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Updated: June 21, 2025
"I just don't keep up with progress," Gusterson said, shaking his head bleakly. "I'm falling behind on all fronts." "You ought to have your tickler remind you to read Science Service releases," Fay told him. "Or simply instruct it to scan the releases and no, that's still in research." He looked at Gusterson's shoulder and his eyes widened.
"You have to learn to accept those things." "I love accepting money and I'm glad any time for three feet," Daisy called agreeably. "Six feet might make me wonder if I weren't an insect, but getting a yard just makes me feel like a gangster's moll." "Want to come out and gloat over the yard paper, Toots, and stuff it in your diamond-embroidered net stocking top?" Gusterson called back.
Two more strange men, one of them in purple lounging pajamas, the other in the gray uniform of a slidewalk inspector, had grabbed Fay's skinny upper arms, one on either side, and were lifting him to his feet, while Fay was struggling with such desperate futility and gibbering so pitifully that Gusterson momentarily had second thoughts about the moral imperative to go berserk when menaced by hostile force.
"Daisy, that's terrific," Fay applauded, going up to her. She bumped him aside with a swing of her hips, continuing to advance. "Not you, Ratty," she said throatily. "I vant a real man." "Fay, I suggested Vina Vidarsson's face for the beauty mask," Gusterson said, walking around his wife and shaking a finger. "Don't tell me Trix just happened to think of that too."
Seating the tickler on Fay's shoulder took a little time, because two blunt spikes in its bottom had to be fitted into the valved holes in the flush-skin plastic disk. When at last they plunged home Gusterson felt very sick indeed and then even more so, as the tickler itself poked a tiny pellet on a fine wire into Fay's ear. The next moment Fay had straightened up and motioned his handlers aside.
He reminded himself wryly that nobody ever wants to hear an author talk he's much too good a listener to be wasted that way. Let's see, was it that everybody in the crowd had the same facial expression...? Or showed symptoms of the same disease...? "I was coming to visit you, but now you can pay me a call," Fay was saying. "There are two matters I want to " Gusterson stiffened.
They do not scan situations and consequences and then make decisions." "I don't expect bugs to make decisions," Gusterson said. "For that matter I don't like people who go around alla time making decisions." "Well, you can take it from me, Gussy, that this tickler is just a miniaturized wire recorder and clock ... and a tickler. It doesn't do anything else."
Then Gusterson's big arms were around him and he was carrying him to the couch. Daisy came running from the kitchen with a damp cool towel. Gusterson took it from her and began to mop Fay off. He sucked in his own breath as he saw that Fay's right ear was raw and torn. He whispered to Daisy, "Look at where the thing savaged him." The blood on Fay's shoulder came from his ear.
But again the gun dug into him with a twist. Approaching Fay face-on was the third Micro-man Gusterson had met yesterday Hazen. It was Hazen who was carrying quite reverently or solemnly or at any rate very carefully the object that seemed to Gusterson to be the mind of the little storm troop presently desecrating the sanctity of his own individual home.
Something had gone wrong with the building's old transformer and, pending repairs, the two remaining occupied apartments were making do with batteries, which turned bright globes to mysterious amber candles and made Gusterson's ancient typewriter operate sluggishly. Fay's manner was subdued or at least closely controlled and for a moment Gusterson thought he'd shed his tickler.
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