ose tele-
pathic  research.  In  fact,  telepathy properly  used and
understood  could  be  the  ultimate  defense  against any
form  of  organized  coercion  or tyranny  on the  part of
of pressure groups or individual  control addicts.  We op-
pose,  as we  oppose atomic  war, the  use of  such knowl-
edge to control, coerce, debase, exploit or annihilate the
individuality  of  another  living creature.  Telepathy is
not, by its nature, a one-way process.  To attempt  to set
up  a  one-way  telepathic  broadcast  must   be  regarded
as an unqualified evil...."
  D.B.--  Definitive  Bulletin:  "The  Sender  will  be  de-
fined  by  negatives.  A  low  pressure  area,  a  sucking
emptiness.  He  will  be  portentously   anonymous,  face-
less, colorless. He will -- probably -- be born  with smooth
disks of skin instead of  eyes. He  always knows  where he
is going like a virus knows. He doesn't need eyes."
  "Couldn't there be more than one Sender?"
  "Oh yes, many of them at first. But  not for  long. Some
maudlin  citizens  will  think  they  can  send  something
edifying, not realizing that  sending is  evil. Scientists
will say: 'Sending  is like  atomic power....  If properly
harnessed.' At this point an anal  technician mixes  a bi-
carbonate of soda and  pulls the  switch that  reduces the
earth to cosmic  dust. ('Belch...  They'll hear  this fart
on Jupiter.')... Artists will  confuse sending  with crea-
tion.  They  will  camp around  screeching 'A  new medium'
until  their  rating drops  off.... Philosophers  will bat
around  the  ends  and  means  hassle  not   knowing  that
sending  can  never  be  a  means  to  anything  but  more
sending, Like Junk.  Try using  junk as  a means  to some-
thing  else....   Some  citizens   with  'Coca   Cola  and
aspirin'  control habits  will be  talking about  the evil
glamor of  sending. But  no one  will talk  about anything
very long. The Sender, he don't like talking."
  The  Sender  is  not  a human  individual.... It  is The
Human  Virus.  (All virus  are deteriorated  cells leading
a parasitic existence.... They have specific  affinity for
the Mother Cell;  thus deteriorated  liver cells  seek the
home  place  of  hepatitis,  etc. So  every species  has a
Master Virus: Deteriorated Image of that species. )
  The  broken  image  of  Man  moves  in minute  by minute
and cell by cell....  Poverty, hatred,  war, police-crimi-
nals,  bureaucracy,  insanity,  all  symptoms  of  The Human
Virus.
  The  Human  Virus  can  now  be  isolated   and  treated.

        THE COUNTY CLEъK

  The  County  Clerk  has  his  office in  a huge  red brick
building  known  as the  Old Court  House. Civil  cases are,
in  fact,  tried there,  the proceeding  inexorably dragging
out until the  contestants die  or abandon  litigation. This
is due to  the vast  number of  records pertaining  to abso-
lutely  everything,  all filed  in the  wrong place  so that
no  one but  the County  Clerk and  his staff  of assistants
can  find them,  and he  often spends  years in  the search.
In fact, he is still looking for material relative to a dam-
age  suit  that  was  settled  out of  court in  1910. Large
sections  of  the  Old  Court  House  have fallen  in ruins,
and   others   are  highly   dangerous  owing   to  frequent
cave-ins.  The  County  Clerk  assigns  the  more  dangerous
missions to  his assistants,  many of  whom have  lost their
lives  in  the  service.  In  1912  two  hundred  and  seven
assistants  were  trapped  in  a  collapse of  the North-by-
North-East wing.
  When  suit  is  brought  against anyone  in the  Zone, his
lawyers  connive  to have  the case  transferred to  the Old
Court House. Once this is done, the  plaintiff has  lost the
case, so the only  cases that  actually go  to trial  in the
Old  Court  House  are  those  instigated by  eccentrics and
paranoids   who   want  "a   public  hearing,"   which  they
rarely  get  since only  the most  desperate famine  of news
will bring a reporter to the Old Court House.
  The  Old Court  House is  located in  the town  of Pigeon
Hole  outside  the  urban  zone.  The  inhabitants  of this
town  and  the  surrounding  area   of  swamps   and  heavy
timber are  people of  such great  stupidity and  such bar-
barous  practices that  the Administration  has seen  Bt to
quarantine  them in  a reservation  surrounded by  a radio-
active wall of iron bricks. In retaliation the  citizens of
Pigeon  Hole  plaster  their  town  with  signs:  "Urbanite
Don't  Let  The  Sun  Set  On  You  Here,"  an  unnecessary
injunction,  since  nothing   but  urgent   business  would
take any urbanite to Pigeon Hole.
  Lee's case is  urgent. He  has to  file an  immediate affi-
davit  that  he is  suffering from  bubonic plague  to avoid
eviction from  the house  he has  occupied ten  years with-
out  paying the  rent. He  exists in  perpetual quarantine.
So he  packs his  suitcase of  affidavits and  petitions and
injunctions  and  certificates  and  takes  a  bus  to  the
Frontier.   The  Urbanite   customs  inspector   waves  him
through:  "I hope  you've got  an atom  bomb in  that suit-
case."

  Lee  swallows  a  handful  of  tranquilizing   pills  and
steps  into the  Pigeon Hole  customs shed.  The inspectors
spend  three  hours  pawing  through  his  papers, consult-
ing  dusty  books  of  regulations  and  duties  from which
they  read  incomprehensible  and  ominous   excerpts  end-
ing  with:  "And  as such  is subject  to fine  and penalty
under act 666." They look at him significantly.
  They go through his papers with a magnifying glass.
  "Sometimes   they  slip   dirty  limericks   between  the
lines."
  "Maybe he figures to sell them for toilet paper.  Is this
crap for your own personal use?"
  "Yes."
  "He says yes."
  "And how do we know that?"
  "I gotta affidavit."
  "Wise guy. Take off your clothes."
  "Yeah. Maybe he got dirty tattoos."
  They  paw  over  his  body probing  his ass  for contra-
band  and  examine it  for evidence  of sodomy.  They dunk
his hair and  send the  water out  to be  analyzed. "Maybe
he's got dope in his hair."
  Finally,  they  impound  his  suitcase; and  he staggers
out of the shed with a fifty pound bale of documents.
  A  dozen or  so ъecordites  sit on  the Old  Court House
steps  of  rotten  wood.  They  watch  his  approach  with
pale  blue  eyes,  turning  their  heads slow  on wrinkled
necks (the wrinkles full of  dust) to  follow his  body up
the  steps  and through  the door.  Inside, dust  hangs in
the air like fog, sifting down from the ceiling, rising in
clouds from the floor as  he walks.  He mounts  a perilous
staircase  --  condemned  in  1929.  Once  his   foot  goes
through, and the dry splinters tear into the flesh  of his
leg. The stairscase ends in a painter's scaffold, attached
with frayed rope and  pullies to  a beam  almost invisible
in dusty  distance. He  pulls himself  up cautiously  to a
ferris wheel cabin.  His weight  sets in  motion hydraulic
machinery  (sound  of  running  water).  The  wheel  moves
smooth and silent to stop  by a  rusty iron  balcony, worn
through here and  there like  an old  shoe sole.  He walks
down  a  long  corridor  lined  with  doors, most  of them
nailed or boarded shut.  In one  office, Near  East Exqui-
sitries on a green  brass plaque,  the Mugwump  is catch-
ing termites with his long black tongue. The door  of the
County Clerk's office is open. The  County Clerk  sits in-
side  gumming  snuff, surrounded  by six  assistants. Lee
stands in  the doorway.  The County  Clerk goes  on talk-
ing without looking up.
  "I  run into  Ted Spigot  the other  day... a  good old
boy, too. Not a finer man  in the  Zone than  Ted Spigot.
...Now  it  was  a  Friday I  happen to  remember because
the  Old  Lady  was  down  with  the menstrual  cramps and
I went to Doc Parker's drugstore  on Dalton  Street, just
opposite  Ma  Green's   Ethical  Massage   Parlor,  where
Jed's old  livery stable  used to  be.... Now,  Jed, I'll
remember  his  second name  directly, had  a cast  in the
left  eye and  his wife  came from  some place  out East,
Algiers I believe it was, and after Jed died  she married
up  again, and  she married  one of  the Hoot  boys, Clem
Hoot  if  my  memory  serves,  a  good  old boy  too, now
Hoot  was around  fifty-four fifty-five  year old  at the
time.... So I says to Doc  Parker: 'My  old lady  is down
bad  with  the  menstrual  cramps. Sell  me two  ounces of
paregoric.'
  "So Doc  says, 'Well,  Arch, you  gotta sign  the book.
Name, address and date of purchase. It's the law.'
  "So I asked Doc what the  day was,  and he  said, 'Fri-
day the 13th.'
  "So I said, ' I guess I already had mine.'
  "'Well,' Doc  says, 'there  was a  feller in  here this
morning. City feller. Dressed kinda  flashy. So  he's got
him a ъX  for a  mason jar  of morphine....  Kinda funny
looking prescription writ out on  toilet paper....  And I
told him straight out: "Mister, I suspect you to be a
dope Bend." '
  "'"I got the ingrowing toe nails, Pop. I'm in agony."'
he says.
  "'"Well," I says, "I gotta be careful. But so long as
you got a legitimate condition and an ъX from a certi-
Bed bona feedy M.D., I'm honored to serve you." '
  "'"That croaker's really certified," he say.... Well, I
guess one hand didn't know what the other was doing
when I give him a jar of Saniflush by error.... So I
reckon he's had his too.'
  "'Just the thing to clean a man's blood.'
  "'You know, that very thing occurred to me. Should
be a sight better than sulphur and molasses.... Now,
Arch, don't think I'm nosey; but a man don't have no
secrets from God and his druggist I always say.... Is
you still humping the Old Gray Mare?'
  " 'Why, Doc Parker... I'll have you know I'm a
family man and an Elder in the First Denominational
Non-sextarian Church and I ain't had a piecea hoss ass
since we was kids together.'
  "'Them was the days, Arch. ъemember the time I
got the goose grease mixed up with the mustard? Al-
ways was a one to grab the wrong jar, feller say. They
could have heard you squealing over in Cunt Lick
County, just a squealing like a stoat with his stones cut
off.'
  "'You're in the wrong hole, Doc. It was you took the
mustard and me as had to wait till you cooled off.'
  "'Wistful thinking, Arch. I read about it one time
inna magazine settin' in that green outhouse behind the
station.... Now what I meant awhile back, Arch, you
didn't rightly understand me.... I was referring to your
wife as the Old Cray Mare.... I mean she ain't what
she used to be what with all them carbuncles and cata-
racts and chilblains and hemorrhoids and aftosa.'
  "'Yas, Doc, Liz is right sickly. Never was the same
after her eleventh miscarriaging.... There was some-
thing right strange about that. Doc Ferris he told me
straight, he said: "Arch, 'tain't fitting you should see
that critter." And he gives me a long look made my flesh
crawl.... Well, you sure said it right, Doc. She ain't
what she used to be. And your medicines don't seem
to ease her none. In fact, she ain't been able to tell
night from day since using them eye drops you sold her
last month.... But, Doc, you oughtta know I wouldn't
be humping Liz, the old cow, meaning no disrespect to
the mother of my dead monsters. Not when I got that
sweet little ol' fifteen year old thing.... You know that
yaller girl used to work in Marylou's Hair Straightening
and Skin Bleach Parlor over in Nigga town.'
  "'Getting that dark chicken meat, Arch? Gettin' that
coon pone?'
  "'Gettin' it steady, Doc. Gettin' it steady. Well, feller
say duty is goosing me. Gotta get back to the old crank
case.'
  "'I'll bet she needs a grease job worst way.'
  "'Doc, she sure is a dry hole.... Well, thanks for the
paregoric.
  " 'And thanks for the trade, Arch.... He he he...
Say, Archy boy, some night when you get caught short
with a rusty load drop around and have a drink of
Yohimbiny with me.'
  "'I'll do that, Doc, I sure will. It'll be just like old
times.
  "So  I  went  on  back to  my place  and heated  up some
water  and  mixed  up  some   paregoric  and   cloves  and
cinnamon and sassyfrass and give it to  Liz, and  it eased
her some I reckon.  Leastwise she  let up  aggravatin' me.
... Well, later on I went  down to  Doc Parker's  again to
get me a rubber... and just as  I was  leaving I  run into
ъoy Bane, a good ol' boy too. There's not  a finer  man in
this Zone  than ъoy  Bane.... So  he said  to me  he says,
'Arch, you see that ol' nigger over  there in  that vacant
lot? Well, sure as shit  and taxes,  he comes  there every
night just as regular you can set your  watch by  him. See
him  behind   them  nettles?   Every  night   round  about
eight thirty he goes over into that  lot yonder  and pulls
himself  off  with steel  wool.... Preachin'  Nigger, they
tell me.'
  "So that's  how I  come to  know the  hour more  or less
on Friday the  13th and  it couldn't  have been  more than
twenty  minutes  half an  hour after  that, I'd  took some
Spanish Fly in Doc's store  and it  was jest  beginning to
work  on  me  down  by  Grennel  Bog on  my way  to Nigger
town....  Well the  bog makes  a bend,  used to  be nigger
shack  there....  They  burned  that  ol'  nigger  over in
Cunt Lick. Nigger  had the  aftosa and  it left  him stone
blind....  So   this  white   girl  down   from  Texarkana
screeches out:
  "'ъoy, that ol' nigger is looking at me so nasty. Land's
sake I feel just dirty all over.'
  "'Now,  Sweet  Thing,  don't you  fret yourself.  Me an'
the boys will burn him.'
  "'Do  it  slow,  Honey  Face.  Do  it  slow.  He's   give  me
a sick headache.'
  "So  they  burned  the  nigger  and  that  ol'  boy  took his
wife  and  went  back  up  to  Texarkana  without   paying  for
the  gasoline  and   old  Whispering   Lou  runs   the  service
station  couldn't  talk  about  nothing  else all  Fall: 'These
city  fellers  come  down  here  and  burn  a nigger  and don't
even settle up for the gasoline.'
  "Well,  Chester  Hoot  tore  that   nigger  shack   down  and
rebuilt  it  just  back  of  his  house  up  in   Bled  Valley.
Covered   up   all   the   windows   with   black   cloth,  and
what  goes  on  in  there  ain't  fittin'  to speak  of.... Now
Chester   he's   got   some   right   strange   ways....   Well
it  was  just  where  the  nigger  shack  used  to   be,  right
across   from   the   Old   Brooks   place   Hoods   out  every
Spring,   only  it   wasn't  the   Brooks  place   then...  be-
longed  to  a  feller  name  of  Scranton.  Now  that  piece of
land  was  surveyed  back  in  1919....   I  reckon   you  know
the   man   did   the   job   too....   Feller  name   of  Hump
Clarence  used  to  witch  out  wells  on  the   side....  Good
ol'  boy  too,  not  a  finer  man  in  this  Zone   than  Hump
Clarence....  Well  it  was  just  around  about  in   there  I
come on Ted Spigot ascrewin a mud puppy."
  Lee  cleared  his  throat.  The  Clerk  looked  up  over  his
glasses. "Now if you'll take care, young feller, till  I finish
what I'm asaying, I'll tend to your business."
  And  he  plunged  into   an  anecdote   about  a   nigra  got
the hydrophobia from a cow.
  "So  my  pappy  says  to  me:  'Finish  up your  chores, son,
and  let's   go  see   the  mad   nigger....'  They   had  that
nigger  chained  to  the  bed,  and  he  was  bawling   like  a
cow....  I  soon  got  enough  of  that  ol'  nigger.  Well, if
you all will excuse me I got business in the  Privy Coun-
cil. He he he!"
  Lee listened in  horror. The  County Clerk  often spent
weeks  in the  privy living  on scorpions  and Montgomery
Ward catalogues. On several occasions his  assistants had
forced  the  door  and  carried  him  out in  an advanced
state of malnutrition. Lee decided to play his last card.
  "Mr.  Anker,"  he said,  "I'm appealing  to you  as one
ъazor  Back  to  another,"  and he  pulled out  his ъazor
Back card, a memo of his lush-rolling youth.
  The Clerk looked at the  card suspiciously:  "You don't
look  like  a  bone  feed mast-fed  ъazor Back  to me....
What you think about the Jeeeeews... P"
  "Well, Mr.  Anker, you  know yourself  all a  Jew wants
to do is doodle a  Christian girl....  One of  these days
well cut the rest of it off."
  "Well, you talk  right sensible  for a  city feller....
Find  out what  he wants  and take  care of  him.... He's
a good ol' boy."

        INTEъZONE

  The only native in Interzone who  is neither  queer nor
available is Andrew  Keif's chauffeur,  which is  not af-
fectation or perversity on Keif's part, but a useful pre-
text to break off  relations with  anyone he  doesn't want
to see: "You made a pass at Aracknid list night.  I can't
have you to the  house again."  People are  always black-
ing out in the Zone, whether  they drink  or not,  and no
one can say for sure he  didn't make  a pass  at Aracknid's
unappetizing person.
  Aracknid  is  a  worthless   chauffeur,  barely   able  to
drive.  On  one  occasion  he  ran  down  a  pregnant woman
in  from  the  mountains  with  a load  of charcoal  on her
back,  and  she  miscarriaged  a bloody,  dead baby  in the
street, and Keif got out and sat on  the curb  stirring the
blood  with a  stick while  the police  questioned Aracknid
and  finally  arrested  the  woman for  a violation  of the
Sanitary Code.
  Aracknid  is  a  grimly   unattractive  young   man  with
a long face of a strange,  slate-blue color.  He has  a big
nose  and  great  yellow  teeth like  a horse.  Anybody can
find  an  attractive  chauffeur,   but  only   Andrew  Keif
could  have  found Aracknid;  Keif the  brilliant, decadent
young  novelist  who lives  in a  remodeled pissoir  in the
red light district of the Native Quarter.
  The  Zone  is  a  single,  vast  building. The  rooms are
made  of  a  plastic  cement  that  bulges  to  accommodate
people,  but  when  too  many  crowd  into  one  room there
is  a  soft  plop  and  someone  squeezes through  the wall
right into the next house, the next bed that is,  since the
rooms  are  mostly  bed  where  the  business  of  the Zone
is  transacted.  A  hum  of  sex  and  commerce  shakes the
Zone like a vast hive:
  "Two  thirds  of  one  percent. I  won't budge  from that
figure; not even for my bumpkins."
  "But where are the bills of lading, lover?"
  "Not where you're looking, pet. That's too obvious."
  "A bale of levies with built-in  falsie baskets.  Made in
Hollywood."
  "Hollywood, Siam."
  "Well American style."
  "What's    the    commission?...    The    commission....
The Commission."
  "Yes,  nugget,  a  shipload  of  K.Y.  made   of  genuine
whale  dreck  in  the  South  Atlantic  at  present quaran-
tined  by  the  Board of  Health in  Tierra del  Fuego, The
commission, my dear! If  we can  pull this  off we'll  be in
clover."  (Whale  dreck  is  reject  material  that accumu-
lates  in the  process of  cutting up  a whale  and cooking
it down. A  horrible, fishy  mess you  can smell  for miles.
No one has found any use for it. )
  Interzone  Imports  Unlimited,  which  consists  of  Mar-
vie  and  Leif  The  Unlucky,  had  latched  onto  the K.Y.
deal?  In  fact  they  specialize  in   pharmaceuticals  and
run  a  24-hour  Pro  station, six  ways coverage  fore and
aft, as a side line. ( Six separate venereal  diseases have
been identified to date. )
  They  plunge  into  the  deal.  They  form  unmentionable
services  for  a  spastic  Greek  shipping  agent,  and one
entire shift of Customs inspectors.  The two  partners fall
out  and  fi