LITMIR.BIZ

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old man smiled. “Do not think me naive, Tyn-Dall. I am quite aware that you are but a man, a man from another world, although quite an incredible world it must be. I know also that you were, until this hour, unaware of your destiny. I knew that when my priest reported that you ignored the Ritual Of The Time, until literally forced to obey. That is why we had to use . . . devious means to make certain that your companions would not prevent the fulfillment of the prophesy. Now, of course, you understand.

      “I do not think the priestess Lhyreesa will make you unhappy, Tyn-Dall.”

      *

      This was not Earth and these people were not Earthmen. The thought now did not bring the bitter pain it had at first, right after the ship left. Earth already was becoming hazy in Tyndall’s mind, a lovely globe of green somewhere . . . somewhere far, and home once, a long time ago.

      No, the Arrillians were not Earthmen, but they were human, and an attractive, gracious race. Life would not be bad, among the Arrillians, especially as the espoused of the ranking priestess of Arrill. Tyndall fingered the rich material of his Arrillian robe; he thought of the food, the wine, the servants. No, he decided, not bad at all. One thing, though—this priestess Lhyreesa . . .

      “I have, then, but one request to make, Dheb Rhal, I would like to see the priestess Lhyreesa.”

      The old man almost chuckled, “That is understandable, Tyn-Dall, but it is not yet The Time.”

      Tyndall, reveling in the strength of his position, grew bolder. “I would like very much, Dheb Rhal, to see her now.”

      The Rhal’s face darkened. “Very well, Tyn-Dall, but I warn you, do not enter the Grove. There is death there, death that even I am powerless to prevent. The Guardians will not harm her, but any stranger . . . will not live many minutes in the Grove.”

      “I will not enter, Dheb Rhal.”

      “Tyn-Dall, The Time is very soon, possibly this very hour. Will you not wait?”

      “I prefer not to wait, Dheb Rhal.”

      The Rhal gestured to a young Arrillian. “Bheel, show Tyn-Dall to the Grove of the priestess Lhyreesa.”

      The younger man protested, “But, Dheb Rhal, so near The Time, what if . . . ”

      “Do as I command,” snapped the Rhal.

      Bheel turned silently, motioning for Tyndall to follow. The young Arrillian led Tyndall the length of the corridor, back to the patio he had stepped onto by mistake earlier in the day. Bheel stepped respectfully aside. Tyndall looked out into the garden: the sun was beginning to set, the long shadows stretched across the dim recesses of tropic greenery. The huge insect-like thing was still there, stretched out in a narrow strip of sunlight, catching the last failing waves of warmth from the sinking sun.

      Tyndall turned to the Arrillian. “Where might I find the priestess Lhyreesa?” he asked.

      “There, Dheb Tyn-Dall.”

      “I see no one. Where do you say?”

      Bheel pointed. “There, Dheb Tyn-Dall, where I point, you see the priestess Lhyreesa taking the late afternoon sun . . . unless your eyesight is exceedingly bad, Dheb Tyn-Dall, you cannot fail to see . . . .”

      Tyndall’s eyesight was exceedingly good. He followed that pointing finger, past the pillar that supported the roof of the patio, past the first row of alien green plants, past the second and third rows, to the clearing, to the little patch of sunlight, to the thing lying there. That monstrous, misshapen Bug . . . . The Bug . . . . The Priestess Lhyreesa!

      Tyndall felt a pounding, skull-shattering madness closing in on him. This was a joke, of course. No, no joke. A dream then? No, not that either. In only a few split seconds it happened. Tyndall had leapt the rail around the patio, and was streaking through the Grove, heading for its outer boundary. The city—if he could get out of the Grove, there would be places to hide in the city. Narrow streets, empty cellars, dim, dim alleys. They’d never find him there! Run now, run before he was overtaken!

      But he was not being pursued. Bheel still stood on the patio, transfixed with horror. He heard the Arrillian’s terrified cry “Dheb Tyn-Dall...!” And then a rope shot out and grabbed him by the ankles. Not a rope really, a green something, and there were others around his arms, his chest, his hips, wrapping him in their sticky green embrace. The Guardians! He tried to cry out but one of the verdant fronds enveloped his throat so tightly he could not utter a sound. The innocent green things of the Grove were vigilant guardians indeed. They seemed to be merely holding him immobile, but Tyndall realized with sick horror that their pressure was increasing, so little at a time, but so steadily.

      And something was happening out there in the sunlight too. The creature had convulsively grasped the branch of a bush and was clinging weakly to it, great tremors wracking its body. It seemed to be struggling, suffering, dying . . . even as he was. In his agony, Tyndall laughed.

      “A Time! A Time!” The voice came from the patio. Tyndall saw Bheel throw himself face down on the floor, covering his eyes with his hands. He heard the cry echoed within the palace, and then like a mighty roar outside in the city. And then there was silence, silence broken only by the sound of his own breathing as he dragged his tortured lungs across his shattered ribs.

      He saw the Bug give a great heave, and then it seemed to split open, the entire skin splitting in a dozen places and a hand . . . A HAND reached from within that dying hulk and grasped the bush to which it clung. A white slender hand on a fragile wrist, and then the arm was free, a woman’s arm, a beautiful arm.

      Tyndall began, dimly, and too late, to understand.

      A leg kicked free . . . the slender ankle . . . the amply fleshed thigh.

      Tyndall clung to consciousness doggedly. The Guardian was crushing the last dregs of life out of him now, and even the pain seemed to recede. His mind was very, very clear. So that was it. A word once heard in a long forgotten classroom, and then the scientists of the expedition. Metamorphosis . . . he had meant to ask them what . . . but he remembered now . . . what it meant. A passing from one form into another . . . . Had he failed a biology test once because he didn’t know what metamorphosis meant . . . dimly . . . dimly . . . he saw . . .

      The last thing Tyndall ever saw was the Priestess Lhyreesa as she stepped out of the empty hulk, kicking it away with a disdainful toe. Breathless from her ordeal, she sank to the grass, her breasts heaving with exhaustion.

      She sat there for a few minutes in the sunlight, then she tossed her head and spread her long raven hair out on her shoulders, the better to dry it in the waning sun.

      Two Plus Two Makes Crazy

      by Walt Sheldon

       Walt Sheldon is bitter-bright in this imaginative short satire of Man’s sell-out by a group of staunch believers in the infallibility of numbers.

      

       The Computer could do no wrong. Then it was asked a simple little question by a simple little man.

      THE LITTLE MAN had a head like an old-fashioned light bulb and a smile that seemed to say he had secrets from the rest of the world. He didn’t talk much, just an occasional “Oh,” “Mm” or “Ah.” Krayton figured he must be all right, though. After all he’d been sent to Computer City by the Information Department itself, and his credentials must have been checked in a hundred ways and places.

      “Essentially each computer is the same,” said Krayton, “but adjusted to translate problems into the special terms of the division it serves.”

      Krayton had a pleasant, well-behaved impersonal voice. He was in his thirties and mildly handsome. He considered himself a master of the technique of building a career in Computer City—he knew how to stay within the limits of directives and regulations and still make decisions, or rather to relay computer decisions that kept his responsibility

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