I had to go home by the back way, and even that had been discovered.

One of my friends must have been bribed: there were reporters gathered

outside the cave. None had elected to actually enter it, not with the cougar

in residence. Though they knew she wouldn't hurt them, that lady is a

menacing presence at best.

My re-arranged face almost did the trick. I had made it into the cave

and they all must have been wondering who the hell I was and what my

business was with Hildy, when somebody shouted "It's her!" and the

stampede was on. I ran down the corridor with the reporters on my heels,

shouting questions, taping my ignominious flight.

Once inside, I viewed the front door camera. Oh, brother. They were

shoulder to shoulder, as far as the eye could see, from one side of the

corridor to the other. There were vendors selling balloons and hot dogs, and

some guy in a clown suit juggling. If I'd ever wondered where the term

media circus came from, I wondered no longer.

The police had set up ropes to keep a clear space for fire and emergency

crews, and so my neighbors could get through to their homes. As I watched,

one neighbor came through, his face set in a scowl that was starting to look

permanent. For lack of anything else to do, many of the reporters shouted

questions at him, to which he replied with stony silence. I could see I was

not going to win any prizes at my next neighborhood block party. This

whole thing was bound to get petitions in circulation, politely requesting me

to find another residence, if I didn't do something.

So I spent several hours boxing my possession, folding up my furniture,

sticking stamps on everything and shoving it all in the mail tube. I thought

about mailing myself along with it, but I didn't know where I'd go. The

things I owned could go into storage; there wasn't that much of it. When I

was done the already-spare apartment was clean to the bare walls, except for

some items I'd set aside, some of which I'd already owned, others ordered

and mailed to me. I went to the bathroom and fixed my cheekbones, left the

nose alone because I'd let Bobbie do that when I could get to him safely.

What the hell, it was still under the ninety-day warranty and there was no

need to tell him I'd broken it intentionally. Then I went to the front door and

let myself appear on the outside monitor. No way was I going to un-dog

those latches.

"Free food at the end of the corridor!" I shouted. A couple of heads

actually turned, but most remained looking back at me. Everyone shouted

questions at once and it took some time for all that to die down and for

everyone to realize that, if they didn't shut up, nobody got an interview.

"I've said all I'm going to say about the death of Silvio," I told them.

There were groans and more shouts, and I waited for that to die down. "I'm

not unsympathetic," I continued. "I used to be one of you. Well, better, but

one of you." That got me some derisive shouts, a few laughs. "I know none

of your editors will take no for an answer. So I'll give you a break. In

fifteen minutes this door will open, and you're all free to come in. I don't

guarantee you an interview, but this idiocy has got to stop. My neighbors

are complaining."

I knew that last would buy me exactly no sympathy, but the promise of

opening the door would keep them solidly in place for a while. I waved to

them, and switched off the screen.

I told the door to open up in fifteen minutes, and hurried to the back.

A previous call to the police had cleared the smaller group out of the

corridor back there. It was not a public space, so I could do that, and the

reporters had to retreat to Texas, from which they could not be chased out,

so long as they didn't violate any of the appropriate technology laws by

bringing in modern tools or clothing. That was fine with me; I knew the

land, and they didn't.

I came out of the cave cautiously. It was full night, with no "moon," a

fact I'd checked in my weather schedule. I peered over the edge of the cliff

and saw them down there, gathered around a campfire near the river,

drinking coffee and toasting marshmallows. I shouldered my pack, settled

all my other items so they would make no noise, and scaled the smaller,

gentler slope that rose behind the cave. I soon came to stand on top of the

hill, and Mexico lay spread out before me in the starlight.

I started off, walking south, keeping my spirits up by envisioning the

scene when the hungry hordes poured through the door to find an empty

nest.

#

For the next three weeks I lived off the land. At least, I did as much of

that as I could. Texas or Mexico, the pickings could be mighty slim in these

parts, partner. There were some edible plants, some cactus, none of which

you'd call a gourmet delight, but I dutifully tried as many of them as I could

find and identify out of my disneyland resident's manual. I'd brought along

staples like pancake batter and powdered eggs and molasses and corn meal,

and some spices, mostly chili powder. I wasn't entirely on my own. I could

sneak into Lonesome Dove or New Austin when things started getting low.

So in the morning I'd eat flapjacks and eggs, and at night beans and

cornbread, but I supplemented this fare with wild game.

What I'd had in mind was venison. There are plenty of deer and

antelope playing around my home, even a few buffalo roaming. Buffalo

seemed a bit extreme for one person, but I'd brought a bow and arrow

hoping to bag a pronghorn or small buck deer. The discouraging word was,

those critters are hard to sneak up on, hard to get in range of, if your range is

as short as mine. As a resident of Texas, I was entitled to take two deer or

antelope each year, and I'd never bagged even one. I'd never wanted to.

You can use firearms for this purpose, but checking them out of the

disneyland office was a process so beset with forms in triplicate and solemn

oaths that I never even considered it. Besides, I wondered, in passing, if the

CC would allow me such a lethal weapon in view of my recent track record.

I was also allowed a virtually unlimited quota of jackrabbits, and that's

what I ate. I didn't shoot any, though I shot at them. I set snares. Most

mornings I'd find one or two struggling to get free. The first one was hard to

kill and the killing cost me my appetite, but it got easier after that. It was

just as I "remembered" it from Scarpa. Before long it seemed natural.

I had found one of the very few places in Luna where I could hide out

until the Silvio story cooled off. I calculated that would take about a month.

It would be a year or more before the whole thing was old news, but I was

sure my own part in the travesty would be largely forgotten sooner than that.

So I spent my days wandering the length and breadth of my huge back yard.

There wasn't a lot to do. I occupied myself by catching rattlesnakes. All

this takes is a certain amount of roaming around, and a bit of patience. They

just coil up and hiss and rattle when you find them, and can be captured

using a long stick and a bit of rope to loop around their necks. I was very

careful handling them as I couldn't afford to be bitten. That would mean

either returning to the world for medical treatment, or surrendering myself to

the tender mercies of Ned Pepper. If you call up an old Boy Scout manual

and read the section on snakebite, it'll curl your hair.

Once a week I'd creep up on the entrance to my old back door. By the

second week there was no one there. I went over to my unfinished cabin and

counted the reporters camped nearby. They had figured out where I was, in

a general way. I'm sure somebody in town had reported my stealthy

shopping trips. It stood to reason that, having abandoned my apartment, I'd

show up at the cabin sooner or later. And they were right. I did plan to

return there.

At the end of the third week there were still a dozen people at the cabin.

Enough was enough, I decided. So I waited until long after dark, watching

them forlornly trying to entertain each other without benefit of television,

saw them crawl into sleeping bags one by one, many rip-roaring drunk. I

waited still longer, until their fire was embers, until the surprising cold of the

desert night had chilled the snakes in my bag, making them dopey and

tractable. Then I stole into their camp, silent as any red Indian, and left a

rattler within a few feet of each of the sleeping bags. I figured they'd crawl

in to get warm, and judging from the screams and shouts I heard about an

hour before sunrise, that's just what they did.

Morning found them all gone. I watched from a distance through my

field glasses as I made my breakfast of pancakes and left-over rabbit chili as

they drifted back one by one after having been treated by autodocs. The

sheriff showed up a little later and started writing out citations. If anything,

the cries were even louder when the reporters found out the price they would

have to pay for non-resident killing of indigenous reptiles. He wasn't

impressed at all by their pleas that most of the snakes had been killed by

accident, in the struggle to get out of the sleeping bags.

I thought they might post a guard the next night, but they didn't. City

slickers, all of them. So I crept in again and left the remainder of my stock.

After my second raid, only four of the hardiest returned. They were

probably going to stay indefinitely, and they'd be alert now. Too bad they

couldn't prove I'd sicced the snakes on them.

I walked up to the cabin and started changing my clothes. It took them a

minute or two to notice me, then they all gathered around. Four people can

hardly be called a mob, but four reporters come close. They all shouted at

once, they got in my way, they grew angrier by the minute. I treated them as

if they were unusually mobile rocks, too big to move, but not worth looking

at and certainly not something to talk to. Even one word would only serve

to encourage them.

They hung around most of the day. Others joined them, including one

idiot who had brought an antique camera with bellows, black cape, and a bar

to hold flash powder, apparently hoping to get a novelty picture of some

kind. There was a novelty picture in it, when the powder slipped down his

shirt and ignited and the others had to slap out the flames. Walter ran the

sequence in his seven o'clock edition with a funny commentary.

Even reporters will give up eventually if there's really no story there.

They wanted to interview me, but I wasn't important enough to rate a come-and-go watch, supplying the 'pad with those endlessly fascinating shots of a

person walking from his door to his car, and arriving home at night, not

answering the questions of the throng of reporters with nothing better to do.

So by the second day they all went away, gone to haunt someone else. You

don't give assignments like that to your top people. I'd known guys who

spent all their time staked out on this or that celebrity, and not one could

pour piss out of a boot.

It felt good to be alone again. I got down to serious work, finishing my

un-completed cabin.

#

Brenda came by on the second day. For a while she said nothing, just

stood there and watched me hammering shingles into place.

She looked different. She was dressed well, for one thing, and had done

some interesting things with make-up. Now that she had some money, I

supposed she had found professional advice. The biggest new thing about

her was that she was about fifteen kilos heavier. It had been distributed

nicely, around the breasts and hips and thighs. For the first time, she looked

like a real woman, only taller.

I took the nails out of my mouth and wiped my forehead with the back

of my hand.

"There's a thermos of lemonade by the toolbox," I said. "You can help

yourself, if you'll bring me a glass."

"It's talking," she said. "I was told it wouldn't talk, but I had to come see

for myself." She had found the thermos and couple of glasses, which she

inspected dubiously. They could have used a wash, I admit it.

"I'll talk," I said. "I just won't do interviews. If that's what you came

for, take a look in that gunny sack by your feet."

"I heard about the snakes," she said. She was climbing up the ladder to

join me on the ridge of the roof. "That was sort of infantile, don't you

think?"

"It did the job." I took the glass of lemonade and she gingerly settled

herself beside me. I drained mine and tossed the glass down into the dirt.

She was wearing brand new denim pants, very tight to show off her newlystyled hips and legs, and a loose blouse that managed to hide the boniness of

her shoulders, knotted tight between her breasts, baring her good midriff.

The tattoo around her navel seemed out of place, but she was young. I

fingered the material of her blouse sleeve. "Nice stuff," I said. "You did

something to your hair."

She patted it self-consciously, pleased that I'd noticed.

"I was surprised Walter didn't sent you out here," I said. "He'd figure

because we worked together, I might open up to you. He'd be wrong, but

that's how he'd figure it."

"He did send me," she said. "I mean, he tried. I told him to go to hell."

"Something must be wrong with my ears. I thought you said—"

"I asked him if he wanted to see the hottest young reporter in Luna

working for the Shit."

"I'm flabbergasted."

"You taught me everything I know."

I wasn't going to argue with that, but I'll admit I felt something that

might have been a glow of pride. Passing the torch, and all that, even if the

torch was a pretty shoddy affair, one I'd been glad to be rid of.

"So how's all the notoriety treating you?" I asked her. "Has it cost you

your sweet girlish laughter yet?"

"I never know when you're kidding." She'd been gazing into the purple

hills, into the distance, like me. Now she turned and faced me, squinting in

the merciless sunlight. Her face was already starting to burn. "I didn't come

here to talk about me and my career. I didn't even come to thank you for

what you did. I was going to, but everybody said don't, they said Hildy

doesn't like stuff like that, so I won't. I came because I'm worried about you.

Everybody's worried about you."

"Who's everybody?"

"Everybody. All the people in the newsroom. Even Walter, but he'd

never admit it. He told me to ask you to come back. I told him to ask you

himself. Oh, I'll tell you his offer, if you're interested—"

"—which I'm not."

"—which is what I told him. I won't try to fool you, Hildy. You never

got close to the people you worked with, so maybe you don't know how they

feel about you. I won't say they love you, but you're respected, a lot. I've

talked to a lot of people, and they admire your generosity and the way you

play fair with them, within the limits of the job."

"I've stabbed every one of them in the back, one time or another."

"That's not how they feel. You beat them to a lot of stories, no question,

but the feeling is it's because you're a good reporter. Oh, sure, everybody

knows you cheat at cards—"

"What a thing to say!"

"—but nobody can ever catch you at it, and I think they even admire

you for that. For being so good at it."

"Vile calumny, every word of it."

"Whatever. I promised myself I wouldn't stay long, so I'll just say what

I came here to say. I don't know just what happened, but I saw that Silvio's

death wasn't something you could just shrug off. If you ever want to talk

about it, completely off the record, I'm willing to listen. I'm willing to do

just about anything." She sighed, and looked away for a moment, then back.

"I don't really know if you have friends, Hildy. You keep a part of yourself

away from everyone. But I have friends, and I need them. I think of you as

one of my friends. They can help out when things are really bad. So what I

wanted to say, if you ever need a friend, any time at all, just call me."

I didn't want this, but what could I do, what could I say? I felt a hot

lump in the back of my throat. I tried to speak, but it would get into entirely

too much if I ever started, into things I don't think she needed or wanted to

know.

She patted my knee and started to get down off the roof. I grabbed her

hand and pulled her back. I kissed her on the lips. For the first time in many

days I smelled a human smell other than my own sweat. She was wearing a

scent I had worn the day we kidnapped the Grand Flack.

She would have been happy to go farther but it wasn't my scene and we

both knew it, and both knew I'd had nothing in mind other than to thank her

for caring enough to come out here. So she climbed down from the roof,

started back into town. She turned once, waved and smiled at me.

I worked furiously all afternoon, evening, and into the night, until it

grew too dark to see what I was doing.

#

Cricket came by the next day. I was working on the roof again.

"Git down off'n that there shack, you cayuse!" she shouted. "This here

planet ain't big enough fer the both of us." She was pointing a chrome-plated six-shooter at me. She pulled the trigger, and a stick shot out and a

flag unfurled. It said BANG! She rolled it up and put the gun back on her

hip as I came down the ladder, grateful of the interruption. It was the hottest

part of the day; I'd taken my shirt off and my skin shone as if I'd just stepped

out of the shower.

"The hombre back in the bar said this stuff would take the hide off of a

rattlesnake," she said, holding up a bottle of brown liquid. "I told him that's

what I intended to use it for." I held out my hand. She scowled at it, then

took it. She was dressed in full, outrageous "western" regalia, from the

white Stetson hat to the high-heeled lizard boots, with many a pearly button

and rawhide fringe in between. You expected her to whip out a guitar and

start yodeling "Cool Water." She was also sporting a trim blonde mustache.

"I hate the soup strainer," I said, as she poured me a drink.

"So do I," she admitted. "I'm like you; I don't care to mix. But my little

daughter bought it for me for my birthday, so I figure I have to wear it for a

few weeks to make her happy."

"I didn't know you had a daughter."

"There's a lot you don't know about me. She's at that age when gender

identity starts to crop up in their minds. One of her friend's mother just got a

Change, and Lisa's telling me she wants to have a daddy for a while. Hell, at

least it goes with the duds." She had been digging in a pocket. Now she

flipped out a wallet and showed me a picture of a girl of about six, a sweeter,

younger version of herself. I tried my hand at a few complimentary phrases,

and became aware she was curling her lip at me.

"Oh, shut up, Hildy," she said. "You being 'nice' just reminds me of

why you're doing it, you louse."

"Did you have any trouble getting out of the Studio?"

"They roughed me up pretty good. Knocked out my front teeth, broke a

couple of fingers. But the cavalry arrived and got pictures of the whole

thing, and right now they're talking to my lawyers. I guess I got you to

thank for that; the timely arrival, I mean."

"No need to thank me."

"Don't worry, I wasn't going to."

"I was surprised it was so easy to get the drop on you."

She brought out two shot glasses and poured some of her rattlesnake-hide remover in each, then looked at me in a funny way.

"So am I. You can probably imagine, I've been thinking it over. I think

it was Brenda being there. I must have thought she'd slow you down. Jog

your elbow in some way when it came time to do the dirty deed." She

handed me a glass, and we both drained them. She made a face; I was a

little more used to the stuff, but it never goes down easy. "All subconscious,

you understand. But I thought you'd hesitate, since it's so obvious how

much she looks up to you. So while I was waiting for that window of

vulnerability I made the great mistake of turning my back on you, you son of

a bitch."

"Bitch will do."

"I meant what I said. I was thinking of the male Hildy I knew, and he

would have hesitated."

"That's ridiculous."

"Maybe so. But I think I'm right Changing is almost always more than

just re-arranging the plumbing. Other things change, too. So I was caught

in the middle, thinking of you as a man who'd do something stupid in the

presence of a little pussy, not as the ruthless cunt you'd become."

"It was never like that with me and Brenda."

"Oh, spare me. Sure, I know you never screwed her. She told me that.

But a man's always aware of the possibility. As a woman you know that.

And you use it, if you have any brains, just like I do."

I couldn't say she was definitely wrong. I know that changing sex is, for

me, more than just a surface thing. Some attitudes and outlooks change as

well. Not a lot, but enough to make a difference in some situations.

"You're sleeping with her, aren't you?" I asked, in some surprise.

"Sure. Why not?" She took another drink and squinted at me, then

shook her head. "You're good at a lot of things, Hildy, but not so good at

people." I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Not that I disagreed, I just

wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"She sent you out here?"

"She helped. I would have come out here anyway, to see if I really

wanted to put a few new dents in your skull. I was going to, but what's the

point? But she's worried about you. She said having Silvio die in your arms

like that hit you pretty hard."

"It did. But she's exaggerating."

"Could be. She's young. But I'll admit, I was surprised to see you quit.

You've talked about it ever since I've known you, so I just assumed it was

nothing but talk. You really going to squat out here for the rest of your

life?" She looked sourly around at the blasted land. "What the hell you

gonna do, once this slum is finished? Grow stuff? What can you raise out

here, anyway?"

"Calluses and blisters, mostly." I showed her my hands. "I'm thinking

of entering these in the county fair."

She poured another drink, corked the bottle, and handed it to me. She

drained her glass in one gulp.

"Lord help me, I think I'm beginning to like this stuff."

"Are you going to ask me to go back to work?"

"Brenda wanted me to, but I said I don't want to get that mixed up in

your karma. I've got a bad feeling about you, Hildy. I don't know just what

it is, but you've had an absolutely incredible run of good luck, for a reporter.

I mean the David Earth story, and Silvio."

"Not such good luck for David and Silvio."

"Who cares? What I'm saying, I have this feeling you'll have to pay for

all that. You're in for a run of bad luck."

"You're superstitious."

"And bi-sexual. See, you learned three new things about me today."

I sighed, and debated taking one more drink. I knew I'd fall off the roof

if I did.

"I want to thank you, Cricket, for coming all the way out here to tell me

I'm jinxed. A gal really needs to hear that from time to time."

She grinned at me. "I hope it ruined your day."

I waved my hand at the desolation around us.

"How could anyone ruin all this?"

"I'll admit, making all this any worse is probably beyond even my

formidable powers. And I'll go now, back to the glitter and glamour and

madcap whirl of my life, leaving you to languish with the lizards, and will

add only these words, to wit, Brenda is right, you do have friends, and I'm

one, though I can't imagine why, and if you need anything, whistle, and

maybe I'll come, if I don't have anything else to do."

And she leaned over and kissed me.

#

They say that if you stay in one place long enough, everybody you ever

met will eventually go by that spot. I knew it had to be true when I saw

Walter struggling up the trail toward my cabin. I couldn't imagine what

could have brought him out to West Texas other than a concatenation of

mathematical unlikelihoods of Dickensian proportions. That, or Cricket and

Brenda were right: I did have friends.

I needn't have worried about that last possibility.

"Hildy, you're a worthless slacker!" he shouted at me from three meters

away. And what a sight he was. I don't think he'd ever visited an

historically-controlled disneyland in his life. One can only imagine, with

awe, the titanic struggles it must have taken to convince him that he could

not wear his office attire into Texas, that his choices were nudity, or period

dress. Well, nudity was right out, and I resolved to give thanks to the Great

Spirit for not having had to witness that. The sight of Walter in his skin

would have put the buzzards off their feed. So out of the rather limited

possibilities in his size in the disney tourist costume shop, he had selected a

cute little number in your basic Riverboat Gambler style: black pants, coat,

hat, and boots, white shirt and string tie, scarlet-and-maroon paisley vest

with gold edging and brass watch fob. As I watched, the last button on the

vest gave up the fight, popping off and ricocheting off a rock with a sound

familiar to watchers of old western movies, and the buttons on his shirt were

left to struggle on alone. Lozenges of pale, hairy flesh were visible in the

gaps between buttons. His belt buckle was buried beneath a substantial

overhang. His face was running with sweat. All in all, better than I would

have expected, for Walter.

"Kind of far from the Mississippi, aren't you, tinhorn?" I asked him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind. You're just the man I wanted to see. Give me a hand

unloading these planks, will you? It'd take me all day, alone."

He gaped at me as I went to the buckboard which had been sitting there

for an hour, filled with fresh, best-quality boards from Pennsylvania, boards

I intended to use for the cabin floor, when I got around to it. I clambered up

onto the wagon and lifted one end of a plank.

"Well, come on, pick up the other end."

He thought it over, then trudged my way, looking suspiciously at the

placid team of mules, giving them a wide berth. He hefted his end, grunting,

and we tossed it over the side.

After we'd tossed enough of them to establish a rhythm, he spoke.

"I'm a patient man, Hildy."

"Hah."

"Well, I am. What more do you want? I've waited longer than most

men in my position would have. You were tired, sure, and you needed a rest

. . . though how anybody could think of this as a rest is beyond me."

"You waited for what?"

"For you to come back, of course. That's why I'm here. Vacation's

over, my friend. Time to come back to the real world."

I set my end of the board down on the pile, wiped my brow with the

back of my arm, and just stared at him. He stared back, then looked away,

and gestured to the lumber. We picked up another board.

"You could have let me know you were taking a sabbatical," he said.

"I'm not complaining, but it would have made things easier. Your checks

have kept on going to your bank, of course. I'm not saying you're not

entitled, you'd saved up . . . was it six, seven months vacation time?"

"More like seventeen. I've never had a vacation, Walter."

"Something always came up. You know how it is. And I know you're

entitled to more, but I don't think you'd leave me out on a limb by taking it

all at once. I know you, Hildy. You wouldn't do that to me."

"Try me."

"See, what's happened, this big story has come up. You're the only one

I'd trust to cover it. What it is—"

I dropped my end of the last board, startling him and making him lose

his grip. He danced out of the way as the heavy timber clattered to the floor

of the wagon.

"Walter, I really don't want to hear about it."

"Hildy, be reasonable, there's no one else who—"

"This conversation got off on the wrong foot, Walter. Some way, you

always manage to do that with me. I guess that's why I didn't come right up

to you and say it, and that was a mistake, I see it now, so I'm going to—"

He held up his hand, and once more I fell for it.

"The reason I came," he said, looking down at the ground, then glancing

up at me like a guilty child, " . . . well, I wanted to bring you this." He held

out my fedora, more battered than ever from being stuffed into his back

pocket. I hesitated, then took it from him. He had a sort of half smile on his

face, and if there had been one gram of gloating in it I'd have hurled the

damn thing right in his face. But there wasn't. What I saw was some hope,

some worry, and, this being Walter, a certain gruff-but-almost-lovable

diffidence. It must have been hard for him, doing this.

What can you do? Throwing it back was out. I can't say I ever really

liked Walter, but I didn't hate him, and I did respect him as a newsman. I

found my hands working unconsciously, putting some shape back into the

hat, making the crease in the top, my thumbs feeling the sensuous material.

It was a moment of high symbolism, a moment I hadn't wanted.

"It's still got blood on it," I said.

"Couldn't get it all out. You could get a new one, if this has bad

memories."

"It doesn't matter one way or the other." I shrugged. "Thanks for going

to the trouble, Walter." I tossed the hat on a pile of wood shavings, bent

nails, odd lengths of sawed lumber. I crossed my arms.

"I quit," I said.

He looked at me a long time, then nodded, and took a sopping

handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow.

"If you don't mind, I won't help you with the rest of this," he said. "I've

got to get back to the office."

"Sure. Listen, you could take the wagon back into town. The mule

skinner said he'd be back for it before dark, but I'm worried the mules might

be getting thirsty, so it would—"

"What's a mule?" he said.

#

I eventually got him seated on the bare wooden board, reins in hand, a

doubtful expression on his choleric face, and watched him get them going

down the primitive trail to town. He must have thought he was "driving" the

mules; just let him try to turn them from the path to town, I thought. The

only reason I'd let him do it in the first place was that the mules knew the

way.

That was the end of my visitors. I kept waiting for Fox or Callie to

show up, but they didn't. I was glad to have missed Callie, but it hurt a little

that Fox stayed away. It's possible to want two things at once. I really did

want to be left alone . . . but the bastard could have tried.

#

My life settled into a routine. I got up with the sun and worked on my

cabin until the heat grew intolerable. Then I'd mosey down into New Austin

come siesta time for a few belts of a home brew the barkeep called Sneaky

Pete and a few hands of five card stud with Ned Pepper and the other

regulars. I had to put on a shirt in the saloon: pure sex discrimination, of the

kind that must have made women's lives hell in the 1800's. When working, I

wore only dungarees, boots, and a sombrero to keep the worst heat off my

head. I was brown as a nut from the waist up. How women wore the clothes

the bargirls had on in a West Texas summer is one of the great mysteries of

life. But, come to think of it, the men dressed just as heavily. A strange

culture, Earth.

As the evening approached I'd return to the cabin and labor until

sundown. In the evening's light I would prepare my supper. Sometimes one

of my friends would join me. I developed a certain reputation for buttermilk

biscuits, and for my perpetual pot of beans, into which I'd toss some of the

unlikeliest ingredients imaginable. Maybe I would find a new career, if I

could interest my fellow Lunarians in the subtleties of Texas chili.

I always stayed awake for about an hour after the last light of day had

faded. I have no way of comparing, of course, but it seemed to me the

nightly display of starry sky was probably pretty close to the real thing, what

I'd see if I were transported to the real Texas, the real Earth, now that all

man's pollution was gone. It was glorious. Nothing like a Lunar night, not

nearly as many stars, but better in its own way. For one thing, you never see

the Lunar night sky without at least one thickness of glass between you and

the heavens. You never feel the cooling night breezes. For another, the

Lunar sky is too hard. The stars glare unmercifully, unblinking, looking

down without forgiveness on Man and all his endeavors. In Texas the stars

at night do indeed burn big and bright, but they wink at you. They are in on

the joke. I loved them for that. Stretched out on my bedroll, listening to the

coyotes howling at the moon—and I loved them for that, too, I wanted to

howl with them . . . I achieved the closest approximation of peace I had ever

found, or am likely to find.

I spent something like two months like that. There was no hurry on the

cabin. I intended to do it right. Twice I tore down large portions of it when

I learned a new method of doing something and was no longer satisfied with

my earlier, shoddier work. I think I was afraid of having to think of

something else to do when I finished it.

And with good reason. The day came, as it always must, when I could

find nothing else to do. There was not a screw to tighten on a single hinge,

not a surface to sand smoother, no roof shingle out of place.

Well, I reasoned, there was always furniture to make. That ought to be a

lot harder than walls, a floor, and a roof. All I had inside was some cheap

burlap curtains and a rude bedstead. I spread my bedroll out on the straw

mattress and spent a restless night "indoors" for the first time in many

weeks.

The next day I prowled the grounds, forming vague plans for a

vegetable garden, a well, and—no kidding—a white picket fence. The fence

would be easy. The garden would be a lot harder, an almost impossible

project worthy of my mood at the time. As for a well, I'd have to have one

for the garden, but somehow the fiction of worth-while labor broke down

when I thought about a well. The reason was that, in Texas, there is no more

water under the surface than there is anywhere else on Luna. If you want

water and aren't conveniently near the Rio Grande, what you do is dig or

drill to a level determined by lottery for each parcel of land, and when

you've done that, the disneyland board of directors will have a pipe run out

to the bottom of your well and you can pretend you've struck water. At my

cabin that depth was fifteen meters. The labor of digging that deep didn't

daunt me. I knew I was up to it. Hell, even with a female hormonal system

impeding me I'd developed shoulders and biceps that would have made

Bobbie go into aesthetic shock. Trading my plane and saw for a pick and

shovel would be no problem. That was the part I looked forward to.

What didn't thrill me was the pretending. I'd gotten good at it, looking

at the stars at night and marveling at the size of the universe. I'd not gone

loony; I knew they were just little lights I could have held in my hand. But

at night, weary, I could forget it. I could forget a lot of things. I didn't know

if I could forget digging fifteen meters for a dry hole, then seeing the pipe

laid and the cool, sweet, life-giving water fill up that dry hole.

I hate to get too metaphorical. Walter always howled when I did.

Readers tire of metaphors easily, he's always said. Why the well, and not

the stars? Why come this far and balk, why lose one's imagination right at

the end? I don't know, but it probably had to do with the dry hole concept. I

just kept thinking my entire life was a big dry hole. All I'd ever

accomplished that I was in any way proud of was the cabin . . . and I hated

the cabin.

That night I couldn't get to sleep. I fought it a long time, then I got up

and stumbled through the night with no lantern until I found my hatchet. I

chopped the bedstead to kindling and piled it against the wall, and I soaked

that kindling in kerosene. I set it alight and walked out the front door,

leaving it open to make a draft, and went slowly up the low hill behind my

property. There I squatted on my haunches and watched, feeling very little

emotion, as the cabin burned to the ground.