"I swear on my honor, Dana, that tomorrow's launch 170.

Polonaise has nothing whatsoever to do with claiming any planet or moon or setting up any base thereon. We haven't done it on Luna . . . why should we do it on Mars? I'm just an engineer, Dana, I'm not involved with anything like your CIA.

"Why can't you believe me when I swear that we're only interested in preserving the peace of mankind- what peace there is in a world where the j.a.panese and Brazilians and the Semitic Union all have thermonuclear capability?

"Peace and freedom-don't you see? Poland's had the stablest government in the world for over three hundred years now. Why should we want to jeopardize that by antagonizing your country, or the Russians?"

"It's wrong to slave under a dictator!" she sputtered. "Monarchies are outmoded, archaic, despotic forms of government. No other major power has a king or queen."

"And no other major power is quite as major as the republic, for that very reason. What's wrong with 'slaving' under the highest standard of living in the world? So we have a true king, with absolute power. He serves only for five years. And then we elect a new king, or queen, from the n.o.bles and princes. It works. That's the only rationale I can give you."

"It'll collapse any day now," she insisted, "and then maybe you'll get a real democracy."

"Good G.o.d, no! Anything but that, Dana. A 'real democracy,' like yours? Where the legislature is paralyzed, the executive corrupt, the courts logjammed? We've become what we have precisely because we've avoided all that.

"Just as an example, to change the republic's television networks to 3-D hologram, the king signed a proclamation. You're still arguing over who gets what rights, years later. And we've not called on the final check-the Society of a.s.sa.s.sins-for 230 years."

She didn't understand. They never would, he thought sadly. An elected monarchy was impossible 171.

and therefore could not exist. This did not trouble the Poles.

"Look, don't ruin this launching, Dana. I don't blame you for misinterpreting the data you found. You don't really know what all that information means, do you?"

She looked at the Koi, playing near her feet. "Well, not entirely, but there are orders for material that. . ."

"Suppose," he sighed, "I agree to take a lie-detector test? Voluntarily, here, on one of your own Emba.s.sy's machines? Would that satisfy you?" Longin wouldn't like that, but at this point Michael didn't see what else he could do. If it didn't work, Longin would have only himself to blame.

He'd told him he was only an engineer.

She looked uncertain. "You'd do that?"

"Right now, if you want."

"Well, yes, I guess that would do it." She looked confused. "That fueling data ... I was so sure."

"Anyone would be, I guess." He put an arm around her shoulders. "Let's go take that test."

The multiple launch was a great success. The King was pleased, Longin was pleased, everyone connected with Project Polonaise was pleased.

It was two weeks later that his intercom buzzed and a harried secretary reported that there was a hysterical woman in the lobby, screaming Michael's name hi juxtaposition with unpleasant words.

"She had a gun with her, too, sir, but it was detected at the gate. The security people have her."

"What does she look like?" He already knew, but the secretary confirmed it.

"The police want to know if you want to speak with her, sir, before she's removed."

"I suppose I should. You might relay appropriate information to the proper offices to see that they initiate deportation proceedings. She doesn't belong here. She's ... confused. But yes, I will see her."

There was a curious crowd gathered around the se- 172.

Polonaise curity cubby at the entrance to the center. Michael gestured irritably at them.

"There are a hundred men and women in orbit wholly dependent on us here at the Center. Get back to work, now." The crowd scattered back to consoles and desks.

Two large gentlemen were in the room, Dana Canning held firmly between them. Her hair was disheveled, her look wild. All traces of the elfin innocence he remembered so fondly were gone.

"You! You lied to me, d.a.m.n you!"

"I did not lie to you, Dana."

"You Hed to me about the launch!"

"And the detector? Did I lie to it, too?"

"You-you evaded the question!" She tried to kick him and he stepped carefully out of range. The guards tightened their grip on her.

"You never asked it. If you had, I couldn't have answered. I decided to take a calculated risk."

She glanced at him bitterly. "An orbiting station- a missile platform big enough to cover every nuclear station and launch site in the world!"

"Its purpose is primarily commercial and scientific in nature, Dana," he said quietly, "but it is true that the station does possess some military capability."

She laughed. There was no humor in it. " 'Some military capability'! According to the reports on the tube, you've slipped enough warheads up there to destroy any country seconds before a preemptive attack could be launched."

"Ah, and you've hit on it," he confessed. "To a Pole, even the idea of a 'preemptive* attack is enough to bring on a bout of nausea. Don't you see? With the proliferation of atomic arms in the world, somebody had to step in and say 'Don't mess around with your new toy or you'll get spanked.'

"The King and the High Council reluctantly decided that we had to take this burden on ourselves. We're too close to the stars, Dana, to risk crippling ourselves now. Poland hasn't initiated a war against 173.

anyone in hundreds of years. The same cannot be said of any other world power, including yours. A critical vacuum has been filled."

"The old story," she spat. "Everyone has only the betterment of mankind on their minds. The rationale of every conqueror since the pharaohs. Why should you be any different?"

He shook his head. She'd never see, never understand. Nor would the Russians, or Chinese, or Ken-yans. They'd never understand and they'd always be jealous and there was nothing that could be done about it, nothing at all-except press on.

He turned away, shut out her screaming and insults.

It was something that couldn't be explained, something in the fabric of the people themselves. He'd wanted to show her. The reason why Poland was the most powerful country on Earth, why no other country could ever hope to equal the Republic.

The Poles were a gentle people, the only ones.

174.

Wolfstroker Anyone who thinks telekinesis, telepathy, and thought-control are merely science-fictional inventions has never attended a decent-sized rock concert. It's almost a certainty John W. Campbell never did, because his psi-oriented stories in a.n.a.log would never have been the same.

This is one of those stories where several seemingly unrelated elements suddenly fall into place for the writer, and you have that supreme thrill of abruptly shouting to yourself, "Jesus, where did that come from!? I didn't think up that, did I? Oh boy ohboyohboy ... I wonder what happens next?"

That's what the fans at a concert wonder, too, when the music stops going from ear to brain and instead enters directly into the bloodstream, and you find yourself utterly at the mercy of the electric guitar, ba.s.s, organ, and drum. It's possession, body and soul.

A version of this story was published in mangled form by an enterprise called Cog magazine. What follows is the first publication of the full, unbutchered text.

175.

WITH FHIENDS LIKE THESE ..

You're getting fat, Sam Parker. Too fat and too old. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you go around with bad ladies, yes. Why don't you wise up, Parker? Cut out the stogies, lay oS the liquor, read a good book once in a while.

Why don't you shut up, Sam Parker. I can't, Sam Parker sighed. I'm you, He chomped down defiantly on the cheap cigar and gave the dingy exterior of the club another look. Name: Going Higher. Parker shook his head slowly. Going down, more likely, into the depths. Just like him.

The only hint of brightness on the exterior, which fronted on equally drab Pico Boulevard, was the small neon sign that belligerently shouted "Beer on Draft" to the uncaring double-lane strip of tired asphalt. It hadn't been a good week for Mrs. Parker's little boy. On Monday "Deanna and her Performing Pups" had played their first engagement under his aegis. In the middle of the act, what does one of the rancid b.i.t.c.hes do but take a sinking leap into the audience and proceed to put the fang to a couple of hysterical moppets. Sam's abortive relationship with Madame Deanna had dissolved faster than a headache tablet. He escaped partnership in three separate lawsuits only because the apologetic madame had providentially signed her name to their agreement in the wrong place. And now this.

The January wind poured out of the Hollywood Hills like white wine and stung his cheeks. It had to be warmer inside. He walked down the three steps.

The crowd was a surprise, larger than he'd expected. Considering the near-mystical affectation for dirt and filth by today's generation, he should have known better. He took an empty table in a front corner, forsaken because you had to lean outward to see 176.

Wolfstroker more than hah* the performing area that pa.s.sed for a stage. He put down the stub of his cigar. One fast glance around the club told him all he'd need to know -about it and all he'd ever want to.

The "fresh flowers" on the tables might qualify as pa.s.sable lichens. The nicest thing one could say about the rest of the place was that it wouldn't be hurt by a new coat of paint. Naturally^ in keeping with proper atmosphere, it was too dark to see your own pants.

A young man with blond hair like Aryan seaweed appeared at Sam's side, pad in hand. He had a dreamy, disaffected look, probably from trying to study all day and work all night. Sam felt a smidgen of sympathy for him.

"Scotch and soda."

"I'm sorry, sir," the youth murmured. "We don't serve hard liquor. Can I get you a hot cider?"

Saints preserve us, hot cider! Parker would have laughed, only it was bad for his ulcer. That Lipson kid had been so enthusiastic about this place! Well, he nodded imperceptibly, he'd learned his lesson. Last tip he took from that quarter of the "in" people.

"Can I maybe get a Heinekin's?"

"Not on tap, sir.*'

"That's all right," said Parker thankfully. "A bottle will be fine." The waiter vanished.

You couldn't rightly say the stage lights came on. Rather, the section of club that served for performing became slightly less stygian than the rest. Then the band-he used the term advisedly-moseyed out on stage.

With the possible exception of the lead guitar, they were as sad-looking a group as he'd ever seen. Lead guitar, ba.s.s, drums, and yes, it had to be, a xylophone, for G.o.d's sake! He almost smiled. Maybe the quiet evening would present him with a chuckle to go with his good beer.

Sam Parker, if you haven't guessed by now, was an agent. Not undercover, but theatrical, which was 177.

harder on body and soul. One of a mult.i.tude of busy ants, forever scrounging the ashcans of talent. Occasionally an ant died. Then he was casually dismembered by his fellows and carried into the hill to be eaten. Sam had come close a few times, but so far he was still intact and out among the scavengers. He was very observant, was Sam. So he didn't miss the unmistakable aura of expectancy that had settled over the audience. For this schlock group? This skeletal collection of insensate clods? Something didn't smell right. He found himself getting just a teensy bit excited.

Well, the drummer killed that when he started things. Sam resisted the melodramatic gesture of putting hands over ears. It was no worse than the performing pups. But if this kid had a real rhythm in his body he was preserving it for his death throes.

The ba.s.s was next, fumbling at his strings like he was sorting soggy spaghetti. Worse and worse. The xy-lophonist-Sam still hadn't recovered from that- joined in. Or rather, he started playing. What he played bore no relationship-rhythmically, melod-icaUy, harmonically-to the ba.s.s or drummer. Sam was ready to go, but he'd only started the beer. He shut out the disaster on stage and tried to concentrate on the music in the bubbles.

The lead guitar shuffled up to the single mike. There was one sad spotlight, which might have been a big flashlight on a string. He had a face like polished sandstone, full of lines that shouldn't have appeared there for another forty years yet. Straight black hair cut off at thin, bony shoulders was caught up in a single rawhide headband. He wore faded blue jeans, faded from heavy use and not modish bleaching, a stained flannel shirt, and boots whose leather had merged forever with caked earth and gray clay.

A colorless, tired, dead personality, washed up at the age of twenty-four, maybe twenty-five.

Only in the eyes, something. Eyes, pieces of fine old obsidian... and Gorgon's hair for fingers.

178.

Wolfstroker It didn't take a song, or even a stanza for Sam Parker to know. Those long young-old fingers came down and gentled on the strings, the left hand rose and curled vinelike about the top. A finger moved, touched the electric guitar, which made a sound. Near the back of the room a girl moaned.

~ His name was Willie Whitehorse, and he played like a G.o.d.

Sam Parker sat up straight in his cider-damp chair and leaned forward, wheezing a little. It didn't matter that the drummer couldn't carry a simple beat. It didn't matter than the ba.s.s had hands like wrought-iron shovels. It didn't matter that the xylophone player ignored the others for his own private limbo. It only mattered that Willie Whitehorse played-and sang.

Sang about what it was like to be like the brown eagle, to be alone. Sang how love was like snow-melt on hot winter days. Sang about smooth rocks and small crowded bird bowers and fresh green holly sprigs, about the crusty feel of tree bark under your palms and the smell of dry firewood and old histories. Sam Parker missed a lot of it, but he missed none of the crowd.

When the black-eyed singer sang- happy, the audience laughed, and strangers nudged their neighbors. When he sang sad, the cynical students cried. When he sang angry, just a little, there were frightening mad mutterings from the far blacknesses of the club, and somewhere a gla.s.s broke.

He was skinny and tired and all alone up there. But there was something in him and in his music that reached out and toyed with the souls of those who listened; grabbed and twisted and tweaked and hung on tight, tight without letting go, till it had flung them twice round the white moon and back again.

Yes, it even touched Sam Parker. And for thirty-five years nothing, absolutely nothing had affected Sam Parker. But there was a strange wildness at work here that pa.s.sed the ramparts erected by decades of Dorsey 179.

and James and Lombardo to tantalize the little man slightly.

And right at the finish there was something that frightened him just a little. It went away fast and he forgot it soon enough, for now. As he watched Willie Whitehorse, for just the shortest odd second there was no guitar in those thin arms, no guitar but instead a vapory gray outline. Like one of those things everyone sees out of the corner of their eyes and aren't there at all when they turn to look at them. A funny outline that had four legs and a tail, in those arms. Four legs, a tail, sharp pointed ears, long snout cl.u.s.tered with coconut-pale teeth, and two tiny eye pits of red-orange that burned like wax matches.

Beer and bad lighting, of course, and Sam Parker forgot it quick.

After a while the musicians and applause drifted away and the stage lights followed. Sam sat staring at the empty place for a few minutes, thinking. Then he tapped his vest pocket, heard the faint rustle of the blank contract he always carried there. He liked to joke about it, his "soul" contract. If the Devil ever presented Sam with an offer for same, he wanted to be ready for him. Know better what he was getting and Satan might try to back out of the deal.

"Another beer, sir?" Sam blinked and looked around. The waiter was back at his side, as sleepy and tired as before.

"What?"

"Would you care for another drink, sir?"

"No. No thanks." Sam shoved back his chair and stood. He handed the kid a five-dollar bill.

"I'll get your change, sir."

Sam put an arm out. "Hold it, s-pal. I got enough change. I'm rolling in change. Just tell me how to get to the dressing room."

The waiter licked his lips, eyed the faded green paper. "Won't be anyone there, 'cept maybe White-horse. His first name's Willie." The bill vanished into a shirt, to be replaced by directions, 180.

Wolfstroker n.

He hadn't really expected to find a dressing room in this dump, but d.a.m.ned if there wasn't one. As if unconsciously aware of the incongruity, it partly compensated by having no door.