things that our forebears knew, and fled from in time. They wererounded, amorphous things of fluff; you could approximate them withtwisted cushions, but never sit so comfortably on a padded chair again.I had grabbed the tape from some obscure impulse, but Eric - he Knew, Ithink, even then, much of what I only later glimpsed.We arranged to meet by the corner of Moortop Lane and Dagon Street,just by the Social Club. It was raining, I remember, and the lenses ofmy respirator were misting over. That was when the Anti-Social clubstood opposite: the mustard gas pouring out of their windows was makingthings uncomfortable to stand too near downwind.I was idly dabbing my suit down with Fuller's Earth todecontaminate it, when I dimly recalled the name he'd given - EricHesgathorpe, the artist. But it was not as an artist I associated thename - something technical, rather than artistic. And then there was thehound himself, stepping out of the shadows at the far side of thestreet, dropping something into the collecting box of a pair of AztecEvangelists. He waved cheerfully, and even through the misted lenses Icould see that look in his eye."You know," he began, as we strolled up the restored cobbled roadin the rain. "It was a bit of luck meeting you here. I checked on yourname - you're a mathematician, aren't you ? At least, that's what thepublic files say.I had to admit, he'd been thorough. He even quoted at me from myown book, "Forget diets - stay in great shape with Applied Topology",which was well-known in geometric circles. I was as curious about him,and said so.He stopped, and I almost ran into him. "Ah, but, you see - I need amathematician. If you're interested in the - things I have, maybe wecould collaborate. I can pay you, genuine money."He would say no more, but we waled on. Out of the familiaralleyways and half-tunneled courtyards carved from the living stone ofthe Yorkshire hills that were old when the first natives came on packageholiday flights from worlds where the exchange rate referred todimensions and not currency differences. The night grew late, and stillwe walked on, down out of the friendly overshadow of the dripping woodsand aeon-mellowed monoliths rising firelit black against the skies.I suddenly stopped, and laid a warning paw on his shoulder. "Wearen't going to the - Estate, are we ?" I demanded. "People don't gothere any more."He rewarded me with one of those smiles again, and I wished I wasback home amongst the cheerful collection of tomb-loot my maiden auntleft me. "Not very far in," he promised, as if that would reassure mesomehow. "Not very far at all. You see, I need the correct - Atmosphere,for my work."The light here had turned very dim. And it was orange; the kind ofsodium lamp glow that I don't think anyone's made since the nineteen-eighties. We walked on, to the spot where the buildings began again -very even and regular were their sides, and the roofs looming over uswere of sheet metal and plastic. Great weed-cracked spaces yawnedbetween the buildings, where petrol-driven vehicles had once been parkedby the dozen.Suddenly there was a sound behind me - I turned, expecting to seethe familiar sight of some black trapdoor very slowly and deliberatelyrise, or the jelly-like pulsing as an amorphous form oozed into themortal world. But there was nothing there, nothing but a gate ofplastic-sheathed wire swinging in the breeze. I had never felt so alone."It's really - suited to my work," Eric's tail twitched, as weturned into a weed-grown courtyard, where long decades ago great neon
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