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I have smelt it all my life. This is my life. No! Before then. I have smelt that stench before now. In some other. . .
    Christ!
    I'm getting the Haunting!
    The flesh enveloping me. All of my openings filled with the meat. I'm being killed by Vurt flesh.
    Vurt! I'm in a Vurt. Which one? Let me do a jerkout!
    The flesh of the Thing wrapping me in fat I've got no breath left. These are my last seconds. . .
    The Thing! Christ! Hope it's not a Yellow. Jerkout!

    I'm lying across the Thing, right in front of the fire. The Thing has got its tentacles around me, squeezing. I can hardly breathe. Let me tell you; hardly is enough. At least it's stale, unhealthy Stash Rider pad air that I'm breathing. That is enough. That is beautiful. I slide out of the Thing's sleepy embraces, falling onto the pad floor.
    The carpet is most welcome, a real haven of bliss.
    Above me the ceiling dances with pictures. Desdemona had painted them there; images of dragons and snakes, all writhing around a sharpened blade. That was her mind. And I was part of it.
    Let us concentrate on the days to come, all the good things to come. Stash Riders finding English Voodoo, for instance. Riders getting the Thing back to his home planet. Swapping him over, for Desdemona. Riders getting out of this junk palace, getting a good life. Bridget finding a better love than the Beetle. The Beetle finding something, something to cling to. All the things that we had to get done. And the petals falling from the clock.
    Just then the telephone rang. It sounded harsh and ill against the murmurings of love, and I could tell it had bad news to give, because that phone had been cut off, unpaid, some six months ago. No way could it be ringing! I jumped up from the floor,
    and reached it on what seemed like the last ring -- "Scribble!"
    The voice. "Desdemona!" "Scribble. . ."
    "Is that you, Desdemona?" "Scribble. Help me."
    Oh Jesus, Desdemona. . . "Help me, Scribble." "Where are you?"
    "Find me! It hurts. The razor. . ." "Where are you, Des?"
    "A curious. . ." Her voice was drifting off, into the Vurt spaces. "Curious? Curious what? Des?"
    No answer. Just the waves of static coming through, wave against wave, yellow on yellow; I could hear the colours!
    "Talk to me, Des! For fuck's sake!" "Find a door. . . a curious house. . ." "What?"
    The voice just a whisper. "Find a door. . ." "Where? Where to?" I was shouting now. "Get to me, Scribble. . . get to me. . ." The way through was dying in my hands. "Des! Talk to me! Talk to me. . ." Silence.
    Oh Desdemona. Sister, oh sister. Where are you going?
    I had my ear pressed up hard against the phone, but there was nothing. Nothing there. Just a bad buzz on the line. And the silence in the room.
    And the petals falling, falling, from the face of the clock, making a carpet of flowers, where I would lay myself down, forgetting all my troubles.
    All my troubles. . .

GAME CAT
    It has been calculated, by the calculators, that one night can hold SIX DREAMS only. There is a colour for each, a feather for each. BLUE is the colour of safe desires, legal dreaming. BLACK is the colour of bootleg Vurt, feathers of tenderness and pain, one sliver beyond the law. PINK is the colour of Pornovurts, doorways to bliss. CREAM is the colour of a used-up feather, one that has been drained of dreams. Only blue, black, and pink feathers go cream. The makers build this property in to the flights, just to make sure you come back for more. You only get one trip per journey. SILVER is the colour of the operators; those who work the feathers -- making them, filming them, doing the remixes, opening doors. They are the toolkit feathers, and the Game Cat has a collection worth dying for. YELLOW is the colour of death, and should be avoided at all costs.
    They are not for the weak. Yellows have no jerkout facilities. Be careful. Be very, very careful. If you die in a yellow dream, you die in real life. The only way out is to finish the game.

    DAY 2
    "Good dreams of bad