Every guy I meet tells me he hates my shoes. The women don’t say anything about it, but they do look me up and down, frown, and pick up their pace, presumably to get away, clicking on three-inch heels.

One guy shouts, “Where do you work, man? Do they let you wear shoes like that?” He disappears.

No one has commented on the rest of the wardrobe, yet. Anyway, that’s the least of my troubles. I have no idea where I am. Well, I know I’m in a huge office complex, but I don’t know why I’m here or how to get out. I haven’t seen any doors leading outside and the elevators go only to certain floors. I’m trying not to panic.

As I scuff along, dodging people in the crowd, I drift from the offices of one large company to another. The firms are much the same except they’re branded differently, of course, and they’ve given different but similar names to operations that perform much the same functions.

Finally, a guy in a slick, nicely tailored suit stops me, puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you looking for a position? We might need someone like you, and we could reduce our recruiting expense and even mitigate our risk if we hired you on the spot rather than posting the job and interviewing a bunch of unqualified yahoos. Sound good?”

“What type of position did you have in mind, sir?”

“We need someone to bring in business, to build up our revenue, in short, to make it rain. Know what I mean?

“I know what you mean, but what’s your offer?”

“You’ll work straight commission; we find that’s the best motivational approach.”

“But I’m still lost in this place; I don’t know how to get out.”

“That’s to be expected. You’ll need a week or two to get your sea legs under you. So look, we’ll give you a handsomely appointed office, a high-end phone, a leading-edge computer, and six months to make some progress. That should do it. If after that time you’ve done nothing for us or vice versa, we can sever our ties with no hard feelings. And oh, you’ll need a new pair of shoes—but that’ll be on your dime. Okay?”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“Greatstuff Unlimited. Undoubtedly you’ve heard of us.”

“Well, maybe. Where’s my office?”

“Back over that way. You can’t miss it.” He fails to point.

Then the guy disappears into the crowd. I begin looking around for signs for Greatstuff but see nothing. Then I walk up to a guard, assuming he’ll be able to direct me.

“No sir. I’m not familiar with that organization.”

“Well, can you tell me how to get out of here?”

“I’d suggest you leave the way you came in.”

“But I don’t know how I got here.”

​“Then you do have a problem, don’t you? Besides those shoes, I mean.”

Yessir, boys, I know I done wrong. I know you worked your butts off branding them cattle and trying to drive them all the way up from Texas in bad weather and Indians, and all that. It was right ornery of me to round up that bunch like I did, and try to sell them out from under you fellows for a few quick bucks. It just seemed like a pretty good idea at the time, me being out of a job and all.

Oh, man oh boy, that old rope is sure rough on the neck. I appreciate you trying to be gentle as you can. I reckon most of you boys ain't never seen a man hung, have you? It's not the prettiest sight in the world. It's gonna make you sick, you can bet, and you're gonna toss your breakfast when it starts. But you got to do what you got to do, I allow.

Sun's getting high, and that prairie wind is blowing about as hot as that old pot-bellied stove in my Uncle Sweeney's general store back home. I'd sure like a big shot of liquor and an even bigger one of water to kind of help me on my way. I'm Eternity bound, you know. Oh, thanks, son. That's good, strong stuff, but the water's a little warm for my taste. Guess beggars can't be chooser's, huh?

I tell you what. I know I'm going Up There 'cause I was saved way back yonder in my youth. And I'm a forgiving man, so soon as I walk through them Pearly Gates, I'm gonna ask that you all be forgiven, even though I guess I gave you reason enough to do it. Anyways, I don't hold no grudge. You got your cattle back, and I'm the one that's gonna pay the whopping big price.

Have I finished my piece, you ask. Guess so. Can't think of nothing else right now. Except that the sun's just about at high noon and I see you're getting ready to give my horse a smack on the rump so he'll run off and leave me dangling.

​Well, I seen many a man die at the end of a rope and I always wondered what that might be like if ever I-- 

Dave Danials went to answer the doorbell. He was startled to see his brother standing on the front porch. He showed his sixth finger momentarily in greeting, and so did his brother.

"Got some time off, and I thought I'd spend half of our savings on an intergalactic ticket to see you guys. Hey, it's only money, and I can always make more of that. Man, I'm tired after that jaunt of 265.7 light years, Earth's reckoning."

"Damn, it's good to see you!" said Dave, hugging his brother. "Come on in the house."

The two brothers walked into the living room, and Dave called out: "Come here, Hon. We've got company!"

Dave's wife Martha came into the room, did a double-take when she saw who was there. Then she flashed her sixth finger in greeting. "Good Lord, Nyy'Lyyn, it's so good to see you," she said, using her husband's brother's real name. "And how is my sister Ssl'Znyy?"

"Hey, she's great, Martha. She's on Special Assignment to another Galaxy; but soon as possible we're gonna use the other half of our savings to send her for a visit here to Earth. She really misses you."

Then Dave's brother pulled a couple of globes from his pocket and handed one to his brother and sister-in-law. "The latest SensiPods. All the scenes and sights of home that fits nicely in your pocket"--or so the visi-ads would have it!"

Dave and Martha held the globes and tears came to their eyes. "Only two hundred more Earth years of Observation Duty," Dave said, "then we'll be able to return home for good."

​"Hey, man, cheer up," said Dave's brother. "The price of intergalactic round-trip tickets has gone down pretty drastically--so start saving your money and you'll be able to pay us a visit back home in no time!"

I saw the dog lying on the sidewalk near an ally entrance and stopped to speak to it.

​"Hi, doggie. How's it going today?"

I started to move on when the dog jumped up, wagged its tail and said, in perfectly plain English: "Hello, sir. I'm just weak and couldn't respond right away. Could you please give me a bone, or something else to eat. I'm awfully hungry."

"Sorry, little fellow but I'm running late this morning."

The dog gave me a sad look and laid back down, looking away.

Several passers-by had by this time stopped. One asked me, "Hey, guy is that your dog you're talking to?"

"No," I said, "but look, he can talk. I'll show you." And I called out to the dog, snapped my fingers, whistled, did a little dance to get his attention. His eyes remained closed and he remained silent.

"Talking dog, huh?" said someone else, with a sarcastic laugh. The entire crowd moved on.

"That wasn't a nice thing to do," I said, wagging my finger at the dog. The little fellow jumped up again, shook himself, and said, "I didn't talk for the other people because you wouldn't give me anything to eat. That wasn't very nice of you."

"Tell you what," I said, reaching down to pat him on the head. "You come along with me, wait in my office till my work is done, and I'll give you all the food that you can eat. I might even think about adopting you, if you don't already belong to someone else."

"Deal!" said the dog. "And no, I don't belong to anyone--except you, now."

So Crouchgumm swung the Hardbough Sapper and smacked the Glubrock over the heads of the other team in Open Field. He galloped Downline to Spot Rock, then whizzed on to Mid-Stone. Nothing to stop him, so he scampered on to Third Log and sat down to rest for a minute before making a sweaty mad rush for the Hitting Box, where he picked up his Hardbough and snapped it over his left leg, signifying his winning Line Run.

"You're OUT!" hollowed the Senior Field Warden.

"Wha--?" said Crouchgumm.

"You failed to bump foreheads with the Third Log Squatter--an' you're OUT!"

Suddenly Crouchgumm, the team's Master Downline Smacker, realized he really hadn't touched forehead when he should have. He didn't even get a chance to call for a Mercy Time Out before the Extreme Penalty Squad shot him full of holes with their arrows.

​The game went on without skipping a beat.

Lance Marbly pumped another shell into the chamber. So far, his canvass bag was empty and it was getting late. He walked on looking for something--anything to shoot and carry home to show Pop he was a good shot.

Several minutes later, Lance stopped underneath an old elm tree. He felt funny, as though someone or something was watching him. He began looking all around himself. Finally, he looked up--and saw a young cub bear lying stretched out on a thick limb about twenty feet above where he stood.

"Wow!" he said, shouldering his rifle. "Dad would really blow a gasket if I brought home a bear. It's not very big, but I bet he could have it stuffed. It'd really look great on the fireplace mantle!"

"What do you think you're doing?" came a sudden, gruff voice from nowhere. No, it was behind him, and lance whirled around and dropped his rifle at what he saw. A six-foot brown bear was looking at him through glinty eyes, and holding a shotgun pointed directly at him.

But bears don't speak and carry firearms, Lance told himself. Except that this one did!

The bear pointed the barrels of the gun skyward, and squeezed the trigger. One barrel exploded a load of buckshot into the air.

"Unless you'd like to get a taste of the other barrel, young man," growled the bear, "I'd heartily advise you to vow never to harm another innocent animal--then run home just as quick as your feet will carry you. And remember, I'll be around from now on. I'll be watching you, but you won't see me--until it's too late."

Terror stricken, Lance turned and ran faster than he had ever run in his life, with the bear's awful, throaty laughter following him. He was certain the bear would follow him for a good long while to come.

​When the boy was gone, the "bear" shed its empty hide. Pastor Judson Elyys ejected the empty shell from the gun, then nimbly climbed the elm tree and retrieved the stuffed toy bear cub from the limb. "Guess I put the fear of God into another one," he said, then gathered all his gear and began a triumphant walk back home.

Casey and Morrison stood on the sidewalk below, now and then sending up by electric powered pulley such supplies as were needed.

Then, of a sudden, Morrison looked up and said, "Oh, crap! Here we go again!"

Moments later a small shadow flashed across the building front, and awed onlookers yelled: "Is that a big bird?"

"Is that a small plane?"

"Is that a suicide diver?"

"It's okay, folks," Casey yelled to the crowd while Morrison ran to the company truck and hurried back with a lightweight plastic tub filled with foam rubber. "That's just Jake the window washer, but we call him Soaper Man on account every so often he takes the notion to make like Superman and dive three stories into this here tub."

Seconds later Soaper Man hit the tub, bounced a time or two, landed on his feet and bowed all around to the gawking crowd.

​Casey and Morrison both shook their heads and thought for the hundredth time, "One of these days that idiot's gonna smash hisself flatter than a pancake!"

Jimmy disliked ordering people around, particularly unpleasant strangers who resented him. So when they voted him foreperson, he considered it an honor before the ambivalence descended.

He did a good job, giving people their say even if they made little sense or became argumentative, and he frequently polled the jury to monitor the guilty/not-guilty votes.

On the third day, he stopped at the metal detector inside the courthouse door and emptied his pockets—wallet, phone, keys, pens, change. He heard no alarm, but a hulking deputy blocked his path.

“I need to search you physically.”

“Why?”

“You set off the machine.”

“I didn’t hear it go off. And anyway, what could it be? I’ve taken all the coins and other metal objects out of my pockets.”

The deputy, tall and broad, grabbed Jimmy’s shoulders and spun him around. Then the big guy clutched Jimmy’s sport coat collar with one hand and pulled him backward so he was off balance, standing only on his heels. Then the cop began patting and squeezing Jimmy’s pockets—pants, shirt, sport coat inside and out—presumably searching for contraband.

The deputy even felt inside his tie and up and down his legs on the outside and then inside up to his crotch, ending the latter swipe with a swift clasp with his fingertips and the heel of his hand. Then the guy asked Jimmy to kick off his loafers; the deputy picked them up, turned them over, and shook them. Nothing fell out.

“Okay.” The deputy, apparently satisfied, motioned for Jimmy to put his shoes back on, gather up his belongings, and walk past the checkpoint.

Jimmy lost his temper.

“Hey. I’m here to do my civic duty and you and I both know the machine didn’t go off.”

“I don’t care why you’re here, bud. But it sure enough went off.”

“I didn’t hear it beep and you know damn well I didn’t have anything on me that could have set it off.”

“It could have been anything—maybe a dime we didn’t find or maybe the buttons on your coat.”

Jimmy knew this was bullshit. He also knew the deputy was huge and he didn’t want to end up slapped against the wall with his wrists in cuffs. So he shut up. But his attitude had changed. He no longer cared about the case his jury was hearing. Instead he began wondering how he might sabotage it.

As Jimmy walked up the stairs to the jury room, a plan formed. In previous polls, he’d voted the accused guilty, as had almost everybody else—it was a murder case.

That morning he immediately polled the jury. The other eleven voted guilty. Jimmy changed his vote to not guilty and held out through eight hours of deliberation and the following day as well. Finally, the judge declared a mistrial, which set the accused free. The prosecution would have to start over if they wanted to get the murderer off the street.

​Jimmy avoided the reporters.

There was something wrong with the car. The accelerator moved under his foot, flattening itself against the floor mat. The engine roared and revved--sending the vehicle racing ahead on the narrow, crooked mountain road at 100 miles an hour.

The road sloped downward. He said a hasty prayer, know he wasn't going to make it. His speed increased, and Harve's Bend was coming up. In a couple of minutes the car would sail him out into Eternity. He murmured another prayerful plea.

The car rounded the Bend and headed straight for the guard rail. He threw up his arm over his face in a futile effort to protect himself.

Miraculously the car began to slow, then stopped a dozen feet from the guard rail. He opened his eyes in wonder and saw some kind of filmy web netting holding the car stationery even though the engine still roared with powerful life. There was a brief, bright flash of light, and the webbing vanished at the same instant that the car's engine died. He looked upward and said, "Thanks!"

He put the car in neutral gear, got out and began pushing it toward an open stretch of road shoulder on the other side of the guard rail. It rolled downhill and dropped over the edge of the precipice to smash and burn on the rocks below.

​Then he turned and began the long journey down the mountain, wondering if anyone would believe his story of what happened. He didn't care whether they did or not.