where he was ... and that was the way it should have stood.

West snapped his visor up.

"Drinking myself to death," the whiskers told him.

West stared, astounded at the utter poverty, at the absolute squalor of the place.

"Three years," said the man. "Not a single sober breath in three solid years." He hiccoughed. "Getting me," he said. His left hand came up and thumped his shrunken chest. Lint flew from the ragged underwear. The right hand still clutched the bottle.

"Earth years," the whiskers explained. "Three Earth years. Not Pluto years."

A thing that chattered came out of the shadows in one corner of the hut and leaped upon the bed. It hunched itself beside the man and stared leeringly at West, its mouth a slit that drooled across its face, its puckered hide a horror in the sickly light.

"Meet Annabelle," said the man. He whistled at the thing and it clambered to his shoulder, cuddling against his cheek.

West shivered at the sight.

"Just passing through?" the man inquired.

"My name is West," West told him. "Heading for Pluto."

"Ask them to show you the painting," said the man. "Yes, you must see the painting."

"The painting?"

"You deaf?" asked the man, belligerently. "I said a painting. You understand—a picture."

"I understand," said West. "But I didn't know there were any paintings there. Didn't even know there was anybody there."

"Sure there is," said the man. "There's Louis and—"

He lifted the bottle and took a snort.

"I got alcoholism," said the man. "Good thing, alcoholism. Keeps colds away. Can't catch a cold when you got alcoholism. Kills you quicker than a cold, though. Why, you might go on for years having colds—"

"Look," urged West, "you have to tell me about Pluto. About who's there. And the painting. 

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