ands. I even had to describe the cracking plant and
freeway and gas tanks--I couldn't think of a lie that mightn't get us
into as much trouble as the truth--and the voice said, "Oh, did Grayl
stay there?" and I said, "Yes," and braced myself to do some more
admitting, or some heavy lying, as the inspiration took me.

But the voice continued to skirt around the question of what exactly had
happened to Grayl. I guess they knew well enough we'd bumped him off,
but didn't bring it up because they needed our cooperation--they were
handling us like children or savages, you see.

* * * * *

One pretty amazing point--Atla-Hi apparently knew something about Pop's
fairy-tale fellowship of non-practicing murderers, because when he had
to speak up, while he was getting instructions on preparing the stuff
for the drop, the voice said, "Excuse me, but you sound like one of
those M. A. boys."

Murderers Anonymous, Pop had said some of their boys called their
unorganized organization.

"Yep, I am," Pop admitted uncomfortably.

"Well, a word of advice then, or perhaps I only mean gossip," the screen
said, for once getting on a side track. "Most of our people do not
believe you are serious about it, although you may think that you are.
Our skeptics (which includes all but a very few of us) split quite
evenly between those who think that the M. A. spirit is a terminal
psychotic illusion and those who believe it is an elaborate ruse in
preparation for some concerted attack on cities by Deathlanders."

"Can't say that I blame the either of them," was Pop's only comment. "I
think I'm nuts myself and a murderer forever." Alice glared at him for
that admission, but it seemed to do us no damage. Pop really did seem
out of his depth though during this part of our adventure, more out of
his depth than even Alice and me--I mean, as if he could only really
function in the Deathland with Deathlanders and wanted to get anything
else over quickly.

* * * * *

I think one reason Pop was that way was that he was feeling very
intensely something I was feeling myself: a sort of sadness and
bewilderment that beings as smart as the voice from the screen sounded
should still be fighting wars. Murder, as you must know by now, I can
understand and sympathize with deeply, but war?--no!

Oh, I can understand cultural queers fighting city squares and even get
a kick out of it and whoop 'em