“You have surmounted the four stages of duress,” he says. Four? It could as easily have been four hundred. Nothing can benefit me now but the fulfillment of my mission.

  “Very few applicants achieve this level,” Rule continues. “Perhaps only two or three in each category, each year. Since your category is political, you are now qualified to join the governing council of Waterloo—the only alien ever to achieve this distinction. You have proved yourself by your steadfastness, and you have divested yourself of material considerations that might have biased a lesser individual. Thus you now have the potential for true objectivity, and can be a fitting ruler. Are you willing to assume this position?”

  At last it is falling into place! The torture gauntlet is a ladder to prominence, not with respect to competitors but to the society itself. The more the subject can take, the greater his reward. And Rule is correct: of course I can no longer be bribed by any of the physical pleasures. I have no nose for perfume, no taste buds for food, no eyes for beauty, no phallus for sex. Money. What could it buy for me?

  I am indeed objective.

  “You can, however, continue the process into death. This is the one respectable form of self-termination, and it carries no onus for the torturer. This will earn you an honored place in our ancestral hierarchy, though you come from afar. Children will recite your name and deed, men will pray to your memory for courage, women will squirt their milk on your monument—”

  I grunt twice. I am not intrigued by this type of deification. It sounds messy.

  “On the other hand, as a member of the council you will have considerable authority. All your needs will be attended to by un-statused cowards such as myself who will also translate your directives for implementation, and—”

  I grunt, suddenly interested.

  “Oh yes,” Rule says deferentially. “Approval of a treaty with Earth would be your prerogative, so long as the terms do not conflict with the interests of other members.”

  Victory! No wonder Kule was unable to make the treaty. He lacked the authority. He has never undertaken the appropriate torture. Just as the torturers must earn their positions by being hoist by their own petard, so must all other officers in this society. Cowards and weaklings can’t.

  I grunt once, accepting the offer. I have earned it.

  But Kule does not desist. “One other matter now in your province, Councilman. There is another visitor from Earth—”

  Another envoy! I am displeased. The Service should have had more faith in me.

  “A female of your species,” Kule explains. “She says you are to be wedded—”

  Gloria! She has followed me! She must love me very much indeed.

  “Shall I conduct her to your presence?”

  I think about it. I realize that Gloria’s action is foolish. I have no tolerance for foolishness. I am, for the first time in my life, truly objective, and I see things exactly as they are. I have no need of a companion, particularly not a willful one. Power is sufficient for me. I grunt twice.

  “She refuses to leave without seeing you,” Kule says. I am not certain whether this is an immediate reply or a resumption of dialogue at a later time. Time is a difficult and unimportant factor now. “We do not approve of force in such situations. She must be dissuaded voluntarily if you do not wish to meet her. Would you prefer to have us offer her the token treatment?”

  Token torture! An excellent suggestion.

  “And if she still does not agree to leave?”

  I grunt again. Let her experience the enlightenment of total amputation in that case. Should she somehow hold out until she achieves my exalted state, she may be passingly worthy company. Meanwhile, I can’t be bothered.

  In fact, in my supreme objectivity I wonder whether any of the untempered individuals of Earth are worthy of consideration. Why should I authorize a treaty they haven’t earned merely because their haphazardly selected government desires it? I am a Councilman of Waterloo, having at least proved my superiority absolutely. It is beneath me to deal with them. Better to make sure that no treaty is consummated.

  It occurs to me that Earth could have been the planet where the Loos were repulsed by savages centuries ago. Full circle, poetic justice.

  I turn my attention to more important concerns. We Loos are not really expert at torture, I realize. Our program is unimaginative. When the subject knows exactly what to expect, in what order, he can prepare himself for it. The familiar is not sufficiently frightening, it does not undermine the will to resist. There are psychological aspects that could and should be utilized. I must work them out and make appropriate recommendations. And exposure: cold, thirst, hunger, sleeplessness, strong lights (prior to blinding), abrasive and continuous sound. Feed the client quantities of liquor, then tic off his privates. Rub his own excrement into his wounds. And the exotic technique must be properly exploited, such as the Chinese Water Torture, or the Persian Boats. . . .

  Gloria! I shall arrange to have the boat torture demonstrated on her since it doesn’t matter if she dies. How convenient! I’ll convey to her that it is a test of her love for me and see how long she holds out.

  Oh, there is so much to do! I have to educate this planet, now that I have the position and objectivity to do so.

  I have heard it said that power tends to corrupt. I wonder whether, conversely, misery tends to ennoble?

  Yes—yes it does! I can offer no finer example of that truth than myself.

  1982

  To the Death

  The martial artist had laser-zapped Crogs, wrestled Snogs, and sworded Blogs. Now the ultimate challenge: Swami Noname of Dread.

  “Champion, I challenge thee! Rapier, cannon, solar flares?”

  The wizened little ascetic looked up from his lotus position. “Ten paces.”

  “Agreed! Ten paces. But what weapons?”

  “Hunger.”

  Deadline

  The freckled fan stared. “Why would a little green man from Mars pay a pound of gold for one used paperback fantasy novel?”

  The alien glanced nervously at his purple chrono. “It’s the only example of human slushpulp literature genre that will survive your WWIII awkwardness.”

  He saucered offplanet hastily.

  Transmogrification

  Brownie elves invaded the house, intent on mischief. He garbaged the floor. She greased the dishes. Baby pooped carpets. All caked the oven with soot.

  The oven closed, clicked on: disaster.

  After school, the children opened the oven. The intruders were baked, browned, and smelled delicious.

  “Brownies!” the children exclaimed.

  1985

  The Toaster

  Buoyed by my first sale, I kept writing. I submitted a long science fiction poem, “Strange is the Measure,” to four markets and retired it. Then I wrote “The Toaster” and tried it on the leading SF magazine, Analog. That magazine, in its prior guise as Astounding, had been the light of my life in the late 1940’s when I discovered the genre; how nice it would be to have one of my own stories represented on its hallowed pages! Alas, three and a half months later my story came back, rejected. I have always wondered how a magazine that publishes every month can take several months to consider a story; surely the editor should run out of stories at that rate! (The answer, of course, is the slush pile: that towering stack of unsolicited manuscripts from hopeful writers like me that the editor postpones reading as long as humanly possible. Editors don’t take three months to look at my fiction today.) I tried it on Galaxy, and then on Fantastic, and finally on Cosmopolitan. All bounces, so I retired it, as I had run out of markets and postage adds up. Hopeful writers have to pay the postage both ways, you know, if they want to get their stories back. This, then, is a failed story; it has never before appeared in print. Is it worse than “Possible to Rue” ? Only about one in four of my stories ever sold, which is one reason I had to graduate to novels. It was economics, not natural inclination, that forced the move—but once I had done it, I discovered that I liked being a novelist better than being a storyist. Some of my fans today don’t realize that I ever did write stories.

  The announcer bonged respectfully. “Speak your piece,” the cheerful white-haired woman said briskly.

  “Miss Porter to see Miss Porter,” it said.

  The woman frowned, but with a twinkle. “You make about as much sense as a cheese factory on the moon,” she commented. “Now let’s try it again, and this time use names.”

  The announcer paused in confusion, then got its circuits adjusted. “Miss Ophelia Porter is present at the subterranean access and has expressed the desire to pay a personal call on resident Miss Adelaine Porter.”

  “Why that’s fine, just fine.” Miss Porter busily smoothed her old-fashioned apron. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I’m already in, Auntie,” a voice tinkled behind her. “I snuck into the ’vator while you were dickering with the blurt-box.”

  Miss Porter smiled without surprise and turned to face the girl. Ophelia stood in front of the freight receptacle, resplendent in purple pantaloons and a conical hat. Her dark hair was gathered into a single enormous braid, and her eyes were artfully shadowed. “Why do you think I stalled the contraption, dear? What on earth are you wearing?”

  “Playsuit, Auntie. See?” Ophelia pirouetted into the center of the room, the sides of her garment parting to reveal her thighs.

  Miss Porter snorted. “Seems to me you’re still a little young for that sort of play. Nine years old—”

  “Ten, Auntie. And I—”

  The announcer rang urgently. “Miss Porter can not be—” It hesitated. “Miss Ophelia Porter can not be located,” it said with mixed triumph and chagrin.

  “Well, find her, Blurtbox,” Ophelia exclaimed with impish glee. She knew that the announcer was too primitive to discern the difference between voices.

  “It’s a pleasure to serve you, madame,” the machine said dubiously.

  The old woman clapped her hands together sharply. “Don’t call me ‘madam,’ you clamorous contraption. Get back to your business.”

  “Yes, Miss Porter,” it said, cutting off quickly.

  Ophelia had already made herself comfortable in the archaic couch. “When’s it coming, Auntie?” she demanded. “The Toaster, I mean.”

  Miss Porter favored her with a mock frown. “I should have known you didn’t come calling all by yourself out of love for your old maiden great-great aunt.” She settled into a chair herself. “It’s due at ten o’clock. That will be in a quarter of an hour. Why don’t you run out and play for a little while, dear, while you’re waiting?”

  Ophelia looked baffled. “Outside?”

  “Why certainly, dear. When I was a girl a century ago I used to delight in running through the forest paths, feeling the wind take my dress. When I was your age—”

  “But Auntie—what about the radiation?”

  Miss Porter looked up, surprised. “Dear me! I had forgotten about that. I suppose you can’t go out these days.”

  “Why do you still use those old-fashioned toasters, Auntie? Is it because you’re eccentric?”

  Miss Porter raised an eyebrow. “Your father’s been putting strange notions into your head, dear. Toasters and I have an ancient affinity.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I was just ten years old when I used my first toaster—if you could call it that.” She smiled reminiscently. “That was in the year 1930. My mother let me put slices of homemade bread on a clean section of the old wood stove. Sometimes the pieces burned—but oh, my, it was delicious.”

  Ophelia was pleased. “We learned about bread in Cultural History class.”

  Miss Porter didn’t seem to hear. “Of course, when I became a young woman I bought my own toaster. That was in 1940; it was one of those simple side-door affairs. I had to plug it in to start, and unplug to turn it off. When I opened the doors the toast was supposed to slide down and flip itself over, so that I could do the other side without burning my fingers. But it didn’t always work.”

  “How come you didn’t have any children of your own?” Ophelia inquired directly. “Back when you were a luscious young piece?”

  Miss Porter opened her eyes, tolerant of the child’s language; times had changed. “Why you see, dear, I never married—”

  “But you don’t need to be married to have children. Down at the free love clinic—”

  “Some people feel that marriage, has its advantages nevertheless, dear,” Miss Porter said gently. “And a woman must wait until she’s asked.”

  “Daddy says he heard lots of men asked you. He says they were howling after you like hounds after a bitch in he—”

  “Your father’s long overdue for a spanking, I’m sure,” Miss Porter said severely.

  “Oh, they don’t spank people anymore, Auntie.”

  “Really?” she inquired with interest. “And what do they do these modem days?”

  “You were telling me about your toasters,” Ophelia said uncomfortably. “What did you get in 1950?”

  Miss Porter leaned back again and let her old eyes close. “I was thirty then, and thrilled by the advances they had made in toasting. Two slots in the top for the bread, and when you pressed down the handle it ticked away for three minutes—or was that the egg timer?—and then up popped the toast.”

  “What’s an egg?” Ophelia asked.

  The old woman sighed. “Ask me that on another day. Today is Toaster Day. In 1960 there were no levers at all—you just dropped in the bread, and the toaster lowered it and popped it back at you in less than a minute. Sometimes I would eat a few berries, too—”

  “Berries?” Ophelia put in, shocked. “You ate them?” Her eyes were big and round.

  “Why of course, dear. High bush blueberries fresh from the wilderness, though of course there wasn’t much of that left even then. And sometimes strawberries—”

  “Oh, Earth berries,” Ophelia said, sighing with relief. “I thought you meant Betelguese Berries.”

  Miss Porter wondered briefly what kind of fruit that could be, but decided not to inquire. Her great-great niece could be disconcertingly graphic. “Let me see—in 1990 my toaster took the bread out of the package by itself, and buttered it hot and served it up on a little plate. I didn’t have to do anything except order the bread and sweep up the crumbs. And in 2000 I didn’t even have to do that.”

  “It’s here!” Ophelia squealed. Miss Porter opened her eyes once more and saw that a machine had materialized in the freight receptacle. It was larger than the old model and looked exceedingly complicated. She was not as enthusiastic about its arrival as Ophelia evidently was; the old one had served her well for ten years, also fixing meals, answering the viz, washing dishes and making the bed. The new one might be more ambitious, and that was not necessarily good.

  “Are you going to show me a toast now, Auntie?” Ophelia exclaimed, dancing in front of the machine.

  “Gracious, dear—do you mean to tell me that your family never fixed toast? We’ll attend to that right away.” She eased herself to her feet and faced the machine. “Toaster: front and center!”

  The machine rolled forward a few inches and hesitated. “Is Mistress addressing me?” it rumbled sonorously.

  “Don’t call me ‘mistress,’ you overstuffed tin can. At least, not in that masculine voice. Yes, I mean you. Come here.”

  The machine moved into the center of the room and cleared its speaker. “I am your new Automated Service Tribune,” it said in a feminine pitch. “I am a utility deluxe robotic housekeeper, model T-Zero. May I be of service?”

  “You certainly may,” Miss Porter said crisply. “I am Miss Adelaine Porter, your new mis—your new owner. I want you to prepare me two pieces of your finest buttered toast, with jelly on the side.”

  “Beg pardon?” Tribune said. “Did the Mistress ask for toads?”

  “I said toast, you box of bolts. Two pieces.”

  Tribune retreated in confusion. “Perhaps if the Mistress would describe what she wants—”

  “I want two slices of bread heated until they char on the outside, with churned bovine extract spread on the upper surface. Does that make it quite clear, hardwarebrain?”

  “Mistress must be aware that no bread has been manufactured for a number of years,” Tribune protested. “And the zoo would hardly allow any of its valuable endangered-species bovines to be molested—”

  Miss Porter tapped her foot menacingly. “I want you to know that I’m a hundred and ten years old and set in my ways and I WILL HAVE MY TOAST. I’m going to give you just one more chance to perform, you—what did you say your name was?”

  The machine drew itself up on its rollers. “I am your Automated Service Tribune. You may call me AST for convenience. Model number T-Zero.”

  “Well, give me some T-zero-A-S-T. T O A S T! Do you understand me, you silly Ast?”

  The machine retreated and clicked to itself. Finally it rumbled to a decision. “If Mistress persists in making an illogical or nonsensical request, it will be necessary to escort her to a clinic for a psychiatric examination.”

  Ophelia came up to her nervously. “It can do it, Auntie,” she warned. “Those T-Zero models have special—”

  Miss Porter patted the girl’s hand. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” she quoted. “I’m consistent, but I’m not foolish. I’ve had experience with willful machines.” She opened her purse and extracted a small object.

  “Auntie—that’s a megawatt disruptor!” Ophelia cried.

  “It certainly is, dear.” She activated it and slapped it against the braincase of the machine.

  “But that will burn out the computer circuits of the AST!”

  “It certainly will, dear.”

  “But then it won’t be able to answer the viz or do your shopping or supervise your entertainment,” Ophelia said. “It won’t be able to do anything.”