can honestly say that I have never enjoyed a trip to the movies so much. In the movie, Arne Saknussem, world's greatest adven- turer, was the first to explore the secrets of Earth's inner world; he leaves his initials marked in candle soot at different levels, so anyone coming afterward can follow his route. The arrows point out the path he took when the caverns branched off. I stared at the mark. A.S.--Arne Saknussen; A.S.. . . Arlene Sanders. My gut dropped to my boots. Arlene! Arlene was alive? It had to be ... what other explanation was there? She was alive . . . and she was doing just what I was doing: going deeper into the station, hoping to find a radio or another living human, or maybe her old pal, Fly. She was drilling deeper into this hell, hoping to find a way out! There was no doubt in my mind: A.S. meant my bud was still alive ... or at least, she'd been alive up to that point, alive and still herself. She must have survived the firefight that killed her platoon. All thoughts of self-destruction were wiped away in an instant. I felt supercharged. For the first time since stepping foot on this damned space rock, I was happy! I moved forward, military discipline reasserting itself, putting some breaks on the warrior who would still be needed for the killing time. Following the arrow led directly to an exit to a patio. I took it. As always when entering a new locale, I braced for a potential zombie attack or another encounter with the monsters. But now I had a new objective: to find Arlene--and for that, I had to find a new shotgun. Neither waited for me on the patio; something brand new was there instead. This one took the cake, and it was nobody's birthday. Picture a perfectly round sphere floating in the air. No strings attached here. A blue sphere, as pure a blue as a perfect spring day back home, with one extra touch: there was a face on this ball. I didn't have very long to appreciate how butt-ugly the mug was because no sooner had I registered all this in the brain department than the sphere rushed me and smashed into my head before I could even twitch, bursting all over Yours Truly. I figured I'd had it. For a moment I couldn't breathe with that weird glop all over me, running down the length of my body, reaching the floor so I could conve- niently take a header, which I did. My first thought was poison! I could still breathe, though, once my mouth and nose cleared. With the first swallow, I felt something cold and invigorating rush through my body. Taking a deep breath, the air seemed cleaner and tasted better. Suddenly, I felt great. If this turned out to be a strange symptom of the alien poison, I could recommend it. Special Endorsements available from Flynn Taggart's coffin . . . reasonable rates. Sitting up, I expected an attack of dizziness; but it never came. The liquid had mostly evaporated by now or maybe absorbed into my body. With another deep breath--which felt better than ever--I stood up. I hadn't been poisoned--just the opposite, in fact. This crazy floating sphere had been good for me! It was perfectly reasonable to assume that any weird creature coming through one of the Gates would be bad, and worse, deadly to all things human. Discovering that lovely A.S. had been the most pleasant surprise of the day (yeah, I know day and night are pretty tricky concepts when you're stranded on a space rock the size of an average-sized garbage dump); but the second piece of good news was how this blue sphere had just made me feel like a billion dollars. Now that I was feeling like a new man, I was more dedicated than ever to the proposition of finding Arlene and exiting the nuclear plant. Easier said; Arlene's arrow pointed me to the blue sphere--but was that all? Maybe I should follow the arrow down the computer-room corri- dor, I thought, and forget the door leading to the patio. Then again, maybe she didn't even see the hidden door, and I just stumbled through it, misreading her arrow. I returned to the computer room and headed in the direction of Arlene's arrow. After twenty minutes of winding through the maze, I ended up right back at the arrow again! "Well, that was a real brainstorm," I grumbled. I decided to leave a small mark of my own, a simple F, next to her initials whenever I found them. This would prevent my mistaking one mark for the next--and anyone else, Arlene or maybe the "Ron" twins, who came this way again would know he was not alone. I followed her mark again, this time picking a different route; and at last I made eye contact with some company, however unwelcome. One of the familiar brown mon- sters with the painful, white spikes was eating something, its back to me. Up to now I'd been spared seeing them eat. It sat on a table, hunched over, making hard, crunching noises. I caught a glimpse of something red in its jaws as it turned its head to the side; fortunately, it didn't check its six. If I'd found another shotgun by now, I would have blasted the blasphemy from behind . . . but sometimes frustration is the father of fortune, for suddenly I heard a whole bunch of the bastards walking right past me--on the other side of the thin, computer-maze wall. If I had followed my gut instincts and shot the demon- ic son of a bitch, I would have been ambushed. Shaking from a retroactive adrenaline rush, I silently told myself that my objectives were to find Arlene and get the hell out of here, off Phobos, and find a radio somewhere! Then a thought hit me like a ton of slag. Arlene wouldn't bother taking time in this hellhole to scribble her mark unless she had a damned good reason. Not just to point out the sphere--if she knew it was there, she'd have used it herself like a good soldier. The only logical conclusion was that the arrow pointed the way out of the nuclear plant--the way Arlene San- ders had already gone. Like Arne Saknussen, she marked her own trail for all who followed. So why hadn't I found it? Same way Arlene missed the patio door: there had to be another hidden door nearby that I had missed. Third time's the charm. The damned door couldn't have been more than five feet from the one I had found. One good push and it was open, leading to a beautiful piece of straight, well-lit corridor that reached its end with a clean, massive metal door that had printed on it the welcome letters EXIT--obviously a holdover from the plant's mundane days as a hangout for humans. Feeling bold and unstoppable, I walked right up to that door and discovered that it required a computer key card before it would bless the lonely traveler with an open sesame. Great. Now I could be miserable again. 10 Something I'd learned at age fourteen: when your mind is working, don't give it a reason to stop. I'd reasoned it out this far, fitting pieces into place. Why should I be stopped by one minor impediment? When you welcome thoughts, they come. There had been something wrong about the sound of the crunching from the monster that was eating. At first I was certain it was chowing down on the remains of one of my com- rades; but now I realized the sound was all wrong, too high, too sharp. And when I saw the color code on the EXIT door--bright red--I acted on my hunch. I didn't want to run into any more of those monsters, so I took it nice and easy getting back to the one having its Happy Meal; with that troop trooping around some- where, silence was definitely golden. My main concern was that he might be gone. I needn't have worried. Now I know why God invented bayonets. The thing died gurgling without a scream, a roar, or a gunshot to call monsters from the vasty deep. I missed my chance to find out if I had another intellectual demon. Flipping it on its back, I saw something red in its mouth--a clear, red, plastic computer key card on which it had been chewing. Next to it was a pile of plastic cards, mangled beyond repair, small red and blue globs suggest- ing the remains of more key cards. Fortunately, the one I carefully fished out of its mouth was still in one piece. The red card worked; the exit door slid open, revealing an access ladder. I climbed down as quietly as I could . .. but I still hadn't found a new shotgun. The toxin refinery; such a lovely name. The dump was another step down, in more ways than one. At first it seemed as though I'd entered a zone of peace and tranquility. Greeting me was a wide-open space lit by a sun lamp so bright that for a moment I thought I was back on Earth in the middle of a pleasant afternoon. The abundance of weird-looking machinery raised my suspi- cions, however; I could easily imagine monsters and zombies lurking behind equipment of that size. As I began to explore the area, I was grateful for the first sight of a barrel full of the toxic sludge. I'd certainly changed my mind about green slime! Now that I knew the stuff was as explosive as nitro, finding it was like coming across another weapon. I searched frantically for another mark by Arlene. I remembered another afternoon we spent at the rec-hall flicks. We watched one of those mad scientist movies, and the laboratory was stuffed with more switches and levers than humanly possible. The more I checked out the toxin refinery, the more it seemed like that make- believe lab. Not all the switches had to be activated by hand, either. I made that discovery when I walked past a green section of wall, the color of a ripe avocado. The immedi- ate whirring sound had me spinning around and ready for action. But nothing was coming to get me this time. The motion detector I had just activated stimulated my memory. CNET used to show us training videos, and I remembered that Union Aerospace used movable archi- tecture to transport the liquid metals extracted from Phobos ore. I watched the corridor behind me slowly shift out of sight; it sure beat the hell out of coming into a room and finding stone and metal that had grown scales or pulsing veins. No horror faces here! The bad part was that as the physical layout changed, the corridors would realign; the route in was no longer the route out. With so many hidden triggers, I never knew when I was going to shift everything all over again. Stepping on a land mine would be a lot worse; but this situation was still unpredictable enough to be a major pain in the ass. I tried avoiding the sensor eyes, but they were too well hidden. Once a motion detector activated, I couldn't undo it; I had to love it or lump it. When I tossed out the old religious baggage, I thought my superstitions had gone with it. Well, Phobos might not drag me back where the nuns wanted me, but it did reintroduce me to every superstition I ever had as a kid. So the first thought that leapt to mind when something cold brushed my face was Ghosts! Peripheral vision warned me something was definitely there; but when I turned to face it, all I saw was a blur. I was still debating when something big and fast knocked me on my ass. I still couldn't see it, but I figured any ghost that can knock you down is a ghost you can return the favor to. Jesus and Mary, did I miss that shotgun now! The wide blast dispersion was tailor-made for shooting something you can't see. But if the rifle was all I had, the rifle was what I'd use. I was a Marine, damn it--and every Marine is a rifleman first. Scrambling back from where I'd been attacked, I readied my Sig-Cow, aimed at nothing in particular, and waited for the first blurring of vision that meant either I was having a stroke or I'd found a new kind of monster. The wall in front of me went a little watery, like something insubstantial was in front of it. Without staring and losing it, I fired four quick taps. I expected to draw blood; I didn't expect an explosion. The ghost screamed and seemed to collapse; I wasn't sure. Then something hot and heavy pounded me from behind, and I finally tigged what had really happened: more damned fireballers! The first shot had missed me and killed my "ghost." I whirled around, diving sideways; two spikys, two zombies, one big barrel of sludge. Ignoring the monsters, I concentrated fire on the stationary barrel. It took a couple of rounds then exploded spectacularly. I wondered if my "intellectual" demon could spell KA-BOOM? I approached cautiously and examined the remains. At least the aliens' blood was red and the internal organs bore a strong resemblance to human plumbing. Just beyond the primary gore site I noticed another tangle of human arms and legs. Catching my breath, I went closer. It was a relief when I saw the bits and pieces were from zombies; for a moment, I'd been worried. It was Christmas when I saw the riot gun clutched in one severed hand . . . but it was Valentine's day, hearts and flowers, when I spotted the missing rocket launcher! The shotgun was a little fancier than the last riot gun, a more old-fashioned model. It took the same twelve- gauge, but it also had a muzzle device so you could adjust the pattern spread for close work or far. I allowed myself to feel real gratitude for the zombies, who were turning out to be my best pals. If not for them, I wouldn't have a single functional weapon. Even when the aliens deliberately destroyed radios, maps, and anything else decorative or useful, they had to keep their zombies armed. We don't come equipped with claws or armor plate. At least, not we guys. Looking around, I was disappointed there was no one else to shoot. Then, as if receiving a good grade for a job well done, I spotted the glimmer of another A.S. on a distant wall. I ran to look. It was! Arlene had come through again. Once again the arrow showed me where to go, and I wasn't complaining. It seemed like she had an uncanny knack for shadowing the demons until she found the way down. Clipping the rocket launcher to my webbing gave me an odd feeling. I had thought to use it to frag myself; but Arlene and her Magic Markers changed that plan. The rocket launcher was serious firepower. This one looked in good shape, but it didn't have the two pre- loaded rockets that were standard issue. I was going to have to make my one rocket round count. I loaded up then let it dangle. Armed for very big bear, I followed Arlene's arrow through a narrow opening; I could barely squeeze past. The UAC designers evidently did not have big men wearing combat armor in mind when they built the "Manual Vertilift Bypass Route." The doorway led to a spiral escalator down. It was not operating, so I crept down as silently as possible ... not very. The escalator led down to the Command Control level, as I recalled from the map I had seen above. C&C was the nerve center; if there were any working radios in the facility, that's where I expected to find them. Once there, I wondered if it had been worth the trip. The architecture of this place was the most depressing yet, heavy, gray, very much in the style of military garrisons from World War II. I had to wonder why any human would build thick, fortified walls deep inside Phobos--if a human had. Maybe we inherited this, too. Making my way down the longest corridors I had seen yet, I was struck by the grotesque combination of black moments from human history with the inhuman quali- ties of the invader. A heavy whiff of diesel fumes had me coughing so badly I had to stop and catch my breath. Diesel fumes? That couldn't be right. But that's what I had smelled. My footsteps echoed so loudly, they sounded like mortars. I was glad when I reached the first open space, if only because the echoes wouldn't be deafening. The kind of stone forming the floor changed, and the higher ceiling gave the sound somewhere to go. I was at the edge of a huge room, shrouded in darkness except for a couple of shafts of bright light shining through glass skylights. I don't know whether there were spots behind the glass or whether I was seeing actual daylight; but the squares of brilliance lit up two spots as bright as freeway construction sites. One of the two bright-lit squares contained a table; on top of the table was an AB-10 machine pistol. God, did I want that pistol! I could almost taste it. I stared from the doorway, trying to estimate the odds that the pistol was bait for a trap; I kept getting an unacceptably high probability. Turning in the opposite direction, I crept along the wall, rolling each step, just as they'd taught us in SERE School and SurvInfil. Every few steps I stopped abruptly, listening for someone shadowing my footsteps. I tracked the wall to the left, followed it for a right turn, and finally approached a hulking machine of some sort that almost touched the wall, leaving a slight gap. I slid through the gap as silently as I could and poked my head out. What I saw made me smile grimly. Behind a pile of boxes, ten feet past the machine pistol, were no fewer than a dozen of those brown spinys who would never make Smokey the Bear's Christmas list. They were hiding behind the boxes, staring greedily at the well-lit gun and waiting for someone stupid enough to march up and try to grab it. Allow me to introduce myself, . . I let my new shotgun dangle, shouldering the mini- rocket-launcher instead. I only had one round, and I had never fired one of those things before; my first shot would have to be a damned good one. I closed my eyes and visualized the UAC sales video: raise range finder; grab plastic propellant tag and pull-- which mixes the volatiles and incidentally engages the primer firing pin; thumb-off safety; aim and squeeze trigger. Pulling the trigger halfway produced a tiny, red laser dot; I lovingly moved it across to sit directly on the rump of the biggest demon. One of the other demons noticed the spot and reached out to touch it. I squeezed the trigger the rest of the way. The rocket exploded with a bang so loud, I thought I would be permanently deaf. While my ears still rang, I dropped the rocket-launcher and retrieved my scattergun. I humped toward the remains of the ambush crew; there were a few survivors, crawling along the ground looking for their legs and arms. I put them out of my misery. I counted thirteen heads and fourteen left arms, so I must have slipped a digit somewhere. Shotgun in hand, I slowly approached the AB-10, alert for a second line of attack. I was still seven meters away when I heard the sound, and it was a bad one; the worst one yet ... a low, piglike growl, a snuffling sound turning into a wet, animalistic grunt. I froze, the image of a giant boar filling my mind. Slowly, I backed away from the AB-10. I did not want to meet whatever made that noise. 11 Damn! I thought, furious that even after ex- pending my only rocket, I couldn't get the machine pistol; I was right back where I started, except one rocket lighter. I had squandered my gift! I felt like the guy who found a lamp that would grant one wish, and he says, "Jeez, I wish I knew what to wish for." I moved on, warier than before. The simplicity of the layout and the big blocks of stone made secret doors less likely here, although I would pause occasionally and try pushing against anything that looked remotely promis- ing. The fact that the alien monsters had set a trap worried me; as I went deeper into the base, it seemed like they were getting smarter. I was becoming concerned that I hadn't found any more messages from Arlene. Was I still following her trail, or did I take a wrong turn? Through a doorway arch, I found another room with a light blue motif. The UAC logo was repeated regularly, over and over, in the floor; evidently, I was back in original, human architecture. The room contained a number of kiosks, four that I could see. As I neared the center kiosk I must have triggered another of those motion detector switches. All the doors began to rise as one. A filth of aliens tumbled out, and this time I had no rocket and no convenient barrels of toxin. I fired a quick shell, dropping one; then the rest fell on me like ravenous in-laws. I dropped the shotgun to the ground and barely managed to swing my semi-auto Sig-Cow up to take the shock as the first alien hit me. The damned thing impaled itself on my bayonet--but it was too stupid to die! It clawed forward, stopped only by the bayonet hilt, and grabbed my padded shoulders with death-grip talons, dragging me back against the wall. Saved my hide, it did. The alien's broad back shielded me as its brethren flung their fiery, mucus wads; the fireballs burst, spraying flaming, red liquid that dribbled down my dance partner's legs to pool on the ground, lighting the room with a hellish, red glaze. I fired nine or ten times, finally blowing a hole clean through the alien ... a gory loophole through which I turned on the rest. I guess they refused to believe that the firewads weren't frying me; they stubbornly kept throwing them, ignoring the burning pool around the feet of the first, dead monster. I got lucky; two of the aliens jostled, then turned on each other, fang and claw. The weakened survivor fell to a single shot from my Sig-Cow . . . abruptly, I realized I was alone with two hundred kilos of alien brochette on my bayonet. What a life! Evidently, I had not met all my playmates yet. I decided I liked it that way. The room had a central kiosk, which I entered. There was a blue security card in there. I grabbed it on the chance I'd find a use for it. Then it was back to the search for signs of Arlene. Edging up a shallow set of steps, I finally found Arlene's next A.S. and arrow. Grinning, I followed her trail through a room stuffed with computers. Most of these centers had the same basic floor plan; but I was absolutely, one hundred percent unprepared to encoun- ter a freaking swastika! Some sick joker had arranged eight Cray 9000s to form the "crooked cross" that a certain Austrian corporal had appropriated in the mid- dle of last century. Maybe it was a coincidence, but I doubt it. This was all getting a little too weird for me. The River Styx, zombies, demons, flaming skulls . . . what kind of intelligence was behind this? Whatever it meant, I de- cided not to think about it. I could easily have gone through the computer room without noticing, but an undamaged map to the section made it impossible to ignore the swastika floor plan. My adventure with the kiosk had been dead center in the largest circle. Above it and slightly to the left was the swastika of the computer room. Walking through, one might figure it out. At certain angles one couldn't help but recognize that the bloodred design of the floor had a certain association. The map was like a slap in the face. It barely bothered me when I triggered another of those damned motion detectors. They were becoming routine by now. Of course, there was always some element of surprise. In this case, the swastika-crays lowered into the floor, real slow with a grinding sound like the bones of a million dead being rendered to powder, and I expected to see soul-shattering horror. Instead, I won another jackpot. I'd just found two boxes of rockets, five to a box. And I found a yellow security card with a note that if I were trying to find the card where it was supposed to be, north of the "maze" at the northwest corner of the installation (maze? talk about feeling like a trapped rat), well, I wouldn't find it there because it was here instead. Safe and sound with the rockets. The note was signed A.S.! Man, I was going to have a lot of questions for that girl when I found her. It was hard enough staying alive without going to a lot of trouble for a hypothetical fellow soldier, who on a wild off-chance might still be breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. She had performed incredible feats here. As Arlene found sup- plies along the way--everything from weapons and ammo to these ugly key cards--she took only what she could carry and stowed the rest where a thinking man might find it. Anyway, the least I could do under the circumstances was load the battery-sized rockets into my pack (aside from the two I loaded into the launcher), pocket the yellow card next to the blue one, and blow this horror show. I ran into one minor obstacle along the way. I should say I avoided it; I was just about to barge through a flimsy, narrow door, en route to the exit from Command Control, following Arlene's latest arrow, when I heard the horrible pig sound to which I'd taken an instant hatred. This time it was accompanied by heavy footfalls suggesting tons of flesh waddling ponderously in the artificial gravity of the base. These pig noises were sloppier, wetter, deeper than before. Part of me wanted to kick in that door and face the creature; part of me had had enough. I had rockets; from the sound, this pig thing was made of flesh and blood-- plenty of both to spare. The rational part of me said I'd probably find out sooner rather than later whether I could kill this new monster or not. Why race it to the grave? While I was having this debate with myself, the pig thing thumped-thumped on past the door. I waited a few more breathless minutes, then opened the door a crack and listened. Nothing. But the instant my book crossed the threshold, I heard a warning grunt from my right, down the black-dark hallway, followed by a heavy, meaty tread accelerating toward me like a main battle tank. I could barely make out a bulky shape shambling out of the night to starboard; but directly in front of my nose was a heavy, armored door, a pressure hatch, rimmed with blue lights. I bolted across the corridor, jamming my hand in my pocket and fishing out both key cards. The first one I tried turned out to be yellow. The door buzzed angrily, and I began to smell the rotten stench of corruption that comes from animals that chow-down on decayed carrion. Swallowing panic, I yanked out the yellow and in- serted the blue. The door chimed and ponderously rolled up; I darted through, unslung my scattergun, and waited, shaking, for the Thing Without a Name. The heavy security door rolled shut, mocking me with its lethargy. Fortune loved me this time; slow as the door was, the nightmare was just that much slower. The door shut, and the frustrated pig-thing beat on the heavy metal and howled its rage and hunger. And still I hadn't seen even one of the things in the light. Knees weak, I followed a trail of three marks and three arrows to the next door--which wanted the yellow card, surprisingly enough. This door led to a lift that wasn't working, naturally; but the open shaft had guide cables along the sides, and that was good enough for the human Fly. I slid down almost fifty meters before finding another open lift door. I swung through the hatch and saw the level-schematic on the wall; Welcome to Phobos Laboratories. Five minutes in the Phobos lab convinced me that Command Control hadn't been all that bad. It didn't escape me that every time I went to a new center, it was a level farther down than the previous one. Living condi- tions were not improving, not by a long shot. However, none of that really mattered. If Arlene had come this way, then so would I. I had to find her; I had to find any other human survivors. All of this made a lot of sense to me intellectually. Emotionally, I was willing to jettison honor, duty, and loyalty and run like a thief as I contemplated my first real swim in the toxic goo. Semper fi, Mac. I'd talked myself into wading through the toxin way up above, and the protective boots that were part of the armor sizzled like bacon on the griddle. But the material was plenty thick, and the corrosive liquid hadn't reached my tender flesh yet. And like last time, there was no way around the horrible stuff. Got to be some way to avoid full body immersion, I thought. But without a heavy-duty flashlight that I didn't have and wouldn't dare show if I did, damned if I could find it. Arlene's arrow pointed across the pool. Grudgingly, I had to admit there was no way to proceed without a little swim. I was damned glad for the edge that blue face-sphere had given me when it exploded all over me, making me feel healthier than I have in years. If ever I needed that edge, it was now. I took a deep breath. Then I took a few more. Man, I did not want to do this! But it was the only way to get past a wall that blocked me from going any farther along the trail Arlene blazed; I had to go under the damned thing. Thinking of how much I hated monsters from beyond the stars, I splashed down. Only one advantage over before: this time, I was prepared for the freezing pain, so it wasn't quite as unexpectedly horrible. Just a throbbing ache that sapped my strength, leaving me enervated and gasping for breath. One way or the other, the swim wasn't going to last very long. The toxin glowed with an eerie, green phosphorescence, and the light helped a little. It showed me a metallic object that I would have missed otherwise. I snagged it in passing, a small, hand-sized television thing, showing a ghostly schematic. If I struggled, I could pretend the liquid was nothing but an algae-infested swimming hole I'd haunted as a kid. Yes, I wanted to think about water instead of the thick, toxic crap I was in right now. The wall did not extend all the way to the bottom of the pool. I pinched my nose, squeezed my eyelids tight, and ducked underneath. I was starting to tremble in the icy liquid; I felt sick, like a monster flu. Then I surfaced as fast as the law of buoyancy allows, grabbing the opposite catwalk, and the swim was over. Air never tasted better, even the stinking stuff in this place. Two or three breaths later, I put the breathing filter back in place. Too bad I hadn't had a full environment suit with its own oxygen supply, but I'd already regretted that absence before and nothing came of it. A Marine couldn't have everything. For example, I couldn't keep the blue glow forever. I had taken it for granted until I realized what this swim could mean. Now I felt sapped and drained. I was all set to curse my lousy luck until I realized something very important: without that earlier boost to my system, this dunk in the sludge would have killed me. So what about Arlene? Could she have come this way? Could I have passed her body in the green murk? Had to think this through--there was no arrow immediately beyond the toxin; maybe she found a better route. She might have a decent flashlight or light-amp goggles so she could see. Or she might have had a full environment suit. Or what the hell, maybe she had a touch of the blue medicine show. There were all kinds of ways she could have survived. But maybe she didn't. I refused to think about it. It was time to move on. 12 I was back to trusting the old Fly instincts again. There were plenty of more unreliable things, such as any decision by Lieutenant Weems. Hadn't thought of Weems for a while. My lip curled; Weems was probably the first zombie; reworking him would take the least amount of effort. I felt something in my hand. I stared--the thing I'd fished out of the sludge! I held it up close, staring in confusion. Then it clicked--it was a map, a video schematic of the labs. Jesus and Mary ... I guess even the greenest cloud can have a silver-screen lining. I decided to follow the same road map I'd been on for several levels now: down, down, down ... no reason to stop. I might as well see what was at the very bottom level--which, according to the map I'd seen in the nuclear plant, was the main computer station, two floors down. But in the absence of Arlene marks, I'd have to plan the route myself. . . just as soon as I could make tops and bottoms out of my new toy. I suddenly felt a wave of weakness and fever; I hoped I hadn't already given myself a death sentence from the toxin. Phobos Lab was dark. Phobos Lab stank like an open sewer. But if there was anything left of the original installation here, then medical supplies had to be near at hand, if they hadn't been left in the typical condition of guns and radio sets. I picked that as my first priority; I needed an all-purpose antitoxin and a stimulant. Leaning against a wall for support, I found a weapons locker the hard way: I leaned against it and the door collapsed inward. Guns! I pawed through my treasure trove, scooping up as much ammo as I could shovel into my pack. Then I stared in reverence; beneath the shells and bullets rested a state-of-the-art, AB-10 machine pistol. The question was, did it still work after scores of zombies and spinys had monkeyed with it? I checked it out, cleaned the barrel, then reloaded it. I almost pulled the trigger to do the only test that really counts, but stuck to my original policy of not making any more noise than was absolutely required. I cleaned the machine pistol as thoroughly as I could before adding it to my arsenal. There was little doubt of this lethal package receiving a test real soon, with a real target, and hopefully with a margin of error to try something else if it failed. The best choice might be to have the pistol in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Nothing wrong with insurance, even if it made me feel a bit like a Wild West gunfighter. As I stood, shifting the backpack to be more comfort- able and finding a place for all the weapons, a sudden attack of dizziness hit me like a grenade. Medical atten- tion had just become my number-one priority again. I studied my hand map, working the buttons to make the pretty picture slide up and down. First task was to find me--no helpful "You Are Here" on this puppy. At last I found the wall crossing a trench ... no sign of toxic sludge on the map, of course. I must have been living right, because the nearest infirmary--marked with a red cross--was located just a quarter klick away, spitting distance. I found it, and there wasn't a single monster doctor or devil nurse. Here I'd been expecting a typical medical establishment and was pleasantly surprised. And there were lights, the first fully operational light I'd found in the complex. If the lights had survived, maybe the doctoring stuff was still here and intact. I resisted the impulse to cross my fingers as I unlatched and opened the first promising cabinet. Mother lode . . . thanks, Mom. I removed a Medikit with the seal still unbroken and popped her open. Inside were bandages, antitoxin compounds, even ointment for burns. (My face still felt as hot as if I had a sunburn, for which I could thank a fireball instead of a weekend at the beach.) I found a clean room, a metal table next to a mirror, all kinds of light, even a shower cubicle. It was time for Dr. Taggart to make a house call. I didn't do too badly, really. First off, I locked the doors, turned out all the lights except the one in the room with the table and the shower, placed the shotgun right up against the stall, where I could grab it in a second, and, facing the closed office door the entire time and leaving the shower door ajar, I took the risk of bathing. Sick as I'd been feeling since immersing myself in the ooze, the mere act of washing it all away made me feel considerably better. I turned the nozzle for Hot up as high as I could stand it and felt the cuts and bruises sting, then feel better. My burned face didn't get anything out of the shower but pain, but the rest of my body was doing too well for me to care. If the shower was heaven, then the fresh towel was a piece of Eden. Here I had struck a mortal blow against the shores of hell. The rest was pretty simple. I put antibiotic and bandages on the worst of my wounds and cuts, taped my bruised ribs (didn't even remember where I got them), and took my time smearing the cold, soothing ointment on the burns. The only moment when Doc Taggart almost failed his patient was when he--when I--noticed thirty or forty hypodermics, all neatly labeled GENERAL STIMULANT. I don't like needles. Never have. But there was good reason to pick up one of those needles and give myself a shot. Just as good a reason to pack some in shock-proof carriers and take them along. I could run into Arlene, and she might need a lift. I might run into some other survivor. And if I were going to do all that, the only reasonable thing was for me to give myself an injection first. You don't need to do that, said the little voice in my head. Just find another blue-faced sphere. I argued with the voice: "It might be a once in a lifetime fluke. I can't count on that happening again." That's when I noticed that I was talking to myself. Sheeesh, all this just to avoid sticking myself with a needle! No more. I bravely wielded the needle, got out the alcohol and cotton swab. This couldn't be any worse than what I'd been going through lately. Well, not by much anyway. I wolfed some food from the small refrigerator, then hunted for a flashlight. Alas, all I found was one of those pencil-beam lights; if I wanted to find out if a zombie had a sore throat, or any throat at all, I was set. According to my map, I had to go north to find some sort of route down. At least my compass was still functioning. I hated to leave, but the infirmary had done its job. I was tired, not exhausted, hungry, not starving, and not shaking like I had amebic dysentery. The only problem, aside from demons, two-legged pigs, and mur- derous corpses, was that I had lost Arlene's trail; if she were hurt, laying up somewhere, I might accidentally leave her behind on an upper level. The point was that I could concentrate again. The last thing I did before stepping out again into the dark was check the boots. They'd held up better than I thought, but I stuffed some pillowcases in for added insulation. Outside, it was just as dark as before, but I wasn't as bothered this time; the human race may not have blue spheres, but we do all right. I stayed in that frame of mind as I went north. I scuttled along the corridors, letting my shotgun peek around corners first, until I reached a huge chamber. It was dark, but not the pitch-black I had just come from. At least I could tell I had entered a larger area. The next moment I was under attack. Claws raked across the shoulder plates of the battle armor I had just reinforced. When I tried to fend off the enemy, I half expected to feel the crocodile-type hide of the spiked monsters; but instead, my hands sank into a pulpy mass. And the contact made my flesh crawl even through my thick gloves. The light was on, and I should have been able to see the scum, but I was getting nothing. Then as I pushed against the jellylike stuff and took a few faltering steps back, I saw a familiar shimmering. The same thing I'd seen when I thought I was fighting a ghost. That time, the issue was resolved by a miracle fireball; this time, I was on my own. Didn't this goddamned, jelly-shimmering, half-assed, invisible son of a bitch know the rules? Ghosts can't hurt people--they can only scare them to death! Then the Caspar pounded me, knocking me back on my butt and