The Lair of the White Worm (with apologies to Bram Stoker)

The man sat at the table. It was an old table, full of memories, about three feet by four feet, out of place in the new flat. It was worn, the varnish scraped away in places by cleaning attempts, the centre surface – which was covered with green tiles – showing a bit of dirt on the grouting. One green chair leg boasted an atrophied horizontal rung, almost completely gnawed away by the dog in his puppyhood. If the dog had gnawed the upright support, the chair would have fallen. As it was, it remained, able to hold the man, able to bear witness to youthful canine folly and the passage of time. The man rested his hands on the table, feeling the cool surface of the green tiles.

On the table was a teacup. The teacup was of the willow pattern. The man and his wife 'collected' willow, in the way that people who are neither wealthy nor particularly acquisitive collect things. Since he remembered this odd china pattern fondly from childhood, the man had bought the pieces one by one from the supermarket during a promotion. Each week, he had bought the one-dollar special that came with the purchase of groceries, first the starter set of plates, then the gravy boat, the salt-and-pepper shakers, and so on. Finally the cups and saucers. When the promotion had not yielded the shallow soup bowls he remembered so well, he had gotten into his car and driven into the Pennsylvania hills, to Zanesville, home of antique shops. There he had paid a premium price – two dollars each – for the shallow bowls. The 'antique' willow pattern – probably from the 1950s – was slightly different from the new. No matter, that would add to the charm of his collection. The man was satisfied.

The teacup came from the china cabinet. The china cabinet was another antique, purchased for two hundred dollars when the man was flush. The reason for the purchase had been twofold: the new house needed furnishing, and that cabinet was the exact twin of the one his grandmother had used in the old farmhouse in the hills. A poor man's treasure from the 1920s, probably bought from a mail-order catalogue with carefully-saved pennies by a dirt farmer who had survived traumatic brain injury and his hard-working wife. The smell of that cabinet when you opened the door was worth two hundred dollars. It was a TARDIS, that cabinet: it took the man back to a place that no longer existed. He kept expecting to smell coconut cake, the cheap packaged brand his grandmother always kept on a stack of plates. He hated coconut cake, but he missed the smell.

The teacup sat on its willow saucer. In the cup was pale tea, jasmine, from the tin the man had bought in memory of his Asian students, who always used to bring him tea. He knew what people said about this tea: that there was detritus in it. That nobody ever, ever sold Americans good tea. (Revenge for Boston?) That tea bought in a tin in America contained floor scrapings, mingled with insect larvae. He didn't care. The tea ball had been washed out. Only pale liquid remained in the cup.

He lifted the cup to his lips, and drank. The faint scent of the lemon took him back for a split second to the creperie in the Rathaus square in Bonn. A cold night, a warm drink. For a split second, he wished the willow cup were a glass one. A glezl tay... He drank it all, and set down the cup.

There was a worm in the cup. It was white, about two inches long. It lay there, glassine and unmoving. The man shuddered, reached out a probing finger, touched it in psychometric divination...where had it been born? Where had it fed, before being fed on, adding its essence to a cup of tea? Had it come from Asia?

It had, possibly. A rice field. More probably, given the geography of this place, a rice field in the Gullah country of South Carolina. The man held the offending object and bellowed.

'ELEKTRA! Please be careful with the dishes! There's a noodle in my teacup!'

The man sat at the table, laughing until the tears came.

Tinfoil Hats and YOU

Trivia question for my readers (all two of you): Who invented the tinfoil hat?
If you said Nigel from Brightling, you'd be wrong, but I would love you for it.
According to that ultra-reliable source, Wikipedia, the tinfoil hat was first mentioned in despatches in a science-fiction story by Julian Huxley...in 1927. Thus the custom of tinfoil-hatting is of august and hoary antiquity.
As I have now been taunted past endurance on the subject, I have decided to expand the franchise. Read on for a discussion of...

Tinfoil Hats and You

 The first question is not, 'Will the tinfoil hat preserve what is left of my sanity?' but the more pressing and important, 'Will the tinfoil hat give me "hat hair"?' Yes, definitely. Well, maybe. My older female relatives are able to avoid 'hat hair' by the use of strong hairspray. A good deal of vinyl acetate, liberally applied to the surface of the coiffure, should prove steadfast against the pressure of the tinfoil if not pressed down too hard. In this respect, a cost/risk/fashion victim assessment should be made by the wearer.

Our less hirsute brethren should note that should the tinfoil fail to keep the bald head warm enough, the hat can be lined with cotton wool, felt, or even dog combings for a cosier feel. Like its life-saving cousin, duct tape, tinfoil is now available in a variety of fashion colours, although tinfoil has yet to feature at that pinnacle of US industrial chic, the high school prom. (Note its popularity in that couture-conscious steel town, Pittsburgh.)

The next question is, 'Do tinfoil hats do what is claimed for them?' Yes, indubitably. The tinfoil hat creates a sort of Faraday cage around the wearer's head, thus shielding the brain from those harmful rays beamed at one by evil governments and aliens from Area 51. The thickness of the tinfoil influences the quality of frequencies blocked – double or even triple layers are recommended. The arrangement of the hat is key to protecting vital parts of the brain. Those who favour the Napoleonic over the Nelson configuration point out that it is important to cover the temporal lobes in order to avoid hearing unpleasant voices (although to avoid hearing boy bands, it may be necessary to move to the Antarctic). Others recommend crimping the tinfoil to add knobs – and simply changing channels on the interlopers. Nigel favours a number of fashion looks – he is a more advanced sort of tinfoil-hat wearer, and believes that the purpose of the hat is to prevent the government from hearing his thoughts, which are copyrighted.

Some students of the tinfoil hat are fond of pointing out that for some energy sources, incorrect arrangement of the hat might lead to its funnelling the unwanted information toward the brain. We would ask them not to say this too loudly.

There is also the all-important question of etiquette. Removing the hat in the presence of a lady, while chivalrous, might expose the wearer to unnecessary danger. We recommend a jaunty twirling of the knobs over the ears (or, in the case of the Nelson Version, over the forehead), to indicate that while one is no fool, one is also, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Should the tinfoil hat be worn while being presented at Court? Yes, certainly. When receiving Birthday Honours, it is practically de rigueur – provided one has been to the correct haberdasher (look for the Royal Patent).

In these uncertain times, the most important question of all remains – can so simple a substance as tinfoil alone stand between us and the constant bombardment of dangerous and idiotic notions beamed into our brains by malevolent powers?

Perhaps not. But it is a start.

The next step is to turn off the television news.

For all you DIYers out there, we offer Nigel's open-source tinfoil hat below. Measure your cranium, acquire a roll of tinfoil in your favourite colour, and may the Force be with you.

Day Trip to Earth - A Christmas Story

It was a busy shopping day in Exeter, and the sound system at the home entertainment emporium next to the car park was blaring out a hip-hop version of O Come, All Ye Faithful, so it was understandable that none of the passers-by noticed the signature noise – electronic whooshing plus elephant mating call – that accompanied the brief appearance of an out-of-date blue police box. The door opened – momentarily, as they say in that part of the world – and a dark-haired man in his early thirties emerged. He was a bit under average height, muscular, clean-shaven, and wearing jeans, navvy boots, and a pea coat. He turned and called inside:

'Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the ride!' The blue door closed, the racket repeated itself, and the absurdity disappeared. The visitor shrugged his jacket a little tighter against the sudden chill, and set off down the High Street, taking in the sights and mentally thanking his friend for the sartorial advice. Without the beard, and in these clothes, he seemed to fit right in – and he'd have frozen in a pair of sandals. He dodged the crowds of package-laden shoppers, studied the goods in the windows (wondering what half of them were for), and took note of the decorations – tinsel, coloured balls, bells, weird figures with wings (Were they supposed to be angels? Gabriel would get ironic if he saw that), and greenery everywhere. Most interesting were the statuettes of a fat, excessively jolly-looking fellow in a red-and-white suit, who seemed to be the centre of it all.

'Probably the God of Commerce,' thought the visitor, who was used to the idea of cosmopolitan areas with tutelary deities, though his own people frowned on them, being monotheists. As he was here for the purpose of research and tourism, he found this all highly interesting. His friend the Doctor had assured him that this area was the centre of the known world – an idea which the self-possession of the citizens seemed to confirm – and, as a time traveller, he was curious to learn what Earth thought of itself in the early 21st Century. With all this walking, though, he'd worked up an appetite, so he entered a modest-looking Greek eatery, as he preferred Mediterranean food. A brief consultation in what he still considered the lingua franca of this planet resulted in his sitting at a table by the window, a plate of gyros me pita and a glass of retsina in front of him.

'Is this seat taken?' He looked up to see a friendly face attached to a short haircut and gangly figure in an anorak, holding a tray in one hand and a backpack in the other. He shook his head, and the stranger deposited self and goods. 'I'm Brad,' he said. 'I'm an art student hereabouts. Would you mind if I sketched you after we're done eating? You have such an interesting face. '

The visitor smiled and agreed. He shook Brad's hand and introduced himself as Manny.

Brad grinned. 'I'm good at accents. You're Israeli, aren't you? I can tell.' Manny agreed that he was. Brad was curious. 'What do you think about the Gaza situation?'

Manny said wryly, 'I try to steer clear of politics, though as you know, in my part of the world, this is often difficult.' He looked out the window at the crowds. 'Is there an important festival coming up? People seem to be preparing for something.'

Brad laughed. 'Just Christmas. You know, high tourist season in Bethlehem?' Manny looked blank, so Brad went on, 'The birth of Jesus Christ, you know – manger, shepherds, all that, founding of the Christian religion. Although these days, it's mostly about parties, prezzies, spend, spend, spend, and Santa Claus.'

Manny looked interested. 'Is Santa Claus that god in the red suit?'

Brad chuckled. 'You might call him a god. He's a mythological figure worshipped by toy manufacturers everywhere. He's supposed to come down the chimney on 24 December and leave stuff for the kiddies. But if he's not up to the job...' He winked.

'...the parents have to do it.' Manny understood. He was never big on mythology, being rather more of a realist himself. 'So Santa Claus is the real reason for the celebration, and not this other religion, what was it, Christian?'

Brad thought about this. 'I guess you could say so. Educated people don't believe in religion any more, anyway. Just nutcases. It's all about sending bad people to hell, and something called the Rapture, where the goodies leave the planet...'

'Hm, the leaving-the-planet part is not a bad idea.' Manny added, suddenly shy, 'Has anybody ever heard of a small cult from back a ways that taught about loving your neighbour and sharing the wealth?'

Brad snorted. 'Every once in a while, somebody tries that on. It's called communism, mate, and it never works. Look at Eastern Europe.' Manny would like to have asked more about Eastern Europe, but they'd finished their meal, and Brad asked him to sit still so that he could sketch him.

'The lines in your face are remarkable,' Brad commented as he sketched. 'They remind me of the Shroud of Turin.' Manny didn't know where Turin was, but nodded agreeably, then went back to posing. He complimented the artist on the result, said it was a good likeness, shook hands again, wished Brad a 'Happy Christmas', and went on his way.

On his way to the Ramada Inn – true to family tradition, he had no reservation, but hoped to talk his way into a room – Manny stopped in front of a shop window to look at the display. He studied the scene with puzzlement: A woman and a man, kneeling beside what looked like a feed trough in a barn. The feed trough held an infant. All three – woman, man, and baby – were wearing odd, round hats. There was one of those strange winged angels hovering over the scene, which included animals, shepherds, and three fugitives from a circus with camels. Manny scratched his head, but figured it had something to do with Santa Claus. Then he noticed that some wag in the shop had concealed a toy Dalek in the shrubbery outside the shed.

Manny chuckled. He'd have to tell his friend the Doctor.

Horace and the Profanity Filter

Horace usually liked web writing. But not today.

He sat back in his new ergonomic chair – even more backbreaking than the last one, his clandestine sabotage had not been successful – and took a thoughtful sip of the Clarion's tea. And swallowed, painfully. That salesman ought to have been shot, he mused, the new 'comprehensive tea delivery system' was producing swill that was worse than the stuff from the old urn, now retired (and used by his editor for an umbrella stand). Horace reached for the usual remedy – Glenfiddich from the bottom drawer – and applied it liberally, then returned to the Problem At Hand, which was Arabi Tchernovsky, the new Supervisor for Online Decency. Arabi Tchernovsky was skinny, sharp-nosed, and wore her glasses on a leash, and although she'd only been on the job for about a week, Horace hated her. He had already planned 42 different deaths for Arabi, each one nastier than the last.

At first, Horace had paid little attention to Ms Tchernovsky's efforts to keep the newspaper's online presence – a fancy new powder-blue-and-white site which Horace privately compared (unfavourably) to the one produced, for free, by his ISP back in the late 90s – pure, pristine, and free of smut, trash talk, and libel. Editor-in-Chief John Farnsworth, initially skeptical, had taken a look at the statistical figures for libel suits directed at media outlets and become enamoured of Arabi's no-nonsense guidelines.

'Our aim is to have a cavil-free Clarion, ' Tchernovsky announced at one of her training seminars. Farnsworth beamed at her, while Horace privately wondered if Arabi realised what people posted on newspaper websites for, namely to see themselves complaining in print and pixels.

Horace hadn't paid much attention to all this at first – after all, he was not in the business of editing the Clarion's fanmail, and the S.O.D.'s job was to supervise reader feedback, surely? Then the bombshell exploded: A.T., as John was now calling her, unveiled her pièce de resistance. The Fallacy Filter. For writers.

Horace gritted his teeth as he worked on his latest blog, stopping only to refresh his tea mug and search for metaphors. As literary editor and all-purpose blogger, it was his job to enlighten, entrance, and enthuse. To stir the smouldering embers of interest in the written word and its power of imagery, rather than to cheer newsmakers from the sidelines. His brief was to employ the mot juste, the telling phrase, the piquant parable...

How was he supposed to do this with Mrs Grundy on his back? The idea of Arabi Tchernovsky jumping on his back like a demented, bespectacled monkey made him chuckle over his tea. Horace finished his essay for the week, pushed 'Send' to pass it on to what he privately referred to as the 'Word Police', and sat back to wait. He filled in the interval by imagining himself as an operative for S.O.,E. (he'd always loved the comma in that acronym), on a desperate mission to save Humanity, searching for the perfect secret code to escape the prying eyes of the Gestapo...

His reverie on the subject of the imagery in The Life That I Have was rudely interrupted by the 'you've got in-house email' ping. Opened, the missive almost scorched the screen. Horace was unsure whether to call the office geek, as he at first suspected malware.

NOTICE OF NON-COMPLIANT TEXT!!!!!

My Dear Mr Wallingford,
This prose is UNACCEPTABLE. In fact, it is the most blatant violation of the rules of decency in writing it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. The Filter macro has flagged no fewer than EIGHT offensive words in this paragraph.
Please rewrite and resend. Your supervisor will be advised of this waste of company time.
Yours,
Arabi Tchernovsky

Horace was stunned. He perused the (to him) innocent text. He thought about asking Ms Tchernovsky what, exactly, the offensive words were. But he knew better. She would never tell him. It was 'against policy'.

I have to develop a dirtier mind to solve this problem, he muttered.

Forty-five minutes of wasted company time later, Horace gave an excited yell – one which sent the administrative assistant scurrying for cover (he was afraid of Horace, anyway, ever since the Paper Clip Incident). Horace, laughing hysterically (a not unknown phenomenon at the Clarion), penned – no, typed – the following:

My VERY Dear Ms Tchernovsky,
Is your macro, by any chance, vetting these articles without benefit of clergy? That is to say, without spacing or punctuation?
If so, I can see where the problem lies. I can only suggest you subject your own name to the same process. I also suggest you read less science fiction. That stuff has been clinically proven to damage the prefrontal cortex, leading to personality disorders.
Hugs and kisses,
Horace Wallingford

Horace surveyed his email with satisfaction. That's telling her, he thought, and went in search of fresh floor scrapings from Assam, muttering something about bolshy gloopy chellovecks (Horace was a major fan of Anthony Burgess, and often quoted his hero, Enderby), leaving this on the computer to be seen by the Prophet Zarquon and everybody:

The history of PETA quite astounds us. Convincing one's fellow humans to show compassion is a daunting task, perhaps everywhere in Europe save noble Belgium. Animal cruelty must be opposed: to stem the flood, bait shops must be closed. Zark Ingramsmeg, head of the Gordon Bennett Society, excused his behaviour thus: 'This topic? Not fun. Print able to defend us, won't...We deny having used live prawns in our annual fishing contest. We employ only foul-smelling – but dead – Korean gim. Boid Rimmer will back me up on this. '

A Good Day's Work

The ghost of Philip K Dick haunts me in my sleep.

A Good Day's Work

Synchrorealities, Inc

The hovercab descended to the curb just long enough for Jereth to step out, then dashed away, the driver proud of his speed and accuracy. Jereth adjusted his pink mohair sweater – he'd been told to dress 'business formal', and this was his best outfit – and looked up at the building that housed today's appointment.

He looked up…and up. Synchrorealities, Inc, covered a lot of celestial territory – the Air Corps considered the campus a no-fly zone. Jereth craned his neck to appreciate the headquarters in all its retrogothic glory. He'd passed it many a time, but today, he was invited in. All the way to the 42nd floor. He shouldered his conservative tartan rucksack – he'd bought it especially for the occasion, to seem more businesslike – and headed for the entrance. The brass-bound revolving door moved with satisfying slowness and a slight whoosh of its rubber gaskets. Take your time, it said. Enjoy the experience. It won't last long enough. Jereth entered the vaulted mezzanine, paused for a moment to gawk (he couldn't help it, he was a sucker for stone arches), then hurried through the wrought-iron gates with their quote about the stars being new, and presented his invitation to the uniformed chauffeur at the special lift that went all the way up. The chauffeur studied the gilt-edged pasteboard, favoured Jereth with a superior smile, and took a large brass key from his kangaroo pocket. He turned it in the panel, pulled the gated door shut, and away it sped, upwards, towards the sky, a metal merkabah containing a hopeful newcomer and his dreams.

When the lift opened again, Jereth was greeted by the man himself: Ottokar Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum, looking dignified in his khaki shorts and safari vest bearing the logo of Synchrorealities – two hands drawing one another. He smiled broadly as he shook Jereth's unresisting hand.

'Jereth Cheloweth, I presume? So glad you could come. Step this way. I imagine you would like to have a look at our view before you begin work?' Jereth gulped – not only because a look out these windows was exactly what he'd been wanting ever since, say, he was old enough to want anything besides a bottle of milk, but also because he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of true greatness. Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum was a household name. Graciously acknowledging Jereth's awkward nod, the director took him on a tour of the office, which was surprisingly quiet, with only a few workers, and led him from window to window, allowing Jereth to gaze his fill at the skyscraper view of the city in which he had pent most of his life, now made small and unfamiliar beneath the mist. When an eagle soared past at eye level, Jereth started, and then blushed, but the director laughed. 'I never get used to that, either,' he admitted in a friendly way. When the tour was over, and Jereth had recovered his breath, Dr Weisheit vom Frelichtmuseum led him into an inner office, where a bright-eyed young man in company uniform offered him a cup of excellent Jav-o-Moque. He accepted with an inner thrill of unwonted privilege.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made himself comfortable in the e-z-chair opposite Jereth. When they had both sipped and appreciated their Jav-o-Moques, pouring the obligatory libations into the enameled saucer that was placed on the floor beside the kafftable for the purpose, the director eased himself back into his chair, gesturing for Jereth to do the same. Jereth, however, sat upright at first, rummaging hastily through his rucksack.

'I've brought some sketches for you,' he stammered. 'They may not be up to the high-type standard you're used to, but…'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum made a demurring gesture. That gesture alone is worth millions, thought Jereth. He must practice before a mirror. The director smiled. 'Rough sketches are our favourites,' he explained. 'They are so much closer to the original thought than a more polished version – closer to the original yitzirach, don't you know. Thank you for bringing them.' With another priceless gesture of graciousness, he took Jereth's sketches, the product of many sleepless nights, and, barely glancing at them, handed them to his assistant, who promptly vanished through a side door. He leaned back again, clasping folded hands over crossed knees. 'Now, Jereth,' he smiled encouragingly. 'I am ready to listen. Begin at the beginning, please.'

Thus emboldened, Jereth finally allowed himself to sink back into the really very beautiful e-z-chair, and gave himself just a few seconds to appreciate the softness of its angora damask cushions. The secret to weaving these cushions was a closely-guarded treasure of the Catawba Tribe of Sawdie Daisy, Tennetucky, he knew. Obviously, Synchrorealities, Inc, supported only the best of native craftsmanship. But the director must be waiting. Jereth took a deep breath, and began his recital.

I was born on the North Side of the city, in Gheniville. It wasn't like it is now, all gentrified. It was sort of a slum, full of Walesians, like me, and Germanoslavs. Most of our dads worked in the mills, rolling synthosteel, and our moms stayed at home. The first memory I have was when the little boy next door – about two years old, like me – set fire to the grass with a sparkler on the 4th of Juneteenth. You know, I don't remember thinking in words back then. I just had this picture in my head, you know, of what might happen, and I ran and told my mother...in my memory, the grass looked brown, and the trees, not really brown, maybe sort of sepia, but the fire…the fire was bright yellow, you know, I think that's when I first noticed colour…
Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded intently as Jereth went on, from his early childhood memories, the train that used to come by the house at 3 a.m., and how he got out of bed and opened the door to watch and listen better, and how it scared his dad…on to first grade, the pretty little girl who sat next to him the first day, how her name was Barbara and he thought that was a cool name to spell, b-a-r-b-a-r-a, a pleasing pattern…on through sports and movies and stray thoughts and first loves and firsts of all kinds…and lasts…last kisses, last times to see loved ones before they died, last glimpse of the vintage airplane he'd flown in before the hurricane broke it in half, last view of the skyscraper in Nueva Amsterdami before it pancaked flat in an apocalyptic cloud…on and on, memory upon memory, big and small…the director nodding and the intercom open on the kafftable…

Somewhere during the recital, there was lunch. Jereth was almost too excited to eat, but the delicate flavor of the sandwich – the best ham-and-cheese sandwich he had ever tasted – distracted him for a few minutes. The pickle, even in a city known for its fine pickles, was a revelation. After this meal and a few swallows of Cohola, Jereth plunged in again – describing work, play, love, loss…his listener seemed rapt, although Jereth thought, he must have something more important to do.

Hours later, Jereth was finished. When he came up for air, it was as if he were seeing the room – and Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum – for the first time. The light had shifted. It was afternoon. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum clapped his hands in satisfaction, and the assistant came from the other room, carrying the most unusual book Jereth had ever seen. The director smiled.

'Jereth, that was splendid,' he said warmly. 'Let's see what we have, shall we?' He held out the book. Jereth took it.

It was made of heavy black cloth, stiff and ridged, with a red sort of oilcloth sewn around the edges – to protect the pages, Jereth thought. The book, about the size of his laptop screen, bulged. On the cover was the title, Jereth Cheloweth, Memories. Inside, each page was a collage of photos, sketches from Jereth's sketchbook, realia such as train tickets and ID cards (Where did they get them? Jereth wondered), all stapled to the ridged cloth. The images on each page were arranged intuitively rather than consecutively. One page, for example, held pictures of girls and women from Jereth's recital. Barbara was there, a six-year-old with a gap- toothed grin and a pageboy cut, alongside a glamorous vamp Jereth barely remembered from his road trip in Romania…Jereth turned over the pages, amazed, and rediscovered his own story.

Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum pointed out pages that particularly pleased him. 'I love this one,' he said of the double travel page with its stamped passport, tickets, and photo collage. 'It speaks to the need in all of us to find common ground amid new experiences. You've done well here.' They sat for an hour, going over the book. Jereth felt a glow of satisfaction. These people chose me, he thought. And they're experts. They knew what they were doing.

At last they were done. Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum walked Jereth to the lift and shook his hand. 'I want to thank you,' he said simply and sincerely. 'Your work has been vital to our enterprise. Here at Synchrorealities, Inc, we appreciate good quality.' He chuckled at a private joke. 'The cheque is not in the mail. The million postcreds have already been credited to your account. You may withdraw any funds you need immediately.'

The chauffeur was holding the lift door, but Jereth hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to leave. 'Er, Dr Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum? I really enjoyed this.'

Weisheit vom Freilichtmuseum nodded genially. 'I know. And you wish you could work with us some more.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry. You really have helped us a lot. But it's one day to a contractor, I'm afraid.' He smiled gently. 'Look at it this way,' he suggested. 'You never have to work again.' He clasped Jereth's hand one last time. 'You have done a good day's work. Good- bye.'

Standing outside the towering building, Jereth looked up at it once again, nostalgic already for his one great experience with it. I have to remember it all, he thought. I have to tell Marika all about it. She'll be thrilled.

The man with the million-dollar memory turned on his heel and went to hail a hovercab back to Gheniville.

I said the ghost of Philip K Dick haunted my dreams. I didn't say he had the last word.

That man never let his heroes have a good time. Or get paid.

I may not be PK Dick. But I'm nicer than that.