 Dearest, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dearest, by H. Beam Piper. Colonel Ashley Hampton chewed his cigar and forced himself to relax, his glance slowly traversing the room, lingering on the mosaic of book spines in the tall cases, the sunlight splashed on the faded pastel colors of the carpet, the soft tinted autumn landscape outside the French windows, the trophies of Indian and Filipino and German weapons on the walls. He could easily feign relaxation here in the library of Grayrock, as long as he looked only at these familiar inanimate things and avoided the five people gathered in the room with him, for all of them were enemies. There was his nephew, Stephen Hampton, graying at the temples but youthfully dressed in sports clothes, leaning with an obvious if slightly premature proprietorship against the fireplace, a whiskey and soda in his hand. There was Myra, Stephen's smart, sophisticated looking blonde wife, reclining in the chair beside the desk. For these two, he felt an implacable hatred. The others were no less enemies, perhaps more dangerous enemies, but they were only the tools of Stephen and Myra. For instance, T. Barnwell Powell, prim and self-satisfied, sitting on the edge of his chair and clutching the briefcase on his lap as though it were a restless pet which might attempt to escape. He was an honest man, as lawyers went, painfully ethical. No doubt he had convinced himself that his clients were acting from the noblest and most disinterested motives. And Dr. Alexis Werner, with his van Dyke beard and his Viennese accent as phony as a Soviet controlled election, who had preempted the chair at Colonel Hampton's desk. This wrangled the old soldier, but Dr. Werner would want to assume the position which would give him appearance of commanding the situation. He probably felt that Colonel Hampton was no longer master of gray rock. The fifth, a Neanderthal type in a white jacket, was Dr. Werner's attendant and bodyguard. He could be ignored, like an enlisted man unthinkingly obeying the orders of his superior. But you are not cooperating, Colonel Hampton, the psychiatrist complained. How can I help you if you do not cooperate? Colonel Hampton took the cigar from his mouth, his white mustache tinged a faint yellow by habitual smoking twitched angrily. Oh, you call it helping me, do you? He asked acidly. Why am I here? The doctor parried. You're here because my loving nephew and his charming wife can't wait to see me buried in the family cemetery. They want to bury me alive in that private bedlam of yours. Colonel Hampton replied. See, Myra Hampton turned to the psychiatrist. We are persecuting him. We are all envious of him. We are plotting against him. Of course, the sullen suspicious silence is a common paranoid symptom. One often finds such symptoms in the cases of senile dementia, Dr. Werner agreed. Colonel Hampton snorted contemptuously. Senile dementia. Well, he must have been senile and demanded to bring this pair of snakes into his home because he felt the obligation to his dead brother's memory. And he willed gray rock and his money and everything to Stephen. Only Myra couldn't wait till he died. She lady Macbethed her husband into this insanity accusation. However, I must fully satisfy myself before I can sign the commitment. The psychiatrist was saying, after all, the patient is a man of advanced age, 78, to be exact. 78, almost 80. Colonel Hampton could hardly realize that he'd been around so long. He had been a little boy playing soldiers. He had been a young man, breaking the family tradition of Harvard and waggling an appointment to West Point. He had been a new second lieutenant at a little post in Wyoming in the last dying flicker of the Indian Wars. He had been a first lieutenant, trying to make soldiers of militiamen and hoping for orders to Cuba before the Spaniards gave up. He had been the hard-bitten captain of a hard-bitten company, fighting morows in the jungles of Mindanao. Then, through the early years of the 20th century, after his father's death, he had been that Rara Avis in the American Service, a really wealthy professional officer. He played polo and served a turn as military attaché at the Paris Embassy. He had commanded a regiment in France in 1918. And in the post-war years, he had rounded out his service in command of a regiment of Negro cavalry before retiring to Grey Rock. Too old for active service, or even a desk at the Pentagon, he had drilled a home guard company of 4Fs, N-boys, and Ponchi Middle Ages through the Second World War. Then he had been an old man, sitting alone in the sunlight until a wonderful thing happened. Get him to tell you about this invisible playmate of his, Stephen suggested. If that won't satisfy you, I don't know what will. It had begun a year ago last June. He had been sitting on a bench on the East Lawn, watching a kitten playing with a crumpled bit of paper on the walk, circling warily around it as though it were some living prey, stalking cautiously, pouncing and striking the paper ball with a paw and then pursuing it madly. The kitten, whose name was Smokeball, was a friend of his. Soon she would tire of her game and jump up beside him to be petted. Then suddenly he seemed to hear a girl's voice beside him. Oh, what a darling little cat. What's its name? Smokeball, he said, without thinking. She's about the color of a shrapnel burst. Then he stopped short, looking about. There was nobody in sight, and he realized that the voice had been inside his head rather than in his ear. What the devil, he asked himself, am I going nuts? There was a happy little laugh inside of him, like bubbles rising in a glass of champagne. Oh, no, I'm really here. The voice, inaudible but mentally present, assured him. You can't see me, or touch me, or even really hear me, but I'm not something you just imagined. I'm just as real as Smokeball there. Only I'm a different kind of reality. Watch. The voice stopped, and something that had seemed to be close to him left him. Immediately the kitten stopped playing with the crumpled paper and cocked her head to one side, staring fixately as at something above her. He'd seen cats do that before. Stare wide-eyed and entranced, as though at something wonderful which was hidden from human eyes. Then, still looking up and to the side, Smokeball trotted over and jumped into his lap. But even as he stroked her, she was looking at an invisible something beside him. At the same time, he had a warm and pleasant feeling as of a happy and affectionate presence near him. No, he said slowly and judicially. That's not just my imagination, but who or what are you? I'm, oh, I don't know how to think it so that you'll understand. The voice inside his head seemed baffled, like a physicist trying to explain atomic energy to a hot and taut. I'm not material, if you can imagine a mind that doesn't need a brain to think with. Oh, I can't explain it now, but when I'm talking to you like this, I'm really thinking inside your brain, along with your own mind. And you hear the words without there being any sound. And you just don't know any words that would express it. He had never thought much one way or another about spiritualism. There had been old people when he had been a boy who had told stories of ghosts and apparitions with the firmest conviction that they were true. And there had been an Irishman in his old company in the Philippines who swore that the ghost of a dead comrade walked post with him when he was on guard. Are you a spirit, he asked? I mean somebody who once lived in a body, like me. No, the voice inside him seemed doubtful. That is, I don't think so. I know about spirits. They're all around, everywhere. But I don't think I'm one. At least, I've always been like I am now, as long as I can remember. Most spirits don't seem to sense me. I can't reach most living people either. Their minds are closed to me, or they have such disgusting minds I can't bear to touch them. Children are open to me, but when they tell their parents about me, they are laughed at or punished for lying. And then they close up against me. You're the first grown-up person I've been able to reach for a long time. Probably getting into my second childhood, Colonel Hampton grunted. Oh, but you mustn't be ashamed of that, the invisible entity told him. That's the beginning of real wisdom, becoming childlike again. One of your religious teachers said something like that long ago. And a long time before that, there was a Chinaman whom people called venerable child because his wisdom had turned back again to a child's simplicity. That was loud say, Colonel Hampton said, a little surprised. Don't tell me you've been around that long. Oh, but I have, longer than that. Oh, for very long. And yet the voice he seemed to be hearing was the voice of a young girl. You don't mind my coming to talk to you, it continued. I get so lonely, so dreadfully lonely, you see? Earn, so do I, Colonel Hampton admitted. I'm probably going bats, but what the hell? It's a nice way to go bats, I'll say that. Stick around, whoever you are, and let's get acquainted, I sort of like you. A feeling of warmth suffused him, as though he had been hugged by someone young and happy and loving. Oh, I'm glad, I like you too, you're nice. Yes, of course, Dr. Werner nodded sagely. That is a schizoid tendency, the flight from reality into a dreamworld people by creatures of the imagination. You understand there is usually a mixture of psychotic conditions in cases like this. We will say that this case begins with simple senile dementia, physical brain degeneration, a result of advanced age. Then the paranoid symptoms appear. He imagines himself surrounded by envious enemies who are conspiring against him. The patient then withdraws into himself, and in his self-imposed isolation, he conjures up imaginary companionship. I have no doubt. In the beginning, he had suspected that this unseen visitor was no more than a figment of his own lonely imagination. But as the days passed, this suspicion vanished. Whatever this entity might be, an entity it was entirely distinct from his own conscious or subconscious mind. At first, she, he had early to come to think of the being as feminine, had seemed timid, fearful, lest her intrusions into his mind proven nuisance. It took some time for him to assure her that she was always welcome. With time too, his impression of her grew stronger and more concrete. He found that he was able to visualize her as he might visualize something remembered or conceived of in imagination. A lovely young girl, slender and clothed in something loose and filmy, with flowers in her honey-colored hair and clear blue eyes, a pert, cheerful face, a wide-smiling mouth with an impudently up-tilted nose. He realized that this image was merely a sort of allegorical representation. His own private object abstraction from a reality which his senses could never picture as it existed. It was about this time that he begun to call her Dearest. She had given him no name and seemed quite satisfied with that one. I've been thinking, she said, I ought to have a name for you, too. Do you mind if I call you Popsie? Huh? He had been really startled at that. If he needed any further proof of Dearest's independent existence, that was it. Never in the utmost depths of his subconscious would he have ever been likely to label himself Popsie. Know what they used to call me in the army? He asked, Slaughterhouse Hampton. They claimed I needed a truckload of sawdust to follow me around and cover up the blood. He chuckled, nobody but you would think of calling me Popsie. There was a price he found that he must pay for Dearest's companionship. The price of eternal vigilance. He found that he was acquiring the habit of opening doors and then needlessly standing aside to allow her to precede him. And although she insisted that he need not speak aloud to her, that she could understand any thought which he directed to her, he could not help actually pronouncing the words. If only in a faint whisper. He was glad that he had learned before the end of his plea beer at West Point to speak without moving his lips. Besides himself and the kitten's smokeball, there was one other at Greywalk who was aware, if only faintly, of Dearest's presence. That was old Sergeant Williamson, the Colonel's Negro servant. A retired first sergeant from the regiment he had last commanded. With increasing frequency, he would notice the old Negro pause at his work as though trying to identify something too subtle for his senses and then shake his head in bewilderment. One afternoon in early October, just about a year ago, he had been reclining in a chair on the West Veranda, smoking the cigar and trying to recreate for his companion a mental picture of an Indian camp as he had seen it in Wyoming in the middle of the 90s when Sergeant Williamson came out from the house carrying a pair of the Colonel's field boots and a polishing kit. Unaware of the Colonel's presence, he set down his burden, squatted on the floor and began polishing the boots, humming softly to himself. Then he must have caught a whiff of the Colonel's cigar. Raising his head, he saw the Colonel and made as though to pick up the boots and the polishing equipment. Oh, that's all right, Sergeant. The Colonel told him, carry on with what you're doing. There's room enough for both of us here. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The old Sergeant resumed his soft humming, keeping time with the brush in his hand. You know, Popsie, I think he knows I'm here. Dearest said, nothing definite, of course. He just feels there's something here that he can't see. I wonder, I've noticed something like that. Funny, he doesn't seem to mind either. Color people are usually scary about ghosts and spirits and the like. I'm going to ask him. He raised his voice. Sergeant, do you seem to notice anything peculiar around here lately? The repetitious little two-tone melody broke off short. The soldier's servant lifted his face and looked into the colonels. His brow wrinkled as though he were trying to express the thought for which he had no words. You notice that too, sir, he asked. Well, yes, sir, Colonel. I don't know exactly how to say it, but there is something at that. It seems like a kind of blessedness, he chuckled. That's it, Colonel, there's a blessedness. Wonder if I'm getting religion now. Well, all this is very interesting. I'm sure Dr. T. Barnwell-Powell was saying, polishing these glasses on a piece of tissue and keeping one elbow on his briefcase at the same time, but really it's not getting us anywhere. So to say, you know, we must have that commitment signed by you. Now, is it or is it not your opinion that this man is of unsound mind? Now have patience, Mr. Powell, the psychiatrist soothed him. You must admit that as long as this gentleman refuses to talk, I cannot be said to have interviewed him. But what if he won't talk, Steve and Hampton burst out. We've told you about his behavior, how he sits for hours mumbling to this imaginary person he thinks is with him, and how he always steps aside when he opens a door to let somebody who isn't there go through ahead of him. And how? Oh, Hal, what's the use? If he were in his right mind, he'd speak up and try to prove it, wouldn't he? What do you say, Myra? Myra was silent, and Colonel Hampton found himself watching her with interest. Her mouth had twisted into a rye grimace, and she was clutching the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. She seemed to be in some intense pain. Colonel Hampton hoped she were, preferably something slightly fatal. Sergeant Williamson's suspicion that he might be getting religion became a reality for a time that winter after the miracle. It had been a blustery day in mid-January with a high wind driving swirls of snow across the fields, and Colonel Hampton, fretting indoors for several days, decided to go out and fill his lungs with fresh air. Bundled warmly, swinging his black-thorn cane, he had set out, accompanied by dearest to Tramp Cross Country to the Village, three miles from Grey Rock. They had enjoyed the walk through the white windswept desolation, the old man and his invisible companion until the accident had happened. A sheet of glassy ice had lain treacherously hidden under a skift of snow. When he stepped on it, his feet shot out from under him. The stick flew from his hand, and he went down. When he tried to rise, he found that he could not. Dearest had been almost frantic. Oh, Popsie, you must get up, she cried. You'll freeze if you don't. Come on, Popsie, try again. He tried, in vain. His old body would not obey his will. It's no use, dearest, I can't. Maybe it's just as well, he said, freezing's an easy death. And you say people live on his spirits after they die. Maybe we can always be together now. I don't know, I don't want you to die yet, Popsie. I never was able to get through to a spirit, and I'm afraid. Wait, can you crawl a little enough to get over under those young pines? I think so. His left leg was numb, and he believed that it was broken. I can try. He managed to roll onto his back, and with his head towards the clump of pine seedlings, using both hands and his right heel, he was able to propel himself slowly through the snow until he was out of the worst of the wind. That's good. Now try to cover yourself, dearest advised. Put your hands in your coat pockets and wait here. I'll try to get help. Then she left him. For what seemed a long time, he lay motionless in the scant protection of the young pines, suffering miserably. He began to grow drowsy. As soon as he realized what was happening, he was frightened, and the fright pulled him away again. Soon he felt himself drowsing again. By shifting his position, he caused a jab of pain from his broken leg, which brought him back to wakefulness. Then the deadly drowsiness returned. This time he was wakened by a sharp voice, mingled with a throbbing sound that seemed to be part of a dream of the cannonating in the argon. Da, look a da. It was, he realized, Sergeant Williamson's voice. Getting soft in the head is, ah, you old worthless no-count. He turned his face to see the battered jeep from gray rock, driven by Arthur, the stableman and gardener, with Sergeant Williamson beside him. The older negro jumped to the grond and ran toward him. At the same time, he felt dearest with him again. We made it, Popsie. We made it. She was exulting. I was afraid I'd never make him understand, but I did. And you should have seen him bully that other man into driving the jeep. Are you all right, Popsie? Is you all right, Colonel? Sergeant Williamson was asking. My leg's broken, I think. But outside of that, I'm all right. He answered both of them. How did you happen to find me, Sergeant? The old negro soldier rolled his eyes upward. Colonel, it were a miracle of the blessed Lord, he replied solemnly. An angel of the Lord done appeared to me. He shook his head slowly. Ah, as a sinful man, Colonel, I couldn't see the angel face to face, but the glory of the angel was before me and guided me. They used his cane and a broken-off bow to split his leg. They wrapped him in a horse blanket and hauled him back to gray rock and put him to bed, with dearest clinging solicitously to him. The fractured leg knit slowly, though the physician was amazed at the speed with which, considering his age, he made recovery, and with his unfeeling cheerfulness. He did not know, of course, that he was being assisted by an invisible nurse. For all that, however, the leaves on the oaks around gray rock were green again before Colonel Hampton could leave his bed and hobble about the house on a cane. Arthur, the young negro who had driven the jeep, had become one of the most solid pillars of the little AME church beyond the village as a result. Sergeant Williamson had also become an attendant at the church for a while and then stopped. Without being able to define or spell or even pronounce the term, Sergeant Williamson was a strict pragmatist. Most Africans are, even after five generations, removed from the slave ship that brought their forefathers from the dark continent, and Sergeant Williamson could not find the blessedness at the church. Instead, it seemed a center about the room where his employer and former regiment commander lay. That, to his mind, was quite reasonable. If an angel of the Lord was going to tarry upon earth, the celestial being would naturally prefer the society of a retired USA colonel to that of a parcel of trifling no-counts at an old clapboard church house. Be that as it may, he could always find the blessedness in Colonel Hampton's room. And sometimes, when the colonel would be asleep, the blessedness would follow him out and linger with him for a while. Colonel Hampton wondered, anxiously, where dearest was now. He had not felt her presence since his nephew had brought his lawyer and the psychiatrist into the house. He wondered if she had voluntarily separated herself from him for fear that he might give her some sign of recognition that these harpies would fasten upon as an evidence of unsound mind. He could not believe that she deserted him entirely, now when he needed her most. Well, what can I do? Dr. Werner was complaining, you bring me here to interview him and he just sits there and does nothing. Will you consent to my giving him an injection of sodium pentothal? Well, I don't know, now. T. Barnwell Powell objected, I've heard of that drug, one of the so-called truth serum drugs. I doubt if testimony taken under its influence could be admissible in a court. This is not a court, Mr. Powell, the doctor explained patiently, and I am not taking testimony. I am making a diagnosis. Pentothal is a recognized diagnostic agent. Go ahead, Stephen Hamilton said. Anything to get this over with, you agree, Myra? Myra said nothing, she simply sat with staring eyes and clutched the arms of her chair as though to keep from slipping into some dreadful abyss. Once a low moan escaped her lips. My wife is naturally overwrought by this painful business, Stephen said. I trust that you gentlemen will excuse her. Hadn't you better go and lie down somewhere, Myra? She shook her head violently moaning again. Both the doctor and the attorney were looking at her curiously. Well, I object to being drugged, Colonel Hampton said, rising, and what's more, I won't submit to it. Albert, Dr. Werner said sharply, nodding towards the Colonel. The Pythocanthropoid attendant in the white jacket hastened forward, pinned his arms behind him and dragged him down into the chair. For an instant, the old man tried to resist, then realizing the futility and undignity of struggling subsided. The psychiatrist had taken a leather case from his pocket and was selecting a hypodermic needle. Then Myra Hampton leaped to her feet, her face working hideously. No, stop, stop, she cried. Everyone looked at her in surprise. Colonel Hampton, no less than the others. Stephen Hampton called out her name sharply. No, you shan't do this to me. You shan't, you're torturing me. You are all devils, she screamed. Devils, devils! Myra, her husband barked, stepping forward. With a twist, she eluded him, dashing around the desk and pulling open a drawer. For an instant, she fumbled inside it and when she brought her hand up, she had Colonel Hampton's 45 automatic in it. She drew back the slide and released it, loading the chamber. Dr. Werner, the hypodermic in his hand, turned. Stephen Hampton sprang at her, dropping his drink. And Albert, the prognathus attendant, released Colonel Hampton and leaped at the woman with the pistol, with an unthinking promptness of a dog whose master is in danger. Stephen Hampton was the closest to her. She shot him first, point blank in the chest. The heavy bullet knocked him backwards against a small table he and it fell over together. While he was falling, the woman turned, dipped the muzzle of her pistol slightly and fired again. Dr. Werner's leg gave way under him and he went down, the hypodermic flying from his hand and landing at Colonel Hampton's feet. At the same time, the attendant, Albert, was almost upon her. Quickly she reversed the heavy colt, pressed the muzzle against her heart and fired a third shot. T. Barnwell Powell had let the briefcase slip to the floor. He was staring, slack-jawed, at the tableau of violence which had been enacted before him. The attendant, having reached Myra, was looking down at her stupidly. Then he stooped and straightened. She's dead, he said, unbelievably. Colonel Hampton rose, putting his heel on the hypodermic and crushing it. Of course she's dead, he barked. Do you have any first aid training? Then look after these other people. Dr. Werner first, the other man's unconscious. He'll wait. No, look after the other man first, Dr. Werner said. Albert ganked back and forth between them. God damn it, you heard me, Colonel Hampton roared. It was Slaughterhouse Hampton whose service ribbons started with the Indian campaigns, speaking. An officer who never for an instant imagined that his orders would not be obeyed. Get a tourniquet on that man's leg, you. He moderated his voice in manner about half a degree and spoke to Werner. You're not the doctor, you're the patient now. You'll do as you're told. Don't you know that a man shot in the leg with a 45 can bleed to death without half trying? You'll all do like the Colonel says, oh for God you all gonna wish you had. Sergeant Williams said, entering the room, get a move on. He stood just inside the doorway, holding a silver banded Malacca walking stick that he had taken from the hall stand. He was grasping it in his left hand below the band with the crook out, holding it at his side as though it were a sword in a scabbard which was exactly what that walking stick was. Albert looked at him and then back at Colonel Hampton. Then, whipping off his necktie, he went down on his knees beside Dr. Werner, skillfully applying the improvised tourniquet, twisting it tight with an 18 inch ruler the Colonel took from the desk and handed to him. Go and get the first aid kit, Sergeant, the Colonel said, and hurry, Mr. Stevens been shot too. Yes, Sergeant Williamson executed an automatic salute and about face and raced from the room. The Colonel picked up the telephone on the desk. The county hospital was three miles from Grey Rock, the state police substation a good five. He dialed the state police number first. Sergeant Mallard, Colonel Hampton at Grey Rock, we've had a little trouble here. My nephew's wife just went Jura Mentado with one of my pistols, shot and wounded her husband and another man and then shot and killed herself. Yes, indeed it is, Sergeant. I wish you'd send somebody over here as soon as possible to take charge. Oh, you will? That's good. No, it's all over and nobody to arrest. Just the formalities. Well, thank you, Sergeant. The old Negro cavalryman re-entered the room without the sword cane and carrying a heavy leather box on a strap over his shoulder. He set this on the floor and opened it. Then not beside Stephen Hampton, the Colonel was calling the hospital. Gunshot wounds, he was saying, one man in the chest and the other in the leg both with a 45 pistol and you'd better send a doctor who's qualified to write a death certificate. There was a woman killed, too. Yes, certainly, the state police have been notified. This ain't so bad, Colonel. Sergeant Williamson raised his head to say, I've seen men shot wasn't this that was mocked duty inside a month, sir. Colonel Hampton nodded. Well, get him fixed up as best you can till the ambulance gets here and there's whiskey and glasses on that table over there. Better give Dr. Werner a drink. He looked at T. Barnwell Powell, still frozen to his chair, aghast at the carnage around him and give Mr. Powell a drink, too. He needs one. He did, indeed. Colonel Hampton could have used a drink, too. The library looked like beef day at an Indian agency but he was still Slaughterhouse Hampton and consequently could not afford to exhibit queasiness. It was then for the first time since the business had started that he felt the presence of dearest. Oh, Popsie, are you all right? The voice inside his head was asking. It's all over now. You won't have anything to worry about anymore. But, oh, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to do it. My God, dearest, he almost spoke aloud. Did you make her do that? Popsie, the voice in his mind was grief-stricken. You, you're afraid of me. You'd never be afraid of dearest Popsie. And don't hate me for this. It was the only thing I could do. If he'd given you that injection, he could have made you tell him all about us. And then he'd have been sure you were crazy and that he'd have taken you away. And they'd treat people dreadfully at that place of his. You'd have been driven really crazy before long and then your mind would have been closed to me so that I wouldn't have been able to get through to you anymore. What I did was the only thing I could do. I don't hate you, dearest, he replied mentally. And I don't blame you. It was a little disconcerting, though, to discover the extent of your capabilities. How did you manage it? You remember how I made the sergeant see an angel? The time that you were down in the snow? Colonel Hampton nodded. Well, I made her see. Things that weren't angels, dearest continued. After I'd driven her almost to distraction, I was able to get into her mind and take control of her. Colonel Hampton felt a shudder inside of him. That was horrible. That woman had a mind like a sewer. I still feel dirty from it. I made her get the pistol. I knew where you kept it and I knew how to use it, even if she didn't. Remember when we were shooting muskrats? That time along the river? Uh-huh. I wondered how she knew enough to unlock the action and load the chamber. He turned and faced the others. Dr. Werner was sitting on the floor with his back to the chair Colonel Hampton had occupied. His injured leg stretched out in front of him. Albert was hovering over him with mother hand solicitude. T. Barnwell Powell was finishing his whiskey and recovering a fraction of his normal poise. Well, I suppose you gentlemen see now who was really crazy around here. Colonel Hampton addressed them bitingly. That woman has been dangerously close to the borderline of sanity for as long as she's been here. I think my precious nephew trumped up this ridiculous insanity complaint against me as much to discredit any testimony I might ever give about his wife's mental condition as because he wanted to get control of my estate. I also suppose that the tension she was under here this afternoon was too much for her and the scheme boomeranged on its originators. Curious case of poetic justice. But I'm sorry you had to be included in it, doctor. Had a boy Popsie, dearest enthused? Now you have them on the run. Don't give them a chance to reform. You know what Patton always said. Grab them by the nose and kick them in the pants. Colonel Hampton relighted his cigar. Patton only said pants when he was talking for publication. He told her, Satovuche. Then he noticed the unsigned commitment paper lying on the desk. He picked it up, crumpled it and threw it into the fire. I don't think you'll be needing that, he said. You know, this isn't the first time my loving nephew has expressed doubts about my sanity. He sat down in the chair at the desk, motioning to a servant to bring him a drink and see to the other gentleman's glasses, sergeant. He directed. Back in 1929, Stephen thought I was crazy as a bed bug to sell all my securities and take a paper loss around the 1st of September. After October 24th, I bought them back at about 20% of what I'd sold them for after he'd lost his shirt. That, he knew, would have an effect on T. Barnwell Powell. And in December, 1944, I was just plain nuts, selling all my munitions shares and investing in a company that manufactured baby food. Stephen thought that runch debts are then counter-offensive would put off the end of the war for another year and a half. Baby food, eh? Dr. Werner chuckled. Colonel Hampton sipped his whiskey slowly, then puffed on his cigar. No, this pair were competent liars, he replied. A good workman like liar never makes up a story out of the whole cloth. He always takes a fabric of truth and embroiders it to suit the situation. He smiled grimly. That was an accurate description of his own tactical procedure at the moment. I hadn't intended this to come out, doctor, but it happens that I am a convinced believer in spiritualism. I suppose you'll think that that's a delusional belief too. Well, Dr. Werner pursed his lips. I reject the idea of survival after death myself, but I think that people who believe in such a theory are merely mis-evaluating evidence. It is definitely not, in itself, a symptom of a psychotic condition. Thank you, doctor. The Colonel gestured with a cigar. Now, I'll admit their statements about my appearing to be in conversation with some invisible or imaginary being. That's all quite true. I'm convinced that I am in direct voice communication with the spirit of a young girl who was killed by the Indians in this section about 175 years ago. At first, she communicated by automatic writing. Later, we established direct voice communication. Well, naturally, a man in my position would dislike the label of spirit medium. There are too many invidious associations connected with the term, but there it is. I trust both of you gentlemen will remember the ethics of your respective professions and keep this confidential. Oh, brother, Dearest was fairly hugging him with delight. When bigger and better lies are told, we tell him, don't we, Popsie? Yes, and try and prove otherwise. Colonel Hampton replied around his cigar. Then he blew a jet of smoke and spoke to the men in front of him. I intend paying for my nephew's hospitalization and for his wife's funeral, he said. And then I'm going to pack up all his personal belongings and all of hers. When he's just charged from the hospital, I'll ship them wherever he wants them, but he won't be allowed to come back here. After this business, I'm through with him. T. Barnwell Powell nodded primly. I don't blame you in the least, Colonel. He said, I think you have been abominably treated and your attitude is most generous. He was about to say something else when the doorbell tinkled and Sergeant Williamson went out into the hall. Oh dear, I suppose that's the police now. The lawyer said, he grimaced like a small boy in a dentist's chair. Colonel Hampton felt Dearest leave him for a moment. Then she was back. The ambulance. Then he caught a sparkle of mischief in her mood. Let's have some fun, Popsie. The doctor is a young man with brown hair and a mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, a blue tie and a tan leather bag. One of the ambulance men has red hair and the other has a macuro-chrome stain on his left sleeve. Tell them your spirit guy told you. The old soldier's tobacco-yellowed mustache twitched in amusement. No, gentlemen, it is the ambulance, he corrected. My spirit control says he relayed Dearest's descriptions to them. T. Barnwell Powell blinked. A speculative look came into the psychiatrist's eyes. He was probably wishing the commitment paper hadn't been destroyed. Then the doctor came bustling in. Brown mustache, blue tie, spectacled, carrying a tan bag. And behind him followed the two ambulance men. One with a thatch of flaming red hair and the other with a stain of macuro-chrome on his jacket sleeve. For an instant, the lawyer and the psychiatrist gaited at them. Then T. Barnwell Powell put one hand to his mouth and made a small gibbering sound and Dr. Werner gave a faint squawk. And then both men grabbed simultaneously for the whiskey bottle. The laughter of Dearest tinkled inaudibly through the rumbling mirth of Colonel Hampton. The end. End of Dearest by H. B. Piper. Flame Down. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading is by Johan G. Flame Down by H. B. Fife. Charlie Holmes lost touch with reality amid rending and chattering sounds that lingered dimly. Blackness engulfed him in a wave of agony. He was not sure exactly when the possibility of opening his eyes occurred to him. Vaguely, you could sense, remember was to definite, much tugging and hauling upon his supine body. It doubtless seemed justifiable, but he flinched from recalling more clearly that which must have been so extremely unpleasant. Gently now, he tried rolling his head a few inches right, then left. When it hurt only one-tenth as much as he feared, he let his eyes open. Hello! Rossed the bulbous creature squatting beside his pallet. Charlie shut his eyes quickly and very tightly. Something with a dampish, spongy tip, probably one of the grape-red tentacles he had glimpsed to prod at his shoulder. Hello! Insisted the scratchy voice. Charlie peeped wearily, was strapped at it, and opened his eyes resignedly. When hell am I, he inquired. It sounded very trite, even in his confused condition. Sections of the dark red skin before him, especially on the barrel-shaped belly quivered, as he spoke. Surely, great did the remarkable voice, you remember something. The crash, gossed Charlie, sitting up abruptly. He held his breath, awaiting the knifing pain it seemed natural to expect. When he felt none, he cautiously fingered his ribs, and then a horrid thought prompted him to wiggle his bare toes. Everything seemed to be in place. He lay in a small room on a thin pallet of furs. Floor and walls of slick, ochre clay reflected the bright outside light pouring through a wide doorway. What's all the sand, he demanded, squinting at the heat waves outside. You do not recognize it? Look again, Earthman. Earthman, thought Charlie. It must be real. I can still see him. What a whack on the head I must have got. You are in pain? Asked the creature solicitously. Oh, no, or just... I can't remember the crash, and then... Oh, yes, you have not been conscious for some time. His reddish hose rippled upward to stand more or less erect upon three thick tentacles. Even with us, memory is slow after shock, and you may be uneasy in the light of gravity. Light gravity, reflected Charlie. This can only mean Mars. Sure, that must be it. I was piloting a rocket and tracked up somewhere on Mars. It felt right to him. He decided that the rest of his memory would return. Are you able to rise? Asked the other, extending a helpful tentacle. The Earthman managed to hold himself stiffly to his feet. Say, my name is Holmes, he introduced himself, Dizzily. I am Koteki. In your language, learned here from other spacemen, I might say, fiery canal man. Has to be Mars, muttered Charlie under his breath. What a bump! When can you show me what's left of my ship? There will be no time, answered the Martian. Bunches of small muscles twitched here and there across the front of his round, pudgy head. Charlie was getting used to the single eye. Half the size of an orange are not much duller. With imagination, the various lumps and organs surrounding it might be considered a face. The priestesses will lead the crowd here, predicted Kou. They know I took an Earthman, and I fear that they are finished with the others. Finished with what? demanded the Earthman, shaking his head in hopes of clearing it enough to figure out what was wrong. It has been an extremely dry season. Kou rippled his tentacles and moved listeningly to the doorway, assuming a grotesque furtive posture as he peered out. The people are maddened by the drought. They will be aroused to sacrifice you to the canal gods, like the others who survived. Canal gods, croaked Charlie, this can't be right. Aren't you civilized here? I can't be the only Earthman they've seen. It is true that Earthmen are perfectly safe at most times. But the laws, the Earth consul, Kou snapped the tip of a tentacle at him. The canals are low. You can feel the heat and dryness for yourself. The crowds are inflamed by temple prophecies, and then your ship flaming down from the skies. He snapped all his tentacle tips at once. From somewhere outside, a threatening murmur became audible. It was an unholy blend of rasping shouts and trillet chanting punctuated by notes of a bratic gong. As Charlie listened, the volume rose noticeably. Kou reached out with one tentacle and wrapped six inches about the Earthman's wrist. When he plunged through the doorway, Charlie Perforce went right with him. Whipping around a corner of the hut, he had time for a quick squint at the charters. Kou alone had looked weirdly alien, 200 like him. Led by a dozen bulgy figures in streaming robes masked and decorated in brass, the natives were swarming over the sand towards the fugitives. They had evidently been busy. Above a distant cluster of low buildings, a column of smoke spiralled upward suggestively. Kou led the way at a floating gallop over a sandstone ridge and down a long slope toward what looked like the junction of two gullies. The canal, he wheezed, with luck we may find a boat. A frenzied screech went up as the mob topped the ridge and regained sight of them. Charlie, having all he could do to breathe in the thin air, tried to shake his wrist loose. Now that they were descending the slope, he saw where the water was. They slid down a four-foot drop in a cloud of fine, choking dust and were faced by several punt-like craft stranded in the mudflat behind. The water was 50 feet further. "'We should have gone downstream,' said Kou, "'but we can wade.' Their momentum carried them several steps into the mud before Charlie realized how wrong that was. Then, as they floundered about to regain the solid bank, it became apparent that they would never reach it in time. "'They are catching us,' asked Kou.' The howling crowd was scarcely a hundred yards away. The heat-waves shimmered above the reddish desert sand until the Martians were blurred before Charlie's burning eyes. His feet churned the clinging mud and he felt as if he were running in a dream. "'I'm sorry you're in it too,' he panted. "'It does not matter. I act as I must.' The earthman rubbed sweat from his eyes with the back of a muddy hand. "'Everything is wrong,' he mumbled. "'I still can't remember cracking up the ship. "'Why did I always want to be a rocket pilot? "'Well, I made my bed.' The oncoming figures wavered and blurred in the heat. Kou emitted a grating sound reminiscent of an earthly chuckle. "'Has do all you mortals who finally have to lie in them,' he rosped. "'I will tell you now, since I can carry this episode, little father. "'You have never piloted a spaceship.' Charlie gaped at him incredulously. "'You—you—what about the wreck?' "'It was a truck that hid you, Charles Holmes. "'You have no more sense than to be crossing the street with your nose in a magazine just purchased on the corner.' With some dulled, creeping, semi-detached facet of his mind, Charlie noted that the running figures still floated above the sand without actually drawing near. "'Are you—do you mean I'm d—?' "'Of course you are,' grated Kou amiably. "'And in view of certain actions during your life, "'there will be quite a period of, shall we say, probation.' "'When I was assigned to you, your reading habit suggested "'an amusing series of variations. "'You cannot know how dull it is to keep frustrating the same old dreams.' "'Amusing?' repeated Charlie, beyond caring about the whimper in his tone. "'The mob was dissolving into thin smoke and the horizon was shrinking. "'Kou himself was altering into something red-off skin "'but equipped with a normal number of limbs, discounting the barbed tail. "'The constant heat of the desert began at last to seem explicable. "'For me a great amusement,' grinned Kou, displaying hideous tusks. "'Next time I'll be of an ocean. You will lose again. "'Then we can visit other planets and stars. "'Oh, we shall see a lot of each other.' "'He cheerfully polished one horn with a clawed finger. "'You won't enjoy it,' he promised. "'End of Flame Down' by HB5, recorded by Yuan Ji in Pretoria, South Africa." The Flying Cuspidores by VR Francis This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Bologna Times The Flying Cuspidores by VR Francis A trumpet tutor in love can be a wonderful sight if local 802 will forgive a saying so. When extraterrestrials get involved too, oh, brother, VR Francis, who lives in California and has previously appeared in men's magazines, became 21 and sold to Fantastic Universe all in the same week. This was love, and what could be done of it? It's been happening to guys for a long time now. Hot Libs Grogan may not be as handsome and good-looking like me or as brainy and intellectual, but in this fiscal year of 2056 he is the gonest trumpet tutor, this side of Alpha Centauri. You would know what I mean right off if you ever hear him give out with stars fell on Venus or Martian love song or shine on Harvest Luna. Believe me, it is out of this world. He is not only hot, he is radioactive. On a clear day, he is playing notes you cannot hear without you are wearing special equipment. That is for a fact. Mostly he is a good man, cool, solid, and in the warp, but one night he is playing strictly in three or four wrong keys. I am the ivory man for this elite bunch of musicians, and I am scoping up my 3-D music from the battered electronic 88 when he comes over looking plenty worried. Eddie, he says, I got a problem. You got a problem all right, I tell him. You are not getting a job selling Venusian fish the way you play today. He frowns. It is pretty bad, I suppose. Bad is not the word, I say, but I spare his feelings and do not say the word. It is. What gives? He looks around him, careful to see if anybody in the place is close enough to hear. But it is only afternoon rehearsal on the gambling ship Saturn, and the waiter is busy mopping up the floor and leaning on the long-handled sterilizers, and the boys in the band are picking up their music to go down to earth to get some shut-eye, or maybe an atomic beer or two before we open that night. Hot lips grog and leans over and whispers in my ear. It is the thrush, he says. The thrush, I say, loud, before he clamps one of his big hands over my kisser. The thrush, I say, softer. You mean the canary. He waves his arms like a bird. Thrush, canary. I mean, still a starlight. For a moment I stand with my mouth open and think of this. Then I rub it for the 97th time at the female warpla, who is standing talking to Frankie, the band leader. She is a thrush new to the band, and plenty cute, a blonde, with everything where it is supposed to be, and maybe a little extra helping in a couple of spots. I give him my usual approving once over, just in case I miss something. The last 96 approving once-overs I give him. What about it, I say. It is your fault. I play like I do. Hot lips grog and tells me sadly, come on. Leave us go guzzle a beer, and I will tell you about it. Just then Frankie comes over, looking nasty like as usual, and he says to Grogan, you are not playing too well today, hot lips. Maybe you hurt your lip on a beer bottle, huh? As usual, also, his tone is pretty short on sweetness and light, and I do not see why Grogan, who looks something like a gorilla's mother-in-law, takes such guff from a bean-pole like Frankie. But Grogan only says, I think something is wrong with my trumpet. I have it fixed before tonight. Frankie smirks. Do that, he says, looking like a grinning weasel. We want you to play for dancing, not for calling a Martian moose. Frankie walks away, and hot lips shrugs. Leave us get our beer, he says simply, and we go to the ferry. We pile into the space ferry with the other musicians, and anyone else who is going down to dirty old terra firma, and when everybody who is going aboard is aboard, the doors close, and the ferry drifts into space. Hot lips and I find seats, and we look back at the gambling ship. It is a thrill you do not get used to, no matter how many times you see it. The sailor boys who built the Saturn, they give it the handle of Satellite II then, would not know their baby now. Frankie does such a good job of revamping it. Of course it is not used as a gambling ship then, at least not altogether, if you know what I mean. Way back in 1998, when they get it in the sky, they are more interested in it being useful than pretty. Anybody that got nasty and unsanitary ideas just forgot them when they saw that iron casket floating in a sky that could be filled with hydrogen bombs or old laundry without so much as a four-bar intro as warning. He buys the Satellite II at a Warsaw Plus sale, when moon flights become as easy as commuter's trips, and he smooths out its shape so it looks like an egg, and then puts a fin around it for ships to land on. After that it does not take much imagination to call it the Saturn. Then he gets his Western Hemisphere license and opens for business. My daydreaming stops for suddenly hot lips is grabbing my arm and pointing out the window. What for you grabbing my arm and waving your fist at the window, hot lips? I inquire politely of him. Eddie, he whispers, all nervous and excited from something. I see one. I give him a blank stare. You see one what? One flying Cuspidon, he says, his face serious. I see it hanging out there by the Saturn, and then suddenly it is gone. Wish. Hallucination, I tell him, but I look out hard and try to see one too. I don't, so I figure maybe I am right, after all. I do not know about this Men from Space gimmick the science fiction people try to peddle, but lots of good substantial citizens see flying Cuspidons, and I think to myself that maybe there is something to it. So I keep looking back at the Saturn, but nothing unusual is going on that I can see. My logic and supersalesmanship evidently convinces hot lips, for he does not say anything more about it. Anyway, in a few minutes we jog all to a stop at Earthport, pile out, wave our identification papers at the doorman with the lieutenants bars, and then take off for the atomic café a block away. Entering the gem of a drinking establishment, we make our way through the smoke and noise to get a quiet little corner table, and give Mamie the high sign for two beers. A few minutes later she comes bouncing over with the order, and a cheery word about how invigorating it is to see us high class gentlemen, instead of the bums that usually hang around a joint like this, trying to make time with a nice girl like her. That is all very nice, I say to her politely, and we are overjoyed beyond words to see you too, Mamie, but hot lips and I have got strange and mysterious things to discuss, so I would appreciate it if you would see us later instead of now. With this I give her a playful pat, and she blushes and takes the hint. When we are alone I ask hot lips now, what is the trouble which he has? I can tell you before, hot lips says, I have a problem, so here it is. He takes a deep breath, and lets fly all at once. I am in love of the thrush, stellar starlight. I am drinking my beer when he says this, and suddenly I get a snootful and start coughing, and he whams me on the back with his big paw so I stop, more in self-defense than in his curin' me. Now the idea of a big bruiser like hot lips grogan, in love with a sweet fluffy thing like stellar starlight, seems funny, so I say. So that is why I play so bad tonight, he says, seeing I do not quite catch onto the full intent of his remarks. He continues, I am a happy man, Eddie, I got my trumpet, I paid for suit of clothes, a one-room apartment with green wallpaper, but a man asked for much more. Not unless he is greedy, I agree. Hot lips grogan is staring at his beer as though he sees a worm in it, and looking sadder than ever. It is a strange and funny thing, he says, dreamy like. There she is singing, and there I am, giving with the trumpet, and all of a great big sudden whammo it hits me, and I feel a funny feeling in my stomach. Maybe it is full of super-suds or something, and my mouth is dry, just like cotton candy. Indigestion, I suggest. He shakes his big head. No, he says. It is worse than indigestion. He points to his stomach in size. It is love. Fine, I say, happy, it is not worse. All you got to do is tell her, get married, and have lots and lots of kids. Hot lips grogan's big eyebrows play hopscotch around his butt and nose, so I can tell he does not think I solve all his troubles with my suggestion. You are a good man, Eddie, he tells me, but you are too intellectual. This is an affair of the heart. He sighs again. I am never in love of a girl before, he goes on, more worried, and I do not know how to act. Besides, the thrush is with us only a day, and Frankie already is making with the eyes. So what should I do, give you lessons? The idea is so laughable, I laugh at it. Anyway, Frankie always makes with the eyes at thrushes. Yes, hot lips grogan admits, but never before have I been in love of any of the thrushes Frankie has made with the eyes at. Frankly, Eddie, I am worried like I'll get out about this. Sometimes I do not even understand the way you play, even before the thrush comes, hot lips, I admit. Like, for instance, yesterday, when we play a spaceship built for two. This is a song, as you know, that does not have in it many high notes. But even when you play the low notes, they sound somewhat like they maybe are trying to be high notes. It is a matter which is perplexing to one of my curious nature. Hot lips looks sheepish for a minute, and then he says, it has a physical disability with me, Eddie. When I am young and practicing with my trumpet one day, I have an accident and get my tongue caught in the mouthpiece. And it is necessary for the doctor to operate on my tongue and cut into it like maybe it is chopped liver. I am sorry to hear this, hot lips, I say. I do not tell anyone this before, Eddie, hot lips confesses. But afterward, when I play the trumpet, I play two notes at one time, which at first is pretty embarrassing. That is great hot lips, I proclaim, as a big idea hits me. You can play your own harmony with talent like that in my brain. But hot lips are shaking his head. No, Eddie, he says. The other note is way off in the stratosphere someplace, and no one can hear it. Even when the melody note is low. And the higher the note is, you can hear. The higher the other note is, you cannot hear. Besides, now I cannot even play what I am supposed to play, what with the thrush around. I sit there with my beer in my hand and think about it for a while, while hot lips looks at me like a lost sheepdog. I scratch my head, but I do not even come up with dandruff. Finally, I say. Well, thrush or not, if you play no better than you do this afternoon, Frankie will make you walk back home without a spacesuit. That is for positive. Hot lips agree, sadly. So what can I do? I am forced to admit that I do not know just what hot lips can do. However, I say, I have an idea. And I call Mamie over and tell her the problem. So you are a woman, and maybe you know what my musician friend can do, I suggest. Mamie sighs, I am at a loss for words concerning what your friend can do, but I know just how he feels, for it is like that with me, too. I am in love of a handsome young musician who comes in here, but he does not take notice of me except to order some beer for him and his friend. I click my teeth sympathetically at the nose. And I am too shy and dignified a girl to tell him. Mamie continues, sadly. So you see, I have the same problem as your friend and cannot help you. See, I whisper to hot lips, it is perfectly normal. Yes, he hisses back, but I am still miserable, and the only company I desire is that of Stella Starlight. Maybe it really is your trumpet, I suggest. Not very hopeful, though. Hot lips shakes his head. Look, he says, and takes the trumpet from his case and puts it to his lips and listen to this. Inwardly I quiver, like all get-out, because I figure that is just what the management will tell us to do. Once hot lips, let's go. Hot lips puffs out his cheeks and a soft nut slides from the end of the trumpet, low, clear, and beautiful, without a waiver and a space load. Only a few people close by can hear the note, and they do not pay us any attention, except to think that maybe we are a little nuttier than as normal for musicians. From his first note, hot lips shifts to a higher note, which is just as pretty. Then he goes on to another one, and then to another, improvising a melody I do not hear before, and getting higher all the time. After a while I can hardly hear it, it is so high, but I can feel the glass in my hand vibrating, like it wants to get out, on that floor, and dance. I hold on to it with both hands, so my beer will not slosh over the side. Then there is no sound at all from the trumpet, but hot lips' cheeks are puffed out, and he is still blowing for all he is worth, which is plenty, if he can play like this when Stella Starlight is around. I tap hot lips on the shoulder. Hot lips, that is all very well for any bats in the room, which maybe can hear what you play, but he does not pay me any attention. Suddenly there is a large, crinkle crash of glass from the bar, and a hoarse cry from the bartender as he sees his king-sized mirror come down in little pieces. At the same time glasses pop into fragments all over the room, and spill beer over the people holding them. Even my own glass becomes nothing but ground glass and the beer sloshes over the table. At the moment, however, I do not worry about that. There are other things to worry about, which are more important, like hot lips and my health, for instance, which is not likely to be so good in the near future. Like I say, hot lips does not play loud, and it is noisy in the place, so there are not too many who hear him. But they look around, all mad, and covered with beer, and see him there with the trumpet in his hand, and a funny look on his big face, and they put two and two together. I can see they figure the answer is four, and what makes things worse? They are between us and the front door. So we cannot sneak past, like maybe we are just tourists. Hot lips, I say to him, my voice not calm like as usual. I think it is a grand and glorious idea that we desert here and take ourselves elsewhere. Hot lips agrees. But where, he wants to know. I am forced to admit to myself that he comes up with a good question. Over here, Mammy said suddenly, and we look across the room to see your poking her nose through a side door. We do not wait for a formal invite, but zoom across the floor, and through the door into another, emptier room. Mammy slams the door, and locks it just as two or three bodies thump into it like they mean business. The manager is out there, and is not completely overjoyed with your actions of a short while ago, Mammy informs us, explaining, I recognize the thump the character makes. Evidently, I surmise, he is in no mood to talk to concerning damages, and how we can get out of paying them, so we will talk to him later instead of now. See what I mean, though, Eddie, Hotlip says, I play fine when Stella Starlight is not in the place. Like I say, it is love, and what can I do about it? It is a problem, I say. Even if you do play, you will no doubt be fired and cannot pay for the damages to the bar room and to the customer's clothing. Already there are holes in my plastic clothing where the beer splashes. If you can only give out on the Saturn like you play here, I sigh. We can break all records and show Frankie, suddenly Mammy is tugging at my arm. Mammy, I inquire politely of her. Why are you tugging at my arm? That is it, she informs me, and leans forward and whispers in my ear. But I say, Hurry, she says, pushing us out another door. You have only got this afternoon to do it. But, I say again, and Hotlip and I are in the alley, looking at the door, which Mammy closes in our face. What does Mammy say? Hotlip wants to know eagerly. Can she fix it up with me and Stella Starlight? I scratch my head. That I do not know, Hotlip. But she does give me an idea, which is so good, I am surprised at myself I do not think of it alone. Hotlip gives me a blank stare, which is, Come on, I say mysteriously, you and me have got things to do. It is hard to say who is more nervous that night. Hotlip's are a certain piano player with my name. Frankie is smacking, like always, and Stella Starlight is sitting and looking beautiful while she waits for her cue. Hotlip's are fumbling with his trumpet, like maybe he never sees one before. And I, even I, am not exactly calm, like always. The band begins to warm up. But we do not knock ourselves out, because there are still no customers to speak of. Frankie's license makes it plain that he has to stay over the western hemisphere, so he has to wait until he gets dark enough there for the people to want to go night clubbing, even though it is not really night on the seren, or morning or anything else. We play along, like always, and Hotlip's has his trumpet pressed into his face, and nothing but beautiful sounds come from the band. I do not know if Frankie is altogether happy about this, for he does not like Hotlip's, and would like this chance to bounce him. But what surprises me most is that the thrush Stella Starlight keeps looking back at Hotlip's, like she notices him for the first time, and is plenty worried by what she sees. We have a short break after a while, and I am telling Hotlip's that the idea goes over real great when Stella Starlight waltzes over. Hotlip's big eyes bug out, and I can see him shaking and covered with goosebumps. You do not play like that before, Hotlip's, she goes. What did you do? Hotlip's blushes and stammers. Eddie, and I fix. But I give him a kick in his big shins before he gives the whole thing away. Hotlip's does some practicing this afternoon, I tell him, to get his lip in shape for tonight. She looks at me like she is looking through me, and she turns back to Hotlip's and says, soft and murmuring, please do not play too high, Hotlip's. I am delicate and disturbed by high sounds. She waltzes away, and I scratch my head and try to figure out what this pitch is for. Hotlip's is not trying to figure out anything. He just sits there looking like he has just got his trumpet out of hawk for the last time. Hotlip's, I say to him. Go away, please, Eddie, he tells me. I am in heaven. You will be in the poor house, or maybe even jail if you tell somebody how we fix your playing, I warn him. I still feel funny feelings, though, Eddie, he tells me, frowning, like I cannot hit high notes now if I try. Then do not try, I advise. One problem at a time is too much. There is a commotion at the entrance on the other side of the dance floor, where some people all dressed up come in. A woman is holding her head and moaning and threatening to faint all over the place. Frankie hies over to us, running fidgety hands through his hair. For goodness' sake, play something, he almost begs. What gives, I inquire. Flying cuspidars, Frankie says in a frantic toad, they are all around the place, like they are maybe mad at something, and a few minutes ago they buzz the ferry and get the passengers all nervous and upset. If they do that again, business will be bad. Maybe even now it will be bad. Play something. He hops out in front with his baton and gives us a quick one, too, and we all swing into space on my hands, real loud, so as to get people's minds off things, which Frankie wants to get people's minds off of. Stella Starlight gets up to sing, but she looks more like she would rather do something else. She stares at hot lips and at the trumpet on his lips and begins to quiver like she is about to do a dance. I remember she says she does not like high notes, and this song has some pretty well up in the stratosphere, especially for the trumpet section, which is hot lips. She is frowning like maybe she is thinking real hard about something, and is surprised her thoughts do no good. Her face becomes waxy, and there is a frightened look on it. She acquires some more as the notes go up and up and up. Then she lets out a shriek like maybe she is going to pieces. And then she does, actually, right before our popping eyeballs. She goes to pieces. As each one in the band sees what is going on, he stops playing until finally hot lips is the only one. But the trumpet is in hot lips' hand, and the music is coming from the recording machine we place under his chair. The notes are clear and smooth, and you can almost feel the air shaking with them. But nobody noticed the music or where it's coming from. They are too busy watching the thrush, stellar starlight. She stands there, her face as white as clay, shaking like a carrot going through a mix master. And then tiny cracks appear on her face, on her arms, even in her dress. And then a large one appears in her forehead, and goes down through her body. She splits in the middle like a cracked walnut, and there in the center, floating three feet from the floor, is a small, flying cuspidore. Nobody in the room says anything. They just stand there, bug-eyed and frightened like anything. Somewhere across the room a woman faints. I do not feel too well myself, and I am afraid to look to see how hot lips takes this. There is no sound, but I hear a voice in my mind, and know that the others hear it too. The voice sounds like it is filled with wire and metal, and is not exactly human. It says, you win, hot lips groggin. I, as advanced agent in disguise, tell you this. We will go away and leave you and your people alone. We place a mental block in your mind, but you outsmart us. And now you know our weakness. We cannot stand high sounds, which you can place so easy on your trumpet. We find ourselves at home someplace else. With that the cuspidore shoots across the room and plows right through the wall. That's the engine room, Frankie Wales. There is a sudden explosion from the other side of the wall, and everybody decides all at once they would like to be some place else, and they all pick the same spot. The space ferry is pretty crowded, but we jam aboard it and drift away from the Saturn. Musicians, waiters, and paying customers all sitting in each other's laps. The Saturn is wobbling around, with flames shooting out at all angles, and Frankie is holding his head and moaning. In the distance you can just about make out little specks of cuspidores heading for the wild black yonder. So all is well that ends well. So all is well that ends well, and this is it. Frankie uses his insurance money to open a rest home on Mars for ailing musicians. Hotlips is all broken up, in a manner of speaking. Over stellar starlights turning out to be not human, but he consoles himself with a good job playing trumpet and a burlesque house with the grills where costumes made a glass and other brittle stuff. As for me, Mamie gets me a job playing piano at the place where she works, and everything is OK, except for one thing. When Mamie is around, I cannot seem to concentrate on my plan. I feel a funny feeling in my stomach, like maybe it's full of super suds or something, and my mouth is dry, like cotton candy. I think maybe it is indigestion. End of The Flying Cuspidores by VR Francis.