Installment Q

"Alright, tell me one more time, from the top." I said, still skeptical.

"There's a bunch of money up there! It's just waitin' for us to come and get it!" Sigmund replied, enthusiastically.

"There's nothing for a young guy like you to do up there, you're no where near being ready for colony work." I replied bluntly.

"Excuse me, sir?"

People rushed past Sigmund and me going about their days. I couldn't talk to Sig anywhere else but here in a public place. He was getting groceries right now, and I was between my first and second job. Sig and Atti were both given to a local orphanage after Amman went comatose. I couldn't speak with either of them at the orphanage because the priest who's in charge hates Russians and would probably shoot me on sight.

"Well anyway . . . Oh shit, I'm taking too long, gotta go. See ya, Isaac!" Sig ran off, arms full of groceries.

"Um, sir, excuse me?"

I had managed to scratch up some work, but there was a lot of competition. All of the old town that I loved so much had been bulldozed and rebuilt. This place was a regular city again. I hated it, naturally, but at this point in time I honestly couldn't care less. They could bulldoze the pyramids for a tram station if they really wanted to, I wouldn't be opposed.

"Pardon me, sir, I-"

"What? Oh, yes?" I hadn't noticed the old lady behind me trying to get my attention.

"I was just wondering, are you Ensign Erlenmeyer?" She asked.

"Well, I was. Yeah."

"Alright, I was just curious." She started walking away, but suddenly turned around as if she remembered something important. "Oh yes, that's right. I also wanted to tell you that my granddaughter was killed in the Russian raid that you were kind enough to watch happen."

She then proceeded to pinch her lips together and shoot a particularly large and nasty shotgun shot of saliva directly into my face. Feeling satisfied, she was gone before I could even raise my hand to wipe the mucus away.

A fat, and uncommonly friendly man soon jumped to my aid. He pulled his sleeve up over his palm and forcefully rubbed at my face, he didn't help much, in fact all he really did was smear spit around, leaving my hand to finish the job.

"Thank you kindly." I was appreciative none the less.

"No problem young lad. You know, there's a place where you'll never have to deal with discrimination, prejudice, or any other kind of such old hates." His voice waved each point as if he was a salesman, regurgitating his practiced pitch. "And that place," he continued, "is called the lunar colonies!"

I take that thought back. He's worse than a salesman, he's a recruiter.

"Really, thanks. But I'm not interested."

Needless to say, he was persistent. He followed me for the next block spouting his hopeless quips and gibes.

***

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

I sat at my desk, trying hard to meditate. I was looking for that euphoric feeling, the same feeling I get when my mind releases it's conscious state into the atmosphere. When I could float freely through the threads of the web surrounding thoughts and feelings. But there was nothing, and every time I tried resulted in a wider gap between me and that feeling. My mind was becoming wrinkled, just like all the other male Psymen. There's nothing worse than the feeling of weakness mixed with mortality.

I got up from my desk, and the room started spinning around me. My arms and legs felt like magnets, trying desperately to adhere to the metal ground.

Maybe the moon isn't such a bad idea after all? If I stay in this gravity, I might die. But if I go to the moon . . . I'll be far away from home, surrounded by strangers, doing something I have no interest in all day and every day as my dreams further deteriorate into nightmares. And then I'll die.

Fantastic. Well, I guess I'm sold.