Evelyn E. Smith Super Pack

By Evelyn E. Smith

Here in one massive volume is the most complete collection of Evelyn E. Smith’s work to date. It contains twenty seven stories and more than 500 pages of wonderfully written Golden Age fantasy and science fiction filled with hours and hours of reading enjoyment! If you enjoyed this book, you’ll want to search on “Positronic Super Pack” and check out all our other Super Packs!

Tea Tray in the Sky
Not Fit for Children
Nightmare on the Nose
Call Me Wizard
The Laminated Woman
Collector’s Item
The Vilbar Party
Helpfully Yours
The Big Jump
Man’s Best Friend
The Princess and the Physicist
The Doorway
Jack of No Trades
The Venus Trap
Mr. Replogle’s Dream
The Lady from Aldebaran
The Ignoble Savages
Once a Greech
The Most Sentimental Man
The Man Outside
The Weegil
The Blue Tower
My Fair Planet
Two Suns of Morcali
The People Upstairs
The Alternate Host
Sentry of the Sky

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilder Publications, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781515450023

Evelyn E. Smith

Evelyn E. Smith (25 July 1922 – 4 July 2000) was an American writer of science fiction and mysteries, as well as a compiler of crossword puzzles.

Book preview

Evelyn E. Smith Super Pack

by Evelyn E. Smith

©2021 Positronic Publishing

Evelyn E. Smith Super Pack is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or institutions is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

Hardcover ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5000-9

Trade Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5001-6

E-book ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-5002-3

Table of Contents

The Positronic Super Pack eBook Series

Tea Tray in the Sky

Not Fit for Children

Nightmare on the Nose

Call Me Wizard

The Laminated Woman

Collector’s Item

The Vilbar Party

Helpfully Yours

The Big Jump

Man’s Best Friend

The Princess and the Physicist

The Doorway

Jack of No Trades

The Venus Trap

Mr. Replogle’s Dream

The Lady from Aldebaran

The Ignoble Savages

Once a Greech

The Most Sentimental Man

The Man Outside

The Weegil

The Blue Tower

My Fair Planet

Two Suns of Morcali

The People Upstairs

The Alternate Host

Sentry of the Sky

The Positronic Super Pack eBook Series

If you enjoyed this Super Pack you may wish to find the other books in this series. We endeavor to provide you with a quality product. But since many of these stories have been scanned, typos do occasionally creep in. If you spot one please share it with us at [e-mail] so that we can fix it. We occasionally add additional stories to some of our Super Packs, so make sure that you download fresh copies of your Super Packs from time to time to get the latest edition.

PSP #1) Fantasy Super Pack #2 978-1-51540-655-6

(PSP #2) Fantasy Super Pack #2 978-1-51540-655-6

(PSP #3) Conan the Barbarian Super Pack ISBN 978-1-63384-292-2

(PSP #4) Science Fiction Super Pack #1 ISBN 978-1-63384-240-3

(PSP #5) Science Fiction Super Pack #2 ISBN 978-1-51540-477-4

(PSP #6) Lord Dunsany Super Pack ISBN 978-1-63384-725-5

(PSP #7) Philip K. Dick Super Pack ISBN 978-1-63384-799-6

(PSP #8) The Pirate Super Pack # 1 ISBN 978-1-51540-193-3

(PSP #9) The Pirate Super Pack # 2 ISBN 978-1-51540-196-4

(PSP #10) Harry Harrison Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-217-6

(PSP #11) Andre Norton Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-262-6

(PSP #12) Marion Zimmer Bradley Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-287-9

(PSP #13) Frederik Pohl Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-289-3

(PSP #14) King Arthur Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-306-7

(PSP #15) Science Fiction Novel Super Pack #1 ISBN: 978-1-51540-363-0

(PSP #16) Alan E. Nourse Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-393-7

(PSP #17) Space Science Fiction Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-440-8

(PSP #18) Wonder Stories Super Pack ISBN 978-1-51540-454-5

(PSP #19) Galaxy Science Fiction Super Pack #1 ISBN 978-1-51540-524-5

(PSP #20) Galaxy Science Fiction Super Pack #2 ISBN 978-1-5154-0577-1

(PSP #21) Weird Tales Super Pack #1 ISBN: 978-1-5154-0548-1

(PSP #22) Weird Tales Super Pack #2 ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-107-9

(PSP #23) Poul Anderson Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-51540-609-9

(PSP #24) Fantastic Universe Super Pack #1 ISBN: 978-1-5154-0-981-6

(PSP #25) Fantastic Universe Super Pack #2 ISBN: 978-1-5154-0-654-9

(PSP #26) Fantastic Universe Super Pack #3 ISBN: 978-1-5154-0-655-6

(PSP #27) Imagination Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-089-8

(PSP #28) Planet Stories Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-125-3

(PSP #29) Worlds of If Super Pack #1 ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-148-2

(PSP #30) Worlds of If Super Pack #2 ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-182-6

(PSP #31) Worlds of If Super Pack #3 ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-234-2

(PSP #32) The Dragon Super Pack 978-1-5154-1-124-6

(PSP #33) Fritz Leiber Super Pack #1 ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-847-4

(PSP #34) Wizard of Oz Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-1-872-6

(PSP #35) The Vampire Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-3-954-7

(PSP #36) The Doctor Dolittle Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4-296-7

(PSP #37) Charles Boardman Hawes Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4-384-1

(PSP #38) The Edgar Wallace Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4-387-2

(PSP #39) Inspector Gabriel Hanaud Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4-385-8

(PSP #40) Tarzan Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4497-8

(PSP #41) Algis Budry Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4496-1

(PSP #42) Max Brand Western Super Pack ISBN 978-1-63384-841-2

(PSP #43) R. A. Lafferty Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4504-3

(PSP #44) Keith Laumer Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4511-1

(PSP #45)  Robert F. Young Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4638-5

(PSP #46)  Planet Stories Super Pack #2 ISBN: 978-1-5154-4672-9

(PSP #47)  Leigh Brackett Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4707-8

(PSP #48)  Ray Bradbury Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-4994-2

(PSP #49 )  Evelyn E. Smith Super Pack ISBN: 978-1-5154-5002-3

Tea Tray in the Sky

Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!

The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled apathetically in a chair.

Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. In need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it’s not expensive. And they swear by it on Meropé.

A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan clog.

I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the Brotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.

Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.

Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal behavior, I have been a Brother.

Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a Brotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over a female?

Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when he entered.

The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved over the death of your mother.

Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its lisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.

No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the few blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.

Horror contorted his fellow traveller’s plump features. Be careful, young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someone as broad-minded as I, but others aren’t. You might be reported for violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.

An Earth tabu?

Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in the entire United Universe. You should have known that.

*

Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself, with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before that wars arose from not understanding one’s fellows, not sympathizing with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no differences, and hence no wars.

Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar systems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths of Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute).

Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any reason for the Lodge’s existence, any reason for a group of humans to retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had, perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one’s face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the past—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?

The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledged Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you’ve achieved your majority, and you won’t be thirty for another five years. Why don’t you spend some time outside and see how you like it?

Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he’d know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.

*

A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba.

Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.

The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn’t want that, would we?

Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.

And it might hurt the advertiser’s feelings, cause him ego injury.

How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured, abashed.

Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here’s my card. He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.

My name’s Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly. I’m afraid I don’t have any cards.

Well, you wouldn’t have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you’ve just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you’ll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn’t understand. You know what the sacred writings say: ‘Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.’ I’d be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands....

Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?

Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn’t you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?

Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what’s that got to do with me?

The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here.

But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested, with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.

Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?

Of course not, but—

Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?

Certainly not, but—

Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—"intolerance?"

"No, no, no! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lots of gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I’ll put some on right away."

*

With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.

Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A, and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.

Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"

Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.

The quality’s high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids, "but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."

The salesman patted Michael’s shoulder. You staying a while in Portyork? Michael nodded. Then you’d better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can’t run around loose by yourself until you’ve acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you’ll get into trouble.

Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It’s very kind of you.

He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenient arrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don’t have seats.

Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms.

Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn’t get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?

Dozens of them. Haven’t you heard the Sirians singing?

A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.

Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad.

Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen.

*

Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius....

Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn’t it?

Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something?

Oh, no; they wouldn’t have been permitted on the bus if they were. They’re just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That’s why they leave Sirius in such great numbers.

Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway. We’re coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning.

All the passengers cheered.

Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering.

Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.

The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green.

Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man. The Universe is expanding every minute.

The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.

Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.

The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man.

*

Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?

Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I’d like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn’t have any breakfast and I’m famished. Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece.

Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner. Don’t you know that on Theemim it’s frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?

But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What’s wrong with eating in public here on Earth?

Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man’s mouth. Hush, he cautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don’t do or even mention in public, aren’t there?

Well, yes. But those are different.

Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians’. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: ‘Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.’

But I’m still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?

Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field.

After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.

That’s the nearest one, Carpenter explained.

*

Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped.

A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair.

Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.

Let’s go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be of great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself.

A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of the tour he offered:

Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor.

If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica.

Movid stars go to Mars.

Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We’re staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.

"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi."

Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won’t cost you nuttin’—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza.

All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth.

Couldn’t we—couldn’t we walk? At least part of the way? Michael faltered.

Carpenter stared. Walk! Don’t you know it’s forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk.

But they have no feet.

That has nothing whatsoever to do with it.

*

Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab...which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver’s heart if he thought you didn’t like it. You wouldn’t want to be had up for ego injury, would you?

Of course not, Michael whispered weakly.

Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informed him, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara.

After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.

You’ll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?

Very quaint, Michael commented.

Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular....

I shall scream, stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more....No, thank the Wise Ones, I’ve never heard this before."

Thuban, Thuban, I’ve been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea.

I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslike manner, is to get myself a room at a hotel....What have I said now?

"The word hotel, Carpenter explained through pursed lips, is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."

Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging.

That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one’s family.

They’re a sort of ant, aren’t they? The Zaniahans, I mean.

More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "—alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you’ll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."

*

The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.

This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn’t really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn’t true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.

The pictures in my history books— Michael began.

Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."

Please don’t! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.

Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble.

He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.

I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. Never mention the word ‘history’ in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven’t any history at all. Naturally, they’re sensitive in the extreme about it.

Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it’s all over here, too.

Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised. It’s July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven’t even got their Mother’s Week shrines cleared away.

*

A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.

Izarians, Carpenter explained They’re much in demand for Christmas displays.

The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven’s All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial....Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble’s.

This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—

Listen, could we— Michael began.

—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—

By the way—

It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, to interrupt anyone who is speaking.

But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed. If I might.

The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it’s more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know.

A taxi? Isn’t there one closer?

Ah, impatient youth! There aren’t too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive.

They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.

Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire.

Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby. "Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor.A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right.B group, fourteenth floor left.C group, fifteenth floor right.D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."

Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps, a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreign planets are strange and we’re subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind’s eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.

The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:

Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let’s not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there’s deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa.

*

And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn’t count credits and ally yourself beneath your station.

Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.

They won’t be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?

Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?

The young man blushed. Well, I’m thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.

Carpenter beamed. That’s nice; you’re being adopted! I do hope it’s an Earth family that’s chosen you—it’s so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials.

Oh, no! I’m planning to have my own. That is, I’ve got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I’d send for her and we’d get married and....

"Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn’t use that word! Don’t you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn’t wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?"

Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.

Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination. This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn’t have a kind heart, I would report you.

Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You mean if I bring my girl here, I’d have to share her?

Certainly. And she’d have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is.

Then I’m not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don’t think I like it, anyhow. I’m going back to the Brotherhood.

There was a short cold silence.

You know, son, Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right. I don’t want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won’t hurt your feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.

You won’t hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.

Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It’s much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are.

Much better, Michael agreed.

By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?

Michael laughed. Oh, ‘Brotherhood’ is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society.

On Talitha— Carpenter began.

I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. But our females don’t mind being generic.

*

A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.

When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.

The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.

The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.

I see you’re back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It’s not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it.

I’m back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I’m back! And a loud sneer to civilization!

Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a rural area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain’t a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization.

The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?

Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.

Not Fit for Children

Trading with the natives was like taking candy from a kid—but which were the natives?

Ppon lowered himself hastily to the orlop and ran toward me. Hurry up, Qan! he projected on a sub-level, trying to escape my mother’s consciousness. They’re coming! All the others are up already.

Who’s coming? my mother wanted to know, but her full interest was absorbed by her work, and she gave us only the side of her mind. You youngsters really must learn to think clearly.

Yes’m. Ppon projected suitable youthful embarrassment, but on a lower level he was giggling. Later I must give him another warning; we young ones could not yet separate the thought channels efficiently, so it was more expedient not to try.

"The zkuchi are coming, I lied glibly, knowing that the old ones accept inanity as merely a sign of immaturity, on hundreds of golden wings that beat faster than light."

Grandfather removed a part of his mind from his beloved work. "The zkuchi are purely mythological creatures, he thought crossly. You’re old enough to know better than that....Qana, he appealed to my mother, why do you let him believe in such nonsense?"

"The zkuchi are part of our cultural heritage, Father, she projected gently. We must not let the young ones forget our heritage. Particularly if we are to be here for some time."

It seems to me you’re unnecessarily pessimistic, he complained. You know I’ve never failed you yet. We shall get back, I promise you. It’s just that the transmutation takes time.

But it’s taken such a long time already, she thought sadly. Sometimes I begin to have doubts. Then she apparently remembered that serious matters should not be discussed before us young ones. As if we didn’t know what was going on. Run along and play, children, she advised, but don’t forget to check the atmosphere first.

Grandfather started to excogitate something about how it would be better if Ppon went and helped his father while I stayed and did my lessons—you never seem to escape from lessons anywhere in the Universe—but we got away before he could finish.

*

Topside, the others were jumping up and down in their excitement. Ztul, the half-wit, was so upset he actually spoke: Hurry, Qan, the tourists are coming!

"Ztul, you must never, never make words aloud! I thought fiercely. The old ones might hear and find out about the game."

It’s a harmless game, Ppon contributed. And useful, too. Your grandfather needs the stuff.

Yes, I agreed, but perhaps the old ones wouldn’t see it that way. They might even stop the game. Adults have funny ideas, and there’s no use asking for trouble.

There was a chorus of assenting thought from the others. All of us had our family troubles.

We got to work. Quickly we arranged the interiors of the shelters which we had cleverly built out of materials borrowed from below when the old ones’ perceptions were directed elsewhere. The essential structure of the materials had not been changed and could easily be replaced when the time came, but there was no use having to give involved explanations. The old ones never seemed to understand anything.

At first we had just built the shelters as play huts, but when the first tourists had misunderstood, we had improved upon the original misconception. Now we had a regular street full of rude dwellings. Lucky for us the old ones never came topside.

As the little spaceship landed, Ppon and I and four of the others were ready at its door to form a welcoming committee. The rest dispersed to play villagers. The others took turns alternating the two roles, but I, of course, was always leader. After all, I’d made up the game.

Two members of the crew dropped lightly out of the ship and slid a ramp into place. Then the passengers—there was a sizable group this time, I noted with satisfaction—came, followed by Sam, the guide, a grizzled old human. He grinned at us. We were old friends, for he’d been leading these tours for ten of their Earth years.

The passengers stopped at the foot of the ramp and Sam ran forward to face them. By now we were used to the appearance of the human beings—small, binocular, with smooth, pasty skins—although they had really frightened us when we first laid eyes on them.

*

Now, you see, folks, Sam bellowed through his megaphone, the scientists don’t know everything. They said life could not exist out here in the Asteroid Belt—and, behold, life! They said these little planets were too small, had too little gravity to hold an atmosphere. But you just breathe in that air, as pure and fresh and clean as the atmosphere of our own Earth! Speaking of gravity, you’ll notice that we’re walking, not floating. Matter of fact, you’ll notice it’s even a little hard to walk; you seem a bit heavier than at home. And they said there would be hardly any gravity. No, folks, those scientists know a lot of things, I won’t deny that, but they sure don’t know everything.

Amazing! a small, bespectacled male passenger said. I can hardly believe my own senses!

Watch out for him, Ppon projected to me. I think he’s a scientist of some kind.

Don’t teach your ancestor to levitate, I conceptualized back.

Of course what struck the passengers first was neither the atmosphere nor the gravity; it was us. They never failed to be surprised, although the travel folders should have shown them what to expect. One of the folders had a picture of me, amusingly crude and two-dimensional, it’s true, but not entirely unflattering. I’m not really purple, just a sort of tender fuchsia, but what could you expect from the rudimentary color processes they used? Sam had let me have the original and I always wished I could show it to Mother, but I couldn’t without having to explain where it had come from.

They’re so cute! a thin female screamed. Almost like big squirrels, really, except for all those arms. Her teeth protruded more than those of the small rodent she was thinking about, or than mine, for that matter.

Be careful, ma’am, the guide warned her. They speak English.

They do? How clever of them. Why, they must be quite intelligent, then.

They are of a pretty high order of intelligence, the guide agreed, "although their methods of reasoning have always baffled scientists. Somehow they seem to sense scientists, think of them as their enemies, and just clam up entirely."

I think they’re just simply too cute, she said, gazing at me fondly.

"Ah, srrk yourself, madam," I excogitated, confident that humans were non-telepathic.

*

She looked a little disturbed, though; I’d better watch myself. After all, as leader I had to set a good example.

This here is Qan, the guide introduced me. Headman or chief or something of the tribe. He is always on hand to greet us.

Welcome, travelers from a distant star, I intoned, wrapping my mother’s second-best cloak more impressively about me, "to the humble land of the Gchi. Come in peace, go in peace."

Why, he speaks excellent English, the scientist exclaimed.

They pick up things very fast, Sam explained.

Natives can be very, very shrewd, a stout female commented, clutching her handbag tightly.

And now, Sam said, we will visit the rude dwellings of this simple, primitive, but hospitable people.

"People! Ppon projected. You better mind your language, Buster! People, indeed!"

Our friend Qan will lead the way. Sam waved toward me.

I smiled back at him, but didn’t move.

Whatsa matter? he hissed. Don’t you trust me? Your old pal Sam?

No, I whispered back. Last time I let you pay me at the end of the tour, the take was $3.75 short.

He tried another tack. But look, Qan, it’s a hell of a job getting all those coins together. Why can’t you take paper money instead?

What good would paper money do me up here?

What I can’t figure out is what good the metal does you up here, either.

I beamed. We eat it.

Muttering to himself, he walked over to the ship and called one of the crewmen. They dragged a bag out of the ship’s hold. Puffing, they laid it at my feet. I tossed it to Ztul.

Count it, I ordered out loud, and if there’s any missing, no one leaves this planet alive. I snarled ferociously.

Everybody laughed. It was part of the act.

You will notice, Sam announced as we led the way down the street, "that the Gchi are all about the same size. No young ones among them. We don’t know whether this is because they reproduce differently from us, or because they have concealed their offspring."

The children must be dear little creatures, the toothy female gushed. If even the adults are cute when they’re seven or eight feet tall, the little ones must be simply precious....Tell me, Chief, do you have any children?

Don’t understand, I grunted. Concept unfamiliar. Not know what children is.

Funny, remarked the scientist, he was speaking perfectly good English before.

Watch yourself, kid, Ppon ideated warningly to me.

Children are... she began and stopped. They’re—well, how do you reproduce?

*

Ppon, the oosh-head, took it upon himself to answer. If you’ll just step into my hut, madam, I’ll be delighted to show you.

If you ask me, the scientist stated, these are frauds.

Whaddya mean frauds? Sam demanded indignantly.

Human beings dressed up as extraterrestrials. They speak too good an English. Their concepts are too much like ours. Their sense of humor is equally vul—too similar.

You and your big mouth! I projected to Ppon.

Look who’s thinking! he excogitated back. I could see I’d have to give him a mind-lashing later.

It was up to me to save the situation. If you would like to examine me more closely, sir, I addressed the scientist, you will see that I am not a human being.

He approached me dubiously.

Closer, I said, looking him in the eye, as I bared my teeth and growled. I have five eyes, sir, and you will notice that I am looking at you with each one of them. I have seven arms, sir— here I reached out to grab him —and you will notice that they are all living tissue.

No, you couldn’t be a human being, he agreed, backing away as soon as I released my grip, but the whole thing is...odd. Very odd.

If anthropologists on Earth can’t explain all the customs of the primitives there, Sam tried to placate him, how can we explain the behavior of extraterrestrials? Let’s go into some of the houses. The chief has kindly given us his permission to look around.

Our houses are your houses, I stated, bowing graciously.

As always, the tourists grew extremely enthusiastic about the furniture in our simple dwellings. What lovely—er—things you have, squirrel-tooth commented. What are they used for?

"Well, the pryu is for the mrach, of course, I explained glibly, and the wrooov is much used for cvrking the budz, although the ywrl is preferred by the less discriminating.

Oh, she said. "How I should love to have one of the—‘wroov’ I think it was you said, for my very own. I wonder whether...."

By a curious coincidence, Hsoj arrived at this point, carrying a tray full of things and stuff.

Artifacts! he shouted. Nice artifacts! Who wants to buy artifacts?

*

All the tourists did. They were pretty good artifacts, if I do say so myself. I’d made them out of the junk I rescued from our dustbins before the disintegration unit got to work. Honestly, I can’t understand how the old ones can complain about our being wasteful and then go and throw away all sorts of perfectly useful things.

You must pay the natives in metal, the guide explained. They accept only coins.

Why? the stout female wanted to know. Do they really eat metal?

I doubt it. One of them ate a couple of pounds of Earth candy a tourist gave him last time and he seemed to enjoy it without ill effects.

Without ill effects! Ppon excogitated. You should have seen Ztul afterward, boy!

Look, Mac. A short fat human offered Hsoj a small silver coin and then five larger brown ones. Which would you rather have?

Them. Hsoj pointed unhesitatingly to the brown coins.

A smile rippled covertly through the tourists.

They’re a simple and child-like people, but really so good-natured, Sam footnoted.

All of us gave simple good-natured smiles as Hsoj accepted the gift of the brown coins.

Keep up the good work, I projected. We can use all the copper we can get.

You like metal, dear? a female asked Hsoj. She unfastened a belt from around her waist. Would you take this in exchange for some of your pretty things?

Say ‘yes,’ I conceptualized. That’s steel. Old and worthless to her, but not to us.

I know, I know, Hsoj ideated impatiently. What makes you think you’re the only one who knows anything?

Never had we got such a big haul before, because everybody seemed to have all sorts of metal stuff on him that he valued less than coins.

Now came the sad part of the spiel. Remember, folks, these simple, honest individuals you see before you are but the scanty remnants of a once-proud race who spanned the skies. For their ancestors must have been godlike indeed to have erected such edifices as that commanding structure over there. Sam pointed to the portable atmosphere machine which was set up several yebil away to give our playground proper air. Once glorious, now fallen into ruin and decay.

"You’re going to catch muh from the old ones, Ppon ideated, when they find out you haven’t been keeping the machine clean."

"Don’t be a silly oosh, I thought back with a mental grin. I’m using the atmosphere machine to create atmosphere."

You’re getting to be as stupid as a human, he thought in disgust.

May we go inside? the scientific passenger asked Sam.

No, indeed, I said hastily. It is our temple, sacred to the gods. No unbeliever may set foot in it.

What are the basic tenets of your religion? the scientist wanted to know.

We do not talk about it, I said with dignity. It is tabu. Bad form.

*

And now, announced the guide, glancing at his watch, we have just time for the war dance before we leave for Vesta.

Against whom are they planning a war? asked a small passenger, turning pale.

It’s a vestigial ritual, Sam explained quickly, dating back to the days when there were other—er—when there was somebody to fight. Just an invocation to the gods...general stuff like that...nothing to be afraid of. Isn’t it so, Qan?

Quite so, I replied, folding all my arms across my mother’s cloak. Come in peace, go in peace. Our motto.

We started the dance. It wouldn’t have got us a passing mark in first grade, where we’d learned it rffi ago, but our version of the dance of the zkuchi was plenty good enough for the tourists.

"If I ever visit Earth, Janna forbid, I thought to Ppon as we executed an intricate caracole, I’m going to wear earplugs all the time."

The dance finished.

Now everybody get together! Sam shouted, clapping his hands to round up his charges. "We are about to leave little Gchik."

"He should only know what gchik means," Ppon sniggered mentally.

"Little Gchik is barren, dying, its past glories all but forgotten, Sam almost sobbed, but still its simple, warm-hearted inhabitants carry on bravely...."

"Couldn’t we do something for them?" suggested the stout female.

Everybody murmured assent. This contingency arose all too often—a result of our being just too lovable.

No one can help us, I said in a deep voice, pulling the cloak over my face. The idzik feathers trimming it tickled like crazy. "We must dree our own weird alone. Besides, the air of Gchik has a deleterious effect upon human beings if they’re exposed to it for longer than four hours."

There was a mad scramble to reach the ship.

Stand by the atmosphere machine, Hsoj, I instructed, to poison a little air in case anybody wants to take a sample.

The scientist actually did, in a little bottle he seemed to have brought along for the purpose; but he got off the asteroid as rapidly as the rest of them, after that.

We watched the spaceship dwindle to a silver mote in the distance.

Whew, Ppon thought, sinking to the surface. That war dance sure takes a lot out of a fellow.

*

Then he conceptualized indignantly as he—as well as the rest of us—floated off the top level. Somebody’s cut the gravity!

Must be Grandfather, I mentalized. I suppose he thinks we’ve been out long enough, so he’s warning us, just as if we were a bunch of infants. I guess we’d better go inside, though. Let’s not forget to turn off the atmosphere, fellows. It uses too much energy and the old ones won’t let us play topside any more.

You know everything, don’t you, Qan? Ppon sneered.

I ignored him. Pretty good haul, I excogitated as I hefted the bags of metal. Here, Ztul, catch!

You always make me carry everything! he complained.

Grandfather caught us as we lowered ourselves from the airlock. I figured he must have been getting suspicious or otherwise he’d never have left his beloved engines.

What’s this you youngsters have? he wanted to know, pouncing on our bags. Metal, eh? I suppose you were going to make another fake meteorite out of it for me, were you?

I thought you wanted metal, Grandfather, I sulked. He could have been more appreciative.

"Certainly I want metal. You know I need it to get the drive working again. But what I want to know is where you got it from. I’d think you stole it, but how could even little muhli like you steal out here in space?"

They have always brought you metal from time to time, Father, Mother projected, coming out as she overthought us. So clever of them, I always thought.

Yes, but I’ve been thinking that their encountering so many meteorites was a singularly curious coincidence. And they were curious meteorites, too. I suppose the young ones made them themselves.

But out of what, Father? You know we don’t have any spare metal on the ship. That’s why you haven’t been able to get the repairs finished before. Where else could they get the metal but from meteorites?

I don’t know where they get their metal from, but certainly not from meteorites. These pieces here are artifacts. Look, the metal has been more or less refined and roughly formed into shapes with crude designs upon them. Tell me the truth, Qan, where did you get these?

Some people gave them to us, I replied sullenly.

People? asked my mother. What are people?

Natives of this solar system. They call themselves people.

Nonsense! my grandfather interjected. It’s just another one of your fantasies. You know what the astronomers say—none of the planets of this little system is capable of supporting life.

They come from the third planet, I persisted, trying to keep from disgracing myself by fllwng in front of the other young ones. There is life there. All of us have seen them. Besides, there is the metal.

My companions chorused agreement.

You see, Father, my mother smiled, stroking my head with three hands, the wise ones are not always right.

*

My grandfather nodded his head slowly. "It is not impossible, I suppose. I hope it is true that these—people gave you and your friends the metal, Qan."

Oh, yes, Grandfather, I thought anxiously. Of their own free will.

Well— he continued, not altogether convinced—this lot should be enough to repair the engines. Perhaps, when we take off, we should have a look at the youngsters’ third planet on the way home.

But this trip has taken such a long time already, Father, my mother protested. "Almost a rff; the young ones have missed nearly two semesters of school. And Qan has been getting some very peculiar ideas—from those people, I suppose."

But if there is some sort of intelligent life, Grandfather thought, it’s our duty to visit it. Next time we need to stop the ship for repairs, it might be more convenient to put in at this third planet instead of just hanging out there in space. And the young ones say the natives seem to be friendly.

I’d like to see Sam’s face when he comes back and finds his ‘asteroid’ gone, I conceptualized.

Yes, Ppon agreed, with the edge of his mind, but his main channel was turned in another direction. "That is the end of this game now, you know. In the next game I shall be leader."

Oh, yes? I thought back. I’m the leader and I’m staying leader, because I am the biggest and cleverest.

Children! my mother protested, distressed. I’m afraid you’ve picked up some really unpleasant concepts from those dreadful natives.

Come, come, Qana, Grandfather ideated, we mustn’t be intolerant.

Perhaps not, she replied with heat, and I know the natives probably don’t know any better, but I am not going to have my young one or anyone else’s contaminated. Visit the third planet if you wish, but not this time. You’ll have to make a special trip for it. I’m not going to let you stop off there while the young ones are aboard. It’s obviously no fit place for children.

Nightmare on the Nose

Incubus won every race but one. Yet though in this respect she matched Man o’ War’s record she wasn’t actually a horse at all.

Every time he lost money at the track Phil Watson had a nightmare. They grew increasingly frequent as his bankroll dwindled and his hopes of getting rich dwindled accordingly.

The night after he had dropped two hundred dollars at Jamaica, the nightmare grew particularly oppressive. In the darkness he could see her red eyes glowing at him as she sat on his chest.

Would you mind not turning over so much? she asked, seeing that he was awake. It makes me uncomfortable.

"It makes you uncomfortable! he moaned. How would you like to have a couple of tons of horse sitting on you?"

I do not weigh a couple of tons! she snapped. And furthermore I assure you I’m sitting on your chest out of duty, certainly not out of pleasure. If you don’t think I have lots better things to do with my nights than go around sitting on people... Her large white teeth gleamed in a significant leer.

He sighed and squirmed again. A sharp hoof kicked him in the side. That’ll learn you not to wiggle, Watson. Since you’re not sleeping, she added, how about a couple of games of Canasta?

I’ve been losing enough on the races—I’m not going to start gambling with a supernatural card shark.

Listen here. The nightmare bristled. I can beat you at any game without the use of supernatural powers. You’re known as the number-one sucker at all the tracks.

That’s right. That’s right. Kick a man when he’s down.

I’m sorry, she apologized. I didn’t mean to be unsporting. But you get me so mad!

Unsporting... he mused—then sat up as a terrific idea hit him.

Watch your step, Watson, the nightmare warned when the sudden movement nearly threw her off the bed. I’ve been standing for a lot from you but—

Listen, can you run?

Run? Whaddya mean run?

How fast can you go?

Well, I’ll be honest with you. Down—where I come from I’m known as ‘Old Slow Poke.’ I can’t move much faster than speed of sound while all the other girls have the velocity of light. But that’s the way it is—some are born with brains and some with speed.

The velocity of sound is good enough, Watson decided. Look here, Nightmare, how’d you like to run in a race?

A race? Then the nightmare chuckled evilly to herself. Oho, I see what you mean! But that wouldn’t be cricket, would it?

Cricket and horse-racing are two distinct sports! Watson stated. Then, alluringly, How’d you like to run down the track five lengths ahead of all the other horses, with the band playing and the crowd cheering? You’d be led into the winner’s circle and they’d drape flowers all over you. People would yell ‘Nightmare, Nightmare!’ You’d be a popular figure, a celebrity. This way nobody knows you. You work at night, alone—unappreciated and unsung...

"That’s so true the nightmare murmured. I really haven’t received the adulation I deserve. Here I’ve done my job faithfully for years, scared thousands of people into fits—and what thanks do I get? None! She sobbed. Other people get all the credit and glory. I just work, work, work like a horse."

If you work for me, Watson said, "you’ll only run a mile or so two or three times a week, get the finest of care and—he pointed out significantly—your nights will be your own."

Watson, the nightmare assured him, I’m sold. When do we start?

It isn’t as easy as all that. Watson rose and paced up and down the room. First of all you’re not in the stud book. We’ll have to forge some papers and pass you off as an Argentinian horse.

"Si, si, señor, said the nightmare, wriggling with pleasure. Hablo muy bien el espanol. El estrivo de mi padre es en el establo de mi madre. Yo soy del Rancho Grande. Olé!"

"It isn’t necessary for you to speak Spanish. As a matter of fact