I'm a baitman. No one is born a baitman, except in a French novel whereeveryone is. (In fact, I think that's the title, _We are All Bait_. Pfft!)How I got that way is barely worth the telling and has nothing to do withneo-exes, but the days of the beast deserve a few words, so here they are.

The Lowlands of Venus lie between the thumb and forefinger of thecontinent known as Hand. When you break into Cloud Alley it swings itssilverblack bowling ball toward you without a warning. You jump then, insidethat firetailed tenpin they ride you down in, but the straps keep you frommaking a fool of yourself. You generally chuckle afterwards, but you alwaysjump first.

Next, you study Hand to lay its illusion and the two middle fingersbecome dozen-ringed archipelagoes as the outers resolve into greengraypeninsulas; the thumb is too short, and curls like the embryo tail of CapeHorn.

You suck pure oxygen, sigh possibly, and begin the long topple back tothe Lowlands.

There, you are caught like an infield fly at the Lifeline landingarea--so named because of its nearness to the great delta in the EasternBay--located between the first peninsula and "thumb." For a minute it seemsas if you're going to miss Lifeline and wind up as canned seafood, butafterwards--shaking off the metaphors--you descend to scorched concrete andpresent your middle-sized telephone directory of authorizations to theshort, fat man in the gray cap. The papers show that you are not subject tomysterious inner rottings and etcetera. He then smiles you a short, fat,gray smile and motions you toward the bus which hauls you to the ReceptionArea. At the R.A. you spend three days proving that, indeed, you are notsubject to mysterious inner rottings and etcetera.

Boredom, however, is another rot. When your three days are up, you