Masters said, "You were the last editor to proofread the copy before it went to the typesetters. Were these errors in it then?"

"Absolutely not," Snead said. "And I proofread the galleys personally; the changes weren't in the galleys, either. The changes don't appear until the final bound copies come into existence – if that makes any sense. Or more specifically, the ones bound in gold and wub-fur. The regular bound-in-boards copies – they're okay."

Masters blinked. "But they're all the same edition. They ran through the presses together. In fact we didn't originally plan an exclusive, higher-priced binding; it was only at the last minute that we talked it over and the business office suggested half the edition be offered in wub-fur."

"I think," Jack Snead said, "we're going to have to do some close-scrutiny work on the subject of Martian wub-fur."

An hour later aging, tottering Masters, accompanied by copy editor Jack Snead, sat facing Luther Saperstein, business agent for the pelt-procuring firm of Flawless, Incorporated; from them, Obelisk Books had obtained the wub-fur with which their books had been bound.

"First of all," Masters said in a brisk, professional tone, "what is wub-fur?"

"Basically," Saperstein said, "in the sense in which you're asking the question, it is fur from the Martian wub. I know this doesn't tell you much, gentlemen, but at least it's a reference point, a postulate on which we can all agree, where we can start and build something more imposing. To be more helpful, let me fill you in on the nature of the wub itself. The fur is prized because, among other reasons, it is rare. Wub-fur is rare because a wub very seldom dies. By that I mean, it is next to impossible to slay a wub – even a sick or old wub. And, even though a wub is killed, the hide lives on. That quality imparts its unique value to home-decoration, or, as in your case, in the binding of lifetime, treasured books meant to endure."

Masters sighed, dully gazed out the window as Saperstein droned on. Beside him, his copy editor made brief cryptic notes, a dark expression on his youthful, energetic face.

"What we supplied you," Saperstein said, "when you came to us – and remember: you came to us; we didn't seek you out – consisted of the most select, perfect hides in our giant inventory. These living hides shine with a unique luster all their own; nothing else either on Mars or back home on Terra resembles them. If torn or scratched, the hide repairs itself. It grows, over the months, a more and more lush pile, so that the covers of your volumes become progressively luxurious, and hence highly sought-after. Ten years from now the deep-pile quality of these wub-fur bound books -"

Interrupting, Snead said, "So the hide is still alive. Interesting. And the wub, as you say, is so deft as to be virtually impossible to kill." He shot a swift glance at Masters. "Every single one of the thirty-odd alterations made in the texts in our books deals with immortality. The Lucretius revision is typical; the original text teaches that man is temporary, that even if he survives after death it doesn't matter because he won't have any memory of his existence here. In place of that, the spurious new passage comes out and flatly talks about a future of life predicated on this one; as you say, at complete variance with Lucretius's entire philosophy. You realize what we're seeing, don't you? The damn wub's philosophy superimposed on that of the various authors. That's it; beginning and end." He broke off, resumed his note-scratching, silently.

"How can a hide," Masters demanded, "even a perpetually living one, exert influence on the contents of a book? A text already printed – pages cut, folios glued and sewed – it's against reason. Even if the binding, the damn hide, is really alive, and I can hardly believe that." He glared at Saperstein. "If it's alive, what does it live on?"

"Minute particles of food-stuffs in suspension in the atmosphere," Saperstein said, blandly.

Rising to his feet, Masters said, "Let's go. This is ridiculous."

"It inhales the particles," Saperstein said, "through its pores." His tone was dignified, even reproving.

Studying his notes, not rising along with his employer, Jack Snead said thoughtfully, "Some of the amended texts are fascinating. They vary from a complete reversal of the original passage – and the author's meaning – as in the case of Lucretius, to very subtle, almost invisible corrections – if that's the word – to texts more in accord with the doctrine of eternal life. The real question is this. Are we faced merely with the opinion of one particular life form, or does the wub know what it's talking about? Lucretius's poem, for instance; it's very great, very beautiful, very interesting – as poetry. But as philosophy, maybe it's wrong. I don't know. It's not my job; I simply edit books; I don't write them. The last thing a good copy editor does is editorialize, on his own, in the author's text. But that is what the wub, or anyhow the post-wub pelt, is doing." He was silent, then.

Saperstein said, "I'd be interested to know if it added anything of value."

"Poetically? Or do you mean philosophically? From a poetic or literary, stylistic point of view its interpolations are no better and no worse than the originals; it manages to blend in with the author well enough so that if you didn't know the text already you'd never notice." He added broodingly, "You'd never know it was a pelt talking."

"I meant from a philosophical point of view."

"Well, it's always the same message, monotonously ground out. There is no death. We go to sleep; we wake up – to a better life. What it did to De Rerum Natura; that's typical. If you've read that you've read them all."

"It would be an interesting experiment," Masters said thoughtfully, "to bind a copy of the Bible in wub-fur."

"I had that done," Snead said.

"And?"

"Of course I couldn't take time to read it all. But I did glance over Paul's letters to the Corinthians. It made only one change. The passage that begins, 'Behold, I tell you a mystery -' it set all of that in caps. And it repeated the lines, 'Death, where is thy sting? Grave, where is thy victory?' ten times straight; ten whole times, all in caps. Obviously the wub agreed; that's its own philosophy, or rather theology." He said, then, weighing each word, "This basically is a theological dispute… between the reading public and the hide of a Martian animal that looks like a fusion between a hog and a cow. Strange." Again he returned to his notes.

After a solemn pause, Masters said, "You think the wub has inside information or don't you? As you said, this may not be just the opinion of one particular animal that's been successful in avoiding death; it may be the truth."

"What occurs to me," Snead said, "is this. The wub hasn't merely learned to avoid death; it's actually done what it preaches. By getting killed, skinned, and its hide – still alive – made into book covers – it has conquered death. It lives on. In what it appears to regard as a better life. We're not just dealing with an opinionated local life form; we're dealing with an organism that has already done what we're still in doubt about. Sure it knows. It's a living confirmation of its own doctrine. The facts speak for themselves. I tend to believe it."

"Maybe continual life for it," Masters disagreed, "but that doesn't mean necessarily for the rest of us. The wub, as Mr. Saperstein points out, is unique. The hide of no other life form either on Mars or on Luna or Terra lives on, imbibing life from microscopic particles in suspension in the atmosphere. Just because it can do it -"

"Too bad we can't communicate with a wub hide," Saperstein said. "We've tried, here at Flawless, ever since we first noticed the fact of its post-mortem survival. But we never found a way."