THE LAST LETTER By FRITZ LIEBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Who or what was the scoundrel that kept these couriers from the swift completion of their handsomely appointed rondos? On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 A.D., at exactly 9 A.M. Planetary Federation Time--but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either way--in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68, Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail. This breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. It was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat with a strychnine pill in it. Black Sorter's innards went _whirr-klunk_, a blue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might break loose from the concrete. He desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave a great _huff_ and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-size snowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. Then, still convulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chomp and grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged. The rejected envelope was tongued up by Red Subsorter, who growled deep in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to Yellow Rerouter, who passed it to Green Rerouter, who passed it to Brown Study, who passed it to Pink Wastebasket. Unlike Black Sorter, Pink Wastebasket was very delicate, though highly intuitive--the machine equivalent of a White Russian countess. She was designed to scan in 3,137 codes, route special-delivery spacemail to interplanetary liners by messenger rocket, and distinguish 9s from upside-down 6s. Pink Wastebasket haughtily inhaled the offending envelope and almost instantly turned a bright crimson and began to tremble. After a few minutes, small atomic flames started to flicker from her mid-section. White Nursemaid Seven and Greasy Joe both received Pink Wastebasket's distress signal and got there as fast as their wheels would roll them, but the high-born machine's malady was beyond their simple skills of oilcan and electroshock. * * * * * They summoned other machine-tending-and-repairing machines, ones far more expert than themselves, but all were baffled. It was clear that Pink Wastebasket, who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably, was suffering from the equivalent of a major psychosis with severe psychosomatic symptoms. She spat a stream of filthy ions at Gray Psychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend.