ref: b9fbb17c04e4ccfb2021dac818e514351ca8f646
dir: /troff/0501.ms/
.LP \& .ce .sp |4.25i .ps 12 .I I've had dreams of us cuddling on the planet Mars .R .PP .ps 12 \(em Prince, .I Space .R .PP .ps 12 .CW ░ Evident along the pathway were the occasional clearings, open spaces relatively lacking in tree cover (and thus, in near\-field surveillance). The lag could be exploited in various ways. Bear decided to test the limits of exploitation. .PP .ps 12 Crossing the pasture would draw the attention of certain locals bent on collecting a finder's fee. Of course, they would never tell his parents. He paid them and left. .PP .ps 12 He could still feel the breeze on his neck. He could still hear the trees whispering behind his back even as he decided to remain silent about his role in tonight's events. There would be no accounting for his efforts, which he hoped would remain forever obscured. .PP .ps 12 He walked home and slipped quietly into his room. No messages, which was fine. Half asleep, bear lay down on his bed and covered his face with his blanket. .PP .ps 12 Stupid bear. .PP .ps 12 Get out of bed. .PP .ps 12 It was always the same field he had to cross in order to get back home. Bear would leave and come back. One thing he could always count on was the sinking feeling he'd get whenever he was stopped for conversation. Locals. .PP .ps 12 Bear never chatted for long. He would nod, grunt, and then make his excuses. Some of them would get the message. Others he would have to eat. .PP .ps 12 He hoarded all the best bits in his den. A collector's collector. He was aware that the extent and condition of his massive collection would vex his contemporaries. Of course, he didn't broadcast his good fortune. It was nearly winter. .PP .ps 12 And he was once again trying to record. The tape machine was being finicky in its usual way. It was true he had slacked off on maintenance, but the damned thing was hard to work with even on a good day. No, no more degaussing. He tried one last take and then he put his equipment away. Later for this. .PP .ps 12 The field and his den sometimes seemed like the whole world. These two miserable tracts. .PP .ps 12 Bear's mind wandered. .PP .ps 12 The dialectic of field and den strained under the immense weight of bear's concentration. One no longer seemed entirely distinct from the other. His interests had become global. As he searched the firmament for the borderlands he knew must exist, he encountered diverse locals, new locales, but no clearly defined borders. Some of them he knew and remembered, some vexed him with unfamiliar language and customs. .PP .ps 12 Bear knew all the citizens of this binary world were capable of more, so much more. .PP .ps 12 It was simply a matter of uncovering their boundaries, then expanding their awareness slowly to move beyond them. Bear felt instinctively that he was ready. The others he wasn't so sure about. .PP .ps 12 Carefully, he began to sketch a map. .PP .ps 12 But it was all coming out in the wrong colors. Bear across the meadow, bear just as he was. He could feel the pressure building behind his gleaming black eyes. He used his words. This was how it worked. But after a while the words were no longer enough. .PP .ps 12 "Tell me," said bear, "What will I think of next?" .PP .ps 12 Pinpricks in his spine. .PP .ps 12 Time to go home.