head grows and the body shrinks until the baby is of normal proportions. He squeezes harder and the head swells larger and dangles over onto the shrunken torso, a giant embryo out of
situ
.
The husband is laughing so hard that tears come to his eyes.
A line of worry creases the young woman’s forehead. “Don’t squeeze too hard—please Leonard, don’t, you’ll hurt—”
The baby’s head explodes, red-dripping shot with gray and blue slime, all over Leonard’s chest and lap.
“What did you go and do that for?”
Leonard has both his legs and they are clad in mottled green jungle fatigues. He is cautiously leading his squad down the Street of Redemption in Beirut, in the slums, in the steambath of a summer afternoon. They crab down the rubble-strewn sidewalk, hugging the wall. Another squad, Lieutenant Shanker’s, is across the street from them and slightly behind.
They come to number 43.
God, no.
“This is the place, Lieutenant,” Leonard shouts across the street.
“Fine, Shays. You want to go in first? Or shall we take it from this angle?”
“If I … uh … if I go in first I’ll lose my leg.”
“Well hell,” says the lieutenant affably. “We don’t want that to happen. Hold on just a—”
“Never mind.” Leonard unsnaps a microton grenade from his harness and lofts it through the open door. Everybody flattens out for the explosion. Before the dust settles, Leonard steps through the door. With the corner of his eye he sees the dusty black bulk of the oneshot generator. A bright flash and singing pain as he walks two steps on his shinbones and falls, pain fading.
Leonard is fishing from a rowboat at the mouth of the Crystal River, with one of his best friends, Norm Provoost, the game warden.
He threads a shrimp onto the hook and casts. Immediately he gets a strike, a light one; sets the hook and reels in the fish.
“What you got, Len?”
“Doesn’t feel like much.” He lifts it into the boat. It’s a speckled trout—a protected species—smaller than his hand, hooked harmlessly through the lip.
“Not big enough to keep,” says Norm, while Leonard, disengages the hook. “They sure are pretty creatures.”
Leonard grasps the fish firmly above the tail and cracks its head against the side of the boat.
“For Chrissake, Shays!”
He shrugs. “We might need bait later.”
A large seminar room. Leonard’s favorite professor,Dr. Van Wyck, has just filled a third blackboard with equations and moves to a fourth, at his customary rapid pace.
On the first board he made an error in sign. On the second board this error caused a mistake in double integration, two integrands having been wrongly consolidated. The third board, therefore, is gibberish and the fourth is utter gibberish. Van Wyck slows down.
“Something’s screwy here,” he says, wiping a yellow streak of chalk dust across his forehead. He stares at the boards for several minutes. “Can anybody see what’s wrong?”
Negative murmur from the class. Their heads are bobbing, looking back and forth from their notes to the board. Leonard sits smirking.
“Mr. Shays, your Master’s thesis was on this topic. Can’t
you
see the error?”
Leonard shakes his head and smiles.
Leonard woke up awash with dull pain, mostly in the back of his skull and under the restraining straps. With great effort he tilted his head and saw that he was no longer strapped in; only fatigue was holding him down. Bright welts across his arms.
Vague troubling memories; equations, fishing, Beirut, small child … Leonard wondered whether he had resisted as strongly with his mind as he obviously had with his body. He didn’t feel any different, only weak and hurting.
A nurse appeared with a small hypodermic.
“Wha?” His throat was too dry to talk. He swallowed, nothing.
“Hypnotic,” she said.
“Ah.” He tried to turn away, couldn’t even find strength to lift his shoulder. She was holding him downwith a light touch, swabbing a place
situ
.
The husband is laughing so hard that tears come to his eyes.
A line of worry creases the young woman’s forehead. “Don’t squeeze too hard—please Leonard, don’t, you’ll hurt—”
The baby’s head explodes, red-dripping shot with gray and blue slime, all over Leonard’s chest and lap.
“What did you go and do that for?”
Leonard has both his legs and they are clad in mottled green jungle fatigues. He is cautiously leading his squad down the Street of Redemption in Beirut, in the slums, in the steambath of a summer afternoon. They crab down the rubble-strewn sidewalk, hugging the wall. Another squad, Lieutenant Shanker’s, is across the street from them and slightly behind.
They come to number 43.
God, no.
“This is the place, Lieutenant,” Leonard shouts across the street.
“Fine, Shays. You want to go in first? Or shall we take it from this angle?”
“If I … uh … if I go in first I’ll lose my leg.”
“Well hell,” says the lieutenant affably. “We don’t want that to happen. Hold on just a—”
“Never mind.” Leonard unsnaps a microton grenade from his harness and lofts it through the open door. Everybody flattens out for the explosion. Before the dust settles, Leonard steps through the door. With the corner of his eye he sees the dusty black bulk of the oneshot generator. A bright flash and singing pain as he walks two steps on his shinbones and falls, pain fading.
Leonard is fishing from a rowboat at the mouth of the Crystal River, with one of his best friends, Norm Provoost, the game warden.
He threads a shrimp onto the hook and casts. Immediately he gets a strike, a light one; sets the hook and reels in the fish.
“What you got, Len?”
“Doesn’t feel like much.” He lifts it into the boat. It’s a speckled trout—a protected species—smaller than his hand, hooked harmlessly through the lip.
“Not big enough to keep,” says Norm, while Leonard, disengages the hook. “They sure are pretty creatures.”
Leonard grasps the fish firmly above the tail and cracks its head against the side of the boat.
“For Chrissake, Shays!”
He shrugs. “We might need bait later.”
A large seminar room. Leonard’s favorite professor,Dr. Van Wyck, has just filled a third blackboard with equations and moves to a fourth, at his customary rapid pace.
On the first board he made an error in sign. On the second board this error caused a mistake in double integration, two integrands having been wrongly consolidated. The third board, therefore, is gibberish and the fourth is utter gibberish. Van Wyck slows down.
“Something’s screwy here,” he says, wiping a yellow streak of chalk dust across his forehead. He stares at the boards for several minutes. “Can anybody see what’s wrong?”
Negative murmur from the class. Their heads are bobbing, looking back and forth from their notes to the board. Leonard sits smirking.
“Mr. Shays, your Master’s thesis was on this topic. Can’t
you
see the error?”
Leonard shakes his head and smiles.
Leonard woke up awash with dull pain, mostly in the back of his skull and under the restraining straps. With great effort he tilted his head and saw that he was no longer strapped in; only fatigue was holding him down. Bright welts across his arms.
Vague troubling memories; equations, fishing, Beirut, small child … Leonard wondered whether he had resisted as strongly with his mind as he obviously had with his body. He didn’t feel any different, only weak and hurting.
A nurse appeared with a small hypodermic.
“Wha?” His throat was too dry to talk. He swallowed, nothing.
“Hypnotic,” she said.
“Ah.” He tried to turn away, couldn’t even find strength to lift his shoulder. She was holding him downwith a light touch, swabbing a place
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