  you already
know about this, Babs.  Eve got this idea  that we shouldn't have  the
ceremonies out here in front  of your warehouse like we'd  been saying
we'd do."

"Oh yeah," said Babs. "I know about this. I kind of agree with her."

"Well  thanks a  lot for  letting me  know," snapped  Yoke, her  eyes
flashing. "Five minutes ago Phil tells me that Eve and Wendy  reserved
us a  ballroom at  the Fairmont  Hotel. Like  we're sixth-graders in a
school pageant. Or  no, it's worse  than that. It's  like we're nobles
celebrating while all over the world people are suffering.  Especially
women. I — I really unloaded on  Phil. I told him I don't want  to get
married at all." Yoke's chin  quivered and she began crying.  "This is
turning into a nightmare."

Babs gave Randy a look, and he got to his feet. "Hey, Saint, let's  go
upstairs and look at Phil's blimp. You too, Willa Jean."

"Yaaar," said Saint. Willa Jean strutted rapidly across the floor  and
jumped into Randy's arms.

Phil had cantilevered a kind of staircase of mini-trampolines out from
the side of Babs's warehouse. You  could climb to the roof by  hopping
from one elastic sheet to the next. And there was a fireman's pole for
coming back down. Phil  and Yoke had added  three more rooms to  their
original alley-nest; each room was level with one of the layers of the
trampolines.

"Feel like one o' them fish," Randy observed to Saint as they  bounced
upward.

"A  salmon,"  agreed Saint.  "Heading  upstream to  spawn.  Hey, Phil,
watcha doing? We're here to spawn all over everything."

"Hi, guys," said Phil, looking up from a big flat air bag lying on the
roof. "I'm  working on  the Phlyte  Blimp. Trying  to. I  can't think.
They're fighting in Oakland. Look over across the bay, you can see the
fires."

Sure enough, across the water smoke was streaming up from the city  of
Oakland. Yet high above  the smoke it was  a pleasant spring day  with
fluffy white clouds against the pale blue.

"I just checked the news," said Phil. "It started as a gang thing. And
now it's  turned racial.  Everyone getting  even for  getting even for
getting even. How long is it we've had the allas now?"

"Two months," said Randy. "You'd  think people would have it  together
by now."  Two months  ago had  been when  he'd realized  that he loved
Babs. And  in another  month they'd  be married.  If only things would
calm down. If only people would remember to be kind.

"Oh, shit," said Saint. "Look at Oakland now."

Someone  had  just done  something  to make  one  of Oakland's  office
buildings collapse. Maybe they'd alla-converted part of its foundation
into air. The wind shifted toward  them and Randy could smell a  whiff
of smoke, could hear a faint crackle of gunfire.

"Make them stop," prayed Randy, and just about then a flashing  bright
saucer  appeared in  the sky  over Oakland.  The Metamartians  to the
rescue, once again. There was a distant rumble; the saucer was talking
to the men fighting. And now a series of rays darted down from it;  it
was said  that when  a saucer  appeared at  a battle  scene, it  would
destroy everyone's alla-made weapons.

"The allas  have to  go," said  Randy, really  believing this  for the
first  time. "It's  not going  to be  worth it.  Especially after  the
aliens leave."

"Let's fly to Oakland and help," said Phil. "We can use my blimp."

"Good idea,"  said Randy.  "And while  we're at  it, maybe  we can get
close enough to the saucer to talk to the Metamartians."

Phil used the alla to instantly fill his Phlyte Blimp up with  helium.
The great balloon  was covered with  something like imipolex  Linguini
that Phil called "Smart Hair ®" The blimp bobbed above the rooftop and
a sudden  breeze threatened  to sweep  it away.  But then  the plastic
linguini began intensely beating, holding the unwieldy shape in place.

"It has passenger slings  for us to sit  on," said Phil, indicating  a
trio of loops that dangled from the blimp's underside.

"Have you actually tested it?" asked Saint.

"Sure," said Phil. "Well, not with three people. But if something goes
wrong, we can always alla  ourselves some hang-glider wings. Come  on.
Let's dart over to Oakland and  make sure all the injured people  have
healer machines. We can be there in three or four minutes."

"I'm for it," said Randy. "Be nice to do something good for a change."

Once they were settled into  the slings, the blimp's Smart  Hair began
rippling in steady waves. They slid  through the air as smoothly as  a
pumpkin seed. Phil steered them toward the saucer, but before they got
close to it, the bright disk darted away, moving too fast for the  eye
to follow. And then they were above the bloody streets of Oakland.

"Careful," said Saint. "Someone might shoot at us." But the saucer had
temporarily disarmed everyone.  The weaponless fighters  were slinking
away, leaving dozens of injured  people on the streets and  sidewalks.
Phil landed  the blimp,  and the  three boys  moved among the injured,
using their allas  to make healer  machines. Soon more  rescue workers
began to appear. And then some builders arrived, using allas to  clear
away the rubble and repair the shattered buildings.

"Looks like things are under control now," said Saint after a while.

"Let's go back," said Phil. "I have to tell Yoke I'm sorry."

"Shitfire," said Randy, checking the time. "My dad's about to come."

The  ride back  was a  little slower,  as a  strong wind  had started
blowing from  the ocean.  But the  blimp's Smart  Hair kept  them on a
steady course. The boys were quiet, thinking of what they'd seen. Many
people had been too far gone for the healer machines.

Back on the warehouse roof,  Phil deflated his blimp and  examined its
skin, using his fuzzy pocketknife to tweak its little flaps. "I'm glad
this worked," he said. "Those poor people."

"Your blimp is good, Phil," said Saint.

"I've been thinking," said Phil. "I don't actually need moldie-quality
imipolex to make these things.  Which is important, because I  want to
keep making  them even  if we  get rid  of the  allas and  imipolex is
expensive again. I think regular production-quality piezoplastic would
work if I used a simple enough algorithm. Your dad could help me  with
the code, Randy. How soon is he coming, anyway?"

"Could be any taaahm now." Randy peered up at .the sky.

"Good," said Phil, patting his flattened blimp. "Okay, I'm going  down
to talk with Yoke."  He jumped off the  edge of the building  and slid
down the fire pole.

"After seeing  Oaktown like  that, I'm  against the  allas too," Saint
told Randy. "I need to think of a career that doesn't depend on them."

"What about your water bicycles?"

"Good idea. Maybe your dad could help me with their DIM chips."

"He knows a lot," said Randy with a proud smile. "Shitfire, my  father
invented limpware engineering and the uvvy too. When I was growing up,
I never realized I had such important relatives. I thought I was  just
a nobody from nowhere."

"Not  anymore,"  said  Saint, looking  upward.  "And,  Yaaar! Here  he
comes!"

A shiny moldie form was  descending riding on the sparkling  column of
an ion jet. It  was Cobb with someone  inside him. Randy tucked  Willa
Jean under his arm, and he and  Saint slid down off the roof to  stand
by the patch of gravel Cobb was heading toward. Hearing the hollering,
Babs, Phil,  and Yoke  came out  of the  warehouse. Randy noticed that
Phil and Yoke were smiling and holding hands again.

Cobb plopped gently to  the ground and  split open, disgorging  a gray
haired fifty-year-old man. The man looked happy to be out in the  air.
He made a little bow. "Hi, everyone, I'm Willy Taze." He sized up  the
five of them, then stepped forward and shook Randy's hand.

"My son," said  the gray-haired man,  looking Randy over.  "We finally
meet face-to-face. Sorry  it wasn't sooner.  This feels good.  I was a
fool to put  it off. I  was sorry to  hear about your  mother, she was
gone before I got a chance to talk this over with her. Quite a  woman.
So you're getting married, eh? Marriage  is the part I never did.  I'm
such a geek that  I only managed one  single squirt inside a  woman my
whole entire life. And you seized that unique opportunity to get born,
Randy. My very best sperm cell. Good boy!"

"Thanks," said Randy, quite overwhelmed. "So you really my pa?"

"He's my grandson and  you're my great-grandson," exulted  Cobb. "High
time you  two met!  For God's  sake give  him a  hug, Willy. You won't
catch anything."

So Randy and  his father hugged.  It felt good.  Willy beamed at  him,
then turned to the others, talking  a mile a minute, like a  man who's
been alone too long. Randy knew the feeling.

"Hello, Yoke,  it's great  to see  you again,"  said Willy. "That's so
wonderful that you got  us the allas! What  a change those things  are
making on the Moon! So far we loonies have been too smart to get  into
any wars with each other. Not like the stupid mudders."

"We were just over in  Oakland givin' people healer machines,"  put in
Randy. "Things was might}' screwed up."

"Up  on  the Moon,  everyone's  been busy  making  sublunar parks  and
ponds," said Willy. "You wouldn't recognize the place anymore. And the
moldies are  happily stockpiling  megatons of  imipolex. Your  parents
send their best,  Yoke, and believe  it or not,  they're getting along
fine. I  think almost  losing Darla  shocked some  sense into  Whitey.
Joke's flying down  in a few  days, and Corey  Rhizome is coming  with
her. And  this must  be Phil  Gottner?" Willy  smiled and shook Phil's
hand. "Randy told me a little about you on the uvvy." Willy turned his
attention to  the two  others. "And  these other  two must be Sta-Hi's
kids —I think it's Babs and Saint? I mean 'Stahn,' not 'Sta-Hi.'  He's
still clean  and sober,  right? Wavy.  You wouldn't  want to  be at  a
wedding  with  the  old  Sta-Hi.  Isn't  this  something?  You're such
beautiful  young  people,  all of  you.  Especially  Randy! And  Babs!
Imagine having Babs for my  daughter-in-law! I have to admit  that I'm
thrilled."

"Hi, Willy,"  said Saint.  "I'm glad  to meet  you. Phil  and me  were
hoping you'd help us with some limpware engineering."

"Don't start  pickin' his  brain just  yet," said  Randy. "Let  him go
inside and get some food. He's been cooped up inside Cobb for a week."

"My son!" exclaimed Willy,  hugging Randy again. "You  look wonderful.
This is more than I deserve! Yes, I'm going inside to rest."

"I'll be there in a minute,"  said Randy, looking down at Cobb,  who'd
let himself slump to  the ground. "How you  feelin', Great-grandfather
Cobb?"

"I'm  tired," said  Cobb, puddled  on the  ground. "And  I heard  some
really bad news just while I was landing. I think I'll lie out here in
the sun for a while. If I  alla up a bottle of quantum dots,  will you
pour them into me?"

"Shore."

Like most moldies  now, Cobb had  his alla embedded  inside his flesh.
Without moving a muscle, he projected out a mesh and alla-made a shiny
gray magnetic bottle of quantum dots. Randy held up the little  bottle
to the light, checking the meter.

"You want the full terawatt, Cobb?"

"You know it," said Cobb, growing a funnel up out of his chest.  Randy
poured  the glittering  dust of  the quantum  dots into  the old  man
moldie. "Thanks," said Cobb. "That  helps; but I've just about  had it
with this planet. People  are so —Did my  stink-eater bug catch on  at
least?"

"It did," said Randy. "Big-time. People and moldies are get-tin' along
better all  the taahm.  It's just  the men  fighting each other that's
ruining things. As for  me personally —I got  such a good thing  goin'
with  Babs I  can't hardly  remember what  I used  to see  in bein'  a
cheeseball. Leave Cobb alone, Willa Jean, run on inside." Randy pushed
Willa Jean away from Cobb  and toward the warehouse door.  "Everyone's
grateful to you, Cobb. But what's  this about you bein' tired? We  was
expectin' you to run for mayor."

"No," said Cobb. "I'm ready  to move further on. Politics  should die.
Politics used to be  about dividing up scarce  resources—and nothing's
scarce anymore. With the allas here, politics is just about hatred and
war. Want  to know  why I'm  so bummed  all of  a sudden? Guess what I
heard on my uvvy just as I touched down? People have started  throwing
kiloton bombs."

"Nukes?" asked Randy. "I thought—"

"Conventional explosives," said Cobb. "If  you ask it to, an  alla can
make you a thousand ton cube  of TNT. Some people just realized.  Most
of  downtown  Jerusalem's gone.  And  now I'm  hearing"  —Cobb sighed.
"Baghdad too."

"We should block the allas from making weapons," said Randy.

"But what's a  weapon?" said Cobb.  "Gasoline is a  weapon. Oxygen and
hydrogen. Acid. Even a  rock is a weapon  if you drop it  from high in
the sky. I think  we should tell the  Metamartians to tell Om  to take
away the allas."

"I  saw their  saucer in  the sky  over Oakland  earlier today,"  said
Randy.  "And then  they darted  away. I  bet they  were going  to the
Mideast. Jerusalem and Baghdad got flattened?"

"Yes," said Cobb.

"What should I do?"

"Live your life, however much of it's left for you. Marry Babs."

Yoke. June 1

"Hold  still,"  said Joke,  leaning  forward to  touch  up Yoke's  eye
makeup. The  twin sisters  had always  preferred using  each other  to
using  mirrors. "There,"  said Joke.  "Perfect." She  leaned back  and
smiled.  The  two of  them  were in  a  bridal dressing  room  off the
Fairmont  Hotel's  top-floor  ballroom. It  was  almost  time for  the
wedding. Yoke  could hear  music; Saint  and some  of his friends were
brain-playing ancient flute motets on sheets of imipolex—with hints of
heavy metal. "I'm glad we're doing this on Earth," said Joke. "It's so
pretty down here. If only  things don't keep getting worse.  The heavy
gravity is good for a ceremony. It makes everything seem solemn." Joke
moved her arms in slow, marching motions. "Are you stoked?"

"You like Phil, don't you, Joke?"

"He's great. That blond hair and dark chin—yummy. And he looks at  you
like he's so in love. Emul  and Berenice approve too." Thanks to  some
unfortunate  wetware  meddling,  Joke had  been  born  with two  pushy
robots' minds coded  into the right  hemisphere of her  brain. It made
her very knowledgeable, but  her spatial perception was  lousy. "They,
um, did some research on him."

"Do I want to know?" asked Yoke.

"It's  all good,"  said Joke.  "Emul says  Phil has  a clean  criminal
record and he's exactly  who he says he  is. And Berenice says  Phil's
genome is not only mutation-free, but a very good fit for ours. I mean
yours. So I wanted to tell you. Sorry."

"Oh,  it  doesn't matter,"  said  Yoke. "I've  abandoned  any hope  of
privacy—at least for today. What a circus."

"And here comes the clown!" said Yoke. A hard-looking man was  peeking
in the dressing room door. Their father, Whitey Mydol. He had a Mohawk
strip of hair  that went down  the back of  his head and  continued on
into his shirt  collar. And over  the shirt he  was wearing a  tuxedo.
"I'll go check on Ma," said Joke,  and moved out of the way; the  tiny
dressing room was only big enough for two people.

"Clown  is  right,"  said  Whitey,  his  rough  face  splitting  in  a
surprisingly pleasant smile. "I'm walking funny. How many days did  it
take you to get used to this gravity, Yoke?"

"Three, four weeks. Hi, Pop. How do I look?"

"You look — oh, Yoke, you look  like an angel. You remind me of  Darla
—back when. She  says our twenty-fifth  anniversary is coming  up this
month."

"Are you being nice to her, Pop?"

"What a question!"  Whitey shifted uneasily,  looking too big  for the
tiny, white-upholstered  bride's room.  "Don't worry  about us,  Yoke,
things are better. I was bad,  but I'm being good again. Anyway,  it's
me who should be asking you things. Like are you totally sure you want
to marry Phil? I can  get you out of it  if you want." He cracked  his
scarred knuckles as if thinking about a fight.

"I'm doing this," said Yoke firmly. "Are you with me or not?"

"For sure." Whitey ran his hand back and forth over his head, fluffing
his Mohawk. This was the first  time Yoke had ever seen him  wearing a
shirt and suit coat, let alone a tuxedo. "I just thought it's the kind
of thing  a father's  supposed to  ask. Phil's  a good  man. And we've
already paid for the room." He gave a grim chuckle. 'Might as well  do
it, then, before  some dook sets  off a bomb.  How do we  know when to
march up the aisle?"

"When the music changes." And then it did.

" 'Here Comes the Bride,' " said Whitey, holding out his arm.

In the little hallway, they found Babs and Stahn, coming out of  their
own dressing room. While Yoke's dress was a sleek sheath of silk  with
a tulle veil, Babs had gone "smart art"; her dress and hair were alive
with slowly moving pearl DIM heads.

The Fairmont owners had alla-remodeled the top-floor hall-room with  a
gorgeous parquet wood floor and white silk-covered walls winking  with
little diamonds.  There were  dozens of  floor-to-ceiling windows, all
flung wide-open to let in the gentle June breeze. The sweetness of  it
caught in  Yoke's throat.  If only  the world  could stop its downward
spiral. Five more cities had been blown up in the past four weeks.

The chairs were arranged so that the ballroom's aisle was double wide;
that way Yoke,  Whitey, Babs, and  Stahn could walk  up side by  side,
with  nobody first  and nobody  second. Waiting  up in  front by  the
windows were Randy and Phil, standing on either side of—Cobb Anderson.

It had developed that  none of the four  betrothed had a close  enough
church affiliation to  know of a  particular minister to  use. So Cobb
had  quickly  picked  up  a  gimmie  justice-of-the-peace  license and
offered to perform the ceremony himself. The old man moldie claimed he
was tired, but he still loved to put himself at the center of  things.
Randy was thrilled to be getting married by his great-grandfather, and
Babs didn't mind.  As for Yoke  and Phil, they  too were glad  to have
Cobb supervise this religious ceremony—for  had not each of the  three
seen the same Divine SUN?

Though it was a  beautiful service, the time  seemed to pass in  funny
spurts. Everything was crawling while they were walking up the  aisle.
This was the part Yoke had always visualized as a little girl thinking
about  weddings. Walking  up the  aisle in  your bridal  gown. It  was
almost as if she could feel her own eyes watching her. The man at  the
end of the aisle had always been vague, but now, today, he was  clear.
Dear Phil.  Then things  speeded up,  and suddenly  Yoke and Phil were
saying "I will" and "I do." Time all but stopped for the ring part and
the kiss. Phil had a brand-new ring for Yoke, which was good. Babs and
Randy's vows  happened in  fast-forward; Yoke  didn't hear  a word  of
them. And then  they were walking  out in slow  motion and it  felt to
Yoke like something she had done a hundred times before.

The waiters cleared the chairs away  and set out big tables that  they
filled with alla-made food; Phil and Babs had made up the designs  for
the wedding feast. Darla  was one of the  first to hug Yoke,  and then
Whitey and Joke. And then Yoke hugged Randy and Babs.

"We're married," laughed  Babs. "It's going  to be so  fun." But there
was a shrill edge to her gaiety. Disaster was stalking them all.

Everyone was there. Yoke's bridesmaid was Joke, of course, and  Babs's
was her art-gallery friend Kundry Asiz. Saint was Phil's best man, and
Corey Rhizome served as Randy's.

Randy and Corey had taken quite  a liking to each other over  the last
couple of weeks. One thing they had in common was that they were  both
really into garage-style limpware engineering. Corey even helped  Yoke
to finally get her imipolex coral working. Yoke's new thing this  week
was growing her reefs in air instead of water; she'd started using DIM
gnats  for  the  polyps.  In fact  yesterday  she'd  grown  a fabulous
organic-looking headboard for her and Phil's bed. It was a struggle to
keep on doing things, with the murders and battles and bombing getting
worse every day. But love  and art still mattered; yes,  they mattered
more than hate and war.

The older generation at the  wedding party included Darla and  Whitey,
Stahn and  Wendy, Randy's  father Willy  Taze, Phil's  mother Eve, and
even Phil's stepmother Willow. Phil's Uncle Rex was there too, as well
as his grandmother Isolde and  his great-aunt Hildegarde, who had  the
most astonishing face. They all  thought Yoke was wonderful, and  said
they'd known she was perfect for Phil when they'd seen him talking  to
her at poor Kurt's  funeral. Oh, and Randy's  new aunt Delia Taze  had
turned up from San Diego, mainly  to see Willy. Delia had brought  her
mother along, seventy-nine-year-old  Use, a bit  wobbly and sour,  but
Cobb Anderson's daughter nonetheless. Cobb was overwhelmed to see her.

Among the younger guests, Terri and  Tre Dietz had come up from  Santa
Cruz with their kids  Dolf and Wren, who  were loving it. In  honor of
the happy day—and who knew how many more happy days there would be?  —
Randy  and  the  Dietzes   even  made  friends,  with   apologies  and
forgiveness all around. In fact  little Wren was on the  floor playing
with  Randy's  plastic chicken  Willa  Jean. Aarbie  Kidd  hadn't been
invited, but  Theodore was  there with  a leather  biker as  his date.
Derek and his dog Umberto had  come with Kundry. There were plenty  of
others as well; in fact at the last minute, Yoke's friends Kandie  and
Cocole had even turned up from the Moon, they said they'd been wanting
to visit Earth anyway, so why not now, before it was all blown up.

There were even a  few moldies among the  guests. Phil had asked  Isis
Snooks, who'd been such a help  with his blimps, and Isis had  brought
along the flashy Thutmosis as her date. Wendy and Cobb each had a  few
moldie friends, and they were there too. Thanks to the stinkeater bug,
mixing with moldies wasn't much of  a problem anymore, so long as  you
had an open mind.

People were drinking champagne like there'd be no tomorrow,  jabbering
away like magpies, everyone jumping  at every loud noise. In  the last
month, Dakar, Hamburg, Hong Kong, Belfast, Antwerp, and Paris had been
hit by enormous bombs. Allas had repaired the buildings, but a lot  of
people had died. And just yesterday New York City had been bombed too.
Everyone was on edge, waiting for  the next thing to happen. And  then
it did.

"A flying saucer!" screamed Phil's  mother, Eve. "Look out, Phil!  Oh,
what if they've come for you again!"

The  saucer hanging  outside the  ballroom windows  was a  traditional
metal disk with a dome in the middle. The Metamartians' ship.

"They can help us!" shouted Randy. "They can take away the allas!"

The frames and sashes of the windows quivered as if water were passing
over them, and then the saucer had slid through the wall and into  the
ballroom. It rested there, cocked a bit toward one side, just  fitting
between floor and ceiling. A  radial line appeared along the  curve of
the central  dome, and  then a  pie-shaped sector  of the curved metal
slid open. Out came eight figures: the seven Metamartians from before,
plus a new one, a gray little shape like a bald girl with big, almond
shaped eyes.

Yoke sniffed  at the  air—yes, there  was the  scent of  old-fashioned
moldies. The Metamartians hadn't yet caught the stinkeater bug.

"We are  here to  salute the  nuptials," said  Shimmer, holding up her
hands and making soothing gestures. "Please remain calm, dear friends.
We come in peace, seeking your aid. I am Shimmer from Metamars, and my
companions are Ptah, Peg, Josef, Siss, Wubwub, Haresh. As many of  you
know, it is we and our god Om who have brought mankind and moldies the
alla. And our gift has been mediated by these four whose marriages you
celebrate today: Yoke,  Phil, Randy, and  Babs. We too  have a blessed
event to rejoice  in: the birth  of our sevenfold  daughter Lova." The
gray little Lova bent  her mouth up into  a U-shaped smile and  bowed,
making flowing gestures with her long-fingered hands.

"Skip the bullshit  and take away  the fucking allas!"  yelled Willow.
"They're ruining our world and you know it!"

"She's right," called Randy. "Tell Om to take the allas away!"

"Please, Om!"  shouted Babs.  "The allas  are wrong  for us. We aren't
ready."

Lova bowed again.

"She's  butt-ugly," said  Yoke, all  her tension  rushing out  into a
sudden guffaw. "They're making fun of us."

"Careful," said Darla,  coming up behind  Yoke. "They're going  to ask
for something  big. It's  like in  a fairy  tale. The  witches at  the
princess's wedding."

"You right, Darla," said Wubwub. "But  what we after is no big  thing:
we need help gettin' outta here is all. We don't know which way to  go
toward two-dimensional time. And we got the notion one of you can help
us. How 'bout it, Phil?"

Yoke threw her arms around Phil. "You leave him alone!"

"Wait!" said Phil, digging in his  pocket. "Maybe it's this thing —  "
He pulled out his little black  ball with the bright spots inside  it.
"Is this what you need, Wubwub? The fishbowl thing I got from Om? It's
a star map, isn't it? Turn off the allas and use the star map to go."

"It's a map, but  it ain't gonna help  us none," said Wubwub,  showing
his crooked, yellow teeth in a long smile. "But let me see it anyhow."

"Throw it to him, Phil!" said Yoke. "Don't let him come near you!"

So Phil tossed his little ball, and Wubwub caught it. The Metamartians
pressed forward to peer at  it, and the beetle Josef  actually crawled
around upon it.

"Yes, Om already gave me one  of these through my alla," said  Shimmer
shortly. "It's a star map, but it's of no use. It only shows your part
of the cosmos. Your map shows your zone, and we have another map  that
shows our zone, the good part of the cosmos with two-dimensional time.
But there's no master map that shows the interdimensional  connection.
We can't find the passage,  and we can't understand Om's  explanations
of where it is."

There was an explosion somewhere outside, not too terribly distant.  A
few of the guests screamed.

"Turn off the allas right now!"  cried Yoke. "Can't you see they're  a
disaster?"

"We can  ask Om  to do  it," said  Ptah quietly.  "In fact Om can even
disactualize all  of the  bombs and  weapons that  people's allas have
made. Turn them back into air. All this can happen — provided that one
of you will  help us on  our way. It's  your ability to  dream that we
need, you  see. Human  dreaming is  a rudimentary  reaching out toward
two-dimensional time. If  one of you  comes with us  as we travel  out
across your galaxy, then we can watch this person repeatedly sleep and
dream—and we'll be able  to sniff our way  out toward the fat  part of
time. We need a harbor pilot,  in other words. A native guide.  So how
about it, Phil? You can bring Yoke if you like."

A  sudden  mesh  of  alla-control  lines  appeared  around  the  seven
Metamartians. It was Whitey, standing at Yoke's side, holding out  his
alla and trying to turn the aliens into air. But at the instant Whitey
said "Actualize," each  of the aliens  hopped off to  one side. Whitey
accomplished nothing more than turning some air into air.

"Senseless violence,"  said Shimmer.  "How typical.  What's the matter
with you men  anyway? We've been  trying to calm  things down, but  it
seems to  be hopeless.  All we're  asking today  is that  an Earthling
accompany us as we move on. We want to take one of you who knows us  a
little bit.  If we  simply abduct  some random  human, they'll  be too
frightened to help us.  And not everyone can  dream in the right  way.
Phil's our first choice because  his dreams are just right.  Om's been
looking through  people's memories.  Those mountains  you always dream
about, Phil — they point toward two-dimensional time."

"I can dream as well as Phil can," said Cobb, his voice loud and firm.
"I dream about mountains all the time. Leave the young folks alone."

"The great old man," said Peg.

"He not human," said Siss.

"Yes he  is," said  Shimmer, cocking  her head  as if  listening to an
inner voice. "In fact,  Om says he'll be  fine. She hadn't thought  to
look  before, but  her records  show that  Cobb's dreams  are just  as
useful Phil's."

"Moldies dream?" Darla whispered to Yoke. "I didn't know that."

"Of course we do," said Isis Snooks, overhearing. "What did you  think
we were?  Machines? I'm  glad Cobb  is doing  this. It'll  get us some
xoxxin' respect."

"Come  aboard,  Cobb,"  Ptah  was  saying.  "We'll  fly  to  the outer
atmosphere and power up to just below the speed of light.

Once we get  enough readings, we'll  chirp into personality  waves and
really be on our way. We'll show you how."

"If I come, will Om turn off the allas?" asked Cobb.

"Om is ready to  do that," said Shimmer.  "By now she has  collected a
complete  enough  set of  human  memories. She'll  remember  your race
forever. She only  hopes you don't  feel you've been  cheated once the
allas are gone. But the constant killing and the explosions — "

"I suppose we're too primitive," said Babs sadly.

"It's  not just  that," said  Josef. "It's  that one-dimensional  time
isn't a good  place for realware.  Some of your  bombings weren't even
deliberate.  Apparently  people  have  started  setting  off  bombs by
accident in their dreams. The more that people worry about bombs,  the
more bombs  there will  be. Your  human dreaming  is a risky business.
Although Metamartians don't dream, we've occasionally had runaway alla
misuse,  our own  epidemics of  mass hysteria.  But for  us a  global
disaster doesn't much matter—because we have so many strands of  time.
No, I'm  afraid that  at this  stage of  your culture,  and with  your
uncontrolled dreaming, your single line of time is simply too  fragile
for the allas. You do well to want Om to take them away."

"Then it's a deal," said Cobb.  "I'll come with you and dream  the way
toward  two-dimensional  time. And  you'll  ask Om  to  take away  the
allas."

The Metamartians were silent for a moment, communing with Om.

"Everyone sure they  don't want no  more alla?" called  Wub-wub. There
was another explosion outside, this time closer than before. "Om wants
to know."

"No more alla!" screamed the crowd.

"Hurry up," cried Yoke.  "Do it now!  And have Om  take away the  alla
made weapons like Shimmer said she could."

"So be it," said Ptah.

Yoke  felt  a wriggling  in  the pouch  at  her waist.  Her  alla, and
everyone else's,  was gone.  The air  filled with  a palpable sense of
safety and ease. The people and moldies laughed and hugged each other.

"Lez go, boss," said Wubwub to Cobb. "Know what I'm sayin'?"

"Oh, Cobb," said Yoke, kissing the old man moldie.

"It's fine," said Cobb. "I've hung around Earth long enough."

"It would be easy for me to use your software to make a new one of you
to live here," Willy told Cobb. "We have your software stored on an S
cube."

"Please don't do  that," said Cobb.  "I don't want  anyone bringing me
back  to  Earth  again.  I'm  done  here.  I'll  travel  on  with  the
Metamartians, but when this trip plays out, I want to finally make  it
into the SUN."

"He's right," said Yoke. "Cobb deserves his chance to go to Heaven."

"Good-bye everyone," said Cobb. "And bless you, my children."

He strode  up into  the saucer  with the  Metamartians. The hotel wall
wavered again, and the flashing  disk of the saucer vanished  into the
heavens.

It was a perfect day. The newlyweds' eyes were soft, their kisses wet,
their hearts free, the big world real.

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