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much?”
    “Eighteen and a half credits.”
    Crowell extracted his wallet and counted out nineteen credits. Then he laid out a pink Cr50 bill next to it.
    The clerk hesitated, then picked up the Cr50, folded it, and put it in his pocket. “It’s your funeral, old-timer,” he said as he rang up the purchase. “That’s a young man’s dosage.”
    Crowell took the half-credit change and left without a word.
    6.
     
    The next morning, feeling human again, Crowell went out to the mines just after sunup. He checked at the dome, but Waldo wasn’t there, so he ambled on down to Mine A.
    A long line of Bruuchians at the entrance to the mine danced and waved their arms as if they were trying to keep warm. Their animated conversation got louder and louder as he approached the front of the line.
    A human in white coveralls was examining the lead Bruuchian. He didn’t notice Crowell until he was standing right next to him. “Hello there!” Crowell shouted over the din.
    The man looked up, startled. “Who the hell are you?”
    “Name’s Crowell—Isaac Crowell.”
    “Oh, yeah—I was just a kid last time you were here. Watch this.” He picked up a megaphone and shouted in Bruuchian (informal mode): “Your spirit/ disrupts my spirit/ slowing the progress/ of this line and your way to stillness.” The conversation quieted to a low murmur. “See, I read your book.” He continued making passes over the Bruuchian’s body with a gleaming metal probe.
    Is that the diagnostic machine?” Crowell indicated a featureless black box clipped to the man’s belt, with a cable leading to the probe.
    “Yeah. It figures out whether anything’s wrong with the beastie and tells Doc Struckheimer.” He clapped the Bruuchian on the shoulder: the “beastie” ran off into the mine. The next stepped up and presented his foot, his knee bending in an unkneelike manner. “It’s also a microphone,” he said, peering at the number tattooed on the Bruuchian’s foot. He read the number off in slow, clear tones and began running the probe over the brown fur in a regular pattern.
    “Ne can figure anybody gettin’ off this planet, wantin’ to come back. How much they have to pay you?”
    “Well, there’s a new printing of my book coming out. The publisher wants it updated.”
    The man shrugged. “Long as you got a ticket back, guess it’s not so bad.
    “If you wanta take a look downstairs, go ahead. But watch your step… they run around like crazy down there—keep away from the elevator and they probably won’t trample you.”
    “Thanks.” Crowell walked down the corridor to a small open elevator. Inside, one Bruuchian was doing an impatient little dance. Over the elevator, a sign said T WO AT A T IME . Bruuchians had no written language, but this one must have known the rule; as soon as Crowell had strapped himself in, the native pushed a big red button and the elevator fell abruptly. Crowell hung on while Otto counted dispassionately. Twenty-two seconds passed before the repulsors cut on and the machine squeezed to a halt. Even allowing for air resistance, they must be over a kilometer deep.
    It was very dark, but then the Bruuchians didn’t need as much light as Terrans. He could hear activity all around as the Bruuchian shouldered past him, but he couldn’t see any thing.
    “Ah, Isaac,” said a human voice three or four meters away. “You should have warned me that you were coming.” A flashlight snapped on and the light bobbed up to Crowell.
    “Here, put these on.” He handed Crowell a pair of goggles. Nightglasses: the interior of the mine suddenly appeared, a ghostly green and gray video image.
    “Things have certainly changed,” Crowell said. “Why is it so dark?”
    “They asked for it, said the light slowed them down.”
    “Good Lord.” Crowell stared at the flurry of activity. “Makes me tired, just watching them.” The mine was a roughly square cavern the size of a large hall. Some fifty Bruuchians,