Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 4: September 2013 by Mike Resnick [Editor]

massage, administered by the single most respected artist from a civilization of two million years, devoted solely to the betterment of therapeutic touch.
    Here he was, a nobody. Yet, inexplicably, the happiest man who ever lived.
    When time was up, Gallinski lay in recovery area L again, on his back, gasping, once more in his old familiar, fearful self.
    “Well?” the cat said.
    “My God. I never realized how wonderful it is to vote for nationalist socialist candidates.”
    “Excellent. So you enjoyed yourself.”
    Gallinski whimpered.
    “Put me back,” he said.
    The cat’s eyes widened.
    “We can’t,” it said. “Your week is up.”
    “Then I’ll stay another week. I’ll pay.”
    “Mr. Gallinski.” The cat sounded affronted. “We can’t put you back just like that. There are forms to be completed. And anyway, the danger to your own physicality is monumental. We have to wait at least six months before we can re-process you.”
    Six months! Gallinski couldn’t stand six minutes! As Billy Huse, each moment, however squalid, was a triumph. But now he couldn’t even comprehend how it was done, like a dog who’d seen a man do algebra. And every second as himself was such a tragedy it made Macbeth look like a funny Super Bowl commercial featuring a couple babies and a talking llama.
    “Come on,” the cat said, sounding worried. “We’d better get you back to your own kitchen. You’ll feel better.”
    But Gallinski wasn’t going back. He leapt up off the cot and thrust aside the two attendants who attempted to restrain him.
    “Mr. Gallinski, please!” the cat was shouting, while other guests looked on wide-eyed from their own cots. “This is only an amusement park! There are other ways to work toward lasting change!”
    But Gallinski wasn’t listening. He knocked down the guard who came at him (thanking whatever gods there were that, with all their tech, the people of the future had ignored physical fitness) and grabbed his weapon—a gun that looked like Chick-fil-A was given veto power over its design team. He bolted for the door, and knocked aside a tray of instruments that silverwared across the floor.
    He ran into the hall of velvet ropes and waiting lines, pushed past some tourists, and shoved his way into the processing area.
    “Put me back in Billy Huse!” he yelled at one of the technicians.
    “But—”
    He aimed the gun. “Do it! Now!”
    He climbed into the big machine’s receptacle while the technician, looking worried, pressed some buttons. Then, once more, everything went black.
    When he awoke, he blinked, stood up, stretched his legs, and used his beak to scratch beneath his wing.
    “What the—”
    “I’m sorry,” the cat said. “I tried to warn you.”
    Gallinski stood at eye-level with the cat. He looked down at himself.
    “It’s like I said. The human form can’t take more than a week of processing. So far everyone who’s tried has been transformed into an animal. Mostly small ones. Chickens. And because of the complexities of overprocessed DNA, reversal is impossible.”
    “You mean I’m stuck this way?” Gallinski said.
    “I’ll admit it narrows your options,” said the cat, “what with your lack of thumbs and your bathroom habits. But there are a few things chickens can do, since you still have eyes and the same brain, albeit in miniature.”
    Gallinski tried to concentrate, but he found himself craving corn meal.
    “For instance,” the cat said, “we do have several openings in quality control.”
     
    Original (First) Publication
    Copyright © 2013 by Tom Gerencer
 
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Robert Silverberg is one of the true giants of science fiction. He is a multiple Hugo and Nebula winner, a Nebula Grand Master, and a Worldcon Guest of Honor, the author of numerous acknowledged classics in the field. This story won the 1971 Nebula.
    GOOD NEWS FROM THE VATICAN
    by Robert Silverberg
     
    This is the morning everyone has been waiting