the proprietor said, a trifle stiffly. "I have had horoscopes and divinations and readings of many types. All show I am destined for success in business, not in love."
"Then how can my romance do you any good? You already know you can't have it."
"On the contrary! I can't have my romance, but I can have yours-if you permit it. In that manner I can bypass this one aspect of my fate. The woman is destined for you, but would settle for me. I can tell by the way the stone reacted for you that she would do for any number of men, of whom I am one. Her appeal is very broad. It would not be as good for me as for you, since I am not reduced to your straits, but it remains highly worthwhile. Even a match not quite made in Heaven can be excellent."
"It's your stone," Zane said stubbornly. "You can zero in on her yourself. So maybe that will ruin the rest of your business; if you want romance that badly, it should be worth it to you." He was uncomfortable, suspecting that he was losing out on something important. Perhaps he should change his mind about trying to buy the Love- stone. If what awaited him was that good...
Of course, that was what the proprietor wanted him to think, so he would be compelled to make the purchase of the expensive stone and sign himself and maybe his future wife into debt for the rest of his life. Realizing that, he resisted the devious sales pitch, overtly playing along with the proprietor's supposed need for romance. Zane did have a certain affinity for intellectual games; he was much more of a thinker than an actor. He had had a decent education, before things soured, and enjoyed art and poetry. However, he had largely wasted his education, and his thoughts seemed generally to get him into trouble.
"My stone, but your romance," the proprietor said with every evidence of sincerity. "Even if I were willing tosacrifice my business for romance, which I am not, I could not use this

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stone to tune in on an encounter fated for you. It simply would not register for me. The set lines of fate are not readily reconnected. So I would hurt my business for nothing. Literally nothing."
"That is unfortunate," Zane replied noncommittally. His sympathy for those who had money and wanted ro- mance as well was slight. Everybody wanted both, of course!
"But you could orient on it, using this stone. Once it is evident who the woman is-"
"But 1 can't afford the Lovestone!" Zane was not going to be trapped into any such commitment!
"You misunderstand, sir. You will not purchase the stone. You will use it only to point out the woman. Then I will proceed to the encounter. I will have your romance."
"Oh." Zane assimilated that. Could the man be serious, after all? He was inclined to play this out and discover the catch. "I suppose that would work. But why should I do any such great favor for you?"
"For the Wealthstone," the proprietor said, gently tak- ing it from Zane's hand.
Now at last Zane understood. He had been sidetrack- ing himself, misunderstanding the thrust of the sales pitch. "You will sell me this money-gem-for an experience! I want wealth, you want romance. I can see that it would be a fair exchange-" He paused, as a piece of the puzzle failed to mesh. "But will the Lovestone work that well for me, if I don't actually own it?"
"It works for the holder. It knows nothing of owner- ship; that is a convention among people. In any event, none of this can have legal binding. But I assure you, I will give you a bill of sale for the Wealthstone, if you turn over the potential experience. This is not something money can bring. It is an opportunity that may occur for me only once in this life." The man scribbled out a sales slip.
It seemed like a bargain to Zane, if everything were as

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represented. He could have the Wealthstone in trade for a romance he had already turned down. He had an im- pulsive-some would say volatile-nature. "Agreed."
In a moment the sale was signed-one Wealthstone for private consideration, delivery after receipt of that con- sideration. Zane pocketed the sales slip, then took the Lovestone, watched it glow within its blueness, and fol- lowed the brightest spot out of the shop and onto the street.
Zane stood for a moment, blinking his eyes in the daz- zling sunlight. In a moment his vision adjusted, and he found himself focusing on the store's sign: MESS 0' POT- TAGE.
He rechecked the gem, turned it about until the glow was brightest, and walked north as indicated. The pro- prietor followed. But then the stone faded. Zane turned about, but the gem only glimmered. "I think the scent is cold."
The proprietor was unalarmed. "This is not a purely directional thing. It is situational. You have to do what you have to do to make the intersection. As you do, it guides you."
"But if it doesn't tell me what to do-"
"Start walking. Watch the stone for reaction. There are only so many options available." The man's voice was controlled, but there seemed to be a slight edge of con- cern. The whole deal would fall through, of course, if the woman could not be located.
Zane turned right and walked. He passed a penny ar- cade, where teenagers cranked old-fashioned movie- machines as they peered in the scopes, chuckling evilly. Zane judged from their reactions that it was no Dimwit Dick comic they were viewing. The arcade's name was TWO TO TWAIN, theoretically a pretension to literacy but actually a code name for earthy humor. There was a drawing of a little train puffing along, sending up cute balls of smoke, and Zane realized there was another pun in the title, when pronounced aloud.
"Try another direction," the proprietor said. "The stone is not responding." Yes, he was nervous now.

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Zane reversed again, retracing his steps. He passed the Mess o' Pottage shop and the one beyond: a paperback bookstore. "It's still not glowing," he reported.
"Let me consider," the proprietor said, pausing in front of a display of SCIENTIFIC MAGIC texts. "Where were you going?"
"Nowhere but up and down this street," Zane said wryly. "Trying to get a glimmer from this inert stone of yours."
"That's the problem. You need to be going somewhere. Your romance is. not in this street. She is wherever you intended to go when you first held the Lovestone."
"I was going home," Zane said, bemused. "I doubt romance awaits me there. I live alone in a slum."
"Then go home."
"With your precious stone?"
"Certainly-on loan. I'll be with you. We shall ex- change the Wealthstone for the Lovestone when the con- tact is made."
Zane shrugged. "As you wish." He now doubted that anything would come of this, but his curiosity remained engaged, and of course he did want the Wealthstone. He reversed direction again and walked down the street to- ward the agency where he had left his rented carpet after flying up to this shopping mall, which was magically sus- pended high above Kilvarough.
The stone glowed.
So it was true! He was headed for romance!
The proprietor lingered for a moment by the bookstore window, where he pretended to be interested in the cur- rent issue of the Satanistic journal BRIMSTONE QUAR- TERLY, then followed.
They passed the arcade again, where the kids were now playing sexy space-fiction records. Zane had once had an offer to do photography for the dust jacket illustration of such items, but had turned it down, though he needed the

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money. He simply had pot wanted to prostitute what little genuine talent he had.
Now they moved by a sweet-smelling bakery shop. Sudden hunger caught Zane, for he had not eaten in some time. Being broke had that effect. He glanced in the win- dow of the MELON PASTIES shop, noting its mascot of a voluptuous woman made of candy, with sugared melons in the appropriate place, covered by decorative pastry pasties. Displayed inside were doughnuts, cakes, eclairs, breads, cookies, pies, cream horns, Danish pastries, and pastry art: confections in the shapes and colors of leaves, flowers, human figures, cars, and ships. All of it looked and smelled more than good enough to eat.
"Keep moving," the proprietor murmured, coming up behind him.
Zane tore himself away from the window and its stom- ach-luring odors. Once he had the Wealthstone, he would return here and buy out the place and gorge himself sick as a dog!
Now a bank of fog rolled in. The mall was camouflaged as a cumulus cloud, anchored high above the city of Kil- varough. The fog generators were aimed outward, but playful breezes wafted some mist inward. It had a pleasant flower scent.
They reached the carpet agency, flying its carpet-shaped banner with the motto YOU ARE THERE NOW- Zane showed his round-trip ticket to the bored agent, and the man hauled down his carpet from a storage cubby. It was worn and faded, and dust squeezed out of its pores, but it was all he could afford. The Mess o' Pottage proprietor rented another carpet, a much larger, newer, brighter one, with comfortable anchored cushions. They carried the rolls to the exit bay, spread out the carpets, sat down on them cross-legged, fastened their seat belts, and gave the go-signals.
The carpets took off. The proprietor's moved smoothly, cushioned by air, but Zane's jerked a bit before getting into the hang of its propulsive spell. He hated that; suppose it

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pooped out in mid-air? He controlled its flight by minute shifts of his body; a tilt to right or left sent the carpet flying that way, while a lean forward or back sent it diving or ascending. Verbal commands caused it to change velocity, but he settled for the standard gear, afraid the spell would not be reliable if he pushed it. Anyway, there was other traffic, and it was easiest to keep the going pace.
Zane had always enjoyed carpeting, but could not af- ford to maintain his own carpet, or even to rent one often. It cost a lot to maintain a good carpet, and the expense- per-mile kept rising. Inflation affected everyone uncom- fortably, as it was intended to; it was, of course, a work of Satan, who campaigned perpetually and often halfway successfully to make Hell seem better than Earth.
Sure enough, the thought brought the reality: a Satanic roadsign series, each sign staked to a small, stationary cloud: SEE THIS OUTFIT? DON'T YOU SCOFF! YOU KNOW WHERE SHE TAKES IT OFF! What followed was a life-size billboard paint- ing of a truly statuesque young woman in the process of disrobing. In the comer were the two little red devil trade- mark figures. Dee & Dee, male and female, complete with cute miniature pitchforks- The male was peeking up under the model's skirt and remarking in small print, "You can't touch that in Heaven!" Then came the final sign, the signature, HELLFIRE, written in lifelike flames.
Zane shook his head. Satan had the most proficient publicity department extant, but only a fool would believe the advertising. Anyone who went to Hell would feel the flames for real, and the devils and pitchforks would not be cute. Yet the media campaign was so pervasive, in- tense, and clever-and appealed so aptly to man's baser instincts-that it was hard to keep the true nature of Hell in mind. Zane himself would have liked to see the re- mainder of the disrobing and knew it would never occur in pristine Heaven, where all thoughts were pure. Hell did have something going for it.

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The carpets cleared the environs of the cloud-mall, following the buoyed channel that spiraled down toward Kilvarough. A number of other carpets were traveling the channel, as the day was getting late. Several helicopters were flying in their own channel to the side, and farther away a lucky person was riding a winged horse.
Well, when he had control of the Wealthstone, Zane might see about purchasing his own horse. He had ridden horses many times, but only the mundane kind that ran on land. He understood that the principle of riding was similar for the winged variety, except that there were additional commands to direct them in flight. But while a good landbound horse could be had for under a thousand dollars, and a sea-horse for perhaps five thousand, air- horses began at ten thousand and required special main- tenance, since no ordinary paddock could hold them. In fact, they-
The carpet ahead of him faltered. At the same time, the Lovestone flashed brilliantly. Zane had to brake sud- denly to prevent his carpet from rear-ending the one ahead. "Hey, what the-?" he grunted.
He saw that a young woman was riding the other carpet and he did not think much of female riders. They tended to change their minds without adequate warning, as in this case, and that was dangerous in mid-air.
The woman's carpet wrinkled, sagging under her weight. It began to drop. She screamed in terror. Sud- denly Zane realized what was the matter: the spell had failed! It shouldn't have, as this was a truly elegant, ex- pensive carpet, but quality control had been deteriorating everywhere recently.
His eye was momentarily distracted by the blue light before him. The Lovestone was shining like a miniature star.
"Mine!" the Pottage proprietor cried. His carpet launched forward as the girl's carpet collapsed. The man reached out and caught the girl neatly by her slender waist, wrestling her aboard his own vehicle.

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Zane, half-stunned by the event, followed the other carpet. Now he saw how comely the girl was, with flowing fair hair and a remarkable figure. She could almost have posed for the Hellfire ad, except that there was no trace of salaciousness in her aspect. He saw how she clung to her rescuer, her maidenly bosom heaving as she sobbed with reaction. He saw how elegant her apparel was; she wore an expensive magic-mink coat, and a diamond neck- lace sparkled about her creamy neck.
And he saw how the Lovestone faded to dull-dark blue. That girl had been his prospective romance-and was no longer. He had traded her away for the Wealthstone.
The two carpets continued down the spiral channel to the carpetport in the center of the city. There Zane and the proprietor turned in their carpets, and faced each other.
"Meet Angelica," the proprietor said proudly, showing off the lovely girl. Obviously their acquaintance had blos- somed during the brief flight down. The man had saved her life, and she was the kind to be duly grateful. "She is the heiress to the Twinklestar fortune. She has invited me to her downtown penthouse for a snack of caviar and nectar. So we'd better exchange stones now and call it even." He held out the Wealthstone.
There was nothing Zane could do except trade stones. The deal had been honored. The Lovestone glowed brightly again as the other man took it; he had found his romance, outwitting fate. The Wealthstone, in contrast, was huge and dull and ugly, with the star hardly showing.
Zane could not repress the feeling that he had made a colossal error. He should have mortgaged his whole life to buy the Lovestone-for evidently this heiress-girl An- gelica had the resources and willingness to pay off such a debt offhandedly, and was a very fine creature in her own right. Love and wealth: he could have had it all.
The.girl was drawing with loving possessiveness on the

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proprietor's arm, and she was all soft and eager in her new emotion. "Must go," the Mess o' Pottage man said, delivering to Zane a kind of salute. Then they were gone, walking toward the chauffeured limousine that awaited them.
Zane stood watching the elegant contours of the girl's backside, experiencing an awful, helpless regret. What kind of fool had he been, to throw away romance untried? Somehow he knew he would never again have an oppor- tunity like this. Such things occurred only once in a life- time, if that often, and he had thrown his chance away. A kind of grief suffused him, like that for a cruelly dead lover.
Well, it was hardly the first time he had blundered disastrously! His soul was weighted with evil he should have avoided, and his life blighted with foolish error. At least he possessed the Wealthstone, and with proper man- agement he would soon be a rich man, able to attract and hold whatever type of woman he craved, or to buy a compliant female android or a luscious magical nymph. He didn't need Angelica! He had to believe that, for it was his only present buffer against overwhelming despair.
Zane knew himself to be a headstrong young idiot with delusions of artistry and literacy, whose good impulses were too often mismanaged into liabilities. Thus he had lost his dear mother, and his loving girlfriend long ago, and had sunk himself in debt. Good intentions were not enough; they had to be rationally implemented.
He could not even afford the fare for the subway home. He had the penny from his shoe, but that was not enough. He had the Wealthstone, but he refused to use it here on the darkening street; some criminal would mug him for it. Zane stuck his hands deep in his pockets, clasping the stone out of sight, and walked toward the dingy quarter where his sleazy apartment lurked.
Walking was a good time for thinking; it took a person's mind off the drudgery of the feet. But Zane's thoughts were

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not uplifting. Here he was, in the ultimate age of magic and science, where jet planes vied with flying car- pets, and he was traveling afoot, without the benefit of either.
Magic had always existed, of course, as had science, however limited the benefits of either might be for those who were broke. But it hadn't been until the time of Newton that the basic principles of the twin disciplines had been seriously explored. Newton had made great strides in formulating the fundamental laws of science in his early years, contributing more than perhaps any other man. In his later years he had performed similarly for magic.
But for reasons not clear to Zane-he had never been an apt scholar-greater progress had been made at first in science. Only recently had the enormous explosion in applied magic come. Of course, neither science nor ma- gic had affected history much until the past century, as there had been a popular prejudice against both, but science had broken out first. Now, however, the rapidly increasing sophistication of magic had brought back sup- posedly extinct monsters of many types, especially drag- ons. Whether science or magic would win out in the end was anybody's guess.
A fine drizzle developed, perhaps condensation from the cloud-mall above: not enough moisture to clean air or street, just enough to turn the dust to grease and make his footing treacherous. Cars skidded through stoplights, narrowly avoiding collisions; probably only the manda- tory anti-wreck charms saved their fenders from harm.
Now it was dusk. The street had gradually become deserted. No one walked through this section of town at this hour if he could avoid it. The buildings were old, and age had weathered them from their original technicolor to their present monochrome. This region had come to be known as Ghosttown, and at twilight sometimes the ghost appeared. But it was best not to look, because-
In fact, there she was now. Zane heard the wooden wheel

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of the wheelbarrow first, and stepped into a grimy doorway alcove so as not to disturb the apparition. A person could see the ghost, and even photograph her, but if the ghost saw the person-
Molly Malone came down the street, her wheelbarrow piled with shellfish. She was a sweet-faced young woman, pretty despite her ragged garments and heavy clogs. Women thought spiked heels and nylon stockings made their legs pretty, but legs like Molly's needed no such enhancements. "Cockles and mussels!" she cried sweetly. "Alive! Alive O!"
Zane smiled, his black mood lightening somewhat. The shellfish might be alive, but surely Molly was not. Her ghost had been conjured from Ireland a century ago to honor Kilvarough, though this city had no seacoast. It had been a publicity stunt that soon palled; ghosts were a dime a dozen. The city fathers had not then been aware of this ghost's special property. But the conjuration-spell had never been canceled, so Molly still wheeled her wheelbarrow through the streets of Kilvarough when con- ditions were right.
"This is a stickup," a gruff voice called.
Molly emitted a faint little shriek of surprise and dis- may. "Do not molest me, kind sir," she said.
"Naw, I just want your wheelbarrow," the holdup man said. "It'll fetch a few dollars on the antique market. Enough to buy me a two-day happiness-spell." He used one boot to shove the wheelbarrow over, so that its shell- fish fell into the grimy gutter.
"But, sir!" she protested. "Those cockles and mussels are my sole sustenance, and without my wheelbarrow to carry them, I will surely perish!" Molly's quaint Irish accent had faded during the past century as she picked up the contemporary idiom; but for her costume, one would hardly know her from a local lass.
"You've already perished, you stinking slut!" the man snapped, shoving her rudely out of his way.

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This was too much for Zane. He had no special feelings about ghosts and he was slightly wary of this particular one, but he did not like to see any woman abused. He strode out of the alcove. "Leave Molly alone!" he cried.
The robber swung about, bringing his pistol to bear on Zane. Zane reacted automatically, striking at the gun. It was not that he was especially brave or skilled in combat, but that once he was caught in such a situation he knew he had little choice but to carry through with sufficient dispatch to extricate himself. His hotheadedness substi- tuted nicely for courage.
One shot was fired, and Molly screamed. Then Zane got his hands on the weapon and wrenched it away from the robber.
"Pick up that wheelbarrow," Zane ordered, aiming the gun at the man. He marveled at himself, for this was not in character for him; he should now be feeling weak with reaction. Yet the outrage he felt at the man's attempted robbery of the city's mascot drove him on. "Load the shellfish back on it."
"What the hell-" the man said. But when he looked into Zane's crazy-wild face, he decided to get on with the job. Clumsily he packed the damp, sloppy creatures in their places.
"Now get out of here," Zane said.
The man started to protest. Zane's finger tightened on the trigger. The robber turned and shuffled away.
Only then did Zane notice that the man had been shot. Fresh blood stained his jacket. He would need medical attention soon, or he could bleed to death. But of course such a criminal would not seek that sort of help; it would attract the attention of the police. He would probably die, and Zane could not bring himself to feel much regret.
He jammed the gun into a pocket. He had never fired one of these things, but presumed it would not go off unless he

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pulled the trigger. Now he was suffering his letdown, for his violence came on him only in fits, and departed swiftly. "I'm sorry this happened," he told Molly. 'This is a good city, but it has some bad apples."
"I know not how to reward you, sir," the ghost said gratefully. "You are so gallant."
"Me? No. I just got mad to see a woman mistreated, especially one as lovely and historical as you. If I'd thought about it, I probably wouldn't have gotten involved." But Zane suspected he had been motivated in part by his loss of his romance with Angelica. He had had to relate to a woman somehow, so he had done it.
"Perhaps if you should find my body appealing-" Molly said. She opened her motley jacket and took a deep breath. "I am a ghost, 'tis true, but I am reasonably solid when I go abroad at dusk."
Zane was amazed. She certainly had an appealing body! She had been young and full when she died, so had re- mained that way since. But the bitter and fresh memory of his never-acquired love balked him, and the suspicion that whatever had been decent in his action of dealing with the robber would be nullified if he accepted any such reward. "Thank you, Molly, and I do find you appealing, but I would not care to impose on you in that way. Surely you have a home and husband to return to in your realm."
"No husband yet," she said sadly. "There are few good men in the neverland of-"
Then a car turned the corner. The bright headlights speared the length of the street-and the ghost vanished. Too much modem technology was hard on ghosts.
The car passed, splashing thin gook on Zane. Darkness closed again, but Molly Malone did not return. Ghosts were erratic, and the shock of the sudden light had prob- ably disinclined her to risk this region again this night. Feeling let down, Zane resumed his walk home.

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There was an eviction notice posted on his door. He had not paid his rent, and the landlord had taken action. This was not a lockout, as the landlord was actually a halfway decent specimen of his breed. Zane had twenty-four hours to get out.
Well, the Wealthstone would take care of that. It would soon generate enough money to catch up the rent, and then would proceed from there. He brought out the stone.
The star did not show up well in the artificial light, but he could make it out. "Find!" he directed the stone, fo- cusing his mind on overflowing coffers of golden coins.
The star detached itself and floated upward like the flowing ghost of an arachnid. It traveled to the dilapidated dresser against the wall and squeezed in behind it.
Zane took hold of the heavy piece of furniture and hauled it protestingly out from the wall. The star dropped down to the floor. Zane stretched one arm into the crevice between dresser and wall, reaching to the star-and his questing forefinger found a cold coin. He scooted it across the floor toward him, awkwardly.
It was a worn nickel. Good enough; the magic stone was performing as specified. The nickel happened to be closest, so was spotted first.
The star returned to the Wealthstone. "Find," Zane ordered it, envisioning a bank vault bursting with silver.
The star lifted more slowly than before, as if tired from its prior effort. It floated in leisurely fashion across the room, then descended to a crack in the floor. There, embedded edgewise, was a dime. Zane used a kitchen knife to pry it out. The thing was caked with grime; it must have been there for years. The star hovered until he actually got the coin in his hand, then snapped back to its home-stone. That meant he couldn't afford to give up on the job; he could not invoke the Wealthstone again until he cleared its last entry. That would be an inconvenience if there happened to be a

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fabulous forgottenburied cache a few feet beyond a dozen minor coins, but he could live with it.
He tried again. "Find. Something better this time, like a gold doubloon or a fantastically rare and valuable coin. Enough of this nickel-and-dime stuff."
The star pulled itself slowly from the stone and drifted toward the door to the apartment. There was no doubt about it: the star lost energy with each use. Probably it needed a set time to recharge its magic, like several hours or a day. That, too, was inconvenient-but of course, all he needed was to find one real treasure. That would be worth a week of slow questing. Then the gem could have as long a rest as it needed.
The star drifted up against the door and hesitated. Zane opened the door and let it out. At least the six-legged light-bug didn't zoom away, out of sight; that could have made it useless, for it would be as lost as the coin it identified. But the spell did seem to be underpowered. He had now been at it twenty minutes, and had only fifteen cents to show for it. Plus the penny he had found at the shop. That would hardly make a dent in his overdue rent.
The star sank to the floor of the hall. There, embedded in the packed dirt, was a battered and weathered penny. Zane pried it up, and the star wended its way tiredly to the stone Zane carried. Some fortune!
Zane returned to his apartment and considered. The Wealthstone performed-but so far at strictly penny-ante level. At the present rate, he could labor all night for a mere dollar or two in change-and the star was obviously too tired to go the night.
The Wealthstone worked-but now he perceived cer- tain inherent limits. It always went to the nearest unat- tached money, of whatever denomination, and the vast majority of lost money was of the picayune category. No doubt if there were a five-thousand-dollar gold piece near, the star would find it-but none was near, while there were endless pennies.

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People simply did not let a heavy gold piece fall into a crack and be lost, though they did let pennies go. So while it was true that the Wealthstone could find thousands of dollars, this was like the gold in sea water; it cost more in time and effort to recover that one part per million than it was worth.
Zane's eye traveled around the room. It was cluttered with his photographic equipment. He had artistic aspi- rations and the nefarious artistic temperament, but lacked the talent to make it as a painter or sculptor, so had gone into photography instead. He could appreciate art when he saw it, and the camera enabled him to capture the incidental art of the environment. The trouble was, there was not much in the city of Kilvarough that was worth- while that hadn't already been photographed. Even the ghost Molly Malone had been pictured many times; it was not true that a ghost could not be photographed, and she loved to pose if she happened to perceive the camera. She could even be heard on occasion, singing her tradi- tional song, especially the line, "Where the girls are so pretty." But she was not as popular a subject as she might have been, owing to her special property.
Zane had discovered a photographic variant, however, that had enabled him to eke out a living for a while. This was the Kirlian technique, magically augmented. But cer- tain problems in the market had turned him off this, and recently his luck had expired. Without expensive new equipment, he was out of business. That was part of what had sent him aloft to the cloud-mall, using his last dollar to rent the flying carpet. One had to visit these floaters when they anchored near, because they were liable to drift away without notice if the local police got too snoopy.
Now he was hungry, without food in the apartment, and required to move out within a day. He had nowhere to go. He had to have money-and he greatly feared he couldn't get enough.

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He tried the Wealthstone again. "Go!" he urged it. "Find me wealth beyond my fondest dreams!"
The star heaved itself up, faltered, and collapsed back onto the stone. It was too pooped to perform.
And what would it find if it did get moving? Probably more pennies. Zane faced the fact that he had thrown away the chance of a lifetime, for wonderful and rich romance, for this mess o' pottage. He had in fact.been cheated, though the gem had not technically been mis- represented, so he had no recourse. The shop's proprietor had used him for his own profit, taking Zane's one chance away forever. After all, even without the Lovestone, he might have encountered Angelica...
Fool! Fool! he chided himself savagely.
He paced around the room, tasting ashes, seeking some way out of his situation. He found none. Once he had made his deep blunder of passing up the Lovestone, his ruinous course had been fixed. If only he hadn't been so set on wealth, to the exclusion of all else. But he had always been an impulsive, wrongheaded idiot, doing what he thought was right at the time and regretting it too late. His whole life had been grinding inexorably to this dead end; he saw that now. If he somehow found enough loose change to pay his back rent, he still would lack the re- sources to make a decent living and still would not have a lovely girl to love.
That was the crux of it! Angelica-slated for him, but squandered away. In retrospect he found himself scram- bling into love with her, his emotion based on wrong- headed hopes and wishes-and knew she was the type who only loved once, and that her gift had been bestowed irrevocably on another man. Zane might live on, but he would never have Angelica, not even if the conniving shop proprietor were to drop dead this moment. So what point was there in going on?
He looked at the defunct stone again. Now it seemed drab indeed, its colors muddy, its imperfections gross. It was, he

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realized abruptly, as ugly as his conscience. It was virtually worthless-and so was he.
Zane slapped his open hand against his thigh as if trying to punish himself-and felt the pistol in his pocket, the one he had taken from the robber.
He drew it out. He was not conversant with firearms, but this one seemed simple enough. It had a clip of several bullets in the handle, and one of them had been fired from the chamber. An automatic mechanism had set a new bullet in the chamber; he had no doubt that a pull on the trigger would make the weapon fire again. He could put the muzzle to his head, and-
Now he remembered the first gem he had considered- the Deathstone. It had signaled his demise in a few hours. Those hours had passed. The Lovestone had proved it- self, so he had no further reason to doubt the Deathstone. Even the Wealthstone worked, in its fashion. He was fated soon to depart this life.
Zane lifted the gun. Why not? His life might as well end efficiently, instead of being dragged out in the gutters of the city. Some considered the meeting with Molly to be a signal of doom. Certainly it would have been had he accepted her offer and made love to her. It was, of course, death to love the dead. Sweet Molly herself might not be aware of that, but she did want a husband, and if he had become a ghost in her arms...
The truth about Molly was that, while any person could see her with impunity, she herself could perceive only those who were approaching her condition. So if Molly saw a person, that person would soon be dead. She was not the cause, merely the signal. If a person was afraid that he was destined to die soon, he could show himself to Molly and, if she passed him without ntice, he could relax. This aspect of her nature had somehow escaped Zane's consciousness at the time, but it was true.
Probably he had censored it out emotionally. Yet of course

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the robber, who had certainly been seen by the ghost, had almost certainly taken a fatal wound.
Oh, yes, there had been omens enough. Why not accept his fate with greater grace than he had accepted his life, and do it now, before his natural cowardice overcame him? Make it quick an clean...well, quick, anyway.
Overwhelmed by the rightness of it, Zane pointed the gun at his head. He oriented th e muzzle on the cavity of his right ear, somehow diffident about spoiling his head by puncturing it in a messy place. Now was indeed the time! As his finger tensed, somewhat reluctantly to move rapidly, Zane saw the door to his apartment open. He froze in place, uncertain whether to pull the trigger now, before being interrupted, or to hope for some amazing reprieve. Could Angelica have changed her mind and sought him out? Foolish notion! Or was it merely his landlord?
It was neither. The figure that appeared was garbed in non-reflective black, with a hood shrouding its head. It closed the door behind it silently, then turned to face Zane full on.
A bald, bony skull looked eyelessly at him.
This was Death come to collect him.
Zane tried to cry out in pointless protest, buthis throat locked. He tried to loosen his trigger finger, but i was already the squeeze message and would not accept no countermand. Time seemed to slow, and Zane could do nothing to abort the suicide he had set up. Yet the shock of seeing the visage of Death himself had abruptly banished any desire Zane had to kill himself.
His finger muscles would not obey him, but his larger arm muscles did. Zane wrenched the pistol around. The muzzle came to bear on Death's head as the trigger tripped. The gun seemed to explode, kicking back against his hand.
The bullet smashed into the centre of Death's face.
A hole opened. Blood flowed. Death fell heavily to the floor. Zane stood aghast. he had killed death.

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