Professor MacKay is lying on a huge bed, his head cushioned amidst a mountain of pillows. He is speaking into a handheld device.
"Note to pantry: milk still too hot. 300 000 of Tsin Tsin: sell. 66 000 of Prosser and Ankopitch: trade at..."
A speaker in the wall next to his headboard interrupts the professor.
"Quinzieme Blue entry: a Ms. J.S. Bach, one-six-four-one-seven."
MacKay is clearly surprised, "At this hour!"
The speaker continues, "Purpose of visit: Queen to Bishop six. Check!"
MacKay fusses with his robe as he gets up from the bed, "Check... What nonsense! Wait a minute. Wait a minute!"
As Ultra-Violent enters the room MacKay is standing beside an antique chessboard, utterly transfixed by the pieces there. He doesn't look up at the sound of footsteps.

"Now," says Ultra-Violent, "here is what I should call real dirt. An old man of your age, Professor MacKay. Please, The Rhombohedral Lattice System? Haven't we gotten past this?"
Tyrell looks up, alarmed. He moves towards a tasseled bell pull that hangs beside the bed. Then he changes his mind and tries to extend his hand beneath one of the pillows.

U.V. tilts her head to one side and coos, "Go ahead. I want you to reach for that weapon, really, I do."

MacKay seems to abandon the search, "I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner."

"You know very well that ambiguous terms, like 'rhombohedral crystal system', won't get you anywhere."

Professor MacKay begins to creech, "But those are not mine, those are the property of the municipality, this is sheer wantonness and vandal work!"

"Tsk tsk, professor. That's what they all say. You deserve to be taught a lesson. How long has it been since you've learned a lesson? Trust me, honey. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me. Heh, heh. Sound familiar?"

MacKay, in a burst of camaraderie, decides to give laughing a try and comes out with a minor guffaw. Ultra-Violent is laughing, too, as she approaches him and places one hand on either side of Professor MacKay's face. She leans in closer, almost as though she is about to kiss him.

There is a loud sort of ringing, beeping sound, and Ultra-Violent flinches.
"Great timing," she mutters, and grabs the professor by the throat with one hand. "What?!"
She yells directly into the professor's face, then glares at an evil eye poised in one upper corner of his room. U.V. receives a response that is just barely audible to Professor MacKay, who squirms madly, trying to reach anything that will help him escape her grasp.
"Alright." She says, resignedly as MacKay grabs some books from a nearby shelf. He attempts to hit her on top of the head with them but she swats his arm away. "You naughty old veck, you."
Her free hand makes a fist, and she hits his jaw so hard that his dentures go flying through the air. "That ought to shut you up. Fortunately for you, I've been called away on urgent business."

Miraj is hesitant, I can tell.
"Are you sure you want to go with her? Don't you remember what happened last time?"
"Me and Ultra-Violent go back a long way. I think she'd be perfect for this one. After all, you WERE trying to warn me about the General, right?"
"Yeah, but she's... Well, you know... She's just not terribly subtle. She's like a blunt instrument."
"I guess you're just going to have to trust me, now, aren't you?"
"I guess so."

Five such installments have arrived, with the absurd air of disorderly flight. Though it's an inextricable mess, the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores will be delivered. In Crater Lake, there is no great distance from the prison-door to the market-place. The forced public labour that takes place is not an occupation: a convict completes his assignment, or works fixed hours and then returns to the prison, if he survives. The work is looked upon with hatred. Nearly all of the convicts talk and rave in their sleep at night. Oaths, other-world slang, knives, and axes figure most prominently, which is why this calm, low conversation pricks up our audio (placed courtesy of my new friend, Nikolai).

"Am I the manager - or am I not? It was ordered... It's incredible."
"He asked the Administration to be sent there with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence the man has."
"HAD. The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone?"
"Yes. He sent his assistant with a note to me."

I'm off to track the signal. The manager seems to have an underground office, lava tube, of course. The entrance is surrounded by scrub with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. There's a sort of neglected gap, and this is where I step into the bell jar (taking a deep breath before I do so). Emerging on the other side into a hallway, I'm aware of the fact that the manager knows I'm here. He begins speaking to me even before we can see one another. I follow his voice down the hall until I locate him reclining on a bed-lounge in the corner of a small room that also contains a sideboard, bookcase, and filing cabinet topped with assorted bottles of whiskey. He offers me a drink though he does not appear inclined to fix one for me. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and look for a place to sit, pulling one of two cane-bottomed chairs up to his bedside. His eyes, the usual blue, appear to disclaim intention. He's of middle size and ordinary build, a common trader, from his youth up. I can see that he is reckless without hardihood, and greedy without audacity, much like the men with whom he works. Other than this, there is only an indefatigable expression, not quite a smile.

"Everybody has behaved splendidly! Splendidly!" He continues in agitation, "You simply must, I mean, if you have got it then you have got to ring them bells. I mean that like it is, like it sounds: go and see the General."

It's frightening. This man has almost unlimited power over more than two hundred convicts. He looks upon them as his natural enemies.

"Now, sir, surely you have more than that to tell me."
I am speaking softly. I remember learning in defense, once, to keep an eye on a man's midsection. Most people believe that you should look into someone's eyes if you wish to know what that person will do next. I prefer the belly.

"Surely, you must know that the General will carry on regardless of what you do."
"You must know that we will succeed where others have failed."
"I'm afraid you underestimate his... How shall I put it? His character."
"I've heard as much from others."
"You really don't know exactly what you're up against."
"How's that?"
"Well, there's simply no end to his function. He's not just one man."
"What do you mean?"
"I really don't think you'll understand."
"Try me."
I stand up. Not wishing to be too dramatic, I quickly unsheathe the machete hanging from my belt, and stab the seat of the cane-bottomed chair.
"No need for torture, my dear. In fact, this is rather common knowledge."
"Really?"
I've begun hacking the cane off the seat of the chair.
"You may be under the impression that the General is simply one man, but you're wrong."
I pause long enough to say, "You're speaking metaphorically. He's got an entire force under his command."
"Yes, there is that. But you don't understand his form. You can't simply kill him."
"Why not?"
I'm continuing to saw the cane from the seat of the chair, but I'm staring directly at the manager's belly.
"Because he will simply reappear. I take it no one's given you an inkling of this."
"I've heard ridiculous legends, if that's what you mean."
"I'll explain it to you any way that I can, but first you must stop desecrating my chair."
"Shall I desecrate you instead?"
"Only if you find my story lacking."
"I'm looking for more than a story."
"Yes, well. I'll tell you what I can."
"Lets hear it."
"Think of it this way: there is no end to him. You can kill this particular manifestation of him, but never the man as a whole."
"Are you saying he's immortal?"
"I'm saying that no matter how many times you think you've ended his life, a part of him will manage to survive and propagate."
"Like a clone of some sort."
"Or program software. Or a virus."
"Or a parasite."
"Now you're getting the GIST of it."
"So, there's already more of him in existence throughout the galaxy."
"Undoubtedly."
"Do we have any idea how many?"
"Innumerable, and I mean that quite literally: an uncountable set."
"Do you mean 'nondenumerable'?"
"I mean that it may be impossible for you to kill them all."
This causes me to sigh, and place one hand on the back of the cane-bottomed chair. I straighten up, and I am beginning to TWIDDLE the machete as I say, "But it's not as though some other version of the General will come here, either to rescue him or carry on in his place."
"It's quite unlikely that anyone will attempt to rescue him. On the other hand, you may never know whether he's been replaced by a fresher version of himself: upgraded, so to speak. I've certainly never been able to pinpoint a new version. I've also never known the current version to deteriorate. You see, he was here during my father's time. He was here during my grandfather's time. I arrived in Crater Lake more than twenty years ago. While I've certainly passed through the prime of my life, he hasn't aged a day."
"Well, how old is he then?"
"I've always known him to be middle-aged; nothing more, nothing less."
"Hmmm. At the very least you've given me something to consider."
"I expected as much."
"I suppose you'll wish me to spare your life now."
"It would be greatly appreciated."
"Though you'll probably discuss every detail of our conversation with the man himself."
"Completely unnecessary. It's rather inconsequential to him whether or not you possess this information."
"Tell you what, I'll hold off disemboweling you for now, only because you may prove to be useful to me in the near future. Should you cease to carry out any sort of FUNCTION with regards to my purposes, you can be sure that you will be captured. I needn't spell out the import of this to you."
"No need to be vulgar, my dear."
Feeling that I had made my point, I exit the room. Returning the way I came, as soon as I step outside of the bell jar, I contact Miraj.
"I believe I understand what it was you were attempting to explain, regarding the General. I propose that we make a request for reinforcement. Perhaps someone along the lines of Ultra-Violent?"

We call our devoted little band the "Eldorado Exploring Expedition". We've sworn ourselves to secrecy. When we talk we are desperately aware of the things required in the work of this world and all others in which we are present. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land is the desire of our enemies. The question is, at what point does one need to take up arms against an oppressor?

The convicts line up in two rows before the guardhouse, waiting for work to begin. They are surrounded by ranks of guards with loaded rifles and stun guns. There is an Indian agent who counts the convicts and sends them to work in parties where they are required. Long ago, in the United States of America, such groups were called "chain gangs". I set off for the engineering workshop. It's held in a low, metal building. The courtyard in front of the main entrance is heaped up with piles of various materials. This facility contains workshops for locksmiths, carpenters, a paintroom, and so on. The General used to come here. He worked in the paintroom, boiled the linseed oil, made up the paints, and carried out research with regard to new binding agents.

There is an officer who oversees the engineers. Several engineers are of a lower rank. They end up supervising the work that the convicts do. I've begun chumming with a few of the mechanics in the station, in spite of their imperfect manners. There is a foreman, Nikolai, a boiler-maker by trade. He's a good worker. He's a lanky, bony, dark-faced man, with big intense eyes. His forehead is perpetually creased in worry. Most of his hair seems to have fallen out long ago, though he still sports a long beard. In this respect, he reminds me of my old friend, Charon. Nikolai likes to tie up his beard in a kind of white serviette he made just for the purpose. It has loops that go over his ears.

Nikolai tells me that "the General's driver - that Rick had left him for the space corps, I decided that was my chance and I managed to get over all right but he already had another driver, a Sergeant Somebody, I forget his name. So there I was, with no status. But I still managed to see a little of it, from the back seat you might say... you probably saw most of the hot places yourself. Where were you stationed?"
"Y.W.C.A.," I say.
"What?" He straightens up, slowly. Looks me in the eye, "You wouldn't be trying to kid me, would you?"
"Why?" I come back. "Don't it work? What I think right now is -"
"Folks don't come in here to think," Nikolai is staring down at his hands again. "They come here to do business and then get out. Do you aim to do any business or don't you?"
"Are you going to let me?" I slap him on the back and shout, "We shall have silicate crystal!"
"No! Silicate crystal!" as though he can't believe his ears. Then in a low voice, "You... eh?"
I put my finger to the side of my nose and nod mysteriously.
"Good for you!" he cries, snapping his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. We try a jig. We caper about in the dust.
"After all," says this boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, "why shouldn't we get the silicate crystal?"
Why not, indeed!
"Three weeks," I say, confident.

very good. you give me so much at one time.

Brunch at the saloon, with the grrls: Colette, Jo, Miraj, and myself.

"'My dear woman,' he cried, 'I write from DICtation!' Well, of course, it was all over pretty quickly after that."
Jo's dishing on how she was able to take care of Wynn without chipping a nail.

"Brilliant. And not one shot fired through the whole mess."
"Well, shit, Jo. If I'd known Wynn was gonna be that easy, I would've finished him off myself."
"Carey, dear, I'm not sure that you've got quite the right equipment for that. It wasn't exactly a women's touch that he was looking for..."
"Right, of course."
"No wonder they won't let Jo carry a gun in this town. She's packin enough heat as it is! Ha ha!"
"You would think that any self-identified woman would have the right to defend herself no matter where she goes. Goodness knows she's sure had the need to, ever since the dawn of Homo sapiens. She wasn't nothin but a man's property up until a coupla centuries ago."
"You know why? Cuz that was the only protection a woman had. If there wasn't a man to claim her and fight off the other men, she'd get violated all the fuckin time. There would have been no end to it."
"Women are still violated all the time."
"Yeah, but think about it this way: a man respects another man's property, or he'll risk getting physically hurt. A woman all alone, what kinda chance does she have? How's she gonna defend herself?"
"Do you think that's all because women were perceived as the weaker sex? Cuz you know, technically speaking, there's a wider spectrum of physical strength within male humans than there is between the sexes."
"I think it was partly an evolutionary thing. If women weren't treated as though they were more delicate then perhaps they wouldn't have survived long enough to reproduce and raise their young."
"True. Women had to survive childbirth and breastfeeding in order to raise the next generation. They required more care than men did, even if it was mostly women taking care of women."
"Is that why it took us so long to learn how to fight?"
"Seems like there's a lotta people who still think we're the weaker sex. Right, Carey?"
Everyone's suddenly starin at me but I've lost track of the conversation.
"What? A woman's right to bare arms?"
"Yeah, sleepy head. Are you with us?"
"Of course. Of course! A woman has the right to dress any way that she chooses."
"Even if she chooses to adorn herself with a Model 1 Smith and Wesson?"
"Huh?"
"C'mon, Carey, we're trying to have a discussion. Get with the program."
"The thing is," Jo arches one eyebrow, as nonchalant as ever, "and I'm speaking from a privileged position here, ahem. I think that most male aggression is directly related to his penis. He's angry because he can't get it up. He's angry because it's up and he doesn't know what to do with it. That's why there's so much emphasis placed on a woman's physique. Women have to look sexy so that a man can get it up. If he can't get it up then he can't have sex, and if he can't have sex then what kind of a man is he! See what I mean? Then he's going to blame problems on everything but his own penis. If he can't get it up then it's the woman's fault. If it's up and there's no woman interested in having sex with him then there's obviously something wrong with women in general. And on it goes..."
"The thing is, Joe," I've stopped disassociating, and I'm about to giv'em a lashing, "why should we have to get violent? Dammit. Why can't we be pacifists? We shouldn't be punished because we don't know how to fight. Why should we have to learn? We have every right not to defend ourselves. We have every right not to be attacked in the first place. Why should we have to change our behaviour when we're doing nothing wrong? You see?"

"Y'know, sometimes I get so flushed. It's interesting. Do your palms ever itch?"
I awoke to the sound of Colette's voice. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, smoking something in a long cigarette holder.
"You do realize this is a non-smoking room? No tobacco smell. That's a pretty nice consideration for the business traveler."
"Carey, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it, don't wait for it, just... let it happen. Could be Gauloises wherever you feel like smoking, a catnap, or two cups of good, hot, black coffee."
"I'd take you up on the coffee but that would be your second treat of the day, wouldn't it?"
"When was the last time you treated yourself?"
"Huh?"
"Tomorrow afternoon we're gonna meet with Mirj and Josie at the saloon, and we're gonna drink cosmos, AND we're gonna plan a day together at the spa. Got it? Think of this as a team-building exercise."
I'm covering my head with a sheet, wishing it was all just a dream. I don't even hear Colette leaving but by the time I decide to get up and at'em, she's gone.

As I attempted to exit the saloon, I realized someone was leaning against the doorway. The night had become so dark that I couldn't determine who it was until I stood next to her: Josie. I decided that I ought to rely on my rudimentary Spanish.
"Fue capaz de deshacerse de Wynn?"
"Si, senorita."
"¿Cómo lo hiciste?"
"Con amor."
Perfect. Jo is a true professional, though never accepted as such. "¿Dónde está?"
"Te dejaré saber."
I knew Jo well enough to understand that this was all I would get from her at the moment. "Tenga cuidado. Buenas noches."
"Buenas noches, senorita."

Back in the saloon, I was speaking casually with Miraj. He had been planning to become assistant manager by and by, under the present man. And if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because "no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors."

Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? I had to laugh. Miraj tells me, "Carey, you are of the new gang - the gang of virtue. The same people who sent me specially recommended you. Oh, don't say no. I've my own eyes to trust."

I nearly burst out into laughter again. "Don't you read the Company's confidential correspondence?!"

He hadn't a word to say. Meanwhile, figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glowing candles at our table. The sound of hissing followed, smoke rising. Were they closing already? I am surrounded by indefatigable men and yet, they were all succumbing to the night quite willfully. What time was it?

A man with a black moustache passes our table, speaking loudly, "Serves him right. Transgression - punishment - bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager..." The moustached stranger pauses and turns around to stare at Miraj, who in turn, appears crestfallen that he's been noticed (even without the glow of our candle). Still staring at Miraj, "Not in bed yet," he says with a kind of servile heartiness. "It's so natural. Ha! Danger - agitation." Then the stranger vanishes into the gathering darkness. Indeed, I began to feel that it was time for us to head back to our rooms. Miraj did not acknowledge any such need.
"God, would you listen to yourself?"
I assumed he was speaking in response to the moustached stranger. Miraj continues muttering to no one in particular, "We really aren't that concerned."
Looking at me now, he says, "We simply must get the girls together."
Of course, I agreed.
"But before we do, there's something you need to know."

I am curious. What could it possibly be? "Is it Joe?"

"Joe? No, no. Nothing going on there that we haven't already sussed-out." Miraj gives me a wink. "It's the General; how he came to be promoted to the rank of officer, and then a senior commander to some fortress here."

Could this be something new? "By all means, carry-on, Mirj."

"There was a chief, rather peaceful fellow. In fact, I believe he was a pacifist of sorts: encouraging non-violent protests and the like. One night someone set fire to a fortress. The General was stationed there.

At this point in time, he was just another young soldier, though he was cunning, very cunning. The hostile tribes were being blamed for the incident. A month after the event, the General was drinking tea with the peaceful chief. This was just another friendly chat, like several they had shared before. This chief believed in the power of dialogue, especially with his enemies. He arrived for tea suspecting nothing, for he hadn't really known the General very long.

What he didn't realize was that our General had convinced his superiors that he knew who had set the fire. Our General had his regiment surround the tea room where the meeting was to take place. When the chief arrived, our General publicly accused and upbraided him. Right there on the spot our General delivered a most detailed reprimand and in conclusion shot the chief, killing him instantly. Thus began the long career of our illustrious General, for he was immediately promoted."

"That hardly seems shocking, when one considers the environment..."

"No. What some find shocking is the report that the General set the fire himself and then perished in the blaze."

"I see."

"This is all just to give you an indication of the man with whom we are dealing."

I try remain unsurprised, for I've heard so much mythology with regards to this man.
"I understand. They say there is no trade with which he is unfamiliar."

"Yes. The General is a joiner, a cobbler, a shoemaker, a painter, a gilder, a locksmith and... "

"He learned all of these skills while in prison."

"Yes, that was before he became a soldier. Did you know how he came to be a prisoner in the first place?"

I shake my head, though I know very well how the General had become a convict in his early life. I'm curious to find out what exactly it is that Miraj feels the need to share with me.

"He was of noble origin, had worked in government service and had been something of a prodigal son to his sixty-year-old father. But his behaviour became thoroughly dissipated, he had become embroiled in debt. His father tried to exert a restraining influence on him, tried to make him see reason; but the father had a house and a farm, it was suspected he had money, and - the General murdered him in order to get his hands on the inheritance.

The crime was not discovered until a month after it was committed. The General, who was just a young man of twenty, informed the police that his father had disappeared. Then he spent the next month in the utmost debauchery. Finally, in the General's absence, the police discovered the body.

He made no confession. He was stripped of his nobility and government service rank. Then he was sentenced to twenty years' deportation and penal servitude. He was approved for parole after serving five years on the Moon. The agreement was that if he remained here he would be granted some leniency. The administration was pleased with all of the skills he had taught himself. Then he began to serve in the convict battalions back on Earth. He returned to the Moon as a soldier, tried and true, and well, now you know the rest."

I'm still not quite sure what Miraj is getting at, here. Is this supposed to lead up to some sort of blackmail?

At that moment, two figures appear in the entrance. They literally waltz inside the saloon. Even in the dim light, I know exactly who it is. As always, the General was unmistakable and Colette was sporting a dazzling smile, complete with a bit of tumblewire sticking out the corner of her mouth. Then I am suddenly within the throws of the General's continual pontification.

"We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers - to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. They were just flung out there, and on we went...-I remember it, but I can't explain..."

Had the General arrived for a grilling? Did he already know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on? My position was no better. I could tell him, in fact, I repeat to him several times that the situation was "very grave, very grave". I inform him that Dr. Hubbleworth and Chester had been transported to proper beds within our secure medical facility. There was still no trace of Wynn or Joe. When I explained this to the General he said he was "very, very uneasy". Certainly when he finally did sit down he fidgeted around on his chair a good deal. Next thing he wanted to know "how long it would take to..."

I interrupted him.

"How can I tell?" I said. All this talk seemed to me so futile, but I did not try to stop him.

By this point, it was so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already the General, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anyone else. Everyone around us might have been sleeping, but I was still awake. I listened. I listened, on the watch, for a sentence, or a word, that would explain the uneasiness inspired by this General's narrative which seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night air. Yes - I let him run on and think what he pleased. I did, while he talked fluently about "the necessity for every man to get on. And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not, of course, to gaze at the moon. Ha ha ha heh haheha ha."

He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere woman. I tell him I can see that very well, but what I really want is a certain quantity of silicate crystal. He changes his manner; becoming very cold, and simply carries on with the narrative he'd already begun...

"In that same year, the Indian Branch became its own department, with inside staff including the superintendent general, chief clerk, accountant, and clerical staff, and an outside staff comprising 460 field workers responsible for the implementation of policies directed at Indians. These outside workers were called Indian agents, and were invested with tremendous authority over the reserves and the people with whom they worked."

By this time I could hear Miraj snoring, and Colette was nowhere to be seen. I decide to call it a night.

Doc is waking up. He mumbles something like, "I want to start off slow, ask for a 60-ouncer at first... Then I'll work my way up."
Now I must remind him where and when he is.
"Doctor Hubbleworth! Do you know what planet you're on?"
Trick question.
"Trick question, Carey. I may be dumb but I ain't stupid. We are smack dab in the middle of Crater Lake: one of the thirteen restricted hamlets on the moon."
"You got it, Clyde. In fact, you used to be the Chair of this town's Substance Education Committee, that is, until you started abusing your privileges, so to speak. Do you remember the events that brought you to this particular hospital bed?"
No reply at all. Well, it would all come out in time.

I realize now that I've neglected to describe Joe's walking stick in detail, and it is quite deserving. It's a wonderful example of reuse, you see. He took a length of PVC tubing and reinforced it with some of the tumble wires that he'd found floating around. The end result is quite sturdy, yet pliable. So that I do have enough time, while supporting Chester, to wonder what has become of Wynn. Surely, if I were to finish Chester off, right here and now, I would have to contend with Wynn. Presumably, he would want to prevent me from killing Chester right here and now, so he should be turning up right here and now to stop me. And yet, he is nowhere to be seen. I can't help thinking that Wynn has snuck around the back of this hut (Dr. Hubbleworth likes to refer to it as his 'cabin') and come across either the Doctor himself, or Joe. I really ought to investigate, however, I have this human being to support and I don't quite know what to do with him.

I have dragged Chester's limp, passed-out body into the building beside the Doc's hovel. It is another apothecary's shop, where Miraj is accosting a clerk.
"Anything, ideally, with opium in it will do...? Alcohol to keep it in solution of course... perhaps some formulation that would go well with the Daffy's Elixir of which we plan to purchase..."
Miraj is a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. I wonder what he's working on here. He seems to be covered in blood. I wonder to whom that blood belongs...
"- eeh, how many cases was that again,...?" Dr. Hubbleworth has suddenly appeared from behind a glass cupboard in which various instruments are dustily jumbled. Apparently, the Doctor has somehow been attending the exchange despite the fact that he too, is covered in blood. Furthermore, it looks to be his own as there is a scalpel protruding from his left shoulder. That must be the work of our customs officer. The Doctor raises a finger.
"'Strangers heed my wise advice: never pay the retail price.'"
He passes out upon the floor. I hesitate a moment and then I drop Chester on top of him, relieved to have found such an opportunity.
"Perhaps they have fought each other to the death, or near death, as the case may be."
Miraj winks at me, remains cheery, "In that welcome event," making a carefree motion in the air with his handkerchief, "a hundred cases should do the trick, for this time out, anyway, - Now as to that oahpiated article we're discussing, -"
"Aye, we call it Laudanum, Sir - compounded according to the original formulae of the noted Dr. Paracelsus of Germany. Preventive against a variety of ailments, sir? -Excellent anti-costive properties, - given the uncertainty of diet, -"

The Doctor is attempting to raise his index finger from the position that he holds upon the floor, mumbling, "The commissioners know all too well about Daffy's Elixir, and the uses tis put to."

Miraj is more than willing to finish this request on the Doctor's behalf. For just a moment I felt I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling did not last long. There was a touch of insanity in this proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the performance. I longed to return to my position back at the saloon where I felt I had at least the capacity to make more sense of the world. The problem with Miraj is that he tends to be stand-offish with the other agents.
"Miraj, it's so good to see you. How did you find yourself in the company of this fine surgeon?"
"Why HE approached ME in the vestibule of this fine establishment. Can you imagine? The state he's in... Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station..."
"Insatiable appetite, this old gent. I happen to know that he'd only JUST finished dining with a young man in his cabin a few moments ago."
"... and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but also... The business entrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks -so I had been informed; but there wasn't a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station..."
"The making of bricks, you say."
They were all waiting -for something. Who was I to interfere with their particular variety of uncongenial preoccupation, or occupation, as the case may very well be? There is an air of plotting about this place, and nothing can cure it. The only thing that ever comes to them is disease, of one sort or another. The philanthropic pretense of this whole concern, regarding the human condition, their talk, their governance, any show of work, was all subsumed by a singular desire. To reach a trading-post where silicate crystals were to be had so that they can earn a percentage.

Fortunately, I have an idea. I pick up Joe's walking stick, at the same time I glance out the closest window through which I can still see the Doc's cabin. No sign of life there.
"Carry this inside your sarape like it's a shotgun. They'll never know the difference."
"But they're arms men."
"Exactly. Like I said, they'll never know the difference. Follow directly behind me, back to back, no matter what happens."
"Always a pleasure, my dear."
As soon as I step outside the saloon door I yell, "Throw up your hands, you rotten old cowboys!"
Together, we march out into the middle of the street. Joe stays right behind me, carryin the stick just the way I told him to. Chester runs towards us declaring that he "ain't armed". I can't tell if this is some kinda trick so I'm relieved when Joe whips out the staff and uses it to put Chester in a choke hold.
"Stay with me!" I'm tryin to speak to Joe over my shoulder as I start heading down the street to Doc Hubbleworth's place. It's like we're moving in some kinda strange sandwich race: me and Joe are still back to back, and he's dragging Chester along with us. I'm not sure what sort of scene I'll encounter upon opening Doc's front door, but I don't want him to know we're about to pay a visit.
"Joe, callate!"
My Spanish is not very good, but I think he gets the point. We're approachin the Doc's veranda, I'm preparing myself to kick in his door, when I see it open a crack. I immediately stop, thinkin that the muzzle of a gun is gonna peak its way out. Instead, I see bloody fingers clutching at the edge of the door frame.
"Dammit!" I'm cursin out loud, believin that we're too late and the Doc's already completed his day's work, but it's the customs officer cautiously backing through the front door. Maybe the Doc finally got what's comin to him? Not bloody likely. "Just the man I wanted to see! You run on down, now and get the General. Bring'im back here. He'll sort this mess out." I feel that I am jubilant, though I'm not quite certain I understand the meanin o'the word. The customs officer is startled, but ready to run, as he was probably about to do in any case. I just hope he's able to bring the General up here in time.
"Uh, Carey? Nosotros tenemos mas influencia sin que el general."
I'm thinkin back to that one semester of beginner's Spanish. It's not enough.
"Joe, yo sé que tú no quieres estar aquí con el general. Salir de entre nosotros y entrar en la casa del médico."
I'm not sure if that's right, but I know that it's at least a valiant effort. I'm slowly turning around so that I'm facing Joe and Chester. I reach around Joe and place my hands beside his on the staff that's holding Chester in check. Joe makes sure that I've got a good grip then he slowly ducks down, crouching all the way, he creeps through the Doc's front door. As soon as Chester realizes that I'm the one holding him he starts squirming around like the snake that he is. I bring my left leg up right between his, hard and fast enough to bring'im to his knees. In an instant, Chester is all but dangling from the staff, as my choke hold is the only thing that's keeping him from collapsing to the ground.

I thought for sure that Doc would've locked his front door. Is that not an important part of his modus operandi? Perhaps he is slipping. If he's already done for, my own work here will go so much more smoothly. I'm getting tired of holding Chester up. If I apply just a little more pressure, he'll pass out and I can drag him into Doc's hut. If I apply too much pressure then I won't have to worry about Chester at all anymore, though I may have to worry about the General. I can only give him so much at one time.

He continues to suck back the cigarillo in between comments.
"Crater Lake is a cozy village populated by more than seven million fascinating individuals..."
He is bone tired from long days. He sits back and crosses his legs. His eyes are deepset. His brow bones jut out as do his cheek bones. When he is not smiling his face is full of shadow. Joe Manco has always had this problem. He's told me in the past about walkin down the street, people see him comin and cross over to the other side. What he doesn't realize is that there are a couple of people waitin on him right now. They may be across the street, or they may be right outside that door, or they may be comin round the corner at any minute.
"Wynn is gross in movement. He's shrewd, Joe."
"And Chester?"
"Chester is built as his brother, but slower of mind."
"How do they feel about your arrival in town?"
"That's none of your concern."
"They got two against one. I find that mighty concernin, Carey. You gonna make your play, or are you gonna talk me to death?"
"There is no way out, and you know it."
"The village is the place to which the roads tend, a sort of expansion of the highway..."
"Where they once dug for money, but never found any..."
"Nobody repairs it, for nobody wears it..."
"But a direction out there, and the bare possibility of goin somewhere?"
"I hear ya, sista."
The problem is, so do they.

I took a stroll over to the saloon. Situated directly across the road from the old apothecary's shop, it allowed me to keep an eye on the Doctor without being too conspicuous. Dodging a few tumble-wires along the way, I noticed that the air was picking up speed. Then I saw Joe Manco come around the corner of the saloon. He was wearing a brightly-coloured sarape, beat-up old hat with a telescope crown, and tanned cowboy boots. He is unshaven to the point of sporting a full beard. His trademark cigarillo is lit, hanging out of his mouth. He enters the saloon moments before me, pretending that he doesn't know I'm right behind him. I sit down beside him at the bar and order us both a whiskey.
"Blondie, let me stun you senseless with cosmopolitans."
One of the patrons begins to laugh. Then another. Soon we are all laughing together while Joe continues to smoke his cigarillo and squint at us nonchalantly. Cool as a cucumber, he says out of the side of his mouth, "I knew somebody like you, once... and there was no'ne to help." He smiles crookedly blowing smoke in my face. I stare at him without blinking and say, "You know what you are? You're a whore."
"Takes one to know one, darlin."
"I do my best, pardner." I return his crooked grin.
"What are you doin back in town, Carey?"
"Time to get down to business, my friend."
"Everything ready?"
I can't see his eyebrows, but I know that they're raised. I ignore his question and ask my own.
"You still thinking about going home?"
He pauses a moment before answering.
"I never found home that great. Hey, remember America?"
"America, oh who discovered yer ass?"
"Land o'the free?"
"Land of the BRAVE, not quite. My friend -"
"You knew it was finished before it began?"
"We gotta have this conversation again?"
"O'course, maybe this time it'll finish the right way."
"Not bloody likely."
"You see, the thing to be remembered is this, Carey. America wasn't like anything that ever happened before. Oh, maybe your first Romans, but I doubt it. No, ma'am. America was sui generis -"
"Ain't nothin generous about it, suh. How would any American know what existed before..."
"The strong devour the weak every time... "
"Americans got everything by cuttin the Indians' throats and stealin whatever wasn't nailed down."
"And that's the way of the world."
"Terribly Malthusian of you, dahlingk."
"Well, what the hell point of view do you presume to speak from? You think you're speakin on behalf o'the goddam proletariat?... Yeah, don't hear your bourgeois ass laughing now. Marx was fuckin bourgeois too. Did you know that?"
"So what? He was still defending the rights of the workers who -"
"The workers who fuckin supported his ass? Did Marx ever see a day of manual labour himself? Isn't that exactly what he was supposed to be fighting against? So, it's ok for him to lead the proletariat in a revolution but it's not ok for any other bourgeois leaders to do the same."


"Stop. STOP! Dr. X, this is not how the simulation is s'posed to go."
"You want to win this argument, Carey? Then fuckin play the game."
"Oh, come on. Dr. X yer not playin fair. I specifically chose certain parameters that were within my -"
"Knowledge base?"
"I was gonna say, 'skill set'."
"Carey, if you feel yer gettin out-played here then you can always PAUSE, study-up, and then come back to the conversation."
"It's not a conversation. This one always turns into an argument and I feel like I need to win it in order to move on."
"Do what you have to do, Carey."
"Dr. X, I didn't think this was s'posed to be about winning or losing."
"What do you think we're doin right now? Yer tryin to convince me o'something outside the parameters o'the game. If you win, things within the game will change. If you lose, they'll stay the same. What you don't seem to realize is that it's still a fuckin game. Change the parameters all you want. At the end of the day..."
"It's s'posed to be about the play, the process. Why does it have to be so adversarial? Is that all there is? Me against the next guy. I survive and he dies, or the other way around. Nothing in between. Is there no cooperation in life?"
"What are we cooperating for, here?"
"Collective well-being."
"Fine. You tell the story then."
"Very funny."
"More cooperation, huh? I think we can work with that."
"Thank god."
"Ha ha. Very good. You give me so much at one time..."
"Dr. X?"
"Yeah?"
"It's hard, making your mark on the world."
"It certainly is. It certainly is. People spend most of their lives trying to make their own mark indelible and then once that's achieved, a good deal of them spend the rest of their lives trying to erase it."
"I know what you mean."
"Well? Back to the game..."