Desert Aire Room Rental Agreement: Fill & Download for Free

What is it like to live in the US Virgin Islands having grown up in the mainland US?Just got this question, after rushing in to avoid being arrested for curfew violation. I live on St. Croix, and Irma just passed yesterday. Moving from Ohio, you’d think I had little experience with hurricanes, but I did 20 years in the Navy, most of which was spent in Norfolk, Va. I’ve seen a few there. So, my first point is that, when you live on the mainland, you can evacuate to avoid hurricanes. The Virgin Islands are all very tiny pieces of land. If you have a storm bearing down on you, you hunker down in your house, and pray your preps were adequate.We didn’t take much of a hit, but St. Thomas and St. John did, and it’s only a matter of time for any island here. Just look up Hugo.Island living is always a challenge for anyone who isn’t a native islander. There are a lot of differences, some subtle, some glaring. There are a lot of positives and negatives to consider, too.Most of what I know is St. Croix. I’ve been here over two years, literally a vacation for some people, and I haven’t seen much of St. Thomas or St. John yet. Crucian culture is unique, though, and stands out from the other islands in that they’ve lost most of their “native” populations due to high costs and tourismI’ll start off with the good stuff (having already issued my hurricane doom and gloom)…Beaches here are some of the best in the world. St. John is mostly covered by national preserve, including the surrounding waters. The beaches there are so pristine that they are often used in getaway advertising. All USVI beaches are public, as hotels can’t restrict non guests from using them, but there are some that are inaccessible unless you go through a resort or hotel. St. Croix has dozens, some of which have all the modern conveniences, while others are simply a sandy stretch. Some of our beaches have certain restrictions, as turtles do lay eggs on them.There is a lively bar and music scene here. St. Thomas is probably a lot more energetic, but St. Croix is more serene. We have no nightclubs, so dancing and partying are a private affair, but most of our restaurants and bars feature local and mainland musicians, with a wide array of styles, from local, reggae, rock and country. Some places also have bingo nights, or an art event, such as “wine and watercolors”.Culture here, like I said, is unique. There is a very palpable memory of slavery, as many of the “natives” (I use quotes since most of the generational families are simply descended from either imported slaves or European immigrants. The true natives are all but extinct) are descended from slaves, and the history of that period colors every aspect of life here. However, far from being a bad thing, it also means that much of the island’s Afro-Caribbean culture is alive and well. There are several resorts that offer a local culture night, often with “Moko Jumbies” (costumed performers on stilts), local music, and food.History here is everywhere. On St. Croix alone, there are well over a hundred sugar mills, stone towers supporting a wind powered sugar cane mill. Some of these old structures have even been built into homes. St. Croix boasts two forts, one in Christiansted, and the other in Fredriksted, each with a park or beach. In Fredriksted, you can take a horseback ride and see the remains of slave huts in the middle of the rain forest.St. Croix has several ecosystems, including a desert (East end), and a rain forest (West end). Buck Island, off the Northeast shore, is famous for diving and exploration.Mostly sunny weather. Summers can be hot (92 degrees), while winters are milder (82 degrees). I never wear long pants, and always sandals when not working. Beach every Sunday, rain or shine. I got tired of Ohio winters, and this was the place to go.Local foods are incredible. I mostly mean the wide variety of seafood and produce which you can find at local markets on certain days, usually Saturday. St. Croix has a few, and the one I go to always has fresh fish and seasonal fruits, as well as locally grown vegetables. Some of the items are exotic, while others are quite familiar. I can usually find fresh lobster, crab and mahi at local street vendors most days, too. Local lobster doesn’t have claws, and is what you find at most of the restaurants offering it.Some of the bad things…Prices for anything not local is high. On St. Croix, our prices for food and goods is better than some cities, but on the other two islands, it gets to be more expensive. Gas prices tend to be higher, but more stable, since we get shipments in quantity, so the price remains whatever was paid for in the last shipment. Beef is about 20 or 30 percent higher, while pork is reasonable. Chicken is about the same, unless it’s the frozen variety, in which case, it can be as much as twice or three times what you’d pay on the mainland. Our primary non foods stores are K-Marts, and that company has us hostage to whatever they want to sell us, and at whatever price. Some stuff is okay, while others are outrageous.Shipping anything here is expensive. I’m not talking about sending your household goods here, but rather, anything from Amazon, Walmart, or other online store. We don’t pay sales taxes here, but the shipping charges are higher. Amazon Prime doesn’t ship for free, and you have to join Walmart’s plan for getting free shipping (which costs about 50 dollars annually). Some EBay vendors ship free internationally, though. The U.S. Postal service ships anything here for the same cost as in the mainland, but that still is a bit pricey. Private shipping companies, such as UPS, consider the islands as international, and charge accordingly. Fortunately, they usually have an agreement with the U.S. Postal service, but it still means higher charges. Additionally, there are items which the Post Office won’t ship, such as batteries, perfumes, or breakable containers, so Amazon can’t sell you quite a few items.Politics here are corrupt. The politicians make more money than nearly all other comparable positions in the States, and we have more territorial representatives per capita. At the same time, we are on the brink of insolvency, and government employees fear the very real possibility of not getting a paycheck, while the retirement system is in shambles. The governor just instituted a “Sin Tax”, which has increased the prices of things like beer and liquor, as well as condos and other things. Booze used to be really cheap, but it’s about what you’d pay on the mainland, anymore.Housing is expensive. If you aren’t independently wealthy, living on St. John is out of reach. St. Thomas is only a bit cheaper, while St. Croix is the cheapest. I pay 500 dollars per month for a one bedroom apartment, which overlooks Christiansted Bay. I have no air conditioning, but the breeze is wonderful. My apartment is very cheap compared to some. Average rent on St. Croix is more like 800 to 1000 dollars, with some places going up to 5000 per month. Average house prices on St. Croix are around the 250,000 mark, with some in the millions of dollars. I’ve been looking for a house for some time, and the cheapest I’ve found is around 130,000 dollars for a major fixer upper. Some condos are cheap, but you have to finance through their associations, and the condo fees can be quite pricey.Electricity and city provided water are expensive, too. My house in Ohio had full house air conditioning, and my kids would leave lights and computers on all the time. My electricity bill was usually around 125 a month, and that was considered high. A house here that has one room air conditioned, with everything off except when absolutely needed usually runs around the 300 to 400 dollar range. Many houses have some solar or wind power, but the equipment and installation is expensive in itself. Most places have a cistern for rain water, but the islands get very little rain during the year. Water conservation is a must.While our roads are better than some other islands, there are lots of them that are impassable by anything other than a Jeep or SUV.Unless you’re coming here with a job in hand, or you’re independently wealthy, jobs are scarce, and hard to find. Add to this the fact that most employers will not hire anyone who hasn’t been here for at least 6 months or more. Too often, people come down, finally find a job, then decide the island life isn’t to their liking. Employers want someone who is here for the long haul. Also, many places won’t hire anyone not “native”. They have to place the jobs with the labor department, but they'll have already hired someone, usually a friend or relation, before you can get your resume to them.Now that I’ve probably scared you off, just remember that island life is always a challenge. It’s not like living in Ohio, or Virginia, or California. People move at their own pace (often called “island time”), and they expect you to, too. But, they are generally helpful, and genuinely friendly. The standard greeting is “Good Morning”, “Good Afternoon”, or “Good Night/Evening”. They say this walking into the store, a waiting room, the Post Office, or just on the street.Every place has something different from the last, and the USVI are no different. Do plenty of research before moving, but don’t be put off by the negatives.Edit 12-02-2017: this answer came back up after an upvote, and seems completely out of date. 2 weeks after being softened up by hurricane Irma, St. Croix was ddirectly hit by hurricane Maria, which also devastated Puerto Rico. As I sit here, having been without power for going on 3 months, I see the daily news focused almost exclusively on our territorial neighbor. Our Governor has promised to have 90% of homes up on power by Christmas, but the pace of repairs in my area is glacial, and I'm beginning to doubt we'll fall in that timeline.Edit 01–16–2018: This came up again with an upvote, so I’ll let you know how things are going. I got power back a week before Christmas, so I was able to enjoy a meal cooked in the oven. While I have power, the crews are still out doing repairs, and many of the people in more remote areas are still without. That said, the visible signs of the hurricane have decreased to just the blue roof tarps dotting the landscape. The plant life has rebounded with a vengeance, as has the tourist population. However, the power crews and FEMA workers are taking up most of the hotel rooms, so tourists are making do with Air BNB and short term rentals. Things are improving, though.Edit 10–4–2020: Another upvote, and another update. Like everyone else in the world, we are currently in the heat of the pandemic. However, the USVI has the dubious award for highest incidences of Covid per capita. There’s a couple of reasons for this, least of which is the anti mask movement (there are a few antimaskers, but even they wear masks). St. Croix has a large refinery in the process of being refurbished after being closed for nearly a decade. Most of the workers are imported in from states like Texas, Oklahoma, and Florida, where the virus is very common. The refinery has most of their workers on lockdown, only allowed to go between work and quarters, which limits the spread. St. Thomas depends heavily on cruise ships and tourism. As soon as the governor lifted the restrictions, boats and tourists began pouring in, bringing new cases and spreading the virus to the local population. They’ve had a harder time of keeping it contained.As for other changes, the price of everything (with the odd exception of gasoline) have risen quite a bit. My building has a new owner, and my rent shot up to $800/month. Since then, he had the apartment below mine refurbished, and I moved into that one. Half the space, but with new fixtures, floors, and air conditioning, $1000/month. My old apartment was also refurbished as soon as I moved out, turned into a 2 bedroom, 2 bath apartment. He’s apparently asking $2500/month now.Hurricane repairs are ongoing. One big change is that the power company is having new composite poles put in to replace the old wooden ones. These are supposed to be hurricane proof. Yet, consistent power is still elusive as a relatively minor storm still causes power outages.Politically, the old governor became unpopular especially after imposing the Sin Tax. That’s been revoked, and we have a new governor. However, there have been some controversies with him concerning business contracts with a company his daughter belongs to. Additionally, the territorial senators passes or invoked some odd law that allowed them to get a 15k raise without having a vote on it, and was supposed to happen on the sly. They make 100k/year now, while most of the residents here make less than 25k/Year. The government is still on the verge of insolvency, and has a hard time paying its bills, forcing the utilities to increase their charges to make up for the loss.Edit 1–7–2021 - Apparently this gets about 1 upvote a year now, so I’ll provide a quick update. Just got past the holidays, and the virus has abated in the territory while still surging in the states. The Governor has required that anyone coming to the islands MUST have a clean COVID test prior to getting on the plane. Certain classes of bars are shut down again.I’m anxious to get the vaccine, while many of our front line people (healthcare, fire, police, teachers, politicians, etc…) are refusing it.BP (British Petroleum) has signaled they want out of Limetree (the refinery), so the future of the island’s biggest employer is uncertain. Not that a lot of residents would mind it leaving, since it’s the reason housing costs are so high right now, as well as all the temporary workers.

I met the man who would be my husband when I was 18 years old. I suffered from undiagnosed narcolepsy and this contributed to the reasons why I stayed.These incidents are not in chronological order. No accounting of abuse is complete without including the abuse directed toward the narcissist’s own children. The significant others of the Narcissist are only one of many of the victims. The only truth he ever told me, was that no one else would love me the way he did.I have spent countless hours trying to figure out how my ex-husband has managed to do the things he has done, and exactly what he actually did in these situations. If anyone has an inkling into exactly what he has pulled off, please enlighten me.Those who have been involved with a narcissist know that the toughest abuse to explain is the chronic abuse that has plausible deniability built in. It is also the most damaging.The gas-lighting was a constant. He still is the most convincing liar I’ve ever known. He would be telling me something that I knew was not true, but the absolute sincerity and certainty I would see in his eyes made me doubt my own reality.My husband expected absolute loyalty. While I am loyal, I reserve the right to reject something that I feel is morally wrong. He insisted that I was supposed to back him regardless. This was always an issue between us, especially when it came to the ostracization of people who my husband was targeting. He had targeted his best friend because the guy failed to mow our lawn when he said he would. Because I refused to participate in the bad mouthing of this guy, I was in the hot seat. I simply could not go along with this type of petty meanness and this repeatedly got me into hot water.He believed that he should be able to do as he pleased. I was fine with that, but the rules did not go both ways. The Gander was free range, but the goose was always getting cooked.Of course, there was the favorite tool used by every narcissist…the silent treatment. The first few years it had the desired effect. As the years went by I began to look forward to the silent treatment. Despite the fact that you could cut the tension in the air with a knife, the silent treatment meant that for however long it lasted, I would not have to deal with the subtle and insulting innuendos. I would not have to recite the timeline of my days. I would not have to defend myself for buying the new sheets on the bed, or for purchasing a toy for our children. The silent treatment became a time of quiet silence from his unrelenting harassment.I was working at a record store when we first met. He gave me a list of items he wanted me to get him at my discount (he didn't give me any money). I later found out these were gifts he gave to different girlfriends. That year I received the only Christmas gift I would receive in the entire 14 years we were together. A professional photograph portrait of himself.I was the epitome of the perfect Biker wife. I was easy going beyond belief. My husband ruled the roost. I created the perfect home life.We were on our”honeymoon” in Puerto Vallarta Mexico. A group of our friends was meeting us in our hotel room. My new husband starts chopping up a pile of cocaine for snorting lines. Shocked and alarmed, I asked, “Did you bring that into this Country?” He responded, “No, you did. I put it inside your purse and YOU brought it into the Country”.After the birth of our first child, he insisted I obtain paternity test to prove he was the father. I remember dialing the doctors' office and asking about paternity tests. Suddenly I stopped mid-sentence and looked at the phone like it was something alien. I could not believe I was actually asking what I was asking! Then I said “Never mind”, and hung up the phone. There were times when I had brief moments of clarity.He became jealous of the time I spent with our children. I was not spending as much time with him. He forbade me to buy things for the children. This rule turned me into a liar. Eventually, he forbade me to put the kids in any kind of sports, because that too took my time away from him.He gave me the nickname”Dummy”. An accurate name since I stayed with him for 14 years.During the seventh year together, I received anonymously, a book in the mail titled “Men That Hate Women and the Women That Love Them”. This was the first validation I had that something was not right in our relationship.Early in the relationship, we reached the agreement that my earnings would be used to pay for our family living expenses and his earnings for saving and investment. There was no savings account with both of our names. There was just a pile of cash hidden somewhere.Whenever we had an argument, he would say, “You keep your things and I will keep mine”. Naturally, all the investments were in his name and the monthly payables and debts in my name.Investments ended up being motorcycles, muscle cars, boats, airplanes, or anything else my husband looked cool driving.He always made a show of discussing purchases with me, but it didn't matter what my opinions were, or how adamant I was that I didn't want to make a certain investment, in the end, my husband would buy it anyway.In 83 we purchased a rental property. The payment was $500 monthly at no interest. We rented the house for $600 per month.In 86 we purchased a property that had two commercial storefronts (for each of our businesses) and a house on the same lot. We placed $150,000 cash for a down payment and took out a $100,000 mortgage. The monthly payment was $1,200. I finally had something to show for all the years I supported the family.It was our routine that my husband took the children to the babysitter or to school in the morning, and I picked them up in the afternoon. There were occasions where I arrived at the school, waiting for the children to come out to be picked up, but there was no sign of our children. I would be frantic and go to the office only to find out that he picked them up early. Over time I realized he was doing this on days when he was angry with me. Once, I caught him at the park across the street from the school, watching me as I frantically searched for the children. Cruel.Throughout the marriage, my husband accused me of having secret bank accounts. I did not have extra money to put into a secret account. Cleaning our bedroom one day I came across documents opening one of his secret bank accounts.In ’86 my sister came to work for me. The plan was to teach her the business so she could open a business of her own. There is a reason for the old saying “Never go into business with family”. No other employee could ever have been capable of the kind of destruction to my business that my sister created. I loved my sister and trusted her completely. My sister embezzled a large amount of money from my business. She quit working for me and moved to Northern California with some of my accounts. Before leaving she went on a shopping spree using my credit cards. I previously allowed her to buy a new car in my name (because her credit was bad) and she stopped making payments. My sister contacted family friends and business associates and began a smear campaign. She also looked up the person running the DMV in Sacramento and to this day I do not know what she told this person, but suddenly I began having difficulty getting license plates for the trucking companies I represented. The IRS was also contacting me saying they had a report of tax fraud on my business. Dealing with the fall out was taking a tremendous amount of time and energy. Eventually, I simply could not take it anymore. I could not deal with the fallout and provide the time-sensitive duties that the business required.Throughout this time, my husband was making remarks that he did not believe my version of what was occurring, and I was desperate to obtain proof.I referred my clients to an old employer of mine and began the process of transferring my clients' files. A few weeks later, I received a letter from this old employer telling me that she had come across a handwritten letter my sister had sent to a client of hers. The Trucker had given my sister money to pay his license and registration fees. My sister had provided him with a fraudulent registration with a note attached to it that said, “Here is a registration to operate on until I get you your permanent registration. If you get caught using it, tell them you got it from Janet at Truck Licensing Services. She lives and works in Glendora CA and she has blond hair”. This evidence became crucial to reversing much of the problems created by my sister. When I showed the letter to my husband he seemed surprised. Any time I would talk to him about what was happening, he would laugh. He seemed to get great pleasure and amusement out of this thing that caused me so much pain.The loss of my business marked the first time in the marriage that my husband was required to pay the families monthly living expenses. My husband was not happy about it. We rented out the building that once housed my business for $1,000 per month, bringing what we had to come up with for the mortgage payment to only $200.He would spend hour upon hour each evening berating me for the loss of my business. I regularly cried myself to sleep each night.I gave our bills to my husband to write checks out. He wrote the checks and about a month later I began to receive late notices from our creditors. I went to my husband and asked if he sent the payments out late. That’s when he told me he had not mailed the payments at all.We had our normal monthly bills and the property taxes were also due. He kept me up all night arguing. He wanted to just pay the property taxes and I wanted to pay the bills and get a loan to pay the tax bill. Finally, I begged for him to allow me to sleep awhile and we could finish the discussion when I woke. When I woke up and went into my office, my secretary informed me that she got the taxes in the mail as my husband told her to.I had begun seeing a therapist. Each office visit I would go in and spend the entire time crying. I decided to write out the past year of what had gone on in my life. By the time I was finished, I was seriously pissed off at my husband and I was ready to leave. When I left the marriage I believed that the worst was over. How naive I was. The final time we spoke to each other he told me “He was going to teach me poverty”. I responded, “Given the choice of living with him or living with poverty, I would opt for poverty.I moved out of the house with the children because my husbands business was on the same property. The unpaid past due bills were in my name so I had to move in with a friend who already had utilities in their name. My Ex-allowed me to collect the monthly rental of my old business building as child support. I took out a $5,000 loan, which allowed me to pay some of the delinquent debts and I was able to get utilities in my name again. There was enough left over to place 1st and last on a house to rent.One day my attorney office called to tell me there was an emergency hearing that was being held the next day and I was required to appear. Upon my arrival, I was handed a copy of an Order to Show Cause and a declaration submitted by my husbands' attorney. My husband told a story of my children living in a crack house. He said I was shooting up drugs in front of the children, having group sex and orgies in the children's presence, and that the children had witnessed a fight between two of my boyfriends and been so frightened that they crawled out of their bedroom window at 2 o’clock in the morning. The children were removed from my custody that afternoon pending investigation.I drove home in a state of shock. When I pulled into the driveway a police cruiser pulled in behind me. I was taken into custody on a warrant. The warrant was actually a body attachment from an old case in which I failed to appear as a witness in a spousal abuse case against my husband. It was a Friday night so the court would not sort it out until Monday. To this day my rap sheet erroneously shows this case as me who had assaulted my husband.I was only allowed to visit my children with supervision, and I was not allowed to talk with them about the allegations. Finally, a hearing was held and the boys were questioned. My youngest son was asked if he ever saw his mother using a needle. He responded, “Yes. She sews sometimes”. A Judge spoke to the children in chambers and when the judge returned to the court my ex-husband was reprimanded and told never to lie to the court again. My attorney said custody was being awarded to my husband. I said, “Do you have any idea what this man is really about?” I was told if I objected to his custody, the children would be placed in foster care and it would be years to get them out.I was questioned by my state-appointed representation about my drug use. I admitted that I used amphetamine daily. I was asked why, and I told them “Because I can’t wake up”. I used amphetamine since the age of 15. I began having sleep issues around the age of 12, and by my freshman year of High School, I was failing all of my classes. One day I took some of my brother’s Ritalin and went to school. My grades went from “F” to “A” overnight. I have used amphetamine ever since. My husband was my supplier for the last 14 years. I thought that by telling the courts the truth, that someone would help me discover the reason why I could not wake up. That's not what happened.Without my children, I no longer had a reason to strive. I let the rented house go and rented a couch to sleep on from a friend. My husbands smear campaign had new fuel and the entire town was stoking the flames.My attorney suffered a nervous breakdown during these proceedings. The last thing he filed was a request for an order for my ex-husband to pay the payments on the second mortgage I had taken out to pay the old utility bills.The divorce case was now a complicated mess and I could not find an attorney to take the case without a $5,000 retainer. The case was stagnating from 1990 to 1993. I found a lawyer who agreed to take the case in 1993 for $3,000 retainer.In 1993 I went to a real estate agent to obtain the current market values on the properties we owned. That was when I learned that I no longer owned the property called the “family home” by the courts. The house had been foreclosed on by the second mortgage holder. All notices were sent to the address where my ex was living with our sons. My share of the property was sold at auction to my mother in laws best friend.When we were together, my husband had kept the seedier side of the Biker Community segregated to the area of his repair shop. The children and I rarely interacted with people in the gangs. When the children went to live with him all of that changed. The various Clubs were a part of my children’s lives now. They also became a thorn in my side. I was constantly harassed any time I was seen in public. Eventually, it got so bad I moved 500 miles away, making it more difficult to see my children.I learned that my Ex had our sons take out life insurance policies on each other. They were required to pay the premiums with their own money. I suspect he did this knowing that if one of the boys died, the insurance company would hand him the check, not our minor child.My Ex took my son’s to an attorney’s office when they were still kids to have them sign papers “so they could receive an inheritance from him upon his death”. My son’s simply signed whatever papers their father put in front of them. I suspect the signatures were needed for some nefarious purpose. I also suspect the Ex husbands living trust is a vehicle to obtain life insurance on all of the family members.I managed to save enough for a used car, and six months later the car was stolen on the same night that the Club my Ex was involved with was spotted at the local pub.The divorce began in 1989 and was not final until 1997. I was the only party to bring in the documentation of our debts and assets.It’s commonplace to award a fraction of the married couples community property assets to a spouse who admitted the regular use of an illicit drug. The Judges would see the imbalance of monetary awards as a form of equity and reparation to the innocent spouse (in this case, my narcissistic psychopath Ex-husband).The final settlement in the divorce was a joke. I was stuck with all of the community debt. I received none of the family home equity.I received enough money to pay my attorney fees which totaled $50,000 and cash to me was $10,000.I received nothing for the Motor Cycle repair business I helped him build.I also was forced to remain partners with my narcissist in the rental property, but I never received any portion of the rents received over the years.I was awarded our 5th wheel camping trailer, but he was awarded the truck that hauled it.I was awarded a $20,000 drag racing motorcycle and my narcissist handed it to me in a milk crate. When I objected to this as unacceptable, the Judge yelled at me to just take it.The final settlement stated that the court was giving my ex-husband as much time as he needed to make the equalizing payment.In 1999 I went back into Court because my ex-husband was not providing our children with basic human needs. He had not taken them for basic healthcare checkups. He was not providing personal hygiene needs like shampoo, soap, etc. The children did not have clothing and my youngest son’s feet had become misshapen from wearing shoes that were too small. The Court accepted a note from my exhusbands mother, that said the boys were regularly seen by doctors and my concerns were dismissed. California Statutes require that Child Protective Services investigate any allegation of neglect or abuse, yet the Court ignored the LAW for the narcissist.There was one point I was arguing and the Judge was forced to rule against the narcissist. The Judge turned to my ex-husband and said, “I’m sorry, but she is within her rights on this”.I was ordered to pay child support, even though my ex-husband had been collecting the $1,000 monthly rent on the building that was once my office, and was previously considered child support when I had the children.The Court's bias toward my drug use cost me everything I worked so hard for all of those years that I was functioning at a fairly high level. Eventually, it also cost me my freedom.In 2001, before turning myself in to do my prison time, I signed my interest in the rental property over to my two sons. I knew that once I was in prison my narcissist would swindle me out of the property. I prayed about it, and the answer I received was to give it away. It was much less painful to lose this last asset when I was able to choose who I lost it to. I executed a quit claim to my sons and gave it to their father, telling him to teach them about real estate.It was not until after my release from prison in 2003, that my youngest son turned 18 and came to live with me again. He had been living with me for just a few weeks when with dawning horror, I came to realize he was suffering the same symptoms that I suffered from the age of 12. I sat my son down and told him my experience with excessive daytime sleepiness and I promised him I was going to get to the bottom of what was going on with us. I went to Parole and told them my history. I hoped they would know what it was since they had vast experience with people using amphetamine. Parole gave me the run around for the next 18 months. Frustrated, I began using our symptoms as search criteria on Google. Narcolepsy kept being returned. Long story short, both my son and I underwent sleep studies and were diagnosed with Narcolepsy.From the moment I was diagnosed, there have been people in law enforcement who have created problems in my ability to obtain treatment for the disease. The Drug Enforcement Administration writes letters to my doctors. Apparently, my file has been flagged and I’ve been labeled a drug seeker. When I was denied Medi-Cal, I was informed at a hearing that a panel of doctors deemed my narcolepsy to be “insignificant” and “the disorder had no major effect on my ability to function in life”. Flabbergasted, I turned to the Judge and said, “No doctor, not one, ever attempted to speak to me to ask me what the effects were from having narcolepsy. I went to PRISON behind this thing, and believe me when I tell you that my experience in prison was not insignificant to me. As a teen, I went from failing all of my classes in school, to a student at the top of my class, after finding amphetamine. Medication for me is the difference between utter failure and shining success. The difference between the two could not be described as “insignificant”. The Judge granted me the Medi-Cal, but the victory was moot because I still could not find a doctor to treat me. It was six years since the diagnosis when a sympathetic doctor confided that he doubted I will ever find ANY doctor willing to treat me. The DEA has a definite “chilling effect”.I discovered in 2004 that my narcissist had never given our sons the quit claim I executed in 2001. The property was now entirely in my Narcissist’s living trust.My narcissist wanted to sell the rental property and told our sons they would each get $5,000. Their actual share of the property was $50,000 each. For some reason, my signature was needed, despite me already releasing interest in 2001. There was a court hearing and the Court required that I execute another quit claim in 2006.For some reason, escrow was still requiring that I sign documents for the sale. The thing was, the documents they wanted me to sign always had “Narcissist Living Trust” typed above or below the place where they wanted me to sign. After months of duress, I finally signed the documents on the condition that each of my sons would receive $50,000 and I would receive $25,000.I was not allowed to see any of the escrow documents for the sale of this property. My youngest son has managed to come across a few documents. He found one document that shows me as a borrower on the rental property.The proceeds for the sale of the rental came from a company that handles 1031 exchanges. The check was made payable to my Ex husband and my oldest son. My youngest sons name was not on the check. My Ex-husband took my youngest son to a small business bank and had him open an account in the names of our two sons.During this time I experienced an adverse reaction to a new narcolepsy medication called Xyrem. In short, I experienced a prolonged psychosis. I moved out to the desert and my son moved back in with his father.I did not know if I was going to survive the psychosis and I decided to leave all of my worldly belongings with my son. He was working a job that took him out of town during the week, and he only returned on the weekends. Upon his return one weekend, he found that his father had moved my things to his vacation home and had given away the rest.My Ex moved a new girlfriend into his home. His girlfriend suffers from OCD and cannot tolerate the movement of any item in the household. She will become hysterical if an item is moved even a few inches from its original place. Unfortunately, my son is a whirling tornado of movement in the environment. Friction between the two ensued. My son told me his father’s girlfriend had thrown bleach into the washer with his dark clothes. The girlfriend set off fumigation bug bombs in the house, leaving my son inside sleeping. My son owned a truck and a motorcycle. If he took his truck anywhere when he would return there would be damage to his motorcycle. When he took the motorcycle, there would be damage to the truck. My son was placing the blame for these incidents entirely upon the girlfriend, but I believe he doesn’t want to entertain the idea that his father is either putting the girlfriend up to these things or the sole person responsible. I believe he was the person doing these things and framing her.My youngest son began looking for property to purchase. He found one he liked for $210k. It had two houses on the lot. My son put his $50k and I put in 20k for the down payment. The real estate agent put him in touch with a loan broker who said she could arrange a mortgage with an $800 monthly paymentBy the time escrow closed the payment was $1500 monthly. After moving in we discovered the houses were severely termite damaged and the County assessor estimated the property value at land value of $75k.We attempted to litigate the issues and we were informed we had no standing.Meanwhile, the property went into foreclosure and was sold at auction to a Michael Jackson. I ran a search for other addresses affiliated with this person and a P.O. box came back. I ran a search on the P.O. box, and the address that was once my office was returned. The man who purchased the property used to rent my office from my ex-husband. A coincidence?I believe that somehow, my ex-husband became the lender for the property my son purchased. He then used predatory lending practices on his own son, driving the monthly payment double what my son agreed upon. Keep in mind that this is also the son who has narcolepsy.My son almost lost control of his motorcycle, after having left the motorcycle at his father’s home for a few days. Anytime he reached speeds over 20 mph, the steering became uncontrollable. He drove the MC to his father’s repair shop and asked him to take a test drive because he felt like he was going to die driving. His father refused, and told him “Bring the bike back in two days”. He didn’t say, “Leave the bike here and I’ll give you a ride home”, he just watched him leave on the bike. The following day my son put the MC on blocks so he could examine what was causing the problem. He noticed that there was road dirt on the spokes, but in spots, the road dirt was smudged clean. That’s when he realized that all of the spokes on the front wheel had been loosened. He took the bike to a different repair shop and was told someone had to deliberately do that to the spokes.6 months before that incident, my son was involved in a motorcycle accident, but cannot remember the accident itself. He was not able to examine the wreckage because his father sold the bike and shipped it overseas before he was able to get out of bed. There is very little left of a motorcycle after it is involved in an accident. This makes it nearly impossible for forensics to determine the cause of an accident. His father is well aware of these facts. Even if there was evidence of tampering that was detectable by the Police, the investigation would only point to his fathers' girlfriend as the person who wished harm to my son.I did not find out about the following incident until 2010 when my son finally told me of it. One night, my Ex husbands motorcycle shop was broken into and a couple of motorcycles stolen. To get the bikes back, their father decided to do a home invasion on the suspect's house. My two sons and their father dress up in black and gather together the guns they will take. Both of my son's are wearing Kevlar vests (bullet proof). Keep in mind that their father has enough inventory in the shop to build at least twenty bikes just like the ones stolen. At this point, the home invasion doesn't have anything to do with the vehicles and has everything to do with their fathers' ego. Right before the three of them are going to storm The door, their father turns to the youngest boy and asks if he can borrow his Kevlar vest. In silence, my son handed his vest to his father. His father placed the vest on himself, and the three of them entered the house. They were able to get one of the bikes back. My son, his brother, nor their father, ever spoke of the vest again. It was seven years before I learned of the incident. My youngest son kept that painful experience bottled up inside of him. To speak of it meant having to acknowledge that his father deemed him to have the least value.During the same time period, several friends of my son mentioned to him that his father was spreading strange rumors. One friend who had not seen him for a while was surprised to find my son looking physically fit and presentable. He told my son that my Ex was telling people that my son was a Hype (injecting drugs intravenously). My Ex knows a great number of people, so this rumor was carried far.My son found correspondence from the Internal Revenue Service, in regards to an irrevocable trust, with my son's name on it. My son has never created an irrevocable trust.My daughter in law was visiting me when she asked me about the Narcissists living trust. She indicated the Narcissist had included her in the trust “so she could collect an inheritance upon his death”. I told her that I believed the trust was a vehicle to obtain life insurance. Six months later, my 32-year-old daughter in law died unexpectedly, leaving three children without a mother.After the foreclosure, I went to live with my recently widowed eldest son, and three of his four daughters. I was filling the role that their mother left vacant. I was taxiing kids, taking them to doctors, cleaning the house, cooking meals, doing yard work, you name it, I was doing it.After the foreclosure, my youngest son moved into the old “family home”. My ex-husband purchased a home in an exclusive neighborhood several years earlier. The ex attempted to turn the family home into a “gentleman's club”, which is a fancy way of saying brothel. The house even had a strippers pole. When that didn’t work out he took to renting out rooms in the now seven bedroom house. All the bedrooms were rented when my son arrived, so he slept in the hallway for a while. He eventually got one of the rooms, but three months later his father told him that all of the tenants had to move because he was renting out the entire house (except for one large room that was rented by a business) to one person.My son moved into a temporary place for three months and then became homeless. He and his girlfriend were camping out in the San Gabriel Valley mountains. He told me he found a motor home that he wanted to buy, so I gave him $300 to buy the vehicle and have a roof over his head.I was spending a great deal of time investigating (as much as possible when you have no funds) the various situations created by the narcissist that made absolutely no sense. My oldest son was getting aggravated because I was not handling as much of the work as I previously had. I was also feeling very guilty that I was living in a nice home, while my youngest son was homeless and struggling. My oldest son was very angry when I told him I was leaving to be homeless with his brother.My oldest son has taken on many of his father's narcissistic traits. He is the designated Golden Child and believes it is proper for him to receive special treatment. During my stay with the GC, he sold my car and kept all of the money. Never once did he offer to pay me for my time spent doing chores for him. During the three years, I lived with him and took care of his children the only thing I asked for was food for my cat. He also paid for me to buy some makeup and a bra. He treated me like I was his maid. My oldest son thinks that it is okay for him to take his brother's property. He is constantly stealing things from his brother. His father has taken his weaknesses and compounded them.The family dynamic the narcissist has created destroyed the once close relationship between my sons. It is heartbreaking.I am sure you have discerned by now that my youngest son is the designated scapegoat. This son has been the target of his father's narcissistic bullying since he was eight years old. As a child, he was someone blessed with a purity of soul, and a propensity towards honesty. It was always apparent to me that he was older than anyone else in the family. He has a strength of character that defies the ugly family dynamic.I moved into the old, gutted, motorhome with my son and his girlfriend. My son had parked the motorhome on the property that was the “family home”. The people that were planning on renting the house gave the narcissist $20k to remodel the house but never moved in. They were afraid of the other tenants. The Narcissists Motorcycle repair shop and the tattoo parlor on the property tend to attract some tough looking people.One day my son had his daughter for the weekend. All four of us were in the motorhome when it began to rain. The motorhome was leaking like a sieve. It was coming down real hard. I thought about the house sitting empty and thought, screw this. I broke into the house and made my granddaughter a dry bed to sleep in. That is how we ended up living inside the house.I find myself getting increasingly depressed living here in the house that I RAN away from thirty years ago. My Exhusband never put any money that he gained from renting the structures on the property, back into the property for maintenance. The exterior has not seen a drop of paint. The house was infested with roaches and rats. The septic tank has not been pumped since we purchased the property in 1986. Consequently, raw sewage backs up into the crawl space on a regular basis. The moisture in the crawl space has created mold issues. During a recent rain, my son pointed out that in places where water was puddling in the yard, each puddle was squirming with larva of some kind. My ex-husband took what was once a beautiful property, and turned it into a toxic waste site.

Flying.Like many things that have become reality already - or will someday - Robert Heinlein called this one. Nailed it - in 1957! Here is his unforgettable classic short story. Do take a few minutes to read it:The Menace from EarthThe Menace from Earthby Robert HeinleinMy name is Holly Jones and I'm fifteen. I'm very intelligent but it doesn't show, because I look like an underdone angel. Insipid.I was born right here in Luna City, which seems to surprise Earthside types. Actually, I'm third generation; my grandparents pioneered in Site One, where the Memorial is. I live with my parents in Artemis Apartments, the new co-op in Pressure Five, eight hundred feet down near City Hall. But I'm not there much; I'm too busy.Mornings I attend Tech High and afternoons I study or go flying with Jeff Hardesty—he's my partner—or whenever a tourist ship is in I guide groundhogs. This day the Gripsholm grounded at noon so I went straight from school to American Express.The first gaggle of tourists was trickling in from Quarantine but I didn't push forward as Mr. Dorcas, the manager, knows I'm the best. Guiding is just temporary (I'm really a spaceship designer), but if you're doing a job you ought to do it well.Mr. Dorcas spotted me. "Holly! Here, please. Miss Brentwood, Holly Jones will be your guide.""'Holly,'" she repeated. "What a quaint name. Are you really a guide, dear?"I'm tolerant of groundhogs—some of my best friends are from Earth. As Daddy says, being born on Luna is luck, not judgment, and most people Earthside are stuck there. After all, Jesus and Guatama Buddha and Dr. Einstein were all groundhogs.But they can be irritating. If high school kids weren't guides, whom could they hire? "My license says so," I said briskly and looked her over the way she was looking me over.Her face was sort of familiar and I thought perhaps I had seen her picture in those society things you see in Earthside magazines—one of the rich playgirls we get too many of. She was almost loathsomely lovely . . . nylon skin, soft, wavy, silver-blond hair, basic specs about 35-24-34 and enough this and that to make me feel like a matchstick drawing, a low, intimate voice and everything necessary to make plainer females think about pacts with the Devil. But I did not feel apprehensive; she was a groundhog and groundhogs don't count."All city guides are girls," Mr. Dorcas explained. "Holly is very competent.""Oh, I'm sure," she answered quickly and went into tourist routine number one: surprise that a guide was needed just to find her hotel, amazement at no taxicabs, same for no porters, and raised eyebrows at the prospect of two girls walking alone through "an underground city."Mr. Dorcas was patient, ending with: "Miss Brentwood, Luna City is the only metropolis in the Solar System where a woman is really safe—no dark alleys, no deserted neighborhoods, no criminal element."I didn't listen; I just held out my tariff card for Mr. Dorcas to stamp and picked up her bags. Guides shouldn't carry bags and most tourists are delighted to experience the fact that their thirty-pound allowance weighs only five pounds. But I wanted to get her moving.We were in the tunnel outside and me with a foot on the slidebelt when she stopped. "I forgot! I want a city map.""None available.""Really?""There's only one. That's why you need a guide.""But why don't they supply them? Or would that throw you guides out of work?"See? "You think guiding is makework? Miss Brentwood, labor is so scarce they'd hire monkeys if they could.""Then why not print maps?""Because Luna City isn't flat like—" I almost said, "—groundhog cities," but I caught myself."—like Earthside cities," I went on. "All you saw from space was the meteor shield. Underneath it spreads out and goes down for miles in a dozen pressure zones.""Yes, I know, but why not a map for each level?"Groundhogs always say, "Yes, I know, but—""I can show you the one city map. It's a stereo tank twenty feet high and even so all you see clearly are big things like the Hall of the Mountain King and hydroponics farms and the Bats' Cave.""'The Bat's Cave,'" she repeated. "That's where they fly, isn't it?""Yes, that's where we fly.""Oh, I want to see it!""OK. It first . . . or the city map?"She decided to go to her hotel first. The regular route to the Zurich is to slide up and west through Gray's Tunnel past the Martian Embassy, get off at the Mormon Temple, and take a pressure lock down to Diana Boulevard. But I know all the shortcuts; we got off at Macy-Gimbel Upper to go down their personnel hoist. I thought she would enjoy it.But when I told her to grab a hand grip as it dropped past her, she peered down the shaft and edged back. "You're joking."I was about to take her back the regular way when a neighbor of ours came down the hoist. I said, "Hello, Mrs. Greenberg," and she called back, "Hi, Holly. How are your folks?"Susie Greenberg is more than plump. She was hanging by one hand with young David tucked in her other arm and holding the Daily Lunatic, reading as she dropped. Miss Brentwood stared, bit her lip, and said, "How do I do it?"I said, "Oh, use both hands; I'll take the bags." I tied the handles together with my hanky and went first.She was shaking when we got to the bottom. "Goodness, Holly, how do you stand it? Don't you get homesick?"Tourist question number six . . . I said, "I've been to Earth," and let it drop. Two years ago Mother made me visit my aunt in Omaha and I was miserable—hot and cold and dirty and beset by creepy-crawlies. I weighed a ton and I ached and my aunt was always chivvying me to go outdoors and exercise when all I wanted was to crawl into a tub and be quietly wretched. And I had hay fever. Probably you've never heard of hay fever—you don't die but you wish you could.I was supposed to go to a girls' boarding school but I phoned Daddy and told him I was desperate and he let me come home. What groundhogs can't understand is that they live in savagery. But groundhogs are groundhogs and loonies are loonies and never the twain shall meet.Like all the best hotels the Zurich is in Pressure One on the west side so that it can have a view of Earth. I helped Miss Brentwood register with the roboclerk and found her room; it had its own port. She went straight to it, began staring at Earth and going ooh! and ahh!I glanced past her and saw that it was a few minutes past thirteen; sunset sliced straight down the tip of India—early enough to snag another client. "Will that be all, Miss Brentwood?"Instead of answering she said in an awed voice, "Holly, isn't that the most beautiful sight you ever saw?""It's nice," I agreed. The view on that side is monotonous except for Earth hanging in the sky—but Earth is what tourists always look at even though they've just left it. Still, Earth is pretty. The changing weather is interesting if you don't have to be in it. Did you ever endure a summer in Omaha?"It's gorgeous," she whispered."Sure," I agreed. "Do you want to go somewhere? Or will you sign my card?""What? Excuse me, I was daydreaming. No, not right now—yes, I do! Holly, I want to go out there! I must! Is there time? How much longer will it be light?""Huh? It's two days to sunset."She looked startled. "How quaint. Holly, can you get us space suits? I've got to go outside."I didn't wince—I'm used to tourist talk. I suppose a pressure suit looked like a space suit to them. I simply said, "We girls aren't licensed outside. But I can phone a friend."Jeff Hardesty is my partner in spaceship designing, so I throw business his way. Jeff is eighteen and already in Goddard Institute, but I'm pushing hard to catch up so that we can set up offices for our firm: "Jones & Hardesty, Spaceship Engineers." I'm very bright in mathematics, which is everything in space engineering, so I'll get my degree pretty fast. Meanwhile we design ships anyhow.I didn't tell Miss Brentwood this, as tourists think a girl my age can't possibly be a spaceship designer.Jeff has arranged his classes to let him guide on Tuesdays and Thursdays; he waits at West City Lock and studies between clients. I reached him on the lockmaster's phone. Jeff grinned and said, "Hi, Scale Model.""Hi, Penalty Weight. Free to take a client?""Well, I was supposed to guide a family party, but they're late.""Cancel them. Miss Brentwood . . . step into pickup, please. This is Mr. Hardesty."Jeff's eyes widened and I felt uneasy. But it did not occur to me that Jeff could be attracted by a groundhog . . . even though it is conceded that men are robot slaves of their body chemistry in such matters. I knew she was exceptionally decorative, but it was unthinkable that Jeff could be captivated by any groundhog, no matter how well designed. They don't speak our language!I am not romantic about Jeff; we are simply partners. But anything that affects Jones & Hardesty affects me.When we joined him at West Lock he almost stepped on his tongue in a disgusting display of adolescent rut. I was ashamed of him and, for the first time, apprehensive. Why are males so childish?Miss Brentwood didn't seem to mind his behavior. Jeff is a big hulk; suited up for outside he looks like a Frost giant from Das Rheingold; she smiled up at him and thanked him for changing his schedule. He looked even sillier and told her it was a pleasure.I keep my pressure suit at West Lock so that when I switch a client to Jeff he can invite me to come along for the walk. This time he hardly spoke to me after that platinum menace was in sight. But I helped her pick out a suit and took her into the dressing room and fitted it. Those rental suits take careful adjusting or they will pinch you in tender places once out in vacuum . . . besides those things about them that one girl ought to explain to another.When I came out with her, not wearing my own, Jeff didn't even ask why I hadn't suited up—he took her arm and started toward the lock. I had to butt in to get her to sign my tariff card.The days that followed were the longest in my life. I saw Jeff only once . . . on the slidebelt in Diana boulevard, going the other way. She was with him.Though I saw him but once, I knew what was going on. He was cutting classes and three nights running he took her to the Earthview Room of the Duncan Hines. None of my business!—I hope she had more luck teaching him to dance than I had. Jeff is a free citizen and if he wanted to make an utter fool of himself neglecting school and losing sleep over an upholstered groundhog that was his business.But he should not have neglected the firm's business!Jones & Hardesty had a tremendous backlog because we were designing Starship Prometheus. This project we had been slaving over for a year, flying not more than twice a week in order to devote time to it—and that's a sacrifice.Of course you can't build a starship today, because of the power plant. But Daddy thinks that there will soon be a technological break-through and mass-conversion power plants will be built—which means starships. Daddy ought to know—he's Luna Chief Engineer for Space Lanes and Fermi Lecturer at Goddard Institute. So Jeff and I are designing a self-supporting interstellar ship on that assumption: quarters, auxiliaries, surgery, labs—everything.Daddy thinks it's just practice but Mother knows better—Mother is a mathematical chemist for General Synthetics of Luna and is nearly as smart as I am. She realizes that Jones & Hardesty plans to be ready with a finished proposal while other designers are still floundering.Which was why I was furious with Jeff for wasting time over this creature. We had been working every possible chance. Jeff would show up after dinner, we would finish our homework, then get down to real work, the Prometheus . . . checking each other's computations, fighting bitterly over details, and having a wonderful time. But the very day I introduced him to Ariel Brentwood, he failed to appear. I had finished my lessons and was wondering whether to start or wait for him—we were making a radical change in power plant shielding—when his mother phoned me. "Jeff asked me to call you, dear. He's having dinner with a tourist client and can't come over."Mrs. Hardesty was watching me so I looked puzzled and said, "Jeff thought I was expecting him? He has his dates mixed." I don't think she believed me; she agreed too quickly.All that week I was slowly convinced against my will that Jones & Hardesty was being liquidated. Jeff didn't break any more dates—how can you break a date that hasn't been made?—but we always went flying Thursday afternoons unless one of us was guiding. He didn't call. Oh, I know where he was; he took her iceskating in Fingal's Cave.I stayed home and worked on the Prometheus, recalculating masses and moment arms for hydroponics and stores on the basis of the shielding change. But I made mistakes and twice I had to look up logarithms instead of remembering . . . I was so used to wrangling with Jeff over everything that I just couldn't function.Presently I looked at the name plate of the sheet I was revising. "Jones & Hardesty" it read, like all the rest. I said to myself, "Holly Jones, quit bluffing; this may be The End. You knew that someday Jeff would fall for somebody.""Of course . . . but not a groundhog.""But he did. What kind of an engineer are you if you can't face facts? She's beautiful and rich—she'll get her father to give him a job Earthside. You hear me? Earthside!So you look for another partner . . . or go into business on your own."I erased "Jones & Hardesty" and lettered "Jones & Company" and stared at it. Then I started to erase that, too—but it smeared; I had dripped a tear on it. Which was ridiculous!The following Tuesday both Daddy and Mother were home for lunch which was unusual as Daddy lunches at the spaceport. Now Daddy can't even see you unless you're a spaceship but that day he picked to notice that I had dialed only a salad and hadn't finished it. "That plate is about eight hundred calories short," he said, peering at it. "You can't boost without fuel—aren't you well?""Quite well, thank you," I answered with dignity."Mmm . . . now that I think back, you've been moping for several days. Maybe you need a checkup." He looked at Mother."I do not either need a checkup!" I had not been moping—doesn't a woman have a right not to chatter?But I hate to have doctors poking at me so I added, "It happens I'm eating lightly because I'm going flying this afternoon. But if you insist, I'll order pot roast and potatoes and sleep instead!""Easy, punkin'," he answered gently. "I didn't mean to intrude. Get yourself a snack when you're through . . . and say hello to Jeff for me."I simply answered, "OK," and asked to be excused; I was humiliated by the assumption that I couldn't fly without Mr. Jefferson Hardesty but did not wish to discuss it.Daddy called after me, "Don't be late for dinner," and Mother said, "Now, Jacob—" and to me, "Fly until you're tired, dear; you haven't been getting much exercise. I'll leave your dinner in the warmer. Anything you'd like?""No, whatever you dial for yourself." I just wasn't interested in food, which isn't like me. As I headed for Bats' Cave I wondered if I had caught something. But my cheeks didn't feel warm and my stomach wasn't upset even if I wasn't hungry.Then I had a horrible thought. Could it be that I was jealous? Me?It was unthinkable. I am not romantic; I am a career woman. Jeff had been my partner and pal, and under my guidance he could have become a great spaceship designer, but our relationship was straightforward . . . a mutual respect for each other's abilities, with never any of that lovey-dovey stuff. A career woman can't afford such things—why look at all the professional time Mother had lost over having me!No, I couldn't be jealous; I was simply worried sick because my partner had become involved with a groundhog. Jeff isn't bright about women and, besides, he's never been to Earth and has illusions about it. If she lured him Earthside, Jones & Hardesty was finished.And somehow "Jones & Company" wasn't a substitute: the Prometheus might never be built.I was at Bats' Cave when I reached this dismal conclusion. I didn't feel like flying but I went to the locker room and got my wings anyhow.Most of the stuff written about Bats' Cave gives a wrong impression. It's the air storage tank for the city, just like all the colonies have—the place where the scavenger pumps, deep down, deliver the air until it's needed. We just happen to be lucky enough to have one big enough to fly in. But it never was built, or anything like that; it's just a big volcanic bubble, two miles across, and if it had broken through, way back when, it would have been a crater.Tourists sometimes pity us loonies because we have no chance to swim. Well, I tried it in Omaha and got water up my nose and scared myself silly. Water is for drinking, not playing in; I'll take flying. I've heard groundhogs say, oh yes, they had "flown" many times. But that's not flying. I did what they talk about, between White Sands and Omaha. I felt awful and got sick. Those things aren't safe.I left my shoes and skirt in the locker room and slipped my tail surfaces on my feet, then zipped into my wings and got someone to tighten the shoulder straps. My wings aren't ready-made condors; they are Storer-Gulls, custom-made for my weight distribution and dimensions. I've cost Daddy a pretty penny in wings, outgrowing them so often, but these latest I bought myself with guide fees.They're lovely!—titanalloy struts as light and strong as bird bones, tension-compensated wrist-pinion and shoulder joints, natural action in the alula slots, and automatic flap action in stalling. The wing skeleton is dressed in styrene feather-foils with individual quilling of scapulars and primaries. They almost fly themselves.I folded my wings and went into the lock. While it was cycling I opened my left wing and thumbed the alula control—I had noticed a tendency to sideslip the last time I was airborne. But the alula opened properly and I decided I must have been overcontrolling, easy to do with Storer-Gulls; they're extremely maneuverable. Then the door showed green and I folded the wing and hurried out, while glancing at the barometer. Seventeen pounds—two more than Earth sea-level and nearly twice what we use in the city; even an ostrich could fly in that. I perked up and felt sorry for all groundhogs, tied down by six times proper weight, who never, never, never could fly.Not even I could, on Earth. My wing loading is less than a pound per square foot, as wings and all I weigh less than twenty pounds. Earthside that would be over a hundred pounds and I could flap forever and never get off the ground.I felt so good that I forgot about Jeff and his weakness. I spread my wings, ran a few steps, warped for lift and grabbed air—lifted my feet and was airborne.I sculled gently and let myself glide toward the air intake at the middle of the floor—the Baby's Ladder, we call it, because you can ride the updraft clear to the roof, half a mile above, and never move a wing. When I felt it I leaned right, spoiling with right primaries, corrected, and settled in a counterclockwise soaring glide and let it carry me toward the roof.A couple of hundred feet up, I looked around. The cave was almost empty, not more than two hundred in the air and half that number perched or on the ground—room enough for didoes. So as soon as I was up five hundred feet I leaned out of the updraft and began to beat. Gliding is no effort but flying is as hard work as you care to make it. In gliding I support a mere ten pounds on each arm—shucks, on Earth you work harder than that lying in bed. The lift that keeps you in the air doesn't take any work; you get it free from the shape of your wings just as long as there is air pouring past them.Even without an updraft all a level glide takes is gentle sculling with your finger tips to maintain air speed; a feeble old lady could do it. The lift comes from differential air pressures but you don't have to understand it; you just scull a little and the air supports you, as if you were lying in an utterly perfect bed. Sculling keeps you moving forward just like sculling a rowboat . . . or so I'm told; I've never been in a rowboat. I had a chance to in Nebraska but I'm not that foolhardy.But when you're really flying, you scull with forearms as well as hands and add power with your shoulder muscles. Instead of only the outer quills of your primaries changing pitch (as in gliding), now your primaries and secondaries clear back to the joint warp sharply on each downbeat and recovery; they no longer lift, they force you forward—while your weight is carried by your scapulars, up under your armpits.So you fly faster, or climb, or both, through controlling the angle of attack with your feet—with the tail surfaces you wear on your feet, I mean.Oh dear, this sounds complicated and isn't—you just do it. You fly exactly as a bird flies. Baby birds can learn it and they aren't very bright. Anyhow, it's easy as breathing after you learn . . . and more fun than you can imagine!I climbed to the roof with powerful beats, increasing my angle of attack and slotting my alulae for lift without burble—climbing at an angle that would stall most fliers. I'm little but it's all muscle and I've been flying since I was six. Once up there I glided and looked around. Down at the floor near the south wall tourists were trying glide wings—if you call those things "wings." Along the west wall the visitors' gallery was loaded with goggling tourists. I wondered if Jeff and his Circe character were there and decided to go down and find out.So I went into a steep dive and swooped toward the gallery, leveled off and flew very fast along it. I didn't spot Jeff and his groundhoggess but I wasn't watching where I was going and over took another flier, almost collided. I glimpsed him just in time to stall and drop under, and fell fifty feet before I got control. Neither of us was in danger as the gallery is two hundred feet up, but I looked silly and it was my own fault; I had violated a safety rule.There aren't many rules but they are necessary; the first is that orange wings always have the right of way—they're beginners. This flier did not have orange wings but I was overtaking. The flier underneath—or being overtaken—or nearer the wall—or turning counterclockwise, in that order, has the right of way.I felt foolish and wondered who had seen me, so I went all the way back up, made sure I had clear air, then stooped like a hawk toward the gallery, spilling wings, lifting tail, and letting myself fall like a rock.I completed my stoop in front of the gallery, lowering and spreading my tail so hard I could feel leg muscles knot and grabbing air with both wings, alulae slotted. I pulled level in an extremely fast glide along the gallery. I could see their eyes pop and thought smugly, "There! That'll show 'em!"When darn if somebody didn't stoop on me! The blast from a flier braking right over me almost knocked me out of control. I grabbed air and stopped a sideslip, used some shipyard words and looked around to see who had blitzed me. I knew the black-and-gold wing pattern—Mary Muhlenburg, my best girl friend. She swung toward me, pivoting on a wing tip. "Hi, Holly! Scared you, didn't I?""You did not! You better be careful; the flightmaster'll ground you for a month!""Slim chance! He's down for coffee."I flew away, still annoyed, and started to climb. Mary called after me, but I ignored her, thinking, "Mary my girl, I'm going to get over you and fly you right out of the air."This was a foolish thought as Mary flies every day and has shoulders and pectoral muscles like Mrs. Hercules. By the time she caught up with me I had cooled off and we flew side by side, still climbing. "Perch?" she called out."Perch," I agreed. Mary has lovely gossip and I could use a breather. We turned toward our usual perch, a ceiling brace for flood lamps—it isn't supposed to be a perch but the flightmaster hardly ever comes up there.Mary flew in ahead of me, braked and stalled dead to a perfect landing. I skidded a little but Mary stuck out a wing and steadied me. It isn't easy to come into a perch, especially when you have to approach level. Two years ago a boy who had just graduated from orange wings tried it . . . knocked off his left alula and primaries on a strut—went fluttering and spinning down two thousand feet and crashed. He could have saved himself—you can come in safely with a badly damaged wing if you spill air with the other and accept the steeper glide, then stall as you land. But this poor kid didn't know how; he broke his neck, dead as Icarus. I haven't used that perch since.We folded our wings and Mary sidled over. "Jeff is looking for you," she said with a sly grin.My insides jumped but I answered coolly, "So? I didn't know he was here.""Sure. Down there," she added, pointing with her left wing. "Spot him?"Jeff wears striped red and silver, but she was pointing at the tourist glide slope, a mile away. "No.""He's there all right." She looked at me sidewise. "But I wouldn't look him up if I were you.""Why not? Or for that matter, why should I?" Mary can be exasperating."Huh? You always run when he whistles. But he has that Earthside siren in tow again today; you might find it embarrassing.""Mary, whatever are you talking about?""Huh? Don't kid me, Holly Jones; you know what I mean.""I'm sure I don't," I answered with cold dignity."Humph! Then you're the only person in Luna City who doesn't. Everybody knows you're crazy about Jeff; everybody knows she's cut you out . . . and that you are simply simmering with jealousy."Mary is my dearest friend but someday I'm going to skin her for a rug. "Mary, that's preposterously ridiculous! How can you even think such a thing?""Look, darling, you don't have to pretend. I'm for you." She patted my shoulders with her secondaries.So I pushed her over backwards. She fell a hundred feet, straightened out, circled and climbed, and came in beside me, still grinning. It gave me time to decide what to say."Mary Muhlenburg, in the first place I am not crazy about anyone, least of all Jeff Hardesty. He and I are simply friends. So it's utterly nonsensical to talk about me being 'jealous.' In the second place Miss Brentwood is a lady and doesn't go around 'cutting out' anyone, least of all me. In the third place she is simply a tourist Jeff is guiding—business, nothing more.""Sure, sure," Mary agreed placidly. "I was wrong. Still—" She shrugged her wings and shut up."'Still' what? Mary, don't be mealy-mouthed.""Mmm . . . I was wondering how you knew I was talking about Ariel Brentwood—since there isn't anything to it.""Why, you mentioned her name.""I did not."I thought frantically. "Uh, maybe not. But it's perfectly simple. Miss Brentwood is a client I turned over to Jeff myself, so I assumed that she must be the tourist you meant.""So? I don't recall even saying she was a tourist. But since she is just a tourist you two are splitting, why aren't you doing the inside guiding while Jeff sticks to outside work? I thought you guides had an agreement?""Huh? If he has been guiding her inside the city, I'm not aware of it—""You're the only one who isn't.""—and I'm not interested; that's up to the grievance committee. But Jeff wouldn't take a fee for inside guiding in any case.""Oh, sure!—not one he could bank. Well, Holly, seeing I was wrong, why don't you give him a hand with her? She wants to learn to glide."Butting in on that pair was farthest from my mind. "If Mr. Hardesty wants my help, he will ask me. In the meantime I shall mind my own business . . . a practice I recommend to you!""Relax, shipmate," she answered, unruffled. "I was doing you a favor.""Thank you, I don't need one.""So I'll be on my way—got to practice for the gymkhana." She leaned forward and dropped off. But she didn't practice aerobatics; she dived straight for the tourist slope.I watched her out of sight, then snaked my left hand out the hand slit and got at my hanky—awkward when you are wearing wings but the floodlights had made my eyes water. I wiped them and blew my nose and put my hanky away and wiggled my hand back into place, then checked everything, thumbs, toes, and fingers, preparatory to dropping off.But I didn't. I just sat there, wings drooping, and thought. I had to admit that Mary was partly right; Jeff's head was turned completely . . . over a groundhog. So sooner or later he would go Earthside and Jones & Hardesty was finished.Then I reminded myself that I had been planning to be a spaceship designer like Daddy long before Jeff and I teamed up. I wasn't dependent on anyone; I could stand alone, like Joan of Arc, or Lise Meitner.I felt better . . . a cold, stern pride, like Lucifer in Paradise Lost.I recognized the red and silver of Jeff's wings while he was far off and I thought about slipping quietly away. But Jeff can overtake me if he tries, so I decided, "Holly, don't be a fool! You have no reason to run . . . just be coolly polite."He landed by me but didn't sidle up. "Hi, Decimal Point.""Hi, Zero. Uh, stolen much lately?""Just the City Bank but they made me put it back." He frowned and added, "Holly, are you mad at me?""Why, Jeff, whatever gave you such a silly notion?""Uh . . . something Mary the Mouth said.""Her? Don't pay any attention to what she says. Half of it's always wrong and she doesn't mean the rest.""Yeah, a short circuit between her ears. Then you aren't mad?""Of course not. Why should I be?""No reason I know of. I haven't been around to work on the ship for a few days . . . but I've been awfully busy.""Think nothing of it. I've been terribly busy myself.""Uh, that's fine. Look, Test Sample, do me a favor. Help me out with a friend—a client, that is—well, she's a friend, too. She wants to learn to use glide wings."I pretended to consider it. "Anyone I know?""Oh, yes. Fact is, you introduced us. Ariel Brentwood.""'Brentwood'? Jeff, there are so many tourists. Let me think. Tall girl? Blonde? Extremely pretty?"He grinned like a goof and I almost pushed him off. "That's Ariel!""I recall her . . . she expected me to carry her bags. But you don't need help, Jeff. She seemed very clever. Good sense of balance.""Oh, yes, sure, all of that. Well, the fact is, I want you two to know each other. She's . . . well, she's just wonderful, Holly. A real person all the way through. You'll love her when you know her better. Uh . . . this seemed like a good chance."I felt dizzy. "Why, that's very thoughtful, Jeff, but I doubt if she wants to know me better. I'm just a servant she hired—you know groundhogs.""But she's not at all like the ordinary groundhog. And she does want to know you better—she told me so!"After you told her to think so! I muttered. But I had talked myself into a corner. If I had not been hampered by polite upbringing I would have said, "On your way, vacuum skull! I'm not interested in your groundhog girl friends"—but what I did say was, "OK, Jeff," then gathered the fox to my bosom and dropped off into a glide.So I taught Ariel Brentwood to "fly." Look, those so-called wings they let tourists wear have fifty square feet of lift surface, no controls except warp in the primaries, a built-in dihedral to make them stable as a table, and a few meaningless degrees of hinging to let the wearer think that he is "flying" by waving his arms. The tail is rigid, and canted so that if you stall (almost impossible) you land on your feet. All a tourist does is run a few yards, lift up his feet (he can't avoid it) and slide down a blanket of air. Then he can tell his grandchildren how he flew, really flew, "just like a bird."An ape could learn to "fly" that much.I put myself to the humiliation of strapping on a set of the silly things and had Ariel watch while I swung into the Baby's Ladder and let it carry me up a hundred feet to show her that you really and truly could "fly" with them. Then I thankfully got rid of them, strapped her into a larger set, and put on my beautiful Storer-Gulls. I had chased Jeff away (two instructors is too many), but when he saw her wing up, he swooped down and landed by us.I looked up. "You again.""Hello, Ariel. Hi, Blip. Say, you've got her shoulder straps too tight.""Tut, tut," I said. "One coach at a time, remember? If you want to help, shuck those gaudy fins and put on some gliders . . . then I'll use you to show how not to. Otherwise get above two hundred feet and stay there; we don't need any dining-lounge pilots."Jeff pouted like a brat but Ariel backed me up. "Do what teacher says, Jeff. That's a good boy."He wouldn't put on gliders but he didn't stay clear either. He circled around us, watching, and got bawled out by the flightmaster for cluttering the tourist area.I admit Ariel was a good pupil. She didn't even get sore when I suggested that she was rather mature across the hips to balance well; she just said that she had noticed that I had the slimmest behind around there and she envied me. So I quit trying to get her goat, and found myself almost liking her as long as I kept my mind firmly on teaching. She tried hard and learned fast—good reflexes and (despite my dirty crack) good balance. I remarked on it and she admitted diffidently that she had had ballet training.About mid-afternoon she said, "Could I possibly try real wings?""Huh? Gee, Ariel, I don't think so.""Why not?"There she had me. She had already done all that could be done with those atrocious gliders. If she was to learn more, she had to have real wings. "Ariel, it's dangerous. It's not what you've been doing, believe me. You might get hurt, even killed.""Would you be held responsible?""No. You signed a release when you came in.""Then I'd like to try it."I bit my lip. If she had cracked up without my help, I wouldn't have shed a tear—but to let her do something too dangerous while she was my pupil . . . well, it smacked of David and Uriah. "Ariel, I can't stop you . . . but I should put my wings away and not have anything to do with it."It was her turn to bite her lip. "If you feel that way, I can't ask you to coach me. But I still want to. Perhaps Jeff will help me.""He probably will," I blurted out, "if he is as big a fool as I think he is!"Her company face slipped but she didn't say anything because just then Jeff stalled in beside us. "What's the discussion?"We both tried to tell him and confused him for he got the idea I had suggested it, and started bawling me out. Was I crazy? Was I trying to get Ariel hurt? Didn't I have any sense?"Shut up!" I yelled, then added quietly but firmly, "Jefferson Hardesty, you wanted me to teach your girl friend, so I agreed. But don't butt in and don't think you can get away with talking to me like that. Now beat it! Take wing. Grab air!"He swelled up and said slowly, "I absolutely forbid it."Silence for five long counts. Then Ariel said quietly, "Come, Holly. Let's get me some wings.""Right, Ariel."But they don't rent real wings. Fliers have their own; they have to. However, there are second-hand ones for sale because kids outgrow them, or people shift to custom-made ones, or something. I found Mr. Schultz who keeps the key, and said that Ariel was thinking of buying but I wouldn't let her without a tryout. After picking over forty-odd pairs I found a set which Johnny Queveras had outgrown but which I knew were all right. Nevertheless I inspected them carefully. I could hardly reach the finger controls but they fitted Ariel.While I was helping her into the tail surfaces I said, "Ariel? This is still a bad idea.""I know. But we can't let men think they own us.""I suppose not.""They do own us, of course. But we shouldn't let them know it." She was feeling out the tail controls. "The big toes spread them?""Yes. But don't do it. Just keep your feet together and toes pointed. Look, Ariel, you really aren't ready. Today all you will do is glide, just as you've been doing. Promise?"She looked me in the eye. "I'll do exactly what you say . . . not even take wing unless you OK it.""OK. Ready?""I'm ready.""All right. Wups! I goofed. They aren't orange.""Does it matter?""It sure does." There followed a weary argument because Mr. Schultz didn't want to spray them orange for a tryout. Ariel settled it by buying them, then we had to wait a bit while the solvent dried.We went back to the tourist slope and I let her glide, cautioning her to hold both alulae open with her thumbs for more lift at slow speeds, while barely sculling with her fingers. She did fine, and stumbled in landing only once. Jeff stuck around, cutting figure eights above us, but we ignored him. Presently I taught her to turn in a wide, gentle bank—you can turn those awful glider things but it takes skill; they're only meant for straight glide.Finally I landed by her and said, "Had enough?""I'll never have enough! But I'll unwing if you say.""Tired?""No." She glanced over her wing at the Baby's Ladder; a dozen fliers were going up it, wings motionless, soaring lazily. "I wish I could do that just once. It must be heaven."I chewed it over. "Actually, the higher you are, the safer you are.""Then why not?""Mmm . . . safer provided you know what you're doing. Going up that draft is just gliding like you've been doing. You lie still and let it lift you half a mile high. Then you come down the same way, circling the wall in a gentle glide. But you're going to be tempted to do something you don't understand yet—flap your wings, or cut some caper."She shook her head solemnly. "I won't do anything you haven't taught me."I was still worried. "Look, it's only half a mile up but you cover five miles getting there and more getting down. Half an hour at least. Will your arms take it?""I'm sure they will.""Well . . . you can start down anytime; you don't have to go all the way. Flex your arms a little now and then, so they won't cramp. Just don't flap your wings.""I won't.""OK." I spread my wings. "Follow me."I led her into the updraft, leaned gently right, then back left to start the counterclockwise climb, all the while sculling very slowly so that she could keep up. Once we were in the groove I called out, "Steady as you are!" and cut out suddenly, climbed and took station thirty feet over and behind her. "Ariel?""Yes, Holly?""I'll stay over you. Don't crane your neck; you don't have to watch me, I have to watch you. You're doing fine.""I feel fine!""Wiggle a little. Don't stiffen up. It's a long way to the roof. You can scull harder if you want to.""Aye aye, Cap'n!""Not tired?""Heavens, no! Girl, I'm living!" She giggled. "And mama said I'd never be an angel!"I didn't answer because red-and-silver wings came charging at me, braked suddenly and settled into a circle between me and Ariel. Jeff's face was almost as red as his wings. "What the devil do you think you are doing?""Orange wings!" I yelled. "Keep clear!""Get down out of here! Both of you!""Get out from between me and my pupil. You know the rules.""Ariel!" Jeff shouted. "Lean out of the circle and glide down. I'll stay with you.""Jeff Hardesty," I said savagely, "I give you three seconds to get out from between us—then I'm going to report you for violation of Rule One. For the third time—Orange Wings!"Jeff growled something, dipped his right wing and dropped out of formation. The idiot sideslipped within five feet of Ariel's wing tip. I should have reported him for that; all the room you can give a beginner is none too much.I said, "OK, Ariel?""OK, Holly. I'm sorry Jeff is angry.""He'll get over it. Tell me if you feel tired.""I'm not. I want to go all the way up. How high are we?""Four hundred feet, maybe."Jeff flew below us a while, then climbed and flew over us . . . probably for the same reason I did: to see better. It suited me to have two of us watching her as long as he didn't interfere; I was beginning to fret that Ariel might not realize that the way down was going to be as long and tiring as the way up. I was hoping she would cry uncle. I knew I could glide until forced down by starvation. But a beginner gets tense.Jeff stayed generally over us, sweeping back and forth—he's too active to glide very long—while Ariel and I continued to soar, winding slowly up toward the roof. It finally occurred to me when we were about halfway up that I could cry uncle myself; I didn't have to wait for Ariel to weaken. So I called out, "Ariel? Tired now?""No.""Well, I am. Could we go down, please?"She didn't argue, she just said, "All right. What am I to do?""Lean right and get out of the circle." I intended to have her move out five or six hundred feet, get into the return down draft, and circle the cave down instead of up. I glanced up, looking for Jeff. I finally spotted him some distance away and much higher but coming toward us. I called out, "Jeff! See you on the ground." He might not have heard me but he would see if he didn't hear; I glanced back at Ariel.I couldn't find her.Then I saw her, a hundred feet below—flailing her wings and falling, out of control.I didn't know how it happened. Maybe she leaned too far, went into a sideslip and started to struggle. But I didn't try to figure it out; I was simply filled with horror. I seemed to hang there frozen for an hour while I watched her.But the fact appears to be that I screamed "Jeff!" and broke into a stoop.But I didn't seem to fall, couldn't overtake her. I spilled my wings completely—but couldn't manage to fall; she was as far away as ever.You do start slowly, of course; our low gravity is the only thing that makes human flying possible. Even a stone falls a scant three feet in the first second. But that first second seemed endless.Then I knew I was falling. I could feel rushing air—but I still didn't seem to close on her. Her struggles must have slowed her somewhat, while I was in an intentional stoop, wings spilled and raised over my head, falling as fast as possible. I had a wild notion that if I could pull even with her, I could shout sense into her head, get her to dive, then straighten out in a glide. But I couldn't reach her.This nightmare dragged on for hours.Actually we didn't have room to fall for more than twenty seconds; that's all it takes to stoop a thousand feet. But twenty seconds can be horribly long . . . long enough to regret every foolish thing I had ever done or said, long enough to say a prayer for us both . . . and to say good-by to Jeff in my heart. Long enough to see the floor rushing toward us and know that we were both going to crash if I didn't overtake her mighty quick.I glanced up and Jeff was stooping right over us but a long way up. I looked down at once . . . and I was overtaking her . . . I was passing her—I was under her!Then I was braking with everything I had, almost pulling my wings off. I grabbed air, held it, and started to beat without ever going to level flight. I beat once, twice, three times . . . and hit her from below, jarring us both.Then the floor hit us.* * *I felt feeble and dreamily contented. I was on my back in a dim room. I think Mother was with me and I know Daddy was. My nose itched and I tried to scratch it, but my arms wouldn't work. I fell asleep again.I woke up hungry and wide awake. I was in a hospital bed and my arms still wouldn't work, which wasn't surprising as they were both in casts. A nurse came in with a tray. "Hungry?" she asked."Starved," I admitted."We'll fix that." She started feeding me like a baby.I dodged the third spoonful and demanded. "What happened to my arms?""Hush," she said and gagged me with a spoon.But a nice doctor came in later and answered my question. "Nothing much. Three simple fractures. At your age you'll heal in no time. But we like your company so I'm holding you for observation of possible internal injury.""I'm not hurt inside," I told him. "At least, I don't hurt.""I told you it was just an excuse.""Uh, Doctor?""Well?""Will I be able to fly again?" I waited, scared."Certainly. I've seen men hurt worse get up and go three rounds.""Oh. Well, thanks. Doctor? What happened to the other girl? Is she . . . did she . . . ?""Brentwood? She's here.""She's right here," Ariel agreed from the door. "May I come in?"My jaw dropped, then I said, "Yeah. Sure. Come in."The doctor said, "Don't stay long," and left. I said, "Well, sit down.""Thanks." She hopped instead of walked and I saw that one foot was bandaged. She got on the end of the bed."You hurt your foot."She shrugged. "Nothing. A sprain and a torn ligament. Two cracked ribs. But I would have been dead. You know why I'm not?"I didn't answer. She touched one of my casts. "That's why. You broke my fall and I landed on top of you. You saved my life and I broke both your arms.""You don't have to thank me. I would have done it for anybody.""I believe you and I wasn't thanking you. You can't thank a person for saving your life. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I knew it."I didn't have an answer so I said, "Where's Jeff? Is he all right?""He'll be along soon. Jeff's not hurt . . . though I'm surprised he didn't break both ankles. He stalled in beside us so hard that he should have. But Holly . . . Holly my very dear . . . I slipped in so that you and I could talk about him before he got here."I changed the subject quickly. Whatever they had given me made me feel dreamy and good, but not beyond being embarrassed. "Ariel, what happened? You were getting along fine—then suddenly you were in trouble."She looked sheepish. "My own fault. You said we were going down, so I looked down. Really looked, I mean. Before that, all my thoughts had been about climbing clear to the roof; I hadn't thought about how far down the floor was. Then I looked down . . . and got dizzy and panicky and went all to pieces." She shrugged. "You were right. I wasn't ready."I thought about it and nodded. "I see. But don't worry—when my arms are well, I'll take you up again."She touched my foot. "Dear Holly. But I won' be flying again; I'm going back where I belong.""Earthside?""Yes. I'm taking the Billy Mitchell on Wednesday.""Oh. I'm sorry."She frowned slightly. "Are you? Holly, you don't like me, do you?"I was startled silly. What can you say? Especially when it's true? "Well," I said slowly, "I don't dislike you. I just don't know you very well."She nodded. "And I don't know you very well . . . even though I got to know you a lot better in a very few seconds. But Holly . . . listen please and don't get angry. It's about Jeff. He hasn't treated you very well the last few days—while I've been here, I mean. But don't be angry with him. I'm leaving and everything will be the same."That ripped it open and I couldn't ignore it, because if I did, she would assume all sorts of things that weren't so. So I had to explain . . . about me being a career woman . . . how, if I had seemed upset, it was simply distress at breaking up the firm of Jones & Hardesty before it even finished its first starship . . . how I was not in love with Jeff but simply valued him as a friend and associate . . . but if Jones & Hardesty couldn't carry on, then Jones & Company would. "So you see, Ariel, it isn't necessary for you to give up Jeff. If you feel you owe me something, just forget it. It isn't necessary."She blinked and I saw with amazement that she was holding back tears. "Holly, Holly . . . you don't understand at all.""I understand all right. I'm not a child.""No, you're a grown woman . . . but you haven't found it out." She held up a finger. "One—Jeff doesn't love me.""I don't believe it.""Two . . . I don't love him.""I don't believe that, either.""Three . . . you say you don't love him—but we'll take that up when we come to it. Holly, am I beautiful?"Changing the subject is a female trait but I'll never learn to do it that fast. "Huh?""I said, 'Am I beautiful?'""You know darn well you are!""Yes. I can sing a bit and dance, but I would get few parts if I were not, because I'm no better than a third-rate actress. So I have to be beautiful. How old am I?"I managed not to boggle. "Huh? Older than Jeff thinks you are. Twenty-one, at least. Maybe twenty-two."She sighed. "Holly, I'm old enough to be your mother.""Huh? I don't believe that either.""I'm glad it doesn't show. But that's why, though Jeff is a dear, there never was a chance that I could fall in love with him. But how I feel about him doesn't matter; the important thing is that he loves you.""What? That's the silliest thing you've said yet! Oh, he likes me—or did. But that's all." I gulped. "And it's all I want. Why, you should hear the way he talks to me.""I have. But boys that age can't say what they mean; they get embarrassed.""But—""Wait, Holly. I saw something you didn't because you were knocked cold. When you and I bumped, do you know what happened?""Uh, no.""Jeff arrived like an avenging angel, a split second behind us. He was ripping his wings off as he hit, getting his arms free. He didn't even look at me. He just stepped across me and picked you up and cradled you in his arms, all the while bawling his eyes out.""He did?""He did."I mulled it over. Maybe the big lunk did kind of like me, after all.Ariel went on, "So you see, Holly, even if you don't love him, you must be very gentle with him, because he loves you and you can hurt him terribly."I tried to think. Romance was still something that a career woman should shun . . . but if Jeff really did feel that way—well . . . would it be compromising my ideals to marry him just to keep him happy? To keep the firm together? Eventually, that is?But if I did, it wouldn't be Jones & Hardesty; it would be Hardesty & Hardesty.Ariel was still talking: "—you might even fall in love with him. It does happen, hon, and if it did, you'd be sorry if you had chased him away. Some other girl would grab him; he's awfully nice.""But—" I shut up for I heard Jeff's step—I can always tell it. He stopped in the door and looked at us, frowning."Hi, Ariel.""Hi, Jeff.""Hi, Fraction." He looked me over. "My, but you're a mess.""You aren't pretty yourself. I hear you have flat feet.""Permanently. How do you brush your teeth with those things on your arms?""I don't."Ariel slid off the bed, balanced on one foot. "Must run. See you later, kids.""So long, Ariel.""Good-by, Ariel. Uh . . . thanks."Jeff closed the door after she hopped away, came to the bed and said gruffly, "Hold still."Then he put his arms around me and kissed me.Well, I couldn't stop him, could I? With both arms broken? Besides, it was consonant with the new policy for the firm. I was startled speechless because Jeff never kisses me, except birthday kisses, which don't count. But I tried to kiss back and show that I appreciated it.I don't know what the stuff was they had been giving me but my ears began to ring and I felt dizzy again.Then he was leaning over me. "Runt," he said mournfully, "you sure give me a lot of grief.""You're no bargain yourself, flathead," I answered with dignity."I suppose not." He looked me over sadly. "What are you crying for?"I didn't know that I had been. Then I remembered why. "Oh, Jeff—I busted my pretty wings!""We'll get you more. Uh, brace yourself. I'm going to do it again.""All right." He did.I suppose Hardesty & Hardesty has more rhythm than Jones & Hardesty.It really sounds better.