In Springdale Town by Robert Freeman Wexler

anyway,” she muttered.
    Careful to maintain my desperate grip on the rungs, I leaned out, trying to see what lay beyond her, at the base of the ladder. There was a pinkish surface, difficult to make out in the dim light.
    “Hold up,” she said. “Looks like the ladder ends a few feet from the bottom. I’m going to grab the lowest rung with my hands and drop.” She worked her way down rung by rung, then slid her right foot off, followed by the left.
    “How far?” I asked, but she had already let go.
    She cried, “Wheee!” as she dropped, holding her glasses to her face the way a scuba diver holds the mask. Her feet reached the surface. “It’s spongy foamy–” Her legs and then her body disappeared into the pinkish mass, cutting off the rest of her words.
    I scuttled down the remaining rungs and, not wanting to drop directly over her, pushed off. The stuff met my falling body and pulled me in. It had a thin membrane that made a little “shoup” kind of noise, then I sank into a mass of translucent jelly. Before I could think, I inhaled. The stuff sluiced into my mouth and throat, but instead of choking, I felt refreshed, as though the jelly contained an oxygen-rich mix–a viscous, breathable swimming pool. I folded onto my stomach and swung my arms out toward my head, attempting a slow breaststroke toward, I hoped, Sammy. The vat of jelly disoriented me. Light came from somewhere, maybe the jelly itself. Although I could see through the stuff, I had nothing with which to orient myself. The tube containing the ladder hadn’t been more than three feet across, but I had no way of knowing the size of this jelly tank. I wanted to find a wall and gain comfort from its solidity. I tried a breaststroke, my version of one anyway. I had never been much of a swimmer, but this–no worries about squirting water up my nose or having to match the strokes with my breathing–was kind of nice.
    Stopping, I hung in the stuff and looked around to see if my swimming had brought me to anything recognizable. Off to my right I saw a shape darker than the jelly, and I set off toward it.

17
    Shelling woke on his back. He had dreamt of an academic conference at a beach resort, where he had spent his time at various lectures, the nature of which he couldn’t remember. There had been something he was expected to do, prevent a group from being trapped or taken prisoner. Odd thing for him to dream. He had never been to an academic conference, hadn’t even played an academic on television. His nose itched; he reached for it, but discovered that he couldn’t move.
    Padded straps restrained his wrists and ankles. His body lay on some kind of pallet. He rolled his head as far as he could in every direction. High on the wall to his left were two windows. A whistling vent stirred the air. The room–he had been here before. His forehead and armpits felt damp. He needed to wipe the sweat from his face but could do nothing.
    A wave hit, helplessness complete. He lay looking up at the plaster ceiling. Dry streambeds scored its surface, flowing around peaks and fissures. A desert, not without life, but the spiders stayed mainly in the corners, building their homes without disturbance. He had known a woman once, an actress, who reminded him of a spider–something about her dark hair and long skinny arms and knobby elbows, the shape of her mouth when she spoke. He always thought she was trying to suck in the world. That show they had been on...a comedy. She {note 17} had played the main character while he appeared in maybe five episodes of the first and only season. Without those giant walnut elbows he would have found her arms alluring. Long arms attracted him–the smooth distance down from shoulder, along bicep, humerus, and tricep.
    The lights in his cell brightened, a flash that overpowered his eyes with white. His pupils retreated, agonized by the unexpected intrusion, and he covered them with his lids. A clang sounded, then a