50 in 50

"Yes, I'm here," her voice called out. "Please come in." Bron pushed the door wide and stepped through, and a crashing pain struck him across the side of the head, the agony of it for an instant lighting the darkness of his nerves. He tried to say something, but could not speak, though he did manage to raise his arm. Another blow struck his forearm, numbing it so that it dropped away; and the third blow, across the back of his neck, sent him plunging down into a deeper darkness.

"What happened?" the wavering pink blob asked, and with much blinking Bron managed to focus on it and recognized Governor Hay-din's worried face.

"You tell me.” Bron said hoarsely. He became aware of the pain in his head, and he almost passed out again. Something damp and cool snuffled against his neck, and he worked his hand up to twist Jasmine's ear.

"I thought I told you to get that pig out of here," someone said.

"Leave her be," Bron managed to say, "and tell me what happened." He turned his head, with infinite caution, and saw that he was lying on the couch in the Governor's office. A medical-looking gentleman with a stern face and dangling stethoscope was standing by. There were a number of other people at the doorway.

"We just found you here," the Governor said. "That's all we know. I was working in my office when I heard this screaming, like a girl in terrible pain — something awful. Some of these other men heard it outside in the street, and we all came running. Found you lying in the rear hall — out cold with your head laid open, and this pig standing next to you doing all the screaming. I never knew an animal could sound like that. It wouldn't let anyone near you — kept charging and chomping its teeth in a very threatening manner. Quieted down a bit by the time the doctor came and finally let him get over to you."

Bron thought quickly — or at least as quickly as he could with a power saw trying to take off the back of his head.

"Then you know as much about it as I do," he said. "I came here to see about filing my homesteadin' papers. The front was locked, and I thought maybe I could get in by the back, if anyone was still here. I walked through the back door and somethin' hit me and the next thing I know I was waking up here. Guess I can thank Jasmine here for that. She must have followed me and seen me hit. Must have started squealing, like you heard, and probably chewing on the ankle of whoever hit me. Pigs have very good teeth. Must have frightened him off, whoever it was." He groaned; it was easy to do. "Can you give me something for my head, Doctor?" he asked.

"There is a possibility of concussion," the doctor said.

"I'll take my chances on that, Doc, — better a little concussion than my head splittin' into two halves this way."

By the time the doctor had finished and the crowd dispersed, the pain in his head had subsided to a throbbing ache, and Bron was fingering the bruise on his arm, which he had just become aware of. He waited until the Governor had closed and locked the door before he spoke.

"I didn't tell you the whole stoly," he said.

"I didn't think you had. Now what is this all about?"

"I was struck by a party or parties unknown — that much was all true. If Jasmine had not woken up and found me missing and gotten all neurotically insecure, I would probably be dead at this moment. It was a trap, neatly set up, and I walked right into it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Lea Davies is involved in this. She called me, arranged to meet me here, and was waiting here when I arrived."

"Are you trying to say. .?"

"I've said it. Now get the girl in here so we can hear her side of it."

When the Governor went to the phone, Bron swung his legs slowly to the floor and wondered what it would feel like to stand up. It was not nice. He held on to the back of the couch while the room spun in slow circles and the floor heaved like a ship at sea. Jasmine leaned against his leg and moaned in sympathy. After a while, when the moving furniture and rotating building had slowed to a stop, he tried walking and stumbled over to the kitchen.

"May I help you, sir?" the kitchen said when he entered. "Perhaps a little midnight snack is in order?"

"Coffee, just black coffee — lots of it."

"Coming at once, sir. But dieticians do say that coffee can be irritating to an empty stomach. Perhaps a lightly toasted sandwich, or a grilled cutlet—"

"Quiet!" His head was beginning to throb again. "I do not like ultramodern robot kitchens with a lot of smart backtalk. I like old-fashioned kitchens that flash a light that says ready — and that is all they can say."

"Your coffee, sir," the kitchen said, in what was surely a hurt tone. A door snapped open above the counter and a steaming jug emerged. Bron looked around. "And what about a cup — or should I drink it out of the palm of my hand?"