Harold Hardy could never be sure exactly when or why he lost his personality, but he suspected that the absence of one simplified his life. He was in his thirties before he began to think about the subject at all, and even then it took him a while to discover his deficiency.

He had worked for Roundabout Computing for three years when he realized that no one ever noticed him. That was on May 3. He knew it was on May 3 because he wrote it down in his Day Planner, after his weekly project meeting:

1:45pm -- Announced delay in Widget development. No one noticed.

Harold soon realized that such incidents were by no means restricted to project meetings. He discovered that he could code, debug, fetch coffee for himself, and generally wander the hallways without attracting any attention at all, even from Alec, his boss.

Harold sat in his cubicle and stared at the patterns of code on his screen. His left hand rested lightly on the keyboard while his right hand made circles with the mouse. He liked to think this way. He reviewed the day's activities, seeking further evidence for his theory.

He had come in that morning and hung up his coat. He had fetched coffee from the break room. He had returned to his cubicle and sat for awhile; then he had gone to a meeting. Now he was back in his cubicle, thinking. No one had said anything to him, aside from the standard "Hello," "Good morning," and "Project status?" to which he had replied, "Fourteen bug fixes checked in; twenty reported bugs in all." Which comment was, as nearly as he could tell, ignored by everyone.

Heather, on the other hand, had given her project status in loud, rambling paragraphs, explaining in great detail how the Mini-Widget had broken and how the Wadget Group was responsible for it, and she was waiting for them to do something, except it affected the design and the System Architect had to be consulted, and it was quite possible that Marketing didn't really care about the Mini-Widget, in which case perhaps it would be better to forget about it entirely, but this was, as always, a management decision.

Heather, Harold noted, was wearing big earrings that day: gold hoops that jiggled constantly against her dull brown hair. He had watched them jitter all through the project meeting. Heather never saw him, either. Never even looked at him, as nearly as he could tell. But everyone always noticed her. Harold's mouse hand paused as his thoughts took another track.

Like Harold, Heather was a Level I programmer and had been for some time. Yet, Harold reflected, since everyone noticed her, shouldn't she be a Level II? Heather seemed to think so. On the other hand, sometimes the result of Heather getting noticed was a long conversation in Alec's office, behind closed doors. Harold decided that promotions were a very complex and mysterious affair.

In truth Harold became a little obsessed with such thoughts; he frequently forgot the time and sat in front of his monitor, thinking, until six or seven o'clock in the evening. He finally asked his dog, a sulky basset hound named Virgil, his opinion on the matter. Virgil pretended to listen, but mostly he was irritated by the delay of his dinner. He yawned. Harold scratched Virgil's ear.

One day after musing upon these issues at work, Harold realized it was past seven, so he stood up, put on his coat, and headed for the elevator, where he ran into his boss.

"Calling it a day, Harold?" said Alec conversationally.

"Yes, sir. I have to feed my dog."

Alec chuckled. "You work hard, Harold. Roundabout really appreciates employees like you. Which reminds me: your annual review is coming up soon." He winked.

"Yes, sir," said Harold as he stepped into the elevator.

Two weeks later, Harold had his review. Alec pronounced him a "stellar employee" who "regularly exceeds expectations." Harold forthwith became a level II programmer.

A few days later, Harold was in the break room pouring his third cup of watery coffee. While he stirred in the sugar, he suddenly became nervous. He looked over his shoulder and found that Heather was scrutinizing him with a furrowed brow. She looked him in the eyes. Holy cow, thought Harold. Heather had never looked him in the eyes before. His subconscious awoke for the first time in years and was mildly perturbed about the situation.

Heather's expression changed to a toothy smile. "Why, Harold. Congratulations are in order, I suppose. For your promotion."

Harold opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him short. "Yes, indeed. You're breaking out of your comfy old orbit and zooming along that golden path to success. Yep. Good for you. Of course, the down side, Harold, is that you can never get back to where you were, back into that old orbit, now can you?" She smiled again, and Harold had never seen so many pointy teeth. Thankfully, she turned on her heel and left.

Harold found he was holding his breath, so he exhaled. He wasn't accustomed to being noticed, especially by Heather. He steadied himself by watching the globs of artificial cream swirl around the coffee cup, then he retreated to the safety of his cubicle.

Aside from the Break Room Incident, which is how he thought of it, Harold continued to be largely unnoticed and very successful in his job for some time before things changed.

Harold first sensed a problem when Larry stopped by his cubicle to ask him a question about the Widget. After he'd answered the question, Larry stayed and chatted for a full ten minutes. (Harold timed it.) Larry asked after Harold's dog and announced that his daughter had won a hula hoop competition. Finally he left.

Harold puzzled over the conversation, unsure whether to be peeved or not. In the end he decided that he had enjoyed it, as a diversion from his thinking. Now when he met Larry in the hall, he said, "How's the hula hooping?" Which always resulted in another chat.

Then one day in a staff meeting, Harold did something extraordinary: he told a joke. Heather had, she said, discovered a bug in the Gadget, which prevented the Widget from working as advertised. This of course was a major problem that would have to be rectified before they could ship the product, which could result in another delay. At which point Harold said, "Why don't we change the documentation instead?" Everyone laughed except Heather. Harold experienced an unusual sensation of pleasure.

He continued to explore this strange new world of social interactions. He decided that it was much more interesting than his old, invisible ways. Something could come of it. People might like him. He was traveling a highway of self-fulfillment and purpose. He told more jokes. He chatted. Co-workers began to invite him to lunch. He even got ideas and made suggestions from time to time, some of which were actually implemented. Alec continued to smile at him. Harold realized that he was developing a personality. He discovered that he rather liked it.

Eventually Harold became popular with his co-workers, with the possible exception of Heather, whose smiles always seemed a little too intense for good-natured friendliness.

His relationship with Heather worsened when she broke protocol and asked him a question in the project meeting one day. Everyone noticed this. "Harold," she said in her leadership voice, "is the fix for Widget failure number 86331 checked in? Tom in the Wadget group can't proceed until that's done."

To which Harold replied, "It's done, but not checked in. I'm waiting for you to check in the fix for number 81024." He smiled congenially.

Heather narrowed her eyes. She shuffled through the bug reports. "81024..." Alec was watching her. She stopped looking and said, "Well, yes, that will be done this afternoon. Harold. Just don't forget about 86331. And, oh yes," a smile again, "85101."

To her horror, Harold responded with another number, and the vicious circle continued for several more minutes, until Harold returned to bug number 81024. At that point Heather realized that their allotted time was up, and she suggested that they "take it off-line." Harold agreed, and the meeting dispersed.

Later that day, Alec called Harold into his office.

"Harold, please sit down," said Alec.

Harold sat.

Alec paced around his desk and around Harold. "Now, Harold, you are one of our finest employees, and Roundabout sincerely appreciates all that you do. I want you to know that. You're very important to our team, and to the company." Alec paused and sat on the edge of his desk. "The reason I called you in here today is because there has been a...complaint. About you. I just want to bring this to your attention and ensure that the...problem never occurs again."

Harold nodded. "Good! Now, then, Harold. In the project meeting...well, no point in beating around the bush. Heather was very upset about it and felt that you, as a Level II programmer, were implying that she wasn't getting her work done. Now, I'm certain that you did not mean to come across that way. However, in future project meetings, you should be sensitive to her feelings."

Harold looked perplexed.

"So just be careful of what you say. You do have to monitor yourself sometimes so that you don't offend others, and if I were you, I would be particularly careful to avoid discussing her bugs." Alec smiled.

Harold mumbled, "I certainly meant no offense."

"Of course not."

Harold gazed at his monitor until eight o'clock that night, thinking about the complaint. When he realized the time, he put on his coat and left, still thinking. He didn't understand a bit of it, but he had a vague notion that the problem had to do with the fact that he was being noticed. And that led him directly to the fact that he was developing a personality. He frowned and went to Louie's Place, a nearby bar, on the way home.

Virgil was very put out when Harold finally tottered into the house. Harold ignored the pout and said, "By golly, Virgil, those fellows at Louie's are terrific. They know a personality when they see one." Virgil appeared not to care. "Yes, sir," Harold concluded with a content expression. In a minute, he was dozing in the recliner, still wearing his coat. Virgil moaned.

Although vaguely aware of the perils involved, Harold bravely continued to develop his personality. Gradually, however, he began to notice that Alec smiled at him less and no longer seemed to appreciate his suggestions. This realization triggered little alarms in the back of his mind, but he suppressed them with the aid of his mouse: he circled and admired his improved relationships with his team members.

Except, Harold had to admit, not all of his team relationships had improved. He avoided Heather, but he noticed that she watched him a lot with squinty eyes and a not-at-all friendly expression. It made him increasingly nervous. The mere sight of her began to set off mental sirens that he could not ignore.

He began to suspect Heather's motives. Did she not like his personality? Was she envious of his personality? What was the meaning of the squinty glares and bared teeth? Did she want to prevent him from being noticed? By the team, by Alec, by both? And why didn't Alec smile at him any more?

After following this train of thought for a few days, Harold became convinced that he was embroiled in a whirlwind of conspiracy. Heather began to haunt his formerly pleasant dreams: her teeth flashed at him as she poked him with a fork, and Alec looked over her shoulder, repeatedly asking, "What are you doing for the team?"

As a result of these nightmares, Harold toyed briefly with the idea of an exorcism. His priest explained that exorcisms were for people tormented by spirits, not by other people, so Harold draped his grandmother's prayer beads on his cubicle instead.

He began to feel depressed. He took up the habit of going home after he'd been at work for eight hours. All of his other work activities continued unchanged.

When it was time again for his annual review, Alec didn't smile, and Harold was edgy. Harold was found to "meet expectations," but evidently this was not enough to please Alec. Alec said sternly, "Harold, you're not being a team player. Remember: there's no 'I' in 'team.'" Harold agreed with this fact. He remained a level II programmer.

Harold thought about his review for the remainder of the day, and he went to Louie's on his way home. The bar was becoming a regular haunt of Harold's, and he found that his new personality was well-received there. Each day he looked forward to quitting time. Virgil became increasingly surly.

One morning a few weeks after his review, Harold had a particularly difficult time getting up for work after Pint Night at Louie's. As he dressed, he inadvertently grabbed Virgil's leash and fastened it around his neck instead of a tie. When he realized what he had done, he laughed at himself. He decided it was a fine joke, and he would wear it to work. By George, the guys would love it. That Harold, wearing a dog leash. What a personality!

So Harold walked into the break room wearing the dog leash, and Larry and Dan and Tom and Bob all laughed and laughed. Harold was delighted. He wore the leash to the planning meeting later that morning. Alec saw the leash and heard the amused comments but did not laugh. Heather glowered watchfully.

After the meeting, Alec said, "Harold, come into my office, please."

Bing, bing, bing! said Harold's subconscious, recalling the nightmares. Harold's rational mind said, Maybe it's about that Myers-Briggs test we took last week. My personality probably went off the chart!

Alec closed the door and motioned Harold to sit. Alec sat behind his big wooden desk, leaned back, and steepled his fingers together. "Harold." A pause. "What...are you wearing around your neck?"

"A dog leash, sir," Harold replied, smiling.

"A...dog...leash." Alec performed calisthenics with his finger steeple. He stood and paced around the desk. "Harold, RESPECT is important in the workplace, do you not agree?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Ah. Then WHY have you come to work today dressed to mock me?"

Harold's face exhibited confusion.

"You see, Harold, it may seem a funny joke to you to wear a dog leash around your neck at work, but let me assure you that mocking management is not funny. Do I," he pointed at his chest, "treat you like a dog? Do I ride herd on you like some cruel dog-sled master with a whip? Do I treat you like a trained poodle? Speak!"

Harold considered this, then shook his head and said, "No, sir." He was a little uncertain about the direction the conversation was taking.

"Then WHY do you mock me? Haven't I been PATIENT and KIND to you, in particular? You were once a stellar employee, yet you have been struggling lately. But have I been HARSH with you? No, I think not. I think not.

"Harold," he sat down abruptly. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to write you up for this. Unfortunately, with that Heather bug thing, this makes two strikes. I don't need to tell you that a third strike will end your career at Roundabout. Now take off that leash, and return to your cubicle. And no more jokes, do you hear?"

Leash in hand, Harold did return to his cubicle, where he thought and thought. His boss liked him when he wasn't noticed. Now that he was developing a personality, this drew attention to him, and caused his boss to notice him. His boss no longer liked him. Therefore, he concluded, personalities are problematic.

As if to punctuate this sentiment, his workstation chimed softly and displayed a friendly notice that an error had occurred somewhere, and when it was okay with him, it would shut down now. He stared at it, still thinking. Even his workstation objected to his personality. But...Harold liked his new personality. So did Louie. So did Virgil. Well, probably.

Harold looked at the dog leash lying on the shelf of his cubicle. Then he looked at the clock. It wasn't even lunch time. His eyes wandered back to the monitor: a dead end on his road of personality development. He took a deep breath, then he picked up the leash and looped it around his neck. He stood, grabbed his coat, and headed for the elevator.

Heather smiled at him on his way out.

Harold drove home in his slightly battered VW Rabbit. Once there, he grabbed his toothbrush and Virgil. He put his toothbrush in the glove compartment and Virgil in the front seat, and together they headed west, out of the city.

Harold took the Loop, a ghastly, spiraling interchange that connected downtown with the wealthier suburbs. From there, he got on the Interstate, a straight shot out of town. As they drove, Virgil stared questioningly at Harold, but Harold's attention was on the road.

The road was even and straight. Gradually, the lack of curves lulled Harold into a sense of security and relief that he had not felt in many months. He relaxed and turned on the radio. He sang along with Nancy Sinatra. People with personalities always sing along. Virgil made no comment.

Harold found his driving rhythm on the other side of Spitwell Springs. He was feeling better. He winked at Virgil, pulled off the leash, and tossed it out the window. "Freedom, Virgil! Freedom for both of us!" He smiled and whistled "Windmills of Your Mind," off-key.

The horizon stretched ahead like a cozy, blue security blanket. The Rabbit floated along the Interstate, sometimes passing other floating cars, sometimes being passed. Harold lounged back and dangled his wrist casually out of the window.

Eventually he came upon a knot of cars. He wove the Rabbit in and out, cursing a little—"Doggone Volvo!"—and generally bemoaning any interference with his progress. Virgil looked at him as if to say that they weren't going anywhere in particular anyway, but Harold ignored this point and sped up whenever he could.

They broke free of the pack after several miles, and Harold floored it. The Rabbit shuddered up to eighty-five. Virgil's ears flapped in the wind. Harold sang about little dogies.

Virgil eyed him when he stopped mid-chorus. Harold squinted ahead. "Darn it! Another bunch of slowpokes." He caught up to a series of tail lights, so he applied the brakes. All of the cars stopped, then inched forward, then stopped again. Harold bobbed back and forth in the seat. "What the heck?"

Dust swirled daintily in the breeze, and Harold finally made out a livestock trailer that had overturned up ahead. Dirty white sheep wandered amid dead white sheep, and the combination of the two had slowed everything down to a crawl. Harold turned on his blinker and waited until someone let him into the only lane that was moving, then he drove slowly past the carnage. Virgil looked on unemotionally.

Once past the sheep wreck, Harold drove more cautiously. When the sun began to set, he realized he was hungry, so he pulled off the Interstate and into a truckstop that advertised chicken-fried steak in large red letters on the side of the building.

He went in and ordered two chicken-fried steak dinners to go. The smiling red-headed waitress winked at him. A stained tag sewn into her uniform said "Hyacinth." She was watching him read her label. He blushed and mumbled, "Pretty name."

Her smile, defying physics, grew larger. "Thanks, hon. Been in the family for ages. Handed down from my great-great-great-grandma."

While he waited for the food, he perused the dusty postcards in a wire rack next to the cash register: pictures of the capitol, the big city skyline, and the monument to courageous Fanny Fowler, who single-handedly killed an entire unit of soldiers in someone's army with her biscuits. Harold dug a little further and found bucolic scenes of spring and summer. Ah, he thought. The country. Everyone knows that country people are friendly, particularly to interesting strangers with personality. He noticed a shot of an old-style red barn next to a little pond surrounded by green grass. He took it off the rack and decided to buy it.

He pushed an additional fifty cents across to the red-head, who said, "Where ya headin', hon?" She wore big, long earrings shaped like arrows. They swayed back and forth, pointing this way, now that, as though they couldn't decide which direction to recommend.

He grinned nervously and scratched his head. "I'm not sure," he looked again at the picture of the barn. "Maybe to the country." He thought about it. "I like interesting people."

She laughed. "Me too, hon, me too."

Harold admired his postcard, then he held it up under the light and scrutinized it. Words were painted on the roof of the barn, but a tree was obscuring them. He said, "Say, Hyacinth, uh, ma'am," he blushed again, "see this lettering here?" He held the card out to her. "Do you have any idea what that says?"

She peered at it. "My stars, I haven't seen one of those in years. It says 'See Circle City.' There used to be tons of barns with that slogan on the roof. I think I even knew someone who went to visit Circle City, once. Oh, lessee...Aunt Hazel? She may have moved there. I don't remember for sure, though."

"How very interesting!" said Harold. "Circle City is a very interesting name. Do you know how to get there?"

Hyacinth thought about it. "No, I reckon I don't know exactly where it is. But folks always said that if you just kept turning left, you'd get there soon enough."

To-go boxes appeared on the window ledge that divided the counter area from the kitchen. The cook rang the bell, a staccato ding, ding, ding! Hyacinth fetched Harold's order and handed it to him. "Happy travelin', hon. Hope you find what you're lookin' for." She winked again. "Remember us if you're ever in the neighborhood."

Blushing, Harold returned to the Rabbit.

When they left the truckstop, Harold followed the access road to a Motel 6 and checked in, feeling slightly guilty about not mentioning Virgil and paying for a single occupancy. Together they ate their chicken-fried steak and watched "Hawaii Five-O." Harold fell asleep before Danno could book anyone.

The next day, Harold got up early and bought a map. "Virgil," he said as he started the car, "we're going to the country." Virgil rested his chin on the partially rolled-down car window.

Harold abandoned the straight tranquility of the Interstate and took the Rabbit down back-roads, motoring further and further into the countryside and turning left onto any road that was smaller than the one he was on. After several hours of twisting and turning, he found himself driving on narrow lanes with little or no pavement. On one particularly bumpy stretch, he spotted a barn up ahead. "Aha!" he said.

When he reached it, he stopped to look it over and savor its quaintness. The timbers were gray with age, and the roof sagged a bit. The only paint left on the structure was a vague outline of words on the roof. It urged dimly, "See Circle City."

"It's just like the picture!" He compared them. "Similar, yes. Isn't that interesting?" he asked Virgil. Virgil regarded the barn balefully. "Circle City can't be far, can it?" Harold put the Rabbit in gear and continued down the road.

After a while they came to another barn with the same slogan on the roof, in white. This barn was fairly well-kept and was painted a deep maroon. Harold pulled off the road and studied it. "What is Circle City, anyway? A theme park?" He recalled Hyacinth's Aunt Hazel. "No, it must be a town." He turned to Virgil. "But a special town. The perfect place for us!"

Harold pulled onto the lane and followed it until he came to an even narrower lane to the left. "Now there's a road," he said, using the term generously, "with character. I must travel down a road that has so much," he looked at Virgil, "personality. Besides, it goes left." He turned.

The rutted path was lined with large trees that arched overhead, forming a leafy tunnel. The Rabbit chugged sedately beneath the greenery. "Choo choo!" said Harold. He addressed Virgil, "You know, I always wanted to be a railroad engineer." He gripped the steering wheel tightly. "What's on the other side of this tunnel, do you suppose? Bandits? Ha ha!" Harold laughed. "By golly, this is fun. I don't care if I do get noticed!"

Harold almost drove past the barn without seeing it. Tucked back in the trees, it was painted a dull white, with "See Circle City" in black on the roof. A dozen white cows grazed amid the trees and in the small open area in front of the barn. Harold pulled off the lane, which is to say, he left the tire ruts.

"This is too good to resist, Virgil! What a spot! It's so unique." He got out of the car and motioned for Virgil to do the same. The apathetic hound stepped ponderously into the driver's seat and onto the dirt. Harold surveyed the scene but didn't see any signs of people. He crossed the lane, clambered over the wooden fence, and strode casually toward the barn, with Virgil bringing up a distant rear.

A cow observed Harold with typical bovine scorn, then spotted Virgil. Even in his domesticated state, Virgil too closely resembled a potential calf-eater. She trotted toward him. Virgil accelerated to a lope, catching up with Harold just as he reached the barn door.

"Oh, there you are, Virgil. Let's have a look inside, shall we?" Harold pushed open the left panel of the double door and peered in. He turned to Virgil. "It smells like hay!" He opened the door the rest of the way and, with hands on his hips, studied the interior.

An old tractor sat in the middle of the open floor. Hay-strewn stalls lined the sides but held no animals. Rusty tools and aging bridles hung on the back wall. It was, in every respect, a standard old barn, but it nevertheless pleased Harold because it lacked dull white walls, partitions, and fluorescent lighting. In short, it had character.

Suddenly Harold felt nervous. He looked over his shoulder. A beautiful young woman with long blonde hair was watching him. She had a certain amiable glow about her. He relaxed and turned around. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said. "Meaning no offense, but aren't you trespassing?"

Harold blushed. Even Virgil was staring at him accusingly. "Yes... I'm sorry, really. It's just that I love these barns. They're so interesting. I wanted to see what it looked like on the inside."

She smiled. She had a gap in her front teeth that Harold found irresistible. "By all means, let's go in and have a look." She entered the barn, and Harold and Virgil followed.

Harold breathed in the dust and looked around. "It's wonderful! I could live in a place like this."

The woman laughed. "Well, I think you could do better than that! I'm Holly, by the way." She extended her hand.

Harold shook it. "Harold, and Virgil." He presented the sleepy basset hound.

"Hi, Harold," she said. "What a nice name."

"Thank you. So, Holly," he said emphasizing her name to show that he remembered it, "can you solve a little mystery for me? What—and where—is Circle City? All of the barns in this area advertise it, and I'm really keen to see it."

Holly's blue eyes sparkled. "Circle City? Why, the mystery is easily solved. It's behind the barn." She indicated a small door in the back of the barn that Harold hadn't noticed.

An old-fashioned, rusty tin sign hung over the door. Harold squinted at it but couldn't make out the lettering. "What does that sign say?"

Holly glanced at it reflexively. "Oh, that. My uncle put that there. It says, 'What Comes Around, Goes Around.' He thinks every door should have a sign over it. He's kind of different that way." She opened the door. "Shall we?" She stepped through.

Harold walked to the door and called Virgil. "Come on, boy. Let's go!" Virgil remained sitting. "Don't be obstinate! Be a good dog," said Harold. Virgil slowly stood and ambled toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped and looked doubtfully up at Harold, then stepped over. Harold followed.

Holly waited for them and said, "It's just on the other side of this field." She led them down a row of towering corn stalks, so thick that there was barely room between the rows to walk. The enclosing plants guided them in the only available direction, and they proceeded in a line, with Virgil in the rear. Holly looked back occasionally to make sure they were following. It was a large field, and after awhile Harold began to suspect that the rows weren't entirely straight. Before he could prove his hypothesis, however, they reached the end of the corn.

They came out onto a dusty lane, and Holly waved a hand. "Here we are. That's Circle City."

A row of neat little cottages, all more or less alike in construction, curved toward Harold as though he were viewing them through a fish-eye lens. Neat little picket fences and neat little sidewalks with neat little lawns stretched away on either side, as if to infinity.

"Why," he said, "it's wonderful! Just as I imagined! What character! What personality!"

Holly smiled, emphasizing her rosy cheeks. "I'm glad that you think so."

"But," said Harold, "how come I've never heard of it? This must be the best-kept secret in the state!"

"Well, we keep to ourselves. We aren't on the map, either, since we are self-sufficient."

Harold perked up. "Self-sufficient, you say? How very interesting!" If they were self-sufficient, then he must be, too. He had a personality, after all.

"You must come and meet everybody," said Holly. "I feel that you would fit in. We'll have a festival today, if you'll come. You would like to come to the festival, wouldn't you?"

"I would be delighted!" said Harold. Virgil regarded his master's enthusiasm with disdain.

Holly led them through the town, and after they passed the first arc of houses, Harold realized that the streets were circular. The first two rings were lined with neat little cottages, and the third ring contained various stores. Harold could make out the grocer, the druggist, and what might be a furniture store.

"Ah," said Harold. "Circle City. Ha ha." Holly winked at him. Virgil snorted and scratched a flea.

The fourth ring contained the municipal buildings: a simple town hall, a red brick school, and a white church with a circle-encased cross atop its spire.

"Where are all the townspeople?" asked Harold.

"They're waiting for us at the center of town," said Holly. "Already?" Harold marveled at the efficiency of this self-sufficient town.

"Here we are!" said Holly. She stopped and held her arms out. A community green lay at the center of town, in the heart of the circles. It had a small pond on one side and a baseball diamond on the other. In the middle stood a terrifically old oak tree with an impressive canopy. "Wow," said Harold.

Most of the women were setting up tables of food in the shade of the oak, while the men appeared to be preparing for a baseball game. The church bell spoke, a hearty ding, dong, ding, in a minor key that resounded across the town.

"Come meet my uncle," said Holly. She led them to a bench next to the baseball diamond, where an old man was pulling on red, white, and blue socks. "Uncle, this is Harold, and that is Virgil. Harold, this is my Uncle Henry."

The old man glanced up with a smile. His face was red, his nose was large and bulbous, and he had that amiably crazed expression that sometimes occurs naturally in the elderly. "How do you do, young man. Welcome to Circle City."

"Thank you. I'm very happy to be here."

"Of course you are. Now, young Harold," said Henry, standing, "when we hold a festival, we typically play a game of baseball, which is Circle City's favorite pastime, and there is nothing on earth that is more beneficial to a community than a solid team sport. After we play, we'll eat. How's that sound?"

"Terrific, sir," said Harold.

"Now then, Harold, can you play baseball?" asked Henry.

"Ah," said Harold. He had assumed he would watch the game, not participate in it. "Ah," he repeated. "Well, to be honest, I'm not much of an athlete..."

"No matter, no matter! You don't have to be an athlete, my boy! You just need to have that old team spirit!" Henry patted him on the back. "To be honest with you, I need someone who will take my position on the team. I'm getting too old for this, so I'm going to manage our side, the O's. What do you say?"

Harold looked into Holly's pretty blue eyes, then back to Henry's bloodshot ones, and said, "Sure, I'll play."

"Excellent!" Henry rummaged in a box behind the bench and pulled out a jersey with red, white, and blue horizontal stripes. "Here you go, Harold, put this on."

Harold held it up. "Isn't thirteen considered unlucky?"

"My dear boy, this isn't the Dark Ages!" Henry cackled at him.

Harold shrugged and put it on. It was a little large. "Now what do I do?"

"You'll play right field. When Hank is on the pitcher's mound, you try to field any balls that come your way back there," he pointed. "When Hank isn't pitching, you'll get a chance to bat when it's your turn."

"Okay," said Harold. He turned to Virgil. "How do I look?" Virgil ignored the question and lay down under the bench.

His teammates joined them, and Harold shook each hand in turn, trying to remember names. The umpire whistled for the team captains. He held an oversized wooden fork vertically, and the two team captains grabbed it, each alternating fists up the fork until no room was left at the top. The X's lost, so Harold's team got to bat first.

Sitting on the bench, Harold watched the first batter and became somewhat confused. The X's were also wearing jerseys with red, white, and blue horizontal stripes. He turned to Hugh, who sat on his left. "Shouldn't each team have different uniforms?"

Hugh looked at him quizzically. "That's a radical notion. Why would we do that?"

Harold thought about this for a bit, but he soon had another question. He turned to Hiram this time, on his right. "That ball," Harold began, then stopped, considering.

"Yes?" said Hiram.

"It's an acorn," Harold finished.

"Yes?"

"Granted, a very large, round, smooth acorn. But it's not a baseball."

Hiram, eyes on the game, said, "Circle City is self-sufficient. But we don't have a way to make baseballs. So we use acorns from the Founder Oak," he nodded to indicate the big, old tree in the center of the common. He turned to look at Harold. "But they're better, you know. They carry further and make a nicer sound when you whack one."

"Ah," Harold said, then returned his attention to the game. The game was very confusing to Harold. He had never been a baseball fan, exactly, but he thought he understood the rules better than this. The second batter for the O's reached first on a line drive, then stole second. At second base, Harold swore that the base runner began to play second base, and the second baseman went to third on Horace's bunt. In fact, Horace was now playing first, and some other guy was sitting on the O's bench. Harold was quite puzzled. He tried to think about this, instinctively making little circles on his knee with his right hand, but he found it difficult without his mouse.

When the teams changed sides, Harold walked into right field and watched the game. No acorns came his way. When they returned to the bench, Harold was certain that some of his teammates had defected, or vice versa. Most peculiar, he thought.

When it was Harold's turn to bat, Holly was standing off to the side, cheering him on. He waved at her. By George, it was nice to belong.

At the plate, he bent his knees and held the bat up like he'd seen baseball players do in the movies. The opposing pitcher squinted, nodded, wound up, and released. The acorn wobbled toward him at a high speed, jerking up, down, left, and right. Harold hit the dirt. "Strrrike!" yelled the umpire.

Harold got up, dusted himself off, and proceeded to take strikes two and three in similar fashion. Dejected, he returned to the bench. "Good try, Harold," said Henry.

As the game proceeded, Harold nearly caught a fly ball once, but at the last instant, it hit the edge of his glove and caromed away. The center fielder recovered it. Mostly if the acorn came his way, Harold chased it around right field until he had herded it near the first baseman, who made whatever play was necessary. Batting was not Harold's strong suit, either, and each trip to the plate had the same disappointing result as the first. Still, Harold did his best to play his position.

In the bottom of the ninth, the score was tied at twelve, with one out. The second batter for the X's hit a line drive and conked Harvey, the third baseman, on the head. He fell over, stunned, while the batter made it to first and changed places with the first baseman. The shortstop held the X's to a single, and the current O lineup rushed to Harvey's side, aghast at their loss: Harvey was responsible for three RBIs and two home runs. Henry came out on the field and summoned Harold.

"Young Harold," he said, "you'll have to play third base. Herman!" he yelled at the bench and pointed to right field. Henry returned to the bench while assorted players dragged Harvey off the field.

Harold took his place at third base and began to fret. He might be called on to do something. Would he be up to the challenge? He wasn't sure how a personality could help him play baseball. He didn't want to let anybody down.

A tall, thin man came to the plate: the pitcher. "Easy out," said the shortstop.

Hank sneered. He delivered a fastball. "Strrrike!" After scuffling around the mound, intimidating the batter, he delivered another. "Strrrike!" Overconfident, Hank threw the next one away, but the catcher recovered it before any damage could be done. Hank squinted and bore down. "Strrrike!"

Whew, thought Harold. One more out to go.

A heavyset man came to the plate. Hank peered at the catcher, nodded, and went into his wind-up. He threw his knuckle-ball, his special pitch. The batter swung and missed. "Strrrike!"

Hank repeated the process, delivering another deadly knuckle-ball. "Strrrike!" The batter beat the plate with his bat. He looked mean.

Hank looked back at the base-runner on first. He kicked dirt around. He applied more rosin. Finally, he returned to the rubber, squinted, wound up, and released a fastball.

Whack! The acorn sailed away, past the left fielder. The man on first raced to second and changed places with the second baseman, who ran toward Harold. Harold chewed his fingernails and watched the left fielder chase the acorn. The second baseman touched third and slapped Harold on the back. "Home, Harold! It's time to go home." He pushed him toward home plate.

Confused, Harold moved toward home, then he started to run. Oh, home! He fixated on the plate. The plate. He had to get to home plate! The team was depending on him! People were screaming, but he didn't hear. He was closing in. Slide! Slide, Harold, slide! He landed on his chest and slid a foot into the plate.

Someone grabbed him, then he was up on his feet, rubbing bloody hands on his uniform. His teammates were shaking him, pounding him, shouting, "Hurray for Harold! We won!" They hoisted him into the air and paraded around the diamond. "Harold did it! Harold is King for the day!" Harold grinned and tried to maintain his balance. He'd done it!

When they finally set him back on his feet, Henry shook Harold's hand vigorously. "Well done, Harold, well done! You are a bona fide part of the team now."

Harold looked around for Holly. She rushed up to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Great play, Harold," she said.

"Thanks! Thanks, all of you!" said Harold. "I...I couldn't have done it alone. What a great team!" He wiped his brow and looked around at his teammates. "Gosh, this place is great. This is what heaven must be like. Would it...would it be possible for me to stay?" He paused uncertainly, then added, "I'm very self-sufficient."

Holly smiled shyly. "Of course you can stay. We insist. You found us, after all." She winked at him flirtatiously.

Harold knelt down and looked at Virgil, who was still reclining under the team bench. "What do you think, Virgil? Would you like to stay?" Virgil was noncommittal. He rolled onto his back and regarded Harold from the ground up.

Harold stood, and Holly took his hand. "Thank you for playing our game, Harold. You played your position very well. But now it's time for our feast."

With that, Holly took a baseball bat and clubbed Harold on the head with it. Henry also took a swing, just to be on the safe side, then the team hauled him over to the barbecue pit where he would join the feast.

Virgil watched them go, still resting on the top of his head. Then he rolled over, got up, and sauntered out of town. Eventually he met up with a pack of wild dogs, and he joined them. He did well in the pack hierarchy, particularly since he was an authority on the ways of apes. So, in some ways, he was a free dog.