And bow-happiness is a girl named Inge Klohbel now that you're almost a man.

You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory. You are Max Wyman of Buffalo Syndic Territory.

And Inge Klohbel is why you put away the crazy dream of scholarship, for her lips and hair and eyes and legs mean more to you than anything, more than

_Later phonologic changes include palatal mutation; i.e., before_ cht _and_ hs _the diphthongs_ eo, io, _which resulted from breaking, became_ ie (i, y) _as in_ cneoht, chieht, _and_ seox (_x equalling_ hs), siex, six, syx....

the crazy dream of scholarship, what kind of a way is that to repay the Mob and

The ringing bell.

The flashing light.

The wobbling pendulum.

repay the Syndic and young Mike Hogan all over the neighborhood suddenly and Inge says he did stop and say h.e.l.lo but of course he was just being polite.

so you hit the manuals hard and one day you go out on a breakdown call and none of the older men could figure out why the pump was on the blink; a roaring, chewing monster of a pump it was, sitting there like a dead husk and the cattlefeed backed up four miles to a storage tank in the suburbs and the steers in the yards bawling with hunger, and you traced the dead wire, you out with the spot-welder, a zip of blue flame and the pump began to chew again and you got the afternoon off.

And there they were.

_Lee Falcaro: (Bending over the 'muttering, twitching carca.s.s) Adrenalin. Brighter picture and louder sound._

_a.s.sistant: (Opening a pinch c.o.c.k in the tube that enters the arm, increasing video contrast, increasing audio): He's weakening._

_Lee Falcaro: (In a whisper) I know. I know. But this is IT._

_a.s.sistant: (Inaudibly) You cold-blooded b.i.t.c.h._

You are Max Wyman, you are Max Wyman,

and you don't know what to do about the Syndic that betrayed you, about the girl who betrayed you with the living representative of the Syndic, about the dream of scholarship that lies in ruins, the love that lies in ruins after how many promises and vows, the faith of twenty years that lies in ruins after how many declarations.

The ringing bell.

The flashing light.

The wobbling pendulum.

And a double whiskey with a beer chaser.

_Lee Falcaro: The alcohol. (It drips from a sterile graduate, trickles through the rubber tubing and into the arm of the mumbling, sweating carca.s.s. The molecules mingle with the molecules of serum: In seconds they are washed against the cell-walls of the forebrain. The cell-walls their structure as the alcohol molecules b.u.mble against them; the lattices of jelly that wall in the cytoplasm and nuclear jelly become thinner than they were. Streams of electrons that had coursed in familiar paths through chains of neurones find easier paths through the poison-thinned cell-walls. A "Memory" or an "Idea" or a "Hope" or a "Value" that was a configuration of neurones linked by electron streams vanishes when the electron streams find an easier way to flow a New "Memories," "Ideas," "Hopes" and "Values" that are configurations of neurones linked by electron streams are born.)_

Love and loyalty die, but not as if they had never been. Their ghosts remain, Max Wyman and you are haunted by them. They hound you from Buffalo to Erie, but there is no oblivion deep enough in the Mex joints, or in Tampa tequila or Pittsburgh zubrovka or New York gin.

You tell incurious people who came to the place on the corner for a shot and some talk that you're the best breakdown man that ever came out of Erie; you tell them women are no G.o.d-d.a.m.n good, you tell them the Syndic--here you get sly and look around with drunken caution, lowering your voice--you tell them the Syndic's no G.o.d-d.a.m.ned good, and you drunkenly recite poetry until they move away, puzzled and annoyed.

_Lee Falcaro: (Pa.s.sing a weary hand across her forehead) well, he's had it. Disconnect the tubes, give him a 48-hour stretch in bed and then get him on the street pointed towards Riveredge._

_a.s.sistant: Does the apparatus go into dead storage?_

_Lee Falcaro: (Grimacing uncontrollably) No. Unfortunately, no._

_a.s.sistant: (Inaudibly, as she plucks needle-tipped tubes from the carca.s.s' elbows) who's the next sucker?_

VIII

The submarine surfaced at dawn. Orsino had been a.s.signed a bunk and, to his surprise, had fallen asleep almost at once. At eight in the morning, he was shaken awake by one of the men in caps.

"Shift change," the man explained laconically.

Orsino started to say something polite and sleepy. The man grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto the deck, snarling: "You going to _argue_?"

Orsino's reactions were geared to hot-rod polo--doing the split-second right thing after instinctively evaluating the roll of the ball, the ricochet of bullets, the probable tactics and strategy of the opposing four. They were not geared to a human being who behaved with the blind ferocity of an inanimate object. He just gawked at him from the deck, noting that the man had one hand on a sheath knife.

"All right, buster," the man said contemptuously, apparently deciding that Orsino would stay put. "Just don't mess with the Guard." He rolled into the bunk and gave a good imitation of a man asleep until Orsino worked his way through the crowded compartment and up a ladder to the deck.

There was a heavy, gray over-cast. The submarine seemed to be planing the water; salt spray washed the shining deck. A gun crew was forward, drilling with a five-incher. The rasp of a petty-officer singing out the numbers mingled with the hiss and gurgle of the spray. Orsino leaned against the conning tower and tried to comb his thoughts out clean and straight.

It wasn't easy.

He was Charles Orsino, very junior Syndic member, with all memories pertaining thereto.

He was also, more dimly, Max Wyman with _his_ memories. Now, able to stand outside of Wyman, he could recall how those memories had been implanted--down to the last stab of the last needle. He thought some very bitter thoughts about Lee Falcaro--and dropped them, snapping to attention as Commander Grinnel pulled himself through the hatch. "Good morning, sir," he said.

The cold eyes drilled him. "Rest," the commander said. "We don't play it that way on a pigboat. I hear you had some trouble about your bunk."

Orsino shrugged uncomfortably.

"Somebody should have told you," the commander said. "The boat's full of Guardsmen. They have a very high opinion of themselves--which is correct. They carried off the raid in good style. You don't mess with Guards."

"What are they?" Orsino asked.

Grinnel shrugged. "The usual elite," he said. "Loman's gang." He noted Orsino's blank look and smiled coldly. "Loman's President of North America," he said.

"On sh.o.r.e," Orsino hazarded, "we used to hear about somebody named Ben Miller."

"Obsolete information. Miller had the Marines behind him. Loman was Secretary of Defense. He beached the Marines and broke them up into guard detachments. Took away their heavy weapons. Meanwhile, he built up the Guard, very quietly--which, with the Secretary of Information behind him, he could do. About two years ago, he struck. The Marines who didn't join the Guard were ma.s.sacred. Miller had the sense to kill himself. The Veep and the Secretary of State resigned, but it didn't save their necks. Loman a.s.sumed the Presidency automatically, of course, and had them shot. They were corrupt as h.e.l.l anyway. They were owned body and soul by the southern bloc."

Two seamen appeared with a folding cot, followed by the sub commander.

He was red-eyed with lack of sleep. "Set it there," he told them, and sat heavily on the sagging canvas. "Morning, Grinnel," he said with an effort. "Believe I'm getting too old for the pigboats. I want sun and air. Think you can use your influence at court to get me a corvette?" He bared his teeth to show it was a joke.