"Don't ask. You'll get hurt."

"I saw Desdemona in there. In the Vurt."

"I guessed that."

"She was in such pain. I couldn't stop pulling out. But I couldn't admit it, not to the Bee."

"You like that man too much, Scribble."

"So do you."

"You're thinking about her again." She meant Desdemona. Bridget's words floating into my mind, like a mist over the pale shape of Desdemona; "Can't you forget her, Scribble?"

"We've got to find her, Brid!"

"We will, Scribble," said Brid's voice. "You want to sleep next to me?"

It wasn't a question. Because she knew the answer anyway. And the mist closing it all up, in drifts of blue, and me falling through it into the land of Bridget, which is called the land of Shadows, the land of sleep.

I woke up early, my arms around the shadowgirl; an innocent gesture, for an innocent night. The ledger was still glowing, throwing a blue shade over our shapes. I turned it off and went into the living room.

The Thing-from-Outer-Space was asleep on the rug, with his mouthful of feathers and a grin on his peaceful face. "How you doing, Big Thing?" I asked.

"Xhasy! Xha xha. Xhasy. Xha!"

Looking for a way home. Something like that, I guess.

"You got anything else from Des, Big Thing?"

"Xhasy. Xhasy. Xha!" No.

I watched him for a while, imagining the dreams he was on, and then walked into the kitchen for breakfast. The house was mine at this hour and I made good use of it, spreading apple jam on toast and watching the day begin.

I ate the sweet stuff at the scarred table, all the time keeping a close watch on the door to Beetle's room. They were making noises again and I couldn't stop my mind wandering, right on in there, seeing all that pleasure being given and taken, all those jars of Boudoir Vaz being used. Protector, lubricator, contraceptive, inflamer; all in the same jar. The noises were getting to me. It brought back Desdemona, her beautiful body all over mine. Her hands and her lips. The dragon tattoo. Her face coming close to mine, the feel of her skin, the shine in her eyes.

But that was just a memory. And memory was not enough. I wanted her back, for real. In my arms.

I looked over at the Thing again.

Something bad was coming into my mind.

I got up out of the chair and walked over to his sleeping form. Boy, that Thing was ugly! I reached down to tickle his stomach. He sighed contentedly, from the depths of Vurt sleep. There was a loose flap of skin, still not yet fully reformed from the battles of Skull Shit. It broke off easily in my fingers. The Thing didn't even stir. I brought the greasy lump up to my lips.

Eating Vurt flesh was the direct route to the theatre. It was a potent cocktail of meat and dreams. Highly dangerous. Highly desirable. The Game Cat had talked about it once, in the magazine. I was looking down at more than a King's ransom of live drugs, street value. We could sell the Thing, and get ourselves right out of here, somewhere good. All except for Desdemona; without the Thing she was lost for ever. But maybe this would lead back to her. Maybe I could take some flesh, just a little bit, see where it lead? The Cat had said that it just took you back to where the Vurt creature came from. I didn't know where the Thing came from. But maybe from there I could find a door through to Desdemona. Maybe. Game Cat had warned against it, saying it was a sucker's trip, that it led to wild, uncontrollable games, mutant theatre.

The Cat had said no. That was good enough for me. And the Beetle would be real mad if he found me going in alone. He would beat me. The Cat and the Beetle said no, and that was good enough for me.

Anyway maybe the Thing came from a yellow feather. They are the highest feathers; you can't jerk out of them, you can only win the game. Or die. I really didn't want to chance that.

I licked at the Vurt flesh, and then took a small bite...

I'm being smothered by flesh. I can't breathe any more. There is no space in the world, only flesh. It has a sweet aroma, as it presses up against my face. I can't do anything, I can't even struggle, the flesh is that powerful. The sweet smell stirs a memory in me. There is no way out now. this is my life; to be slowly smothered by thick sweet-smelling lard! I can't even scream. When I try to, the flesh just comes into my mouth, filling me with its aroma. My world is clogged. I know that smell from somewhere. I am drowning in the flesh. These are my last seconds alive. The sweet stench is overpowering me. I know that smell! I have smelt it all my life. This is my life. No! Before then. I have smelt that stench before now. In some other...

Christ!

I'm getting the Haunting!

The flesh enveloping me. All of my openings filled with the meat. I'm being killed by Vurt flesh. Vurt! I'm in a Vurt. Which one? Let me do a jerkout!

The flesh of the Thing wrapping me in fat I've got no breath left. These are my last seconds...

The Thing! Christ! Hope it's not a Yellow.

Jerkout!

I'm lying across the Thing, right in front of the fire. The Thing has got its tentacles around me, squeezing. I can hardly breathe. Let me tell you; hardly is enough. At least it's stale, unhealthy Stash Rider pad air that I'm breathing. That is enough. That is beautiful. I slide out of the Thing's sleepy embraces, falling onto the pad floor.

The carpet is most welcome, a real haven of bliss.

Above me the ceiling dances with pictures. Desdemona had painted them there; images of dragons and snakes, all writhing around a sharpened blade. That was her mind. And I was part of it.

Let us concentrate on the days to come, all the good things to come. Stash Riders finding English Voodoo, for instance. Riders getting the Thing back to his home planet. Swapping him over, for Desdemona. Riders getting out of this junk palace, getting a good life. Bridget finding a better love than the Beetle. The Beetle finding something, something to cling to. All the things that we had to get done. And the petals falling from the clock.

Just then the telephone rang. It sounded harsh and ill against the murmurings of love, and I could tell it had bad news to give, because that phone had been cut off, unpaid, some six months ago. No way could it be ringing! I jumped up from the floor, and reached it on what seemed like the last ring -

"Scribble!"

The voice.

"Desdemona!"

"Scribble..."

"Is that you, Desdemona?"

"Scribble. Help me."

Oh Jesus, Desdemona...

"Help me, Scribble."

"Where are you?"

"Find me! It hurts. The razor..."

"Where are you, Des?"

"A curious..." Her voice was drifting off, into the Vurt spaces.

"Curious? Curious what? Des?"

No answer. Just the waves of static coming through, wave against wave, yellow on yellow; I could hear the colours!

"Talk to me, Des! For fuck's sake!"

"Find a door... a curious house..."

"What?"

The voice just a whisper. "Find a door..."

"Where? Where to?" I was shouting now.

"Get to me, Scribble... get to me..."

The way through was dying in my hands.

"Des! Talk to me! Talk to me..." Silence.

Oh Desdemona. Sister, oh sister. Where are you going?

I had my ear pressed up hard against the phone, but there was nothing. Nothing there. Just a bad buzz on the line. And the silence in the room.

And the petals falling, falling, from the face of the clock, making a carpet of flowers, where I would lay myself down, forgetting all my troubles.

All my troubles...

GAME CAT

It has been calculated, by the calculators, that one night can hold SIX DREAMS only. There is a colour for each, a feather for each. BLUE is the colour of safe desires, legal dreaming. BLACK is the colour of bootleg Vurt, feathers of tenderness and pain, one sliver beyond the law. PINK is the colour of Pornovurts, doorways to bliss. CREAM is the colour of a used-up feather, one that has been drained of dreams. Only blue, black, and pink feathers go cream. The makers build this property in to the flights, just to make sure you come back for more. You only get one trip per journey. SILVER is the colour of the operators; those who work the feathers -- making them, filming them, doing the remixes, opening doors. They are the toolkit feathers, and the Game Cat has a collection worth dying for. YELLOW is the colour of death, and should be avoided at all costs. They are not for the weak. Yellows have no jerkout facilities. Be careful. Be very, very careful. If you die in a yellow dream, you die in real life. The only way out is to finish the game.