"And now you, pinhead!" the Incarnation cried, turning on Parry. "You'll never get out!"

Magic flared, and Parry was carried away, helpless. The Incarnation had not learned the demon-banishing spell, but he had evidently picked up some of the lesser magic. Parry drifted through swirling smoke for what seemed like an eternity before coming to rest in a stifling environment.

He seemed to be in an aspect of chaos. Apparently the Incarnation had discovered how to incorporate a bit of the Void in h.e.l.l, and buried him in it. He knew Parry could not escape it. The Incarnation was evil and ugly, but he had a certain cunning about his own survival.

The thread had been lost. The Incarnation had struck at the key moment, allowing Parry the torture of dawning hope irredeemably destroyed. He would never find his way out in time now!

Yet it was not a total loss. Though he would not resume his office, he had the comfort of the knowledge that the other Incarnations had a change of heart about him, and that Niobe herself accepted his status as husband to Orb. It was a meaningless marriage, destined never to be consummated, yet that acceptance buoyed him immeasurably. Perhaps he had, in his downfall, accomplished part of what he sought: to gain some improvement in the processing of good and evil from souls, minimizing the suffering of the mortals involved.

It could have been a second or a century, but it seemed closer to the former. Another visitor came to him. This one was neither woman nor spider, but rather a nebulous form reminiscent of the nature of the Void. It overlapped him, and then he recognized it.

Nox! The Incarnation of Night, she who knew all secrets and preserved most of them. Parry had not known she could navigate chaos, but it made a certain sense in retrospect. She was closest of all the Incarnations to that state herself.

"Here is what you lost."

Something touched his hand. Then the ineffable presence departed.

Parry considered what she had brought him. It was an almost invisibly thin line of a web, the kind a spider might spin. What had caused Nox to take the trouble to bring such a thing to him? What could be her purpose? She was aloof from most mortal and immortal concerns, and her business with him, by her own a.s.sessment, remained unfinished. Yet she had not chosen to complete it now.

Then he understood: It was the thread!

He followed it. The thing was silken, perceptible only because he was attuned to it, hardly more than a thought. But it led through the swirling randomness, even as Fate's thread had guided Niobe through the Void. It was the single aspect of diminished entropy in his vicinity. He followed its essentially uphill guidance.

As he made progress through chaos, some anomalous formulations occurred. There were shapes of objects in no particular order of cla.s.sification. The outline of a rock drawn in pastel, a squashed beer can, the curve of a naked woman's hip, the stem of a rose, a crooked ray of starlight, the left eye of a harpy, a sprouting grain of wheat, one drop of rain, a purpling bruise on the shoulder of a rabbit, a torn page of a calendar marking Friday the thirteenth. He pa.s.sed it all, diverted by none of it, following the thread.

Then land appeared, a sh.o.r.e, and he was swimming in a disgustingly polluted stream. It was the River Acheron, the waters of woe that coursed around much of h.e.l.l proper, having no true egress. But it was familiar; now he knew approximately where he was.

He landed near the station of the three Judges, and there they were, dispensing the justice of the infernal region to arriving souls, cla.s.sifying the difficult cases. Minos, formerly King of Crete, who had the Minotaur, the terrible offspring of his wife's pa.s.sion for a bull. Rhadamanthus, his brother, noted for his fairness. Aeacus, formerly the King of Pydlia, noted for his piety. They were good judges, and Parry had left them in place, extending their authority.

Parry could not return to h.e.l.l proper with out pa.s.sing by the Judges; he himself had organized h.e.l.l this way, so that no d.a.m.ned souls escaped proper cla.s.sification. Some who came to h.e.l.l were actually destined for Heaven, and the Judges had unerringly identified these and a.s.signed them to mock Heaven until they were willing to travel on. Most of them had done so, at the time of Parry's wedding ceremony, but more souls arrived constantly, and the business of the Judges was never finished.

They could not fail to recognize him, no matter what form he a.s.sumed, for the Judges read not the physical appearance but the soul. If they turned him in...

He joined the line of souls, and followed it gradually to its head.

Minos glanced at him. His gaze paused momentarily, then moved on, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary. "Pa.s.s to Limbo," he said tersely.

They were not giving him away! Parry pa.s.sed on, as if he were one of the regular d.a.m.ned souls.

He came next to Cerberus, the three-headed dog he had a.s.signed to be the guardian of the main gate. It had been some centuries since he had contact with the huge beast, and since the Judges pa.s.sed him, he should be able to walk by without challenge, unrecognized.

"Ha!"

It was the Incarnation again. The cunning slob had been watching the main entrance, just in case.

"After him, dawg-destroy him!" the Incarnation cried.

Cerberus, not knowing any better, obeyed the voice of authority. He launched himself at Parry.

Now Parry wished the dog had remembered him! He had to escape-and that was no easy thing to do. Cerberus could not kill him, of course, but he could tear Parry's apparent body to bits, and it would be a day before those bits reformed. That could be too long; the Incarnation was near the end of his trial period, and could be ousted at any point. If Parry wasn't ready- Parry dived back into the River Acheron. Cerberus followed, intent on his prey. One head watched above the surface, another looked back, and the third plunged under the surface to watch there, too. He was a good strong swimmer; in a moment he would overhaul Parry and chomp him.

Parry changed into a dirty brown fish. Now he had camouflage to match his environment, and was able to outswim the dog.

"Ob, no, you don't!" the Incarnation screamed from the bank. "I'll take you out if it's the last thing I do, you wait!"

He leaped into the water himself, and became a great while shark.

This was bad news! Parry had not realized that the Incarnation had learned shape-changing. It was not difficult, in h.e.l.l, for one in authority; he just had trusted that the Incarnation would have spent too much time in gorging himself and raping child souls to master it. Perhaps someone had provided the Incarnation with good advice, just as Lilah had for Parry in the early days. There were always d.a.m.ned souls eager to gain preferred treatment by pleasing the Master. h.e.l.l was hardly the place for honor or principle.

The shark was gaining on him, and its teeth were ready. He could not escape it by diving low, and it would be useless to remain on the surface. He would have to change form.

But there was a problem here, because it took proper concentration to change form, and his body would stop swimming for a moment while he did it. The shark was now so close that it would snap him up at the first pause. Also, he would have to change to some form that could handle the water, or else launch into the air as a bug-and the Incarnation would simply change, too, and continue the pursuit. Because Parry now had the effective status of a d.a.m.ned soul, he could not match the Incarnation in direct combat; his strength, agility and speed would be less even if the forms were identical.

But he could change to some similar type and size of fish with little pause, and the water was as good a way to travel through h.e.l.l as any. If he could just slip away into some bypath, so that the Incarnation would lose him...

No, suddenly he had a better idea! He could lead the Incarnation into a special trap, and settle the matter immediately. He surely had a better notion of the river channels than the Incarnation did, for Parry had dictated their courses. He had inherited a h.e.l.l that was archaically and inconsistently organized, and seen to its improvement; even though he had not paid much attention to such details in centuries, he knew as much as he needed to.

He shifted to a slimmer, faster form of fish, and began to gain. Here in the polluted water that was enchanted to prevent d.a.m.ned souls from fleeing h.e.l.l, conjuring magic did not work well; that was why Parry could not escape that way, and why the Incarnation could not banish him back to the Void. They had to settle matters right here.

The Incarnation saw this, and modified his own form. He became a slimmer, faster shark. He began to gain again. He was probably enjoying the chase, believing that the end was inevitable. After all, there was nowhere within the confines of h.e.l.l that any soul could escape the Incarnation of Evil.

But Parry knew where he was going. He dodged and turned, staying just ahead of the shark's jaws, then abruptly swerved into a tributary stream.

This was the Phlegethon, the River of Fire. Flames hovered over its surface, and its waters were boiling hot. But even as he entered. Parry modified to the form of a firefish, which thrived in such heat. The Incarnation, caught by surprise, paused, then did likewise, simply copying Parry's form.

That strategy would enable the Incarnation to follow him anywhere, and the Incarnation's greater strength would ensure a closing of the gap between them. But Parry had gained a critical bit of time. Perhaps more important, he had established that he had to be closely followed, and by a like form, or he would escape. That would gain him a reprieve, but not victory; the Incarnation would simply reorient on his soul and chase him down again, like a cat playing with a mouse. a.s.suming the Incarnation had mastered the soul-tracing magic. If by chance he had not- He looped swiftly back, swimming downstream and giving the Incarnation the temporary slip. But in a moment the other fish was back on his trail. Obviously the Incarnation had a lock on his ident.i.ty, and could sniff him out anywhere. So much for that faint hope.

He reentered the Acheron, modifying his fish form again. The Incarnation followed, matching both course and detail.

Then Parry dodged into the Kokytus, the frozen river. He modified his form to handle the cold, becoming a small ice fish. The Incarnation did likewise, hardly losing time.

This time Parry did not double back. He forged upstream, under the ice, dodging boulders in the water, trying to hide in the tricky nether currents. But the Incarnation was not to be deceived. He followed every bypath, coming steadily closer. There could be no escape into the headwaters, for Parry would be slowed, or he would have to change form and leave the river, and would be caught when he tried.

As he swam, he made a spell. It was a quiet one that did not affect his form or his nature, and he hoped it went unnoticed. This was the critical stage; if the Incarnation caught on to where Parry was leading, or what the effect would be, or how to nullify it as Parry had just done, then all would be lost. But the Incarnation lacked experience in h.e.l.l; Parry was counting on that.

Abruptly he swam into a new tributary, one whose waters were not frozen. He intensified his spell, though the effort slowed him.

The Incarnation followed, his jaws opening. Once he caught hold. Parry would not be able to escape. They both knew that. This was the finale.

Then the Incarnation slowed, seeming dazed. He began to swim aimlessly. He moved to the side to nibble at a succulent bit of vegetation.

Was it a ruse? Or was it the finish? It would soon enough be evident.

Parry reversed, and swam downriver. There was no pursuit. He came to the River Kokytus needing no further modification for the cold. He swam all the way back down to the River Acheron before venturing to the sh.o.r.e and changing back to his human form.

He climbed to the bank. "I, Satan, reclaim My office," he proclaimed. He felt the power returning to him. He had been in time. He was once more the Incarnation of Evil.

He conjured himself to the center of h.e.l.l. Ozymandias looked up from his desk. "My Lord, You have returned," he said respectfully, as if it were a routine occurrence. "But if I may inquire-?"

"I led him into the River Lethe," Parry explained. "I used a spell to protect myself from its property of forgetfulness. It may be that he did not know that spell, or realize where he was."

"That may be," Ozymandias agreed. "Have You new orders, Satan?"

"Revert to My standing ones," Parry said. "Whatever damage the usurper has done, reverse it."

"As You wish." Then, slowly, Ozymandias smiled. He was glad to have the old order back.

Thanks to the help of Niobe and Nox, Parry was back in office. That was a considerable gratification-yet there was emptiness, too, for he knew that his change in circ.u.mstance could not restore to him his love. He had lost both Jolie and Orb; that had been understood when the other Incarnations helped him to recover. He had a mission to accomplish, and he would try his best, knowing the others would give no further quarter and expected none. But he would have traded it all for the other. Indeed, had traded it all for the other, one month ago.

After a busy day of reorganizing and reestablishing. Parry retired alone. He did not need sleep, but he hoped to obtain some anyway. Perhaps it would help dull the emptiness.

Then someone came to him. He realized immediately that it was an und.a.m.ned soul, for it shone in a manner no d.a.m.ned soul could. How had it been admitted to h.e.l.l? The guardians should not have permitted it, and Ozymandias would never have authorized it. Only another Incarnation could- The figure came close. It was a woman of shapely proportion. "Parry," she said.

What? He recognized that voice! Yet it was impossible.

She drew off her hood, showing her honey hair, and then her face. Her eyes were gray-green.

Parry stared, for a moment too amazed to speak.

"Yes, it is I," Jolie said. "I have returned to you, my love."

"But-I married another-I thought-"

Her expression changed. "Parry, you know that Gaea can never have a relationship with Satan, though she be technically married to him. That marriage must remain unconsummated, so that there is no question of undue influence. But there is no need for my marriage to you to be so. I love you as she does. Will you accept me back?"

He got up and enfolded her. "Oh, Jolie, yes! I thought you were forever lost. I do still love you-but I love her, too. If you can accept that-"

"I can accept that," she said, and kissed him.

For a moment his mind wandered, piecing out what had happened. Things fell abruptly together. Orb had taken the drop of blood containing Jolie's soul. Jolie could animate a living body, if given leave by the host of the body. There was only one person who would know that, and who would give that leave. One who loved him as Jolie did, and could not come to him. One whom he could never possess, because they were forever on opposite sides.

"But I can stay only the night," Jolie said. "And not every night. And it must be secret. A tryst others do not know about."

"A tryst," he agreed. "And-when you leave Me-if you would convey My thanks to the one whose body you borrow for what she-"

"She knows." For that time only the voice was that of an Incarnation. But the love in it was unchanged.

He kissed her once more, knowing that he had been doubly blessed. He would never be lonely again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE I expect to address three types of readers in this novel. One is the person who has not read the prior five novels in this series, and perhaps has not heard of me before. For that one I need to have a story that stands pretty much by itself and is not confusing. Since this novel refers back to many episodes covered in the prior novels, shown from other viewpoints, this means I must cover those scenes adequately so that there are not gaps. I have tried to do that. Another type of reader is the one who has read some of the prior volumes but not recently; that one needs refreshment of key elements without undue repet.i.tion. I have tried to do that too. The third reader is the one who saved up all the prior volumes and has just read them rapidly in order, hitting this one fully primed with all the details fresh. For that one I should avoid repet.i.tion, because it would be wasting his time. That proved to be impossible to do. So I did what I deem to be the next best thing: I show those scenes from a fresh viewpoint, and evoke new interpretations of their significance. I realize that critics, who seem to exist on wormwood, will castigate me for supposedly running out of inspiration and copying from myself, but I hope that my real readers will bear with me on the necessary and often difficult compromises I have made. The mortal realm is rife with compromise.

This is the sixth and penultimate Incarnations of Immortality novel. The subject of the final one, And Eternity, And Eternity, may be surmised, but its approach will differ. I had originally planned on just five, but realized as I worked through them that the story was not going to be complete, so extended it. I have already been accused of doing it just for the money. Well, it is true there is money involved, and a pretty penny too; it is also true that I earn my living by my writing, and would go broke if I did not get paid for it. I am not sure why a writer should be condemned for making money when others are not. The question should be whether the money is made in a licit and socially positive manner. I remind readers of Samuel Johnson's remark on the subject: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." may be surmised, but its approach will differ. I had originally planned on just five, but realized as I worked through them that the story was not going to be complete, so extended it. I have already been accused of doing it just for the money. Well, it is true there is money involved, and a pretty penny too; it is also true that I earn my living by my writing, and would go broke if I did not get paid for it. I am not sure why a writer should be condemned for making money when others are not. The question should be whether the money is made in a licit and socially positive manner. I remind readers of Samuel Johnson's remark on the subject: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

As I have mentioned in prior Notes, I have no belief in the supernatural. These novels are unabashed fantasy. Some of you have written to object to my atheism. I do not treat such letters kindly, because I am not an atheist. I am an agnostic: one who has not come to a conclusion about the validity of the existing theories of Deity and Afterlife. I regard them as unproven, and I feel free to represent them in my fiction in whatever manner is condusive to the narration of an entertaining and sometimes thought-provoking story. In short, I am having fun, and I hope that my readers are too.

But as I have also mentioned, there seems to be suspicious coincidence occurring as I write these novels. #1 concerned Death, and death impinged on my life. #2 related to Time, and I had my worst time-squeeze of recent years. #3 was about Fate, and I described the devious route that brought me to this series. #4 was War, and warlike matters intruded, even threatening the publication of the novel. #5 was Nature, and I felt that impact too. This one is Evil, and hang on, because the curse is still viable.

You might a.s.sume that Satan would not be pleased by an expose of his nature, since he uses deceit to forward his cause. Therefore Satan would do his best to interfere with the writing of a novel like this. This seems to have been the case, because I encountered a horrendous sequence of interferences. Some were funny; some were tragic. Let me see if I can cover this without becoming tedious.

Circ.u.mstances of a unique nature caused me to sign contracts for eight new fantasy novels at a time when I had intended to be working in science fiction, horror and a major historical project. The SF and horror had to be postponed, to my regret, but I refused to do that with the historical effort. So I undertook to catch up on the fantasy, and the historical, and certain other projects (a collaborative novel, a rework of an old unpublished novel, and some stories) in the course of three years. With the computer it is feasible, but I knew I would have to step right along.

Step along I did. This is actually the fifth novel I'm completing in this calendar year, which, along with the stories, mean about 600,000 words aggregate. That's as much as I've ever done in a single year, and more than I hope to do in any future year, because I am jammed up against the limit of what I can do without compromising the standards I maintain. There are those who a.s.sume that a prolific writer must be a hack: that is, one who churns out anything he can sell, just to keep the pot boiling. Perhaps some writers are; I am not. I care about every project I'm in, and I have changed publishers more than once when their editors interfered unduly with my text. I do not claim to be the best writer extant, merely one who is doing the best he can with his talent, situation and creative/ethical needs. I don't like to be crowded in my writing.

I allowed three months for Evil: Evil: OctOgre, NoRemember and DisMember, 1986. I started on schedule. But as it happened, I had gotten crowded in my computer, so was expanding my system's capacity. I doubled its memory to 512 K, and its storage to 20 MB. Don't worry about the figures if you are not into computers; just accept that they are solid ones in the middle range of such things. But we discovered that my operating system could not address either of these new totals. I could not use much more than I had before-unless I changed operating systems. OctOgre, NoRemember and DisMember, 1986. I started on schedule. But as it happened, I had gotten crowded in my computer, so was expanding my system's capacity. I doubled its memory to 512 K, and its storage to 20 MB. Don't worry about the figures if you are not into computers; just accept that they are solid ones in the middle range of such things. But we discovered that my operating system could not address either of these new totals. I could not use much more than I had before-unless I changed operating systems.

Back in the fourth novel of this series I discussed the two major operating systems this computer can use. One I likened to an old retired seaman, Captain Manager, known colloquially as CP/M, who maintained a sixteen-storey (as he spells it) apartment building, each floor of which could house a nice apartment complex. He called the occupants "users" and provided well for their individual tastes, as long as they paid their rentals. The other I likened to a somewhat prim lady, Ms Dos, also called MS-DOS, who distrusted apartment buildings and preferred to maintain an intricate garden through which pa.s.sed many paths. People could reside along these paths, each having his own personal access and directory of his flowers. I happened to be with the Captain, and did not try Ms Dos because she lacked a feature I liked, called MAINT, that made file housekeeping easy.

But now it was time to make the change, because while the Captain had not renovated his building in years and refused to cater to my need for greater memory and storage, Ms Dos promised to be more accommodating. So, not without trepidation, I moved out of my comfortable apartments on the lower floors and went to the Garden. My wife and daughters, satisfied with the building, remained on their upper storeys; they had no large files to process. Thus I left my family behind, though my wife did keep a certain eye on me from the window. Ms Dos, though prim by day, seems young and healthy; you never can tell.

But you don't just step from one operating system to another. Ms Dos and the Captain hardly recognized each other's programs. I had to get new software to function in the Garden. That proved to be more complicated than antic.i.p.ated, and it was one of the things that slowed progress on this novel. For this is my first novel on DOS, and all the tribulations of learning occurred here.

Remember how I had to go to Finland for my keyboard, because I use a modified Dvorak that could not be generated on my American keyboard? I moved to the Finnish keyboard and reconfigured that, thanks to my wife's expertise. Well, I got Smartkey for DOS, but when I invoked the Finnish keyboard it glitched. I had to strike each key twice to make it register. My wife had no such problem. It turned out, after trial and error, that this is a phenomenon that occurs only in DOS, with the Finnish keyboard, with Smartkey. Eliminate any one of those three, and things are normal. I don't know why this effect exists, and doubt that anyone else does; I'm the only one ornery enough to go to Finland just to get my capital V's and W's. "You know," I told my wife, "the Swedish keyboard is identical to the Finnish keyboard, except for some markings on the surfaces of the physical keys that would have no bearing on this. But, just in case-'' And would you believe, the interference was gone on the Swedish keyboard. Everything worked perfectly. Thus I moved from Finland to Sweden, as well as from CP/M to MS-DOS.

I still needed a word-processing program for DOS. I liked the one I had in CP/M, Edward, that enabled me to call up as many as fourteen different files at once, and allowed me to put my functions wherever I wished. I refused to give up those features. So I hired the proprietor to customize Edward for me in MS-DOS. It cost about a thousand dollars, and there were a number of glitches to debug, but I got it. I was on my way in DOS!

Now a diversion; don't worry, it does, deviously, connect.

At the end of OctOgre I attended the local science fiction convention, NECRONOMICON, as a Guest of Honor. I had been there three years before, and this time their other GOH was Fred Pohl, a leading figure in the genre. So I arranged to interview him for an audience, and really looked forward to it, because I had some most provocative questions to which I knew he had excellent answers. But Satan struck: Fred's wife had a heart attack, and Fred had to cancel just one week before the convention. Thus the disappointed fans had to settle for just me. Oh, they were nice enough about it, but it was too bad.

At that convention my daughter Penny and I had the pleasure of taking Andre Norton and her a.s.sociate Ingrid Zeirhut to lunch. Penny and I and Ingrid are vegetarians; Andre loves cats and I hate cats (but cats love me), so it was interesting, especially when we shared a panel later.

I was on several panels, and on one of them was Lois Wickstrom, co-editor of a small press magazine, PANDORA. PANDORA. I thought nothing of it until in casual conversation I learned that she was the other local writer who uses the Dvorak keyboard. Immediately we were comparing notes. I'm on the DEC Rainbow computer; she is on an IBM compatible. I had a program that enabled me to call up fourteen files; hers called up twenty-four files, with windows between them. I could move my functions around; so could she, and also modify their operations. Well, now! I had just paid a thousand dollars to adapt mine to DOS, and it seemed hers was better at four hundred dollars. True, hers had a feature I didn't like, batch formatting, that requires you to plug in many codes that change the text about before printing, but it was also one of the most powerful and versatile word-processing programs extant. Satan had timed it with infernal cunning, waiting until just after I had gotten what I wanted before dangling a new program before me. I thought nothing of it until in casual conversation I learned that she was the other local writer who uses the Dvorak keyboard. Immediately we were comparing notes. I'm on the DEC Rainbow computer; she is on an IBM compatible. I had a program that enabled me to call up fourteen files; hers called up twenty-four files, with windows between them. I could move my functions around; so could she, and also modify their operations. Well, now! I had just paid a thousand dollars to adapt mine to DOS, and it seemed hers was better at four hundred dollars. True, hers had a feature I didn't like, batch formatting, that requires you to plug in many codes that change the text about before printing, but it was also one of the most powerful and versatile word-processing programs extant. Satan had timed it with infernal cunning, waiting until just after I had gotten what I wanted before dangling a new program before me.

Her program was Final Word II, put out by Mark of the Unicorn. In my letter ordering it, I said, "It is the wrong reason to make a purchase, I know, but I am intrigued by the name of your company. You see, I am a fantasy novelist with whole herds of unicorns in my fiction..." Their response was to bounce back our check, because they were changing their name to eradicate the Unicorn. What a slap in the face! Satan just couldn't resist that fillip. (And here I thought that unicorns were a protected species.) So this may be my first novel in MS-DOS and my last with Edward. But I shall remain with Ms Dos, because she has succeeded in seducing me away from the Captain. Ms Dos comes on like a cranky old bat; she even has files suffixed ".bat" to run her errands. Every time you start her up, you have to check in with the exact date and time, a nuisance the Captain did not require. You have to type in a "Path" or she refuses to provide service to your distant sites. When you want to print something she always asks whether you mean it, the first time, and you have to agree that yes, it is is the printer you want to use. She's like an old-fashioned schoolmarm: everything has to be exactly her way. But if you are willing to abide by her rules, she will do a lot for you. More than the Captain will, if you want the scandalous truth. the printer you want to use. She's like an old-fashioned schoolmarm: everything has to be exactly her way. But if you are willing to abide by her rules, she will do a lot for you. More than the Captain will, if you want the scandalous truth.

I see my wife is getting suspicious, so I'd better give a for-instance or two. One is that most of the software outfits have gravitated to Ms Dos. The Captain changes his clothing seldom if ever, while Ms Dos is very attentive to software. Thus the companies just naturally do more business with her. This means that if you want something like, for instance, a sophisticated interactive spelling program, you will find maybe two or three old ones moldering on the Captain's shelf, but dozens of fancy new ones on Ms Dos's shelves. I had to go to customizing to get the kind of word-processing program I wanted in CP/M, and realized just too late that that wasn't necessary in MS-DOS. Another is those .bat files: these are little programs you type up yourself, saying do this, do that, and then do the other. Then when you summon a bat (it is actually short for "batch"), it flies in on its leathery wings and does the job for you. There is even a vampire bat that invokes itself when you start up, and it takes care of the nuisance about the date and time and path, and anything else you want, right through setting you up with your daily program and files. In short, you can automate, and no longer be bothered with the mundane details.

But learning all the nuances, and adapting to the new ways-that does take time. My work was correspondingly slowed. It was fun learning Ms Dos's intimate little secrets, but I really would have been moving faster with the old familiar Captain. Satan knew that, and kept feeding me new distractions when I threatened to start getting ahead on the novel. For example, I obtained some freeware programs in DOS. Freeware or shareware are programs that you don't have to buy, except sometimes to pay the cost of the disk on which they come, but if you find them useful you may send money anyway; it's the decent thing to do. One was a MAINT program for DOS, so that I could handle my files as readily as I could in CP/M. Another was a Squeeze program that-no, don't get ahead of me, Ms Dos isn't that that friendly-enables you to squish files down to about half size for more efficient storage, and to unsqueeze at need. Another was a program to translate files back and forth between MS-DOS and CP/M; that could be handy in our divided family. Nice enough stuff-but my novel was dragging. friendly-enables you to squish files down to about half size for more efficient storage, and to unsqueeze at need. Another was a program to translate files back and forth between MS-DOS and CP/M; that could be handy in our divided family. Nice enough stuff-but my novel was dragging.

Still, I managed to complete the first four chapters in OctOgre, which wasn't too far behind schedule. After all, I had research to do, which is always fascinating but slow. Then I hit a run of distractions, so that Chapter 5 took me three weeks, putting me a couple of weeks behind. What happened? Well, there was that convention I mentioned; I only go to one a year, and that was the one this year. Right after that I had to proofread the galleys for one of my novels, and that always takes time because I'm a slow reader and I do it carefully. We also had a morning with the state forester, because we own property we'd like to get cla.s.sified as a tree farm, but first it has to be surveyed and approved for that. And a day to go to Tampa to meet my new British agent, Pamela Buckmaster. My old agent Leslie Flood, was retiring, and she was taking over his practice, and had flown to Florida just to meet me. Virtually all of my non-American sales will be pa.s.sing through her, and there was at least one six-figure deal in the offing, so this was a necessary thing. Then another slew of mail struck, taking days to answer; I answered about 385 letters while working on this novel, and though I cram most down to cards, I figure the average letter takes half an hour. There was also my big historical project, Tatham Mound; Tatham Mound; my sweet-sixteen daughter Cheryl was helping excavate the Mound on which the novel was to be based, and I would go out Sunday afternoons to learn new developments. It's a good and significant project, but those are afternoons that I don't make progress on this current novel. My printer glitched, printing increasingly worse, and we had to have the repairman in to fix it; yet more time expended. By the end of NoRemember I was exactly halfway through the novel, way behind schedule. Ouch; why so slow? my sweet-sixteen daughter Cheryl was helping excavate the Mound on which the novel was to be based, and I would go out Sunday afternoons to learn new developments. It's a good and significant project, but those are afternoons that I don't make progress on this current novel. My printer glitched, printing increasingly worse, and we had to have the repairman in to fix it; yet more time expended. By the end of NoRemember I was exactly halfway through the novel, way behind schedule. Ouch; why so slow?

I made notes on a single day near the end of that three-week slowdown, just to get it straight: NoRemember 19, 1986. I was ready to start on Chapter 6, but was annoyed by a few little glitches in DOS, such as the BACKUP program that puts all your directories and files on a disk to be saved, but whose RESTORE function simply did not work. Apparently Ms Dos has a RESTORE program, but it had not been implemented on our version of DOS, unbeknownst to the writers of the instructions. That's a cute little oversight that can have decidedly uncute complications; it's like putting all your savings in the bank, then discovering that the bank will not let you take any out when you need it. My wife, after a straggle, finally figured out an alternate way to get the material back, and I wanted to make a note of the exact sequence, so that we would not have to go through this mess again. So I started my own sheet of instructions that included this and all the other deviances and omissions the engineers never bothered to fix. But this took time, because I had to test and double-check everything to be sure there was no error, because in an emergency I had to know exactly what worked. This took an hour and a half. But at least it was done, and I set up to start the chapter- And the UPS track chose that moment to deliver the Elite font we had ordered. There went another two and a half hours, getting it ironed out. The thing worked well on letter-quality but not on draft-quality printing. Since I use both for my cards, we had to research in the manuals for a special, obscure code to fix that. Any session with a manual is time-consuming, because manuals are scripted by demons in h.e.l.l to torment mortals. Then I discovered that the font had no symbol. Now I use that on some of my cards: I have a macro that prints out a XANTH 2 stamp on those cards that don't require mundane postage. What was I to do with no ? I finally decided, with bad grace, to subst.i.tute the letter c, hoping no one would notice the difference between 2 and 2c. Meanwhile I did my three-mile exercise ran, and then took an hour to read the mail, because another pile of letters was in; then I went ahead and used the new font to answer ten of them, washing out the rest of the day. I had never quite gotten down to paying work; Satan had, with magnificent timing, stepped in to introduce some new distraction every time I got close.

But my day did not end there. In the evening it rained, and when it rained it poured-and there was a leak in our roof. I remembered the day that had been made, because we had heard a thunk, and I had gone up to check where a falling branch had punctured the roofing, but we hoped it might still be watertight. It was the same day that a dead cat turned up in our yard, and I had to bury it. Our dogs don't like cats, but the neighbors' cats choose not to believe that; we heard a horrendous commotion in the night, and this was the result. So now we had the verification: the roof was no longer tight. Sigh. I went down to check our rain gauge-two inches-and on the way saw a gourd I had overlooked. You see, this year a seed sprouted from some buried garbage and it turned out to be a hypnogourd, a species seldom seen outside the Land of Xanth. Its vines grew at the rate of ten inches a day-yes, I measured-and it produced about twenty handsome gourds scattered across our yard. They look and taste rather like b.u.t.ternut squash. No, of course we did not look into any peepholes! But this shows how I can't even go to check rain without evoking all manner of oddities.

I turned in, reading myself to sleep on The Blood of Ten Chiefs, The Blood of Ten Chiefs, in which a story of mine appears. Then, at 1:50 A.M., the phone rang: a fan calling from Minnesota to talk with me. My wife put him off, for I was dead to the world; I keep regular hours, and am up before 6:00 A.M. regardless. Next year we plan to build on our tree farm and move there; we shall, with regret, also move to a post-office box so fans can't locate me and drop in uninvited and we shall get an unlisted phone, so that we can sleep at night. in which a story of mine appears. Then, at 1:50 A.M., the phone rang: a fan calling from Minnesota to talk with me. My wife put him off, for I was dead to the world; I keep regular hours, and am up before 6:00 A.M. regardless. Next year we plan to build on our tree farm and move there; we shall, with regret, also move to a post-office box so fans can't locate me and drop in uninvited and we shall get an unlisted phone, so that we can sleep at night.

That is the story of how I failed to do any paying work that day, completing three weeks of much the same. It was obvious that Satan had no intention of allowing me to work on this novel in peace. Nevertheless, I buckled down to it, and wrapped up the novel Christmas Eve: eight more chapters in twenty-four days. Late Christmas Day I started this Author's Note.

But there were longer-range things to handle, too, all surely the mischief of Satan. One was my shoulder. During the last novel in this series I developed tenonitis (also spelled tendinitis), an inflammation of the tendon that causes pain when I move my arm beyond a certain range. I finally got a shot that reversed it, and it retreated grudgingly for about six months, then transferred from my right shoulder to my left shoulder. So now I am in the same condition, other side; the things I had to learn to do left-handed I now am relearning right-handed. After two visits to the doctor, I am now on pills that may be having some effect. Pain is a fact of my life now; I get a surge of it when I change my T-shirt or put on or off my jacket or reach for the salt. But I have discovered this about that: pain is not to be feared or loathed. I know when I will incur it, and its approximate degree, and it is under control; if it hurts too much to remove my jacket one way, I try another way, and eventually I discover a compromise that enables me to get through. When it wakes me at night, I change position until it subsides, and go back to sleep until the next time. I am used to it and can live with it. I don't like using drugs if I can avoid them, so I don't take any for this apart from the doctor's prescription. My arm exercises have been wiped out, but I discover that I feel more relaxed without those strenuous exertions; I lost my tension along with my muscle. I have always driven hard, and increasingly my body has been reacting against it; perhaps it is time to ease off somewhat. Thus the end of much of my physical program does not after all signal the end of my health, merely the onset of a different stage of it. So there, Satan!

We still have horses, but things have been changing. Penny's horse Blue, the model for a unicorn and a night mare in my fantasies, is now coming into age twenty-nine, which is old for a horse. She's still spry, though her head is turning gray. But her companion, Misty, suffered a leg ailment, and walking or standing became hard for her. Finally I had to bring water, hay and feed to her where she lay, and for six months she survived that way. We had to fence Blue away from her, to prevent Blue from taking the food and allowing none to Misty. But horses need equine company; Blue would stand all day at the nearest part of the pasture to Misty, just watching, not grazing. This was no good for her. Misty continued to worsen, and the veterinarian said that her lung was collapsing because of her position; a horse needs to be afoot. So, with reluctance we had him give her the shot that put her away; it was our judgment that death would at this stage be a mercy for her. We buried her there in the pasture.

We needed company for Blue, and the vet had a spare horse. He brought her when he came to see Misty. This was Fantasy, a brown Arabian with a perfect white shield on her forehead two and a half inches across. She was a beautiful animal with papers who would have been an expensive show horse, but for a serious illness in her youth that caused her hind end to be somewhat deformed and perhaps had damaged her lungs. So she could not be ridden or bred, and her value was reduced to zero dollars-but she was alert and friendly and excellent company. In short, the perfect replacement companion for Blue. We liked her immediately, and after a night and day of squealing to establish just who was to be boss of the pasture, Blue did too. Now at last our farthest and greenest pastures were being grazed, and the two were always together.