I rested my head against the solid wallness of it. My hands clenched into fists.

"s.h.i.t!"

And then I said a whole bunch of other words too.

I swore as long as I could without repeating myself, then switched to Spanish and kept on going.

And when I finally wound down, I felt no better than when I had started.

I felt used. Betrayed. And stupid.

I began to pace around the apartment again. I kicked the terminal every time I pa.s.sed it. Useless hunk of junk. I couldn't even use it to call room service.

I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge-it was surprisingly well stocked. But I wasn't hungry. I was angry. I started opening drawers. Someone had thoughtfully removed all of the carving and steak knives.

And swearing didn't do any good anymore. It only left my throat dry. And me feeling foolish. The minute you stop, you start to realize how silly it looks.

What I really wanted to do was get even.

I walked back into the living room of the suite and gave the terminal another kick. A good one-it nearly toppled off the stand, but I caught it in time. And then I found myself wondering why. The d.a.m.n thing wouldn't communicate with me-I didn't owe it any favors.

I shoved it off the stand and onto the floor. It hit with a dull thud.

I picked it up and shook it. It didn't even sound broken.

"I know-" I carried it out to the balcony and threw it over the side.

It bounced and sc.r.a.ped down the sloping side of the building and shattered on the concrete below with a terrifically satisfying smash.

I threw the stand after it. And then a chair.

And a lamp.

And a small table.

The TV screen was bolted to the wall. I hit it with the second chair-it took three tries to smash it-and then threw the chair after its companion.

Bounce, bounce, sc.r.a.pe, slide, crash, smash. Great. What else?

The microwave oven.

The nightstand from the bedroom. Three more chairs.

Two more lamps.

The dining-nook table. A ha.s.sock.

All the hangers from the closet. Most of the towels and sheets.

A king-size mattress and box spring. Those last were particularly difficult.

It was while I was struggling with the box spring that I realized a crowd had gathered below-at a safe distance, of course. They were applauding each new act of destruction. The more outrageous it was, the louder the cheers.

The bedframe and headboard drew a standing ovation.

I wondered what I could do to top it. I began to clean out the kitchen.

All the dishes-they sounded great as they clattered and crashed on the street below-and all the pots and pans.

All the flatware.

The contents of the refrigerator-and the shelves as well. Almost all the bottled water. I opened one for myself and took a long drink. I stood there on the balcony, catching my breath and wondering why n.o.body had come up to stop this rain of terror. I finished the bottle and it too sailed out into the night to shatter somewhere in the darkness below.

I looked back into the apartment. What else? What had I missed?

The bar!

I decided to start with the beer. There was a nearly full keg in a half-fridge under the counter. It clanged and bonged all the way down, exploding in a sudsy fountain when it hit. There were screams from the ones who got drenched.

The half-fridge followed the keg. s.h.i.t! Wasn't anything built in anymore? What kind of lousy workmanship was this anyway? I stopped, arm c.o.c.ked in the act of defenestrating a bottle of scotch.

No. Some things are sacred.

What was it Uncle Moe used to say? Never kill a bottle without saluting it first? Right.

I took a swig and sent it to its death.

There were three bottles of the scotch. I toasted every one. Then I murdered the bourbon. I began to realize that I was going to have to take smaller swigs. This was a very well-stocked bar. I a.s.saulted the rums, both light and dark.

Exterminated the vodka. Executed the gin. Raped the vin rose.

There were fewer shouts coming from below now. Apparently, once I had stopped dropping the big exciting stuff I had lost most of my audience. Well, just as well. Spectacle may be impressive to the unsophisticated, but the real artist works for elegance.

I staggered back and finished off the liqueurs and the brandies. I saved the sherry for last-after all, it was an after-dinner drink. There was a selection of different gla.s.ses on a crystal shelf. They followed the bottles. And so did the shelf.

I prowled around the room, looking for things I'd missed. There wasn't much. I wondered if I could roll up the rug. No-I couldn't. I was having too much trouble standing. Besides, I had to pee first. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. Then I peed.

"How about a shower?" I hiccuped. "Okay," I agreed with myself, and turned the water on. I found a towel that I'd forgotten to throw and some soap. I also found a box of Sober-Ups in the medicine cabinet. No-I wasn't ready to sober up yet. I put them aside.

The shower had terrific acoustics. The resonance was perfect for singing. It was all the encouragement I needed. "When I was a lad in Venusport, I took up the local indoor sport-" I went through the complete librettos of A Double Dose of Love and A Bis.e.xual Built for Two before I ran out of soap.

The nice thing about hotels, though-you never run out of hot water.

But you can't sing without soap. It just doesn't feel right.

I turned off the water, found the forgotten towel and began to dry my hair. Still singing, still toweling, I walked back into the living room Wallachstein, Lizard and the other two were standing there, waiting for me.

"Uh-" I said. "Hi." And lowered the towel to my waist. "Can I, uh, offer you a ... seat?" Only Lizard smiled; she turned her head to hide it. The others just looked grim.

"Thank you," said Colonel Wallachstein. "I think we prefer to stand."

"Well-" I said. "It's nice of you to drop in like this. I wish you would have phoned ahead, though, so I could have tidied up a little-"

If Wallachstein was angry, he hid it well. He kept his voice flat and emotionless. His dark eyes were unreadable. He indicated the empty room. I'd pretty well stripped it bare. "Is there some explanation for all this-?"

I shifted my weight to what I hoped was an a.s.sured stance. "Yes. I was bored."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Someone locked me in. Disconnected the terminal. I didn't have anything else to do. I began to experiment with the psycho-acoustic properties of falling objects, trying to determine which common household items made the most satisfying crashes."

"I see ... and what did you determine?"

"Ceramic lamps are very nice. So are beer kegs. And almost any liquid-filled bottle. Chairs and mattresses are impressive, but dull."

Wallachstein nodded thoughtfully. "I'll remember that for future reference. In case I'm ever in a situation where I need to use those facts." He looked at me curiously. "Is there anything else you want to add?"

"Yes, I think there is," I said. I started off slowly. "I'd like to know why I was locked in here, for one thing! You asked me to cooperate with you. Is this how you guarantee it? Or is there something else going on that I don't know about? Have you and your disappearing committee that doesn't exist already decided my fate? Do I still exist? I suppose you don't want my opinion in the matter, do you? And while I'm at it, I want to know what ever happened to fair trials. I still don't even know what I'm charged with! I think I want an attorney present before we go any further." I folded my arms across my chest-then had to grab my towel to keep it from falling. I resumed the pose, but the effect had been spoiled.

Wallachstein took a moment before answering. He glanced around the room as if looking again for a place to sit, then looked back at me. "Well, yes-I suppose we do owe you an apology for that. It was a mistake."

"Was it?" I demanded. "How come everything is always a mistake? Doesn't anybody around here do anything on purpose anymore?"

"Like the furniture?" he prompted.

"Yeah, like the furniture! That was on purpose." I shoved my chin out in what I hoped was a pugnacious expression. "You want me to pay for it? I have fifty thousand caseys."

He shook his head, held up a hand. "Don't bother. This room doesn't exist. Neither does the furniture. Neither do I. And, perhaps-neither do you. If you'll shut up and listen for a moment......"

That brought me down. I shut up.

"The fact that you were detained against your will is unfortunate. I a.s.sume full responsibility. I gave an order and it was misinterpreted. I apologize. I can understand-and sympathize-with your reaction. In fact, it's something of a healthy sign. It indicates you have a side that is not only independent, but occasionally downright antisocial. For our purposes, those are valuable traits." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and went on. "Now, as to your other questions: there was no hearing. You were never on trial. You were never charged. Do you understand?"

"Uh . . ." There was that question again. "Yes, sir. I do."

"Good. The paperwork has been destroyed. There's nothing on record to indicate that you committed a breach of security. Furthermore, I've placed on record a copy of your orders, which you received yesterday morning in writing, instructing you to report the information about the fourth Chtorran to the members of this conference, in whatever forum available. Do you understand?"

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Good. Now go get dressed. There's something else we have to talk about, and I'd prefer to do it a little more formally."

"Yes, sir." I retreated to the bathroom, downed a handful of Sober-Ups and pulled on my clothes. It was while I was running a brush through my hair that I overheard raised voices. One of them was Lizard's.

She was saying, "-still disagree. It isn't fair."

"It's a fact of life, Major! We're all expendable." I didn't recognize the voice. Mr. Darkfellow?

"That's not the point! It's this particular operation! It's slimy!"

"It's necessary! We've been forced by circ.u.mstance. The decision has already been made-"

And then, suddenly, there was silence-as if someone had realized how loud they were all getting and had hushed them. I frowned at myself in the mirror. What the h.e.l.l was going on now? What kind of rabbit hole was I falling into this time?

I clipped my hair in the back, splashed some more water on my face, toweled carefully, counted to ten and came back into the room.

Only Wallachstein was left. The others were gone. Lizard. The j.a.panese lady. Mr. Darkfellow.

Wallachstein said, "I asked them to leave. It was getting a little loud."

"Something you didn't want me to hear?"

"Perhaps. I have a job to offer you. It's rather dangerous. But I think you're qualified for it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you're one of the few personnel around who has both a scientific background and first-hand experience with Chtorrans in the field."

"What's the job?"

"I want to put you into the Chtorran Control Section of the Agency."

"I thought that's where I was already."

He shook his head. "That's not a permanent operation. It's only a temporary holding of the line while we try to figure out what we're really up against. We're putting together something a little more responsible. You'll do pretty much what you were doing up at Alpha Bravo-searching out and destroying pockets of infestation. The only difference is that we'll be using the team to develop methods of capturing Chtorrans alive-if we can. The only live specimen we have to date may be an atypical example. You've seen it, I've heard."

I nodded.

"So how does that sound to you, McCarthy?"

I shrugged. "It's not exactly what I had in mind. I want to be attached to the Science Center here. I want to finish what I started with those specimens."

Wallachstein shrugged it away. "Don't bother. Let one of Molly's b.u.t.ton-pushers play with that stuff. We find those things every time we find' a hut. The only reason we still collect them is to keep Dr. Partridge's section so busy they can't get into trouble anywhere else. So far, it works. We keep a man in her section to keep us posted if anything interesting comes in. I believe you met him. By the way, that was a nice piece of work, figuring out that the Chtorrans live under a red sun."

"Thank you. But the job isn't finished."

He shook his head. "It's unimportant. Those specimens are unimportant."

"Huh? Then why were we flown in on a priority flight?"

"You figure it out. What did you deliver?"

"Millipedes. Plants. Sc.r.a.pings-"

"Worthless. We've got specimens."

"-Chtorran eggs!"

"Mm-hm. Maybe. We'll know when they hatch." Wallachstein was unimpressed. "What else? What did you bring in worth fifty thousand caseys?"