STEP TROLLS
by Kevin Robinson


[  Kevin Robinson is a Kansas City based freelance writer who's been at it
full-time for just over six years.  He has been published in numerous
publications (both fiction and nonfiction), and has a mystery novel (SPLIT
SECONDS) scheduled to be published by Walker Publishing in spring.  He is
married, has a 15-year-old daughter and owns a basset named "Muffie," who
he alleges is "as dumb as a brick."  ]


This story first appeared in the 12/88 issue of Analog
Science Fiction/Science Fact, and is reprinted here with
the permission of the author.

(c)1988 WeeCoat


     Many years ago--according the children's tales--when
life was simpler, there was a place for everything and
everything had its place.  Unicorns inhabited the dark
forest; dragons occupied winding lairs in the cliffs
above the sea; griffins made their aeries in the craggy
mountain peaks; and trolls hid under quiet country
bridges.  Nothing lasts forever.

     They are not at all happy--being found out after so
many years--but the Step Trolls bear me a grudging
respect nonetheless.  It is, after all, their own
cleverness that has enabled them to adapt and survive... 
long after any trace of unicorns, dragons, and griffins
disappeared from the face of the earth.  It is sad--in a
way--that so many years of covert history should be
exposed in such a short time; but the Step Trolls, at
least, will never underestimate me again.
     Before he died, my grandfather used to say, "Bud,
success and failure are on opposite sides of a long wall
of stones.  Most of us spend our lives walking along the
top, struggling to maintain our balance on the loose
rocks.  We call it 'getting by.'  We're afraid to fall to
the one side and terrified to make the jump to the other. 
The older you get, the more unlikely it is that you will
find the nerve to jump.  The fall, however, becomes
inevitable."
     He always stopped at that point and lit his pipe. 
As a youngster, I was certain that there would be more to
the story, but that was it.  All at once, thirty years
later, my grandfather's parable made sense to me, and I
quit my day job at the paper.  It was a decision which
left our budget imperiled and my wife dismayed.
     "It will get better, Bud," she pleaded.  "You won't
have to cover lost puppies and Gray Panther meetings
forever."
     "It's not that," I said.
     "What then?  Are you having one of those mid-life
things?"
     "I don't think so."  It was a troubling thought, but
I waved it off.  "No, it's nothing like that.  Trust me."
     "It's just so sudden.  Shouldn't you think it over? 
We can't live on what you make as a security guard."
     "Impulsive decisions are my life!"  I tried humor. 
"Have my instincts ever failed us before?"
     The silence was unsettling.

     I did not set out to look for trolls.  In fact, I
had only the vaguest idea what a troll was; and that,
from the wildly exaggerated picture books in the
children's section of my local bookstore.  No, I quit my
job and threatened my marriage in order to search out the
cause of a phenomenon that everyone has experienced, but
no one had confronted.
     Before my book, DOWNSTAIRS: A History of Trolls in
America, was published and I began my current tour of the
lecture circuit and the TV talk shows, most people gave
little thought to those annoying and embarrassing moments
when one foot (or both) seemed to be stuck suddenly to
the floor, causing--more often than not--a buckling or
lurching collapse.
     It nearly always happens in a crowded place,  and we
invariably look back, searching for a telltale wrinkle in
the carpeting or a break in the black rubber stair
covering; but the fact remains: There is never anything
there. 
     At first I wandered aimlessly, soon discovering that
phenomena does not occur on command.  I needed to narrow
the odds; so, putting aside the premature field work, and
recalling something of my college statistics classes, I
decided to compile a relational data base from which I
could--hopefully--access commonalities.
     My search for raw data began at the local shopping
mall.  No one challenged my right to join the ranks of
clip-board toting ladies, so I asked specific questions
about when, where, and how people experienced their most
embarrassing and unexplained tumbles.
     When I fed the data into my personal computer,
several patterns emerged.  First, more often than not,
the worst trip-ups occurred while both hands were full--
carrying groceries, popcorn, soft drinks, laundry, etc. 
Secondly, if it were not a darkened place altogether, the
area of footfall, at least, was usually shadowed and/or
dimly lit.  One reoccurring peculiarity in my "findings"
was the suggestion that this type of tripping seldom if
ever plagued the elderly or the well-behaved child. 
(Surly, preppy, and ill-disposed youngsters told of
countless occurrences--some remarking bitterly about
their parent's poorly guarded laughter.  "Something
grabbed me." was a common claim, but the elders always
rolled their eyes and sighed.)
     Out of its present context, of course, most of the
information on the print-out seemed useless; still, I
accepted the obvious and went back to the field work with
a shopping bag in each arm. 
     Every morning, a mid-town bus stops at the corner of
55th and Roe before bullying its way into the city
proper.  The disaster that accompanied my ill-fated
boarding nearly got me thrown back off on my ear.  With
one hand wriggling for change in the front pocket of my
Levis and the other trying to stabilize two brown bag-
fulls of my twelve-year-old daughter's "room clutter," my
left Reebok court shoe froze inextricably to the second
step.  I wasn't prepared for the resultant havoc.  The
bag of semi-nude Barbie dolls in my right arm emptied
across the driver's lap while the other sack sailed out
of my left arm, raining teddy bears, stuffed rabbits, and
puce-colored ponies on startled passengers throughout the
first three rows.
     My fellow riders--even the chagrined and red-faced
driver--responded sympathetically at first.  It was only
when I took the flashlight from my back pocket, crawled
head-first into the black and silver stairwell, and
attempted to disassemble the middle step with my bare
hands that everyone's true morning disposition came to
the fore.  I'm sure that most of the threats were benign,
but others--including the driver's hissing expletives--
led me to gather up my debris and slink quietly to a seat
in the back of the bus.
     I went through the motions for the rest of the day,
tripping just once...  stepping off 12th Street near a
dark storm sewer grate.  Evening passers-by gave me wide
birth while I explored the dark hole with my flashlight;
but there was nothing to be seen and the aroma was not
conducive to extended research.  Besides, I was anxious
to be at the city garage when my ill-fated Metro bus
returned for the night--less its driver.

     Stanley Potts, the young maintenance supervisor,
seemed willing to humor me...  after I assured him that I
was a writer, not an aggravated citizen gathering
evidence for a lawsuit.
     "I've stumbled like that too,"  he laughed,
loosening the four big silver screws on the middle step
riser, "but what makes you think there's more to it than
my own clumsiness?"
     "My wife keeps asking me the same question." I
shrugged.  "It's just a hunch, I guess."
     I stood tensed, flashlight at the ready, as the man
lifted out the metal plate.
     "See," he said, "nothing."
     I don't know what I expected, but what I saw was all
very ordinary.  Stanley was grinning.
     "What's this?" I asked, shining the flashlight at a
small rectangular plate on the discarded riser.
     "I don't know,"  he said.  "Some buses got 'em, some
don't.  It's an inspection plate, I suppose, but there's
nothing back here to inspect.  Anyway, with all those
screws around it, it's easier to take the whole riser off
like we just did."
     My cab ride home was a long one.

     Over the next few weeks, I fell on my face in every
corner of the city and throughout the greater
metropolitan area.  Oh, I quit carrying my daughter's
toys--choosing instead a relatively harmless selection of
dust rags and second string bath towels--but even a
youngish middle-aged man can only collapse so many times
before the mounting damage begins to tell.  My knees,
elbows, and shins, darkened and swollen, tortured me each
morning... daring me, like the aging athlete, to suit up
one more time.  
     My self-esteem dropped faster than my pain tolerance
level, and my once warm and loving wife and daughter
seemed to forget my name.  If there was indeed
"something" out there, it was having a field day at my
expense.  Otherwise, I was probably a nut-case and
definitely a klutz.  At least that was better than having
a mid-life crisis.

     A growing state of possession fed my warped spirit
and drove my crippled body.  Scientific method gave way
to sullen anger.  At a Wednesday morning "shopper's
special" matinee, while limping my way to a seat in the
front of the theatre, something grabbed my ankle.  Not my
heel, not my toe, not the sole of my Reeboks... but my
ankle.  It was a rage that comes only with the sudden
threat of lunacy that enabled me to spin violently and
dive at the darkened step behind me.
     The iron hold on my ankle released in an instant,
but I slammed my right forearm at the invisible riser,
backed by the full weight of my body.  To my amazement,
it gave way, swinging inward, and my arm disappeared
beneath the step above.  Three high-pitched yelps
interrupted the previews of coming attractions--mine, the
approaching usherette's, and something behind the
swinging stair riser.
     While I thrashed wildly on the worn red carpet,
searching blindly with my right hand for the trickster
beneath the floor, the terrified adolescent in the black
vest and white blouse dropped her flashlight and ran from
the auditorium crying "Mr. Peevy!  Mr. Peevy!"  Patrons
in the aisle seats moved nervously away in both
directions.
     The feature attraction lit the screen as Mr. Peevy--
a slight man with darting eyes--arrived and asked me,
politely, to join him in his office.  He obviously lacked
experience dealing with psychotic behavior and fear
showed plainly on his face.
     "First,"  I said firmly, "I want you to see this."
     He stammered something inaudible, but I grabbed his
well-pressed black sleeve and jerked him to his knees.
     "You too!"  The usherette backed away until I aimed
my flashlight at her face.  "Now!"
     The girl returned, sobbing quietly, while her boss
groveled at my side.
     "See this?"  I whispered, shining my light into the
darkness below the step.  "It's a trap door."  I swung
the riser back and forth for emphasis.  "Someone or
something reached out of there and grabbed my foot."
     The manager's eyes widened, his panicked stare a mix
of dismay, denial, and disbelief.  While the girl held
her hand over her mouth, I picked up her discarded
flashlight and wedged it carefully in the menacing
aperture.
     "Now we'll all go to your office."
     After flashing my rent-a-cop badge (too quickly for
the startled couple to read) I told them in no uncertain
terms how it was going to be.  My moment had arrived. 
All doubt had been banished in an instant and neither Mr.
Peevy nor his terrified employee was going to keep me
from discovering who or what lurked under that step.  The
fidgeting manager's admission that scores of patrons fell
in that ill-fated aisle brought joy to my soul.
     "You understand," I said sternly, rising to leave,
"that you are not to speak of this to anyone.  The
publicity--not to mention the lawsuits--would destroy
you."
     They nodded solemnly.
     "You will avoid any irregular action near that
step," I added. "Pretend nothing ever happened, and call
me at this number the next time someone falls."
     I think Mr. Peevy would have signed over his house
at that moment, but fortunately for him, that was not
necessary to my plan.  Before leaving, I slipped back
into the theatre to retrieve the girl's flashlight.
     It was gone.

     My "night" boss at Tower Security and Private
Investigation is Frank Towers--an ex-green beret, and
retired Los Angeles police detective.  I never knew him
in Nam, but his reputation was legendary.  Now, a highly
successful entrepreneur, he gives me 15 to 20 hours a
week guarding used car lots and down town construction
sites.  It was his penchant for high-tech surveillance
equipment that led me straight to his office.
     "This is a GAPP,"  he said beaming over a detailed
color photo.  "Geometrical Arithmetic Parallel Processor. 
Infra-red sensors detect various degrees of heat and the
processor creates a detailed bit map of the subject--
hundreds of thousands of pixels--a clear picture of an
object in total darkness!  I don't have one, of course,
but I might be able to arrange for a demo unit to stop
here in town."
     Most of what he said flew right over my head, but
that didn't matter; Frank knew enough for both of us.  I
was pleased and surprised at how easily he took to the
idea that someone or something was hiding right under our
noses.
     "Kind of like the V.C., eh Bud?" he had laughed.
     My intention to photograph, maybe even capture, one
of the enigmatic pranksters appealed to Frank's sense of
adventure and he knew just what equipment I would need to
get the job done.  His connections at Morton
Manufacturing & Aerospace didn't hurt either.

     Later that night, Stanley Potts was clearly
surprised to see me.
     "Yes,"  I laughed, "the crazy man is back."
     The young supervisor's face reddened, but he was
quick to place himself at my service.  (It is seldom wise
not to humor a mad man.)  He was surprised again when I
asked him if he would remove the same step riser from the
same bus.  Nevertheless, Stanley motioned me to the back
of the garage, grabbing a long sturdy screwdriver on the
way.  I reached into the same drawer of the tall red tool
box, pulled out a small philip's head, and followed him
to "my" bus.
     "You've seen it all before," he shrugged.
     "Maybe."
     Moments later, the young man lifted the dirty riser
out of the stairwell and carried it to a workbench
against the wall.
     "Good," I handed him the smaller screwdriver.  "Now,
take off the little plate."
     When the first screw did not budge, Stanley bore
heavily into the second--then the third, forth, and
fifth.  None of them inclined toward backing out.
     "I'll get some penetrating oil," he said.
     I shook my head.
     "An impact wrench...  ?"  He was searching my face,
asking not telling.
     "I think not.  Let's turn it over."
     He obeyed immediately.  Things were looking
irregular in his world and I was loving it.
     "What we need is a key, I think, (I was still
smiling.) but maybe this will do."
     I slipped the point of my pocket knife along the
barely visible outline on the back of the suspicious
riser until it caught against something hard.  The tiny
catch released suddenly, and the small "inspection plate"
flipped neatly inward, swinging up on invisible spring
hinges.  Stanley wasn't smiling this time.
     "Now, Stanley, my friend," I said, patting him on
the back,  "can you handle an arc-welder?"
     He nodded slowly.
     "Good."  I ushered him off to the side and pulled
out my notebook and pen.  "But let's try and keep this to
ourselves, OK?"

     Mr. Peevy called sooner than I had hoped, but I was
ready.  I dialed the number Frank had given me, and Mr.
H. Russell Black, of Morton Manufacturing & Aerospace in
Denver assured me his team would fly in the following
morning.
     "This better be for real, Mr. Weller,"  he said. 
"I'd do just about anything for Captain Towers, but if
there's nothing legit to shoot out there, my butt will
end up in a sling.  I feel like a summer camper hunting
snipes!"
     I knew the feeling well.

     Frank and I met at the airport in time to watch
Morton's sleek white turbo-prop settle in on a back
runway.
     "It's a Beech Starship,"  Frank said with
admiration.  "Pretty, isn't she?  It's a high-tech
composite design by Rutan.  There are only four of them
flying; this is the first full-size prototype."
     We drove Russ Black, his 6-man crew, and their
paraphernalia to the theatre.  Seeing the men in clean
white jumpsuits carrying reinforced, acronym covered
aluminum suitcases further unnerved Mr. Peevy.  He
fumbled with the front door keys, sweat beading on his
forehead.  For a moment or two I thought curiosity would
overcome fear as he fussed and fidgeted, trying to be a
part of the hustle and bustle overtaking the right aisle
of his theatre, but Mr. Peevy's frail metabolism was not
up to the excitement of it all and he retreated to the
projectionist's booth.  From time to time, he appeared in
the window, wringing his hands and looking at his watch.
     I recognized the "GAPP" designation on two of Russ'
silver attache cases, but kept Frank busy explaining
"TADS," "PNVS," "LANTIRN," and, of course, "FLIR."
     "It all incorporates FLIR,"  he said matter-of-
factly.  "Forward Looking Infra-Red is the key."
     While Russ set up a "command center" behind the
movie screen, Frank showed off his expertise.
     "This is the Target Acquisition Designation Sight,
TADS,"  he said.  Then, pointing to a slowly rotating
turret at the edge of the stage curtains, "It's linked up
to that Pilot Night Vision Sensor, PNVS.  They'll be
using these to see what's going on in the theatre.
     "That's the Low-Altitude Navigation and Targeting
Infra-Red system for Night...   LANTIRN."  Frank pointed
across the aisle.  "There are usually two of those pods,
but since we're not planning to fly this theatre, the
targeting unit is all we need.  This little beauty will
show us what's going on under the theatre."
     Frank smiled like a kid in a candy store.
     I was properly impressed, but nagging doubts crept
over me even as Frank and Russell's enthusiasm grew. 
They obviously loved showing off the high-tech hardware,
but if my something turned out to be a figment of a mid-
life crisis-crazed brain, these men were not going to be
amused.  The temptation to start banging on the suspect
step riser (just to be sure it really did open) was
almost irresistible, but Mr. Peevy saved me by edging his
way down the aisle to inform us--almost frantically--that
it was time to open the theatre for the first matinee.
     "What's that?" I asked Frank as we headed for the
stage. "It looks like a camera."
     "Nothing gets by you," he laughed.  "Usually this
stuff's hooked up to lasers, rockets, and Hellfire
missiles, but Russ thought that might unnerve the general
viewing public...  not to mention your friend, Peevy.
     "The camera's just a little icing; if that riser
opens... smile!  Regardless, the GAPP will record and
maintain a complete magnetic record of anything that
shows up under there.  Something better show up, Bud. 
You know what I mean?"
     "Yea, I know."

     Yellow ribbons kept the straggling afternoon movie-
goers away from the equipment, and as the slides hawking
local Chiropractors, Chinese restaurants, and future
attractions clicked through their steady cycle, we
watched the patrons settle in.  Even in the dim light,
each individual was clearly visible.  Russ watched me
stare dumbfoundedly at the monitor and laughed.
     "Here," he said, "try this."
     He handed me a fighter pilot's helmet which was
tethered to the equipment on the table before us.  The
view inside the visor shifted automatically with any
movement of my head--as if it were hooked to my own optic
nerve.
     "Grief and conscience,"  I whispered.  "This is
incredible."
     "Really?"  Russ Black chuckled. "How about this?"
     He flipped a switch and the theatre in my helmet
exploded into a dazzling display of swirling, multi-
colored lights.  The people turned into brightly painted
ghosts, and while Russ explained the relationship between
the various colors and the temperatures they represented,
I just watched the psychedelic living mural with
disbelief.
     "I'm switching back," he said.  "Look at the
projection booth."
     I blinked at the sudden return to normal images and
saw the young projectionist's head and shoulders move
back and forth across the small window.  Russ punched a
series of keys and the scene rushed at me as the
magnification increased.
     "Now,"  he said, flicking the infra-red switch once
again.  "Do you still think we can't photograph your
mysterious friend?"
     The boy in the booth was suddenly a full-sized
ghost, colored in swirling tattoos of heat.  The wall was
gone.

     The matinee started without incident.  The LANTIRN
targeting monitor remained unchanged, showing what Russ
and Frank said were ordinary electric cables beneath the
floor.  While I stared at the faintly glowing lines,
praying that my something would appear, the others
surveyed the audience with the TADS/PNVS, commenting
quietly on various young female patrons.  "Excellent heat
distribution pattern." was, I think, intended as a
complimentary observation.
     After an hour I had to look away from the shimmering
monitor.  My eyes hurt and my spirits sagged.  Several of
the others left for an early dinner break, while Frank
brought out a deck of cards and dealt a hand of five card
stud to those of us who remained.
     "Five dollars,"  Russ whispered, raising the helmet
visor part way up.
     "Fold," I said, still rubbing my eyes.
     "I'm in," said the one they called 'Butch.'
     "Bingo!" hissed the quiet black man with horn-rim
glasses.  "Bogey at twelve o'clock!"
     Everyone turned to my monitor at once.  Russ Black
slammed down his visor and started punching keys on the
blue-gray console.
     "Son-of-a-gun, Frank...  Weller's really got
something!"
     "Nice going, Bud,"  Frank said, slapping me without
taking his eyes off the screen.  "What is it?"
     Russ shook his head and kept typing.  I just stared
with my mouth open.
     "Humanoid,"  whispered the black man, "but it's
definitely not human.  It's scrunched over, but I make it
almost four foot."
     "Body temperature, 86 degrees, give or take," said
Butch.  "Pulse rate, 42 beats per minute."
     "It's carrying a pretty sophisticated piece of
electronic hardware,"  Russ said.  "Maybe a weapon... 
probably a computer."
     "What's the other thing?"  Frank asked quietly,
pulling a 9mm automatic from a holster at his back and
setting it on the table.
     None of the electronics wizards answered, but
somehow I knew.  "It's a lunch box."
     The creature--scrunching still further--moved
gracefully into the tight space directly behind the trap
door, set the lunch box aside, and punched a series of
deliberate key strokes into it's hand-held electronic
gadget.  This task accomplished, it put the unidentified
unit down, picked up a nearby flashlight, withdrew what
appeared to be a paperback from somewhere on it's person,
crossed it's legs, and began to read.
     "If that don't beat all,"  Frank whispered.  "He's
just gonna sit there and enjoy a book!"
     It got real quiet at the make-shift command table
and everybody just stared at my monitor until Russell
Black stopped typing and flipped up his visor. 
Electronic lines ran left to right across the GAPP
monitor, slowly filling the screen with an amazingly
detailed picture of our friend.
     "There he is," Russ said.  "If I had a decent
computer graphics system along I could give him to you in
3-D, but you get the idea."
     There was no way to be sure it was a "he," but the
farmer-type cover-alls reinforced the guess.  It had
thick hair on its head--either naturally short, or
deliberately buzz-cut--and arms that were both long and
muscularly defined.  On the bulbous nose, rested a
delicate pair of wire-rim glasses.  "He" seemed to be
smiling...  it must have been a good book.
     "What are you going to call it?"  Frank asked me.  I
just shrugged, continuing to stare.
     "I've got it," laughed Russ.  He started typing
again and bright yellow block letters appeared on the bit
map photograph.

  B.U.S.T.R.
(Bud's Unidentified Sub-Terranean Rowdy)

     "Buster,"  I whispered, trying it on for size.
     "It works for me,"  Frank chuckled.  "Now what?"
     "Wait and see if he gets rowdy,"  whispered Butch.
     We didn't have long to wait.  The four other Morton
team members came back just as the closing credits ran up
the movie screen and the theatre patrons started up the
aisles.  The men in white froze when they saw the LANTIRN
monitor and the GAPP picture.
     "So there is something after all,"  hissed the short
one under his breath.
     "And you owe me a hundred bucks, Mickey,"  said
another, his eyes glued to the screen.
     "Heads up!"  said the black man.  "Here we go....  "
     "Buster" set down his book, put his left hand up to
the step riser, and held his right hand poised for
action.
     "Easy,"  whispered Frank.
     "Steady," said the black man.
     "Pulse rate, 48," Butch announced quietly.
     It was really too fast to see, but the permanent
record on magnetic tape played it back something like
this:     1)  Buster flips open trap door.
          2)  Camera flashes/Buster trips preppy kid.
          3)  Buster slams door/Kid falls on face.
          4)  Buster rubs his eyes/Kid rubs his knees.
          5)  Buster opens door to see what            
              happened/Camera flashes twice more.
     [Somewhere about here, Butch announces Buster's
pulse rate is nearing 60.]
          6)  Buster slams door again, fumbles blindly       
              for his electronic device.
     [This is where Frank picked up the 9mm.  Russell
motions him to hold.]
          7)  Buster keys the device frantically before
              gathering up his belongings to leave.
          8)  Buster starts to withdraw, pauses, peeks       
              out riser one more time.
          9)  Camera flashes/Buster disappears.
     At this point, Mr. Peevy (who was watching from the
shadows behind us) started babbling "Oh help us! Oh help
us!"  He wrung his hands, looking like he might faint at
any moment.  When I finally got him calmed down
sufficiently, he gave me the urgent phone message which
had driven him from the relative safety of his office.
     "A Mr. Potts,"  he whined unsteadily, "said I must
tell you that he's 'got one.'  He says you should hurry. 
Oh help us!"
     I eased the trembling manager into a chair and ran  
out the emergency exit with Frank Towers on my heels.
       "My car,"  Frank yelled, pointing at the steel-
gray Chrysler sedan.
     It was faster than my wife's station wagon, so I got
in while Frank retrieved a red light from under the seat,
placed it on the roof, and plugged it in the cigarette
lighter.  Frank grinned like a Cheshire cat.

     Stanley Potts was frantic.  He rushed out to meet
us, pulling on my sleeve, dragging me toward the garage
while Frank rummaged around in the trunk of the car.
     "It's waking up again, Mr. Weller,"  he said with
considerable urgency.  "You'd better think of something
fast."
     Stanley pointed to the tool room door.  It lay
askew, the top hinge ripped in half, the bottom hinge
framed in splintered wood.
     "He...  it... tore that door like it was a paper
towel,"  the shaky Metro shop supervisor exclaimed,  "and
it was still groggy from the ether."
     "So our little trap worked," I said.
     "Oh, he came in curled up like a puppy in the rear
basket you had me build on the bus frame,"  Stanley said, 
"but when he started coming to...  Gosh, but he's
strong."
     Buster II was sitting unsteadily in the shop's tire
cage--a precautionary enclosure built of 3 inch tubular
steel where newly repaired bus tires were inflated.  His
eyes blinked slowly.  He was smaller than Buster I,
without glasses and cover-alls (He wore faded jeans and
red suspenders.), but he looked just as powerful.  The
cage was wrapped in heavy tow chains and steel cable, but
the nervous look on Stanley's face indicated that he had
little faith in the make-shift jail.
     "That was the last can of ether spray,"  Stanley
said.  "Oh, this is Lester Rourke."
     Lester was about six-three, 280 pounds, and armed
with a four foot steel tire tool.  He nodded when I said
"hello," but didn't take his eyes off Buster.
     "What is it,"  he asked warily, "a gremlin?"
     "I don't know,"  I said.  "We're just calling him
'Buster' for now."
     Before any of us knew how it happened, Buster II was
out of the cage and heading for the back door.  Lester
swung hard with the tire iron and I shouted vainly for
him to stop.  It didn't matter.  The creature caught the
tool easily in one hand, disarmed the big mechanic, sent
him sprawling across the floor, and moved on.
     "I'll get him,"  Frank hollered, coming in the front
doorway.  He pumped hard on a 12 gauge riot gun and
lowered it at the fleeing enigma.
     "No!"  I screamed, diving at Buster's legs.
     The blast of buckshot whistled over our heads as we
toppled into a nearby tool chest, sending screwdrivers
and loose sockets bouncing across the concrete floor.  I
knew I couldn't hold Buster long, but I didn't want him
killed either.
     "Put that thing away, Frank!"  I realized suddenly
that Buster wasn't struggling.  "If you've hurt him
I'll...  "
     "Thanks, but I'm fine.  You saved my life; I believe
I'm seriously in your debt."

     Buster II stood, extended his powerful grip, and
pulled me to my feet.  After brushing himself off, he
shrugged and threw up his hands.
     "I guess we didn't take you seriously enough, Bud." 
He tried to smile.  "Boy that stuff gave me a headache. 
Mr. Potts?  Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?"
     Everyone stared in disbelief.  We were either all
having the same dream, or Buster II was speaking perfect
English.
     "By the way, my name isn't Buster--it's Roosevelt. 
I was a grade six, due for promotion next month, but I
think it's safe to say that's probably out of the
question at this point."
     I motioned Stanley toward the coffee machine and
shook my head when Lester reached for the tire tool. 
Frank looked like he was alone in a rice paddy, knees
bent slightly, gripping the shotgun hard and watching
Roosevelt closely.
     "Gremlins are mythological creatures,"  Roosevelt
said to Lester, as if the big man should have known
better.  "You know, fairy tales, children's stories and
such?  I am a Troll."
     Lester looked pale and Stanley trembled, but managed
to hand the styrofoam cup to Roosevelt before collapsing
on the first step of a nearby bus.  The "troll" hopped up
on the work bench, crossed his legs, and sipped his
coffee.
     "Thank you," he said, taking another careful drink
and rubbing his eyes.  "I'd better check in.  May I have
my terminal?"
     "Terminal?"  I said.  "You mean that computer
thing?"  I looked at Stanley and he pointed at the tool
chest.
     "I put it in the second drawer,"  he said.
     I looked the terminal over closely before handing it
to Roosevelt.  It seemed harmless enough, but what would
I know?  Frank eased forward slowly.
     "We 'borrowed' the technology from several places," 
the troll admitted.  "Mostly from Federal Express and the
cellular phone companies."
     After another pull on the coffee, he punched in a
series of keystrokes, watched the small display, and
started to laugh.  The laughter was both pleasant and
mischievous.
     "Poor old Farley,"  he chuckled, looking up at me. 
"What ever did you do to him?"
     "Who?"
     "Farley's the old troll who took over for the kid
you popped at the State Avenue theatre."
     "Oh."
     "You nearly broke the little guy's nose,"  Roosevelt
laughed.  "But Farley...  he's one cagey old troll. 
How'd you get him so shook?  He's apparently back at
Central in something of a tizzy.  Of course, my news
won't help."
     I told him--as best I could--about the infra-red
equipment and the pictures.
     "Well, that explains it.  You've had a busy day, Mr.
Weller,"  Roosevelt chuckled.  "The Boss may even want to
see you.  Yes...   wait.  Here come my instructions."

     There wasn't enough time to build many expectations
about having an audience with "the Boss," but it wouldn't
have mattered.  After a hasty conference with Frank (He
was most insistent that we take immediate "precautions"
and called Russ Black straight away.) and everyone's
assurance that we would not be followed, I prepared to
leave--blindfolded--with Roosevelt.
     "Wait,"  Frank called out.  "You'll want to take
some notes...  I've still got your good pen."
     I felt him clip something to the pocket of my
flannel shirt and pat me on the shoulder.
     "Have fun," he said soberly, and we were on our way. 
In all the excitement, I couldn't even remember having
had a pen, let alone giving it to Frank.
     The long winding journey--often managed on hands and
knees--took nearly an hour, but nothing could have
prepared me for Troll Central.  It looked like a giant
telephone sales office where dozens of male and female
trolls wearing headsets and manning computer consoles
kept in constant contact with their fellows in "the
field."  
     They were dressed more uniformly than Roosevelt and
Farley, in shirts and slacks that looked distinctly like
Army green.  A few supervisor types wandered about in
white lab coats.  All the outfits were well tailored and
pressed, with varying insignia on the right breast pocket
flaps.  Some of the females had slightly longer hair,
worn straight up or held back with colorful bandannas. 
Otherwise, only the angle of insignia distinguished
genders.  Despite evidence of a normally well-disciplined
work force, my presence obviously unsettled the evening's
regime.
     "This is new ground for everyone,"  Roosevelt
whispered, guiding me toward a spiral stairway in the
center of the room.  The round glass office overhead was
evidently where "the Boss" waited to welcome me.  I
wasn't expecting a red carpet.

     "I apologize for insisting that Roosevelt bring you
here blindfolded, Mr. Weller, but you have seriously
compromised us already.  Won't you sit down?"
     I sat gladly.  Standing with my head tilted sideways
against the low ceiling, even for the duration of
Roosevelt's brief oral report, had given me a crick.  The
Boss was a heavyset executive type troll, balding and
generally out of shape.  It seemed that troll execs were
not yet into racquetball.
     "We have always known discovery was inevitable...
eventually," the Boss went on, "but until this evening,
we gave your efforts little or no concern; well, except
for the bonus points that is.  Others have tried, you may
be sure.  One young woman even managed a photograph, but
that was New York City.  You know how it is there.  But
you, Mr. Weller...  "
     "Please, call me Bud."
     "Bud.  We have grossly underestimated you.  Morton
Manufacturing & Aerospace technology... "  He mumbled to
himself.  "Who'd have thought.  Our Denver and Orlando
divisions have been trying to 'borrow' some of that FLIR
technology for over a year....
     "Anyway,"  he went on, "something will have to be
done now--severe steps, if you will."
     "I see,"  I said, not really seeing at all.
     "Trolls have a rather bad reputation I'm afraid--one
we have spent centuries trying to overcome.  While our
ancestors never really hid under bridges waiting to eat
unwary passers-by (most of them anyway) mischief is a
part of our nature.  Only through intensive occupational
training and a well-organized, carefully controlled
program of mischief, have we been able to move our people
slowly toward a more productive future.  A future which
might well include integration into the human culture... 
'upstairs,' as we say.
     "In the meantime, we have been working toward a
major objective change for several years, Mr. Wel... 
Bud--actually our own aerospace technicians have made
some outstanding discoveries--but your actions this
evening will necessitate a severe acceleration in our
timetable.  We could close down here in a matter of
hours, but the destabilization factor would be high.  
     "Because of this, and other considerations," the
Boss said, glancing at his watch without expression, "it
will be necessary to relieve your friends of the pictures
you have so cleverly taken, and put all of you out of
circulation for a time."
     Roosevelt and I came out of our seats in unison.  I
hit my head.
     "You can't...  " I said.
     "Boss!"  Roosevelt exclaimed, cutting me off. "You
said if I brought him you would negotiate.  If you do
this now...  "
     "It is already being done."
     Suddenly, things went haywire at Troll Central. 
First, hectic computer messages began coming in, making
it immediately clear that whatever plan the Boss had set
in motion wasn't working out as his had expected. 
Somehow, the squad he had sent to the theatre were
themselves, ambushed and three of them were being held at
gunpoint.  
     In the midst of that confusion, a prolonged burst of
automatic weapon's fire, accompanied by the shuttering
boom and the blinding flash of a concussion grenade, sent
trolls diving for cover in all directions.  While every
mother's troll lay sprawled on the floor, I watched a
hissing smoke grenade roll through the main doors and
quickly obscure the central aisle of the workroom.  Long
before the circulation system caught up and the smoke
lessened in the outer room, Frank Towers stood beside me
in the office, straddling the Boss's prone body with his
12 gauge riot gun in one hand, jammed firmly into the fat
troll's head, and a MAC 11 machine gun in the other hand,
carefully covering the smokey room below.
     "Sorry to drop in unexpected and all,"  Frank said,
his eyes scanning every inch of the complex, "but it
seems that was my pen after all...  the one with the
micro transmitter in it."
     "For the love of Pete, you could have killed
somebody, Frank!" I complained.
     "I can't figure it," he said, ignoring me.  "They
don't seem to have any weapons.  Russ says the ones who
raided the theatre were unarmed as well.  Still, it's a
good thing the Morton boys were ready; these buggers are
strong."
     "May I get up now?"  It was the Boss.
     "Sure," Frank said, lifting the shotgun carefully,
"but don't try anything funny.  Sit there where I can see
you.  You too," he said to Roosevelt.
     "We have never seen the need for weapons of any
sort," the Boss remarked with distaste.  "But I'm afraid
we're somewhat used to having things our way.  It appears
now, that we will need to get over that self-indulgence
rather quickly."
     "I think that means he's really willing to negotiate
now," Roosevelt said with a wink. "Being practical has
always been one of his strengths."
     Roosevelt's boss just scowled.
     "I wouldn't say he's in much of a position to
negotiate anything," Frank smiled.  "It's your game, Bud. 
What do we do with them?"
     "Well I sure don't want you to shoot anybody."  I
turned back to the Boss.  "What do you say now?"
     "What you want is a story,"  he replied smoothly. 
"Am I right?"
     "That's right."  Now we were getting somewhere.
     "I can arrange for a meeting of our National Council
within the hour.  I will propose that you be given any
information you request on our history and our past
activities--interviews, photos, and any other
verification you require.  In exchange, you will delay
further exposure for whatever reasonable period the
Council can agree upon.  Does this compromise interest
you?"
     "Very much."
     "Good.  But you understand that we will need to
assure the... ah... discretion of your friends."
     "Oh."
     "Oh, indeed.  Once you return safely, they will be
anxious to share their documentation with others.  That
will adversely affect both our transition and your...  
'scoop,' I believe it is called in journalistic circles."
     "My scoop...  yes.  Why do I have the feeling that
you already have some suggestion along those lines?"
     The Boss smiled with undisguised satisfaction.

     A year later the world is still reeling--reactions
varying widely--but the Step Troll's "downstairs" culture
has turned a significant corner in its development. 
Roosevelt tells me there are still more than a few
freelance step trolls, tripping humans on their own time,
but for the most part, everyone has made the adjustment. 
Some, like Roosevelt, are having a tougher time than
others.
     "I just don't like it,"  he told me.  "Makes me sick
to my stomach."
     "You'll get over it," I said.
     "Maybe, but I liked theatres and city buses."
     "Nothing lasts forever.  Anyway, the Boss says
Trolls have been testing successfully for years.  You're
decades ahead of us.  Boy, I love it, all those 'UFO'
sightings.... "
     "It's one thing to send those crazy Mountain Trolls
screaming around the sky,"  Roosevelt waved in dismay,
"but why me?"
     "'To boldly go....  '"
     "Cut it out, Bud.  I could get killed."
     "Yes, but you could also become rich and famous--a
national hero, upstairs and down."
     "Would you go?"
     "I've seen the cockpit...  too small."
     "That's easy.  Look, you're responsible for all
this."
     "Thank you."
     "I should have known the city wouldn't install 'air
freshener' under their bus steps,"  Roosevelt grumbled.
     "Nice touch, eh?"
     "Yea, but for a while there, we got big bonus points
for you.  You were almost as much fun as Gerald Ford!"
     "Yes, my friend, but I won the game."
     "Great.  I'm going to die in outer space and you're
patting yourself on the back, getting rich on your book
royalties."
     "Ah, Roosevelt.  Did I ever tell you about life?"
     "Tell me about what?"
     "It's like this:  Success and failure are on
opposite sides of a long wall of stones...   "

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