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"Fishing once more? "propelling pencils propelling pencilstpropelling pencilse 128 .In using this system, absentee voters werepropelling pencils instructed to mark their ballots with number two pencils. The optical scanner rejected ballots which were marked withpropelling pencils instruments other than number two pencil. 2006, Barbara Slater Stern, curriculum and teaching dialogue: V. 8, paClutching his statue, he started down the stairs. An abyss of air and rushing wind surrounded them, turbulent, violent. Step. Step again. He took it slow, halting when waves of dizziness hit. Step. Step again. Scrapes came from above and he jerked his head up to see Soz lose her footing. Lunging for her, he lost his own balance and stumbled on the step, teetering over the void. Lurching back, he reeled to the step's inner edge, where he fell to one knee and found himself staring down the shaft of air in the center of the spiral. "Jato?" Soz rasped. He took a breath, looking up to see her kneeling on the step above him. "You all right?" he asked. She nodded and they got up, then continued their descent. The wind was probably cold, but with the fever burning in his body he couldn't tell. He moved in a haze of nausea and dizziness. Step. Step again. Step No step. He looked down. They had reached the bottom. Soz made a strangled sound and sagged against his back, grabbing him around the waist with both arms to keep from falling. Turning, he put his arm around her for support. They walked around Nightingale, far enough outside the city to let darkness cloak them. His legs strained to run but he held back, not only because his poisoned body couldn't keep such a pace but also because it would draw attention. A couple strolling arm-in-arm along a romantic path was one thing; two people running was another. He motioned at the tubes on her boots. "What's in those things?" "Liquid nitrogen." She sounded hoarse. "With disassemblers to boost its effect. It freezes what it hits and the chompers eat it. They're less specialized than thepropelling pencils ones in my body, which makes them more dangerous, but they dissolve after exposure to air." "How did you free your hands? Do the chompers in your sweat eat leather after all?"

"No." She grimaced. "Mine are far too specific. Anything general enough to take apart a material as heterogenous as animal hide would probably take apart our hides too." She showed him the broken chain on her manacle. "Feel." He ran his finger along the jagged edge. "It's sharp." "So was the part on the ledge. I rubbed the thong against it until it cut the leather." "No tech that time," he said. "Just brains." She smiled wanly. Sweat soaked her collar and she walked stiffly, her legs controlled by the hydraulics inside her body. The starport was so small it had no terminals, just a gate at the airfield entrance. As they neared it, two Mandelbrot globes rolled out to intercept them. Jato tried to dodge, but the one headed for him easily compensated for his evasive actions. It slammed him in the chest and he stumbled backward, then recovered and sprinted to the side. As the globe followed, he doubled back to run around it. The ploy worked with Crankenshaft's drones on days he programmed them for slower responses, to make the chase "entertaining." Jato doubted this one belonged to Crankenshaft, though; after what had happened, his would go for the kill. This globe caught himand rammed his head. As he fell, patches of light punctuated his vision and loud noises buzzed in his ears. With his statue cradled against his chest, he hit the ground and groaned. As he rolled away from the whirring demon, he caught a glimpse of the aircontrol tower. Lights were coming on inside it. They had run out of time. Then Soz said, "Eat it, fractal." A stream of liquid arched into view, bathing the drone in a shower of glistening drops. The globe reoriented on Soz like a giant ceramoplex balloon. As it went after her, she tried to feint, but she lost her balance and fell to her knees. When the globe swooped in on her head, she jerked to the side. It hit her shoulderand shattered, raining Mandelbrot innards all over her body. In seconds, she was kneeling in the midst of junk large and small, from both globes, lights blinking and components humming. Soz and Jato stared at each other. Then they scrambled to their feet and sprinted for the airfield. Alarms were blaring, coming from the distant airtower and speakers along the field's perimeter. As they ran through the gate, which was no more than a few bars that swung to one side, Jato saw a Jag starfighter out on the tarmac. It gleamed like alabaster, as much a work of art as any sculpture.

When they reached the Jag, its hatch dpropelling pencilsilated like a high-speed holocam. As soon as they lunged through the opening, it snapped closed. A membrane irised in the nose of the ship, revealing a cockpit. As Soz squeezed into the pilot's seat, it folded an exoskeleton of controls around her like a silver-mesh glove. Jato stood behind her chair, hanging on to its back while his nausea surged. "Neck and lower spinal nodes blocked," an androgynous voice said. "Ankles," Soz said, intent on her controls. While her hands flew over her forward controls, a robot claw pulled off her boots and a mesh enfolded her feet, plugging into her ankle sockets. After that Jato heard nothing; the ship was communicating directly with her internal systems. Suddenly Soz spun around her chair and pulled down Jato's head. He fell forward, grabbing the arms of her seat to catch himself. She kissed him hard, pushing her tongue into his mouth. He jerked away. "Are you craz" "I'm giving you the antidote. In my saliva. My web figured it out and my meds made it." She pulled him back into the kiss. So he kissed her, while guns boomed from the port defenses and the ship shook. Although the Nightingale port claimed only a small arsenal, it could still do damage. He just hoped the Jag could protect itself while its pilot and her passenger took their medicine. Then Soz pulled away from him and smiled. The cockpit elongated and a second chair rose from the deck. "Co-pilot's seat," she said. "You take." He slid into the seat, and a slender probe from it extended to his earin time for him to hear a voice shout, "Skyhammer-36, acknowledge!" He nearly jumped out of the chair. Then he realized he was hearing Soz's communications with the aircontrol tower. "You are not cleared for take-off!" the voice said. "I repeat, you are not cleared for takeoff." "Tough," Soz said. Then she fired the rockets. Jato knew a stealth craft like the Jag could come and go with barely a whisperif that was what its pilot wanted. They took off in a thundering roar of rockets. For her parting salupropelling pencilste to Nightingale, Soz blasted the holy hell out of that tarmac.

As acceleration pushed them into the seats, a holomap came on, showing Nightingale receding into the spectacular bones of the Giant's Skeleton Mountains. The peaks withdrew until they were no more than wrinkles in the vast panorama of the world. Gradually Jato's mind absorbed the situation. He was free. Free. Or at least, he thought he was free. "What happens now?" he asked. Soz glanced at him. "I'll take you to headquarters. You can clear your name." She hesitated, a blush on her cheeks. "I can help out, ifif you would like." Her uncertainty floored him. He had seen her face death by Promenade collapse, clockwork venom, and snuff-art, all with remarkable composure. Yet asking if he wanted her to stick around made her nervous. He smiled. "Yes. I would like that." Her face gentled. She glanced at the statue he still held. "I felt what it took for you to offer your sculpture to me. Thank you." "It's not much." "It's spectacular, Jato. Both the bird and the fugue." He swallowed, at a loss how to tell her how much her words meant. So instead he motioned at her holo display. "Soz, look." Together they watched the sun rise over the rim of Ansatz.

BOUQUETS OF THE BLACK WIDOWERS
ISAAC ASIMOV, 1984

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Sixty Million Trillion Combinations SINCE IT WAS Thomas Trumbull who was going to act as hpropelling pencilsost for the Bpropelling pencilslack Widowers that propelling pencilsmonth, he did not, as was his wont, arrive at the last minute, gasping for his preprandial drink. There he was, having arrived in early dignity, conferring with Henry, that peerless waiter, on the details of the menu for the evening, and greeting each of the others as he arrived. Mario Gonzalo, who arrived last, took off his light overcoat with care, shook it gently, as though to remove the dust of the taxicab, and hung it up in the cloakroom. He came back, rubbing his hands, and said, "There's an autumn chill in the air. I think summer's over." "Good riddance," called out Emmanuel Rubin, from where he stood conversing with Geoffrey Avalon and James Drake. "I'm not complaining," called back Gonzalo. Then, to Trumbull, "Hasn't your guest arrived yet?" Trumbull said distinctly, as though tired of explaining, "I have not brought a guest." "Oh?" said Gonzalo, blankly. There was nothing absolutely irregular about that. The rules of the Black Widowers did not require a guest, although not to have one was most unusual. "Well, I guess that's all right." "It's more than all right," said Geoffrey Avalon, who had just drifted in their direction, gazing down from his straight - backed height of seventy - four inches. His thick graying eyebrows hunched over his eyes and he said, "At least that guarantees us one meeting in which we can talk aimlessly and relax." Gonzalo said, "I don't know about that. I'm used to the problems that come up. I don't think any of us will feel comfortable without one. Besides, what about Henry?" He looked at Henry as he spoke and Henry allowed a discreet smile to cross his unlined, sixtyish face. "Please don't be concerned, Mr. Gonzalo. It will be my pleasure to serve the meal and attend the conversation even if there is nothing of moment to puzzle us." "Well," said Trumbull, scowling, his crisply waved hair startlingly white over his tanned face, "you won't have that pleasure, Henry. I'm the one with the problem and I hope someone can solve it: you at least, Henry." Avalon's lips tightened, "Now by Beelzebub's brazen bottom, Tom, you might have given us one old fashioned - " Trumbull shrugged and turned away, and Roger Halsted said to Avalon in his soft voice, "What's that Beelzebub bit? Where'd you pick that up?" Avalon looked pleased. "Oh, well, Manny is writing some sort of adventure yarn set in Elizabeth's

England - Elizabeth I of course - and it seems - " Rubin, having heard the magic sound of his name, approached and said, "It's a sea story." Halsted said, "Are you tired of mysteries?" "It's a mystery also," said Rubin, his eyes flashing behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "What makes you think you can't have a mystery angle to any kind of story?" "In any case," said Avalon, "Manny has one character forever swearing alliteratively and never the same twice and he needs a few more resounding oaths. Beelzebub's brazen bottom is good, I think." "Or Mammon's munificent mammaries," said Halsted. Trumbull said, violently, "There you are! If I don't come up with some problem that will occupy us in worthwhile fashion and engage our Henry's superlative mind, the whole evening would degenerate into stupid triplets - by Tutankhamen's tin trumpet." "It gets you after a while," grinned Rubin, unabashed. "Well, get off it," said Trumbull. "Is dinner ready, Henry?" "Yes it is, Mr. Trumbull." "All right, then. If you idiots keep this alliteration up for more than two minutes, I'm walking out, host or no host." The table seemed empty with only six about it, and conversation seemed a bit subdued with no guest to sparkle before. Gonzalo, who sat next to Trumbull, said, "I ought to draw a cartoon of you for our collection since you're your own guest, so to speak." He looked up complacently at the long list of guest - caricatures that lined the wall in rank and file. "We're going to run out of space in a couple of years." "Then don't bother with me," said Trumbull, sourly, "and we can always make space by burning those foolish scrawls." "Scrawls!" Gonzalo seemed to debate within himself briefly concerning the possibility of taking offense. Then he compromised by saying, "You seem to be in a foul mood, Tom." "I seem so because I am. I'm in the situation of the Chaldean propelling pencilswise men facing Nebuchadnezzar." Avalon leaned over from across the table. "Are you talking about the Book of Daniel, Tom?" "That's where it is, isn't it?" Gonzalo said, "Pardon me, but I didn't have my Bible lesson yesterday. What are these wise men?" "Tell him, Jeff," said Trumbull. "Pontificating is your job." Avalon said, "It's not pontificating to tell a simple tale. If you would rather - "

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