LONG NIGHT IN A HOT TUB

A Novel by Jim Bowden

Sonoma, California

Copyright© 2008 by Jim Bowden

Also by Jim Bowden

Diana and the Peace Helmet (novella)

Mitosis (short story)

Idiots and Intellectuals (essays)

Robots and Giant Brains (ghosted)

Secure Identity: A New Freedom (article)

Chapter 1

Early Tuesday morning, the shrill chirping of the phone startled Jeff out of an exhausted sleep. He rolled on his side, curled up, and pulled the blankets over his head—knowing Diana would answer it in her bedroom or the machine would pick it up. The calls didn’t usually begin before nine. He’d have to remember to unplug the phone in his room after this.

        A soft thud near his feet told him Sheba had come in and jumped on the bed, hungry as usual. Her loud purr vibrated through the blankets. He could resist that, but worse was in store for him.

        “Jeff!” It was Diana’s voice, shouting loudly from her bedroom on the other side of the house.

        “Who is it?” he shouted back.

        “Can you come in here? Right now?”

        He groaned. “Coming.”

        His landlady was sitting up in bed, brown hair all in strings, tousled like Medusa’s snakes, face ghastly without makeup. Her silk pajama shirt, half unbuttoned, was twisted around her body. Jeff blinked at her, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was having trouble remembering what an attractive woman she normally was.

        Diana held the phone out to him, but when he went to take it she put it in her lap and let her breath out in a long sigh.

        “So who is it?” he asked.

        “Colleen’s landlord. He wants us to come right over. He thinks she may be dead!”

        Jeff shook his head. It was definitely too early for things like this. Later, maybe, after coffee. “You don’t think she’s really dead, do you?”

        “I don’t know. The way she drinks...one of these days…. We’ve got to get over there!” She picked up the phone again. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t do anything or call anybody till we get there.” She threw the comforter off, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and started to undo the re­maining buttons on her pajama shirt. Jeff got the idea and went back to his room.

        “Sorry Sheba, but you’ll have to wait,” he told the restless calico cat as he dressed. By now he was thoroughly awake, more aroused by Diana’s appearance than by concern over Colleen. His landlady had the body, if not the soul, of a volup­tuary. He pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, slipped into a pair of sandals, grabbed wallet and keys, and headed for the car. With the engine warming and the radio going he tried to remember the way to Colleen’s apartment building. He’d been there a few days earlier to see her artwork. Ever since he had moved into Diana Thornton’s guest room, people had been eager to make him feel at home by inviting him over.

        The mellifluous voice on the radio said it was a beautiful Tuesday morning in April and the freeways were running smoothly. Smug bastard, Jeff thought sourly. From the rever­ential tone of his voice you would have thought he was an­nounc­ing the Second Coming, rather than weather and traffic. Jeff fumed, waiting for Diana. It was chilly, he hadn’t had time to make coffee, and his new friend Colleen was probably in an alcoholic coma or worse. He hoped Diana would at least have the decency to skip the usual lengthy process of putting on her face. For a moment he considered leaving without her.

        Colleen’s place was only a few blocks away, near enough for her to bicycle over to the Thornton house to visit and enjoy the hot tub. “She’s probably okay,” Jeff said hopefully as they finally got underway. “Didn’t you say she goes on a binge every month or two?”

        His passenger just stared ahead, tight-lipped, obviously in no mood for small talk. She had daubed a little color on her cheeks, which just accentuated their pallor. These past few months had been frantic ones, friends had said, and she was starting to show the strain.

        The landlord, a weathered man in blue-jeans, greeted them with a long face. As they climbed the stairs he explained what had happened, sounding vaguely apologetic. “I got waked up by a big crash upstairs, then a bunch of noises like things being knocked around. After that it was dead silent. I waited a little while, because I know how she is.” He rolled his eyes. “But then when I didn’t hear anything I went and knocked on her door. Nobody answered, so I knocked harder...”

        Diana pushed him aside and pounded on the apartment door. “Colleen? Are you all right? Colleen!” She turned to the landlord. “Well, aren’t you going to open the door?”

        The man hurriedly searched through his key ring and finally got the door open. “I didn’t want to take it on myself...”

        The tight-lipped woman went in first, carefully stepping over half-finished oil-paintings, sketch-books, brushes, and heaps of clothes. An empty vodka bottle lay on its side and cigarette butts littered the floor. Through the haze of smoke Jeff could see an easel resting crookedly against a chair where it had fallen. On the far side of the room a work-table lay on its side, surrounded by overturned tubes of paint. A smear of red added drama to the scene, but he saw that it was simply paint, squirted from one of the tubes. Diana picked her way over to the table.

        “Over here!” she said, pointing beyond it. He hurried to join her. Colleen’s body lay sprawled awkwardly among the debris, head thrown back and open mouth showing large front teeth with a gap in the middle. Her chest rose and fell slowly. “Thank God!” Diana sighed in relief.

        They lifted the limp body onto a small sofa and righted the table. “I think she’ll be all right, but it’s best if we try to wake her up. She might have hurt herself when she fell.” Diana patted her cheek and shook her gently. “Colleen darling, wake up.”

        Jeff watched for any signs of wakefulness, holding his breath against the stench of tobacco and alcohol. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better just to let her sleep it off?”

        The landlord stood by the table, blinking and squinting, thumbs tucked into his belt. “I think you got to get her waked up. Make sure she’s okay.”

        Colleen sighed heavily as the older woman kept shaking her and slapping her cheek. Finally her eyes fluttered open. “Jesus! What’s going on? Leave me alone. I want to sleep.”

        “Are you okay, dear? You fell down. We were afraid you might have hurt yourself.”

        “I’m okay.” Her mouth worked briefly and she stuck out her tongue. “Yuck, what a taste!”

        “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened?”

        The young woman shook her head as if to clear it, further tangling the mop of flaming red hair. She lifted herself on her elbows. “I’m drunk as a skunk. I want a cigarette.” She slumped back on the sofa and passed out with a deep sigh.

        Diana looked up at Jeff, shaking her head. “We’ve got to get something into her. She’s bound to be dehydrated after all that booze. See if you can find some fruit juice while I check her body for bruises.” Diana glanced up at the landlord and jerked her head in the direction of the door. “Thanks for being concerned. I think we can handle it from here on out.” The man appeared reluctant to leave, but finally moved toward the door, glancing over his shoulder as Diana began undressing Colleen.

                                     *   *   *   *

        Later, back at the Thornton residence, he changed his clothes and made coffee as Diana showered. The cat rubbed against his legs. “Okay Sheba, I guess you deserve to be fed. Emergency’s over.” He reached into the bag of dry cat food and put a handful in Sheba’s dish. She looked up at him, twitching her tail.

        “There! In your dish! Oh, all right.” He opened a can with a picture of Garfield the Cat on it. “Here. I should know better by now. Spoiled cat.”

        Whose fault is that? Sheba asked, daintily tasting the wet food.

        He started washing the mountain of dishes that always seemed to grow faster than anyone could keep up with, thinking back on the morning’s events. Getting Colleen undressed so they could check for bruises had finally awakened her. It had been necessary to explain what was going on, but she immed­iately understood and thanked them. Fortunately the only bruises were small ones, and she felt that everything inside was all right—except for the effects of the alcohol. The refrigerator had been empty, so he had gone out for orange juice. At Col­leen’s insistence they had left her to recover at leisure.

        Washing dishes was the perfect activity for musing on things, Jeff had discovered. It was something about the monot­ony and having his hands in warm water. His thoughts drifted back to the letter from Martin Schofield that had begun the whole saga. The letter had intrigued him with its suggestions of high-tech excitement and romance—just what he needed for his next novel. He’d taken Schofield at his word and called Diana from New York, intending to make polite inquiries. What he discovered was a new dimension. When he got off the phone two hours later it was with the conviction that his destiny had been decided for him, in some mysterious fashion.

        Two weeks later he and his faithful laptop computer Toto had moved into the cramped guest room in the Thornton res­idence, initially under an assumed name. It wasn’t wise for people to be aware of his real mission, he had found. They tended either to freeze up or become annoyingly effusive. Having a recognized name might be convenient at a hotel or nightclub, but when you were gathering material for a novel it was more of a hindrance.

        So far, he had been unable to decide exactly what was going on with Diana and her “VirGen”—the Virtual Reality Generator that was the center of this beehive of activity. People came and went. The phone rang all day, or she was furiously tapping at the touch-tone pad and drumming her fingers on the table as she waited to be connected. He’d picked up hints of romance, of deals being made, of serious problems. But when he tried to get to the bottom of things, some bizarre new inter­ruption always seemed to frustrate his efforts. This morning’s episode with Colleen was no exception. He had been planning to visit the showroom where the VirGen was on display, just to get a feel for the scope of the operation. He had been hoping for a personal demonstration, but the machine was down at the moment, in need of a critical part. Diana told him again and again that once he’d experienced the remarkable injector of programmed hallucinations he’d be a changed man.

        She herself appeared to be a magnet for the dramatic events that got in the way of his pursuit of facts. There was no identi­fiable pattern to these events and he could not fault her for being secretive. It was simply that all too often chaos ruled at the Thornton household. When it came to a plot for his book he was at a loss, so far at least, and had resigned himself to typing notes into Toto’s voluminous memory.

Chapter 2

With the pots and pans still unwashed, he was jarred from his musings by an ominous gurgle from the faucet. The water dribbled to a stop. Instantly there was a shriek from the bath­room. Diana ran out in a terrycloth robe, hair lathered and dripping bits of foam.

        “What happened to the water? Did you turn it off?”

        He raised his hands helplessly. “Don’t look at me! I’m trying to do the dishes.”

        “Those bastards! They actually did it! They turned off my water! That’s it. I’m calling the mayor.” She strode back into the bathroom, then returned to the kitchen for a small saucepan, muttering something about the water in the toilet tank. A min­ute later she came out and asked Jeff if he could get her a bucket of water from the hot tub so she could rinse off. He did that, then dried his hands and looked happily at the slowly-filling pot of coffee. At least that hadn’t been interrupted.

        He went out the back door, walked around to the front of the house, and found the thick Los Angeles Times in its plastic wrapper on the front lawn. He brought the paper back inside and sat at the kitchen table, shoving some manila folders aside on the red-and-white checked oilcloth to make room. The hectic pace of life in the Thornton house didn’t leave much time for catching up on the news. In the bathroom Diana was talking to herself, sounding like an angry truck-driver trying to change a tire at night in a blizzard with the wrong tools.

        The Mr. Coffee machine completed its cycle with an officious burp. He poured himself a cup and had just started to read about the current murder trial when Diana came back into the kitchen, still in the robe but with a Turkish towel wrapped around her head.

        “Were you able to rinse off?” he asked her.

        “What? I can’t hear you.” She arranged the towel to let one ear peek out and sat at the table with him.

        “I said...what’s this about them turning off the water?”

        She pursed her lips. “I screwed up, that’s all. I’ll have to run over there and pay them enough to turn it back on. God, I’ll be glad when I have some money again. Being broke sucks. It absolutely sucks! By the way, thanks for doing the dishes.”

        “That’s okay, somebody’s got to do them. But I wish Craig would get his carcass back here. He’s a top gun in the kitchen.”

        She brightened at the mention of her new squeeze and smiled softly, momentarily forgetting the crisis. “The kitchen’s not the only room Craig’s a top gun in, sweetie. I miss him a bunch. I can hardly wait till this weekend!”

        “I’ll bet. So, do you think Colleen will be all right?”

        “Sure. Normally she gets to the sofa before she passes out. By this afternoon she’ll be hungry and talkative. She’ll pedal her bike over here and want to soak in the hot tub and stay for supper.” Diana peeled a banana part way down and held it out to him. “Bite?”

        “Thanks.”

        “But you know, I think it’s about time she got her act together. This bingeing has got to be destroying her liver. Col­leen’s always taken good care of her body. She even does work­outs. Did you know that? She has a deal with a health club. They let her use the facilities and she paints murals on the walls.”

        “Clever gal! How old is she, anyway?”

        “Around thirty. Too old to act the way she does. One time they found her passed out under a bush in the park.” Sigh. “I do wish she’d get herself straightened out. I’ve got other things to do than clean up after her.”

        That seemed to remind her of the empty water pipes. She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “Yuck! I’m sticky all over. Well, there isn’t going to be any water until I go over there and give them their pound of flesh. Hmm....” She pinched her midriff. “Maybe I should give them five or ten pounds!”

        “I like you the way you are. Listen, let me drive you over to the water company. It’s the least I can do, and it’ll give me a chance to talk to you without being interrupted, for a change.”

        He knew it would take her at least half an hour to dress and put on her face—maybe even more without water. Might as well use the time to catch up on correspondence. Let the L. A. Times wait. Toto was always ready on the small desk. He sat in front of it and clicked the email icon.

Nelson—Just a brief update. Sorry if I was short with you the other day, but things are pretty hectic here at the Thornton beehive. As I started to tell you on the phone, I think Martin Schofield may be out in left field. Did I ever give you a copy of his letter? Frankly, I doubt whether this will be my next novel. I still haven’t had a chance to test the VirGen. A klystron tube, whatever that is, blew out and they don’t have money for a new one. I think our queen bee has been living on money put up by friends and relatives. Starla, her daughter, has a job but it doesn’t pay much. If things don’t start happening in a week or so, it’s back to the Big Apple for me.

          Got any new sales figures on Scarlet Lips? Have they picked up the motion-picture option yet? Guess not, or you would have told me.

          Incidentally, it’s better if you use email rather than trying to call, since her majesty’s on the phone most of the day. She has call-waiting, but it always irritates her to be interrupted.

Jeff

        As the novelist was waiting for the message to transmit, Diana appeared in the doorway, dressed and newly faced. “Jeff, are you sure you don’t mind taking time out? I do have a car, you know.” She came over to see what he was doing, with no thought for his privacy. He had noticed that trait in her in the brief time he’d lived here. To his landlady nothing was secret, including the most intimate details of her own life. It bespoke a certain grand innocence that both flattered and annoyed him. Flattered, because it meant intimacy and trust; annoyed, be­cause for him there still had to be secrets. Quickly he closed the computer’s lid and stood, hoping it didn’t look as if he were trying to hide something.

        “Hey, I enjoy riding around with you. Gives me a chance to pick up local color. Let’s go! I can finish this later.”

        As he drove, Jeff marveled at the seething mini-malls on Sepulveda Boulevard. New York City had nothing to compare, at least not in the neighborhoods he frequented. But he was more interested in the water bill, since it could be a clue to what was really going on here. “Listen, not to pry or anything, but how did you manage to let the water bill go this long? Don’t they send reminders, final notices, and all that?”

        She gave him a shaman’s smile. “I never pay bills on time anymore. How else do you think I get by? I have to juggle ac­counts to make the money last. This time I got caught, that’s all!”

        He found a parking place near the water-company’s office. Crossing the building’s plaza, they were forced to go around an immense fountain made of poured concrete and twisted steel beams. Water dribbled out of rusted pipes. The sight prompted a wry comment from Jeff. “That has got to be the ugliest sculp­ture I have even seen. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was rubble left over from the earthquake.” He paused to gaze at it, hands on hips, frowning.

        “I know, but what can you do? The artist is making a statement.”

        “What’s he saying, do you think?”

        She shrugged. “Something about society disintegrating, most likely.”

        The author scowled at the ugly jumble. “I don’t mind an artist making a statement, as long as he doesn’t do it in public. It hurts my eyes. It would frighten the horses, if there were any horses.”

        Diana laughed. “If my water-bill money goes to pay for junk like this, it’s no wonder society’s disintegrating!”

        They continued on their way, circling the monstrosity. Inside the building’s cavernous lobby thick bulletproof panes separated the clerks from the customers.

        “Why all the glass? It looks like an aquarium.”

        “This is California, darling. When it comes to water, people are apt to shoot first and ask questions later! Remember all those movies? It’s a favorite plot device.”

        In line ahead of them a short man with a drooping black mustache confronted the clerk with waving hands and Spanish epithets. He was clearly not convinced the tiny microphone embedded in the glass would carry his voice through to the other side. Ultimately he forked over some money and left, mumbling to himself.

        Diana paid the clerk. “That should hold them for a month. By then I should be rolling in money.”

        “Good. I don’t care about the dishes, but I insist on showers!”

        They returned to the car and headed back home. This had been one more of those bizarre interruptions that threw him off track, but at least now he had Diana to himself for a few min­utes and decided to take advantage of the situation.

        “Do you think I’ll have a chance to try out the VirGen pretty soon? It’s the main reason I’m here, you know.”

        “Can you hold on for another week?”

        “I think so. Why?”

        “I’m working on a deal that should net me fifty thousand dollars. I need that much to pay for a new klystron tube and take care of old bills. There’s back rent and salaries, and pay­ments on parts and test equipment. As soon as I get the money, we’ll be back in business and you can have your demo. In fact, I’ll make sure you get the first demo, just as soon as the Hallu is working again.”

        “Hallu?”

        “That’s what I call the VirGen for short. It injects hallu­cinations. Adam’s working on the software while we wait for the money. It’s going to be even better than before. That man is a genius! He’s a little nuts, but he’s the most creative computer programmer I’ve ever met. Have I told you about the Auto­scripter? It was my idea originally, but I never thought it would be possible without a multi-million-dollar investment in pro­gram­ming. Well, Adam actually came up with a way to do it!”

        “Okay, I’ll bite. What does the Autoscripter do?”

        “It controls the VirGen. You just type up a script and feed it into the scanner, instead of having to film live actors and use sets and all that. It draws on stored images and sounds. You’ll see for yourself just as soon as we get the new klystron tube.”

        Jeff mulled this over, weaving in and out of the congestion that was Sepulveda Boulevard. Another week or so he could handle, if that was all it was going to take. Martin Schofield’s description of the Virtual Reality Generator itself had sounded impressive, and now there was the Autoscripter program. This was definitely worth waiting for. Jeff recalled the excitement of Nelson, his editor, jaded as that man was. “Virtual Reality is what’s happening,” he had said. “I need it! Go out there and wallow in it. Make it into a book. Do a potboiler if you have to, but do it!”

        As he drove, Jeff glanced at his companion’s face, marveling at its serenity. The thick brown hair was now well coifed, and the skillful use of makeup had transformed her into a thing of beauty and a joy forever, truly a queen in appearance as well as manner. All she lacked was money.

        A car cut suddenly in front of him and he hit the brakes just in time. This was not the time or place to be admiring queens, with or without money. He pressed on, hoping for more infor­mation.

        “What exactly is a klystron tube?”

        “It’s what generates the microwaves. However, the one we need isn’t just an ordinary tube. It uses gallium arsenide micro­chips and a cryogenic container. The microwaves interrupt the normal brain-body connections so the hallucinations can be injected.”

        “Of course. I might have guessed!”

        She ignored his mild sarcasm. “The microchips tune the klystron’s output. Gallium arsenide works faster than silicon. The cryogenic container keeps everything cold enough to superconduct. Luigi helped me work through the technical terms in the patents.”

        Jeff made a mental note to the effect that this queen had brains as well as beauty. “So much for the technical part. Now, how do you plan to raise the fifty grand, if I may ask?”

        She was pleased to explain all. It seemed there had been the need for a lawyer, one Bernie Manson, to set up the VirGen project as a corporation, check into the patent situation, fight off competing claims and lawsuits, and file all the usual appli­ca­tions for permits to do business in the State of California. Diana had been in need of money and he had generously of­fered to put up whatever it took—something approaching six figures, Jeff gathered—in return for a piece of the action. He had even fi­nanced additional patentable improvements. She said he was a man in his mid-thirties, ambitious, smart and ener­getic, but—as it turned out—just a bit too greedy for his own good. His legal fees mounted quickly and eventually exceeded the amount he had advanced. Presently he notified her that he wanted the money, now. Since she was still without funds, he had taken out a lien against the assets of the corporation.

        She went on, grimly. “When I confronted him with this obvious attempt to steal my company out from under me, he acted as if I was trying to cheat him, instead of the other way around! That was about a year ago, just when we were ready to start manufacturing. We had Sony interested in a joint venture, but of course they had to know who had the legal rights to the Hallu technology.”

        He nodded, keeping his eyes on traffic.

        “Then this asshole of a lawyer hit me with a lawsuit and threatened to tell Sony about it unless I did what he wanted—which was basically to turn everything over to him. Naturally I didn’t do that. I would have counter‑sued, but I had no money to pay another attorney. The way it stands now, if I don’t pay him off the judge could award him the Hallu and all the patents pending. The case comes up in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, Sony got wind of it and backed out.”

        Jeff made a whooshing noise. “Bad news! But I don’t see what this has to do with raising fifty thousand dollars.”

        “I’m coming to that.” She appeared to be gearing up for the next chapter, but they had arrived back at the house. “Let me check my messages, then I’ll pick up where I left off. I want to run it by you anyway—you might have some suggestions. Colleen read your book about Wall Street and told me all about it. You seem to know a lot about finance and business law.”

        He took the L. A. Times into the living room. She went to the glassed-in back porch she referred to as her office to check the answering machine. Somehow the Bernie Manson story, currently unfinished, was going to conclude with another fifty thousand dollars going into Diana’s pocket. Jeff was impatient to learn exactly how she planned to pull it off.

        The newspaper left him cold. It was the same old litany of other people’s troubles, and he was more interested in Diana’s at the moment. He went to his room and brought up the VirGen computer file. As he worked, he could hear his landlady’s voice on the phone. Had it been an ordinary voice he could have worked through it—but she cooed, chuckled, laughed, con­soled, cajoled, shouted, screamed, and argued. Even with the door closed, her racket periodically shattered his focus. But he kept going, developing a new respect for war correspondents reporting under fire.

Chapter 3

That afternoon Colleen showed up as predicted. The April weather had taken a turn for the better, producing summerlike conditions. Diana was inside on the phone and Jeff was on the patio, again trying to fight his way through the Times. The wooden gate swung open with a creak. Colleen wheeled her bike inside and leaned it against the concrete-block wall surrounding the back yard and patio.

        He greeted her, putting down the paper. Colleen was wearing shorts and a halter and immediately kicked off her sandals. Tanned and firm of body, she exuded health except for a bit of darkness around the eyes from last night’s binge.

        “You’re looking pretty good, considering.”

        “I’m feeling pretty good! Thanks for the orange juice.”

        “My pleasure. Maybe next time you’ll let me take you out for breakfast.”

        “Maybe I will.” The redhead stretched out on a chaise next to his chair. “Don’t let me interrupt what you’re doing. I just want to relax and catch a little sun.”

        Jeff expected she would light up a cigarette. When she showed no sign of doing so, he asked her about it. “I thought you were a smoker.”

        “I only smoke when I drink.”

        “That’s a relief. The smog level in your room this morning probably set a record for Los Angeles!”

        She snorted. “You produce a thousand times more smog driving that big car.”

        “Touché! You’re obviously right. And I can’t claim that I only drive when I drink, can I?”

        Diana came out with soft drinks and crackers. She sat and looked at the young woman. “Colleen baby—why do you torture yourself like this?” With a sigh and a shake of the head, “Why do you do it, anyway?”

        “Do what?” Colleen said brightly. “Get shit-faced? It’s just what I do. It’s part of my life. It’s—amor fati.”

        The concerned matron looked at her uncomprehendingly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

        “It’s from Nietzsche. Amor fati, the love of your fate. What about you? Why do you keep torturing yourself about all this hallucination business?”

        “The VirGen? I’m not torturing myself. I do what I have to do.”

        “Exactly! So do I.”

        The phone rang in the house. Diana had forgotten to bring the cordless one outside so she ran to answer it, shouting over her shoulder, “Don’t let me forget to finish telling you about Bernie Manson.”

        Jeff kicked off his sandals. It was a way of identifying with Colleen. He felt foolishly formal in the dacron slacks and striped sport shirt he’d changed into. Saying good-bye to New York and hello to California was not an easy transition for one with established habits, but at least he was making the effort. He put one bare foot on the lounge near Colleen’s leg and opened a Pepsi for himself and one for her.

        “How is it you know so much about Nietzsche?”

        “I read a lot, always have. No big deal.”

        In the bright sun he squinted at the lightly-freckled maiden, not knowing quite what to make of her. “So you think Diana tortures herself. Has she ever told you what she’s trying to do?”

        “Only about eight million goddam times!”

        “I see. Well, I happen to think she may succeed.” It was a lie, but with a little probing the redhead might give him a lead.

        “For her sake I hope she does. But I don’t think it matters one way or the other. Who gives a shit if we get some hifalutin new media machine? Life goes on, one way or another.”

        He put the other foot on the lounge and touched her ankle with his toe. She gave him a gap-toothed smile. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch something, like a sudden craving for cigarettes or booze?”

        “I’m immune. I used to smoke and drink with the best of them.”

        A flock of large crows flew overhead, hacking raspily. He looked up at them. In New York they had pigeons, here they had crows. One more difference to get used to.

        “So you’re not interested in the dream machine? Have you tried it?”

        “Oh, sure. It’s pretty incredible—it’s like you’re off in another world. But I like it better right where I’m at. The sex is better, for one thing. They haven’t got that angle figured out yet.”

        “You don’t care about Diana’s vision of a New Age of Light that she’s always spouting off about?”

        “Not particularly.”

        “What if she turns out to be a prophet?”

        “That’s all we need—another fucking prophet!”

        “You have something against prophets?”

        “Frankly, yes. The way I see it, a prophet preaches to all the assholes who can’t think for themselves, and jerks them off until they’re maxed out. They sell all their worldly goods and go up on a mountain in white robes to wait for Arma­geddon.” She looked thoughtful. “Or they start a new religion and kill everybody who won’t convert. No thanks, I can do without any more prophets!”

        “You’re quite the philosopher.”

        “Bullshit. I just live my own life and try to stay out of trouble.” She raised up on her elbows and eyed the redwood tank in the corner of the patio. “I don’t suppose anyone has turned the hot tub on, by any chance?”

        “No, but the cover seems to keep the heat in. I’ll go turn it up if you like.”

        “Thanks. I’m going inside to change. Why don’t you join me? Or maybe you have to finish your newspaper first.”

        He aimed a skeptical eyebrow at her. “If the time ever comes when reading the newspaper takes precedence over hot tubbing, you can be sure the world’s coming to an end.”

        She was surely a strange duck, he reflected as he pulled the thick round cover off the tub and fiddled with the controls. By the time the feisty redhead returned, he had changed into his trunks and was already in the tub soaking. She tossed her towel on a folding chair, climbed up the two steps and over the rim of the tank, and settled herself on the submerged seat. “Ahh! That feels good. Sometimes I can’t decide whether I like screwing or soaking best.”

        He gave her a sympathetic chuckle but not much more, grateful for his internal poise-machine. He had tinkered with the psychological mechanism over the years until it ran like well-oiled clockwork. By now it was a device he could trust in most situations that might otherwise have produced such incon­ven­iences as blushing or choking up. He took his time respond­ing. There was the sprinkling of freckles on her heart-shaped face to savor, the turned-up nose, the big teeth with the little gap in the middle, the sparkling green eyes and brilliant red hair.

        “Screwing or soaking, eh?” he said at length. “I wouldn’t have any trouble choosing! Tell me something. How is it a person with your habits looks so unspoiled?”

        “What is this unspoiled crap? You’re putting me on.”

        “Seriously. I grant you, any woman your age looks good to a man of my age—I just turned forty-six—but even so you have a look of uncanny freshness.”

        “Is that a fact? Well, you tell me something, Mr. Fox. Back when you were being ‘Mr. Fellows’ you weren’t so hip, you with your ridiculous little pointy beard that looked like my whatsis. How come the big change?”

        Jeff stroked his newly-shaven chin, glad he’d decided to eliminate the hirsute adornment. He’d gotten rid of the beard but let the mustache stay in place for now, trying to decide if he liked it. “I was trying to go incognito, but it didn’t work. Some­one spotted me and that was that.”

        “So why the Mr. Fellows thing anyway?”

        “I figured I could blend in better if people didn’t think I was anybody special—not that I am, of course.”

        “Are you kidding? You’re the Jefferson Fox, for Christ’s sake! I’ve even got your book with the picture on the back. So don’t give me that shit about not being somebody special.”

        He felt a sudden warmth creep into his cheeks, poise-machine or no. “All I’m saying is that if people don’t know who I am, they’ll act more natural.”

        “Okay, I can dig that, what with you coming from New York and all. But I don’t think anybody out here is going to give a fuck who you are. This is Hollywood, dude. Everyone’s a star, or thinks they are!”

        He grimaced. “So I’ve noticed. That’s why I dropped the act.” At the moment he didn’t feel like the Jefferson Fox, what­ever that was, and his poise-machine was starting to go pock­eta-pocketa-pocketa. The first pocketa was because of what she had said and the way she had said it, and the other two were because Colleen was now untying the strap on her bikini top.

        “Listen, would it stress you out if I took this swimsuit off? There ought to be a law against wearing anything in a hot tub. It’s totally stupid!”

        “It wouldn’t stress me out, but what about Diana? I thought there was some kind of rule about when you could be nude.”

        “She and Starla decided they’ll wear suits when each others’ boyfriends are around, but that’s all. Diana and I go nude all the time, and so does Craig when he’s here.”

        “Okay. In that case you won’t mind if I do too.”

        The redhead shrugged and quickly finished slipping out of the swimsuit. She hung it over the side, where it dripped onto the patio tiles. He did the same and settled down to enjoy hot water jetting against the neglected parts of his body, only wish­ing the swirling bubbles didn’t make it virtually impossible to see beneath the surface of the water.

        A little while later Diana came out the back door. She had changed into camouflaged fatigue shorts and tee-shirt, which gave her sumptuous body a formidable appearance. On some days she was never satisfied with what she had on, and had to change almost as often as the phone rang. Other times she would go from one day to the next in the same outfit. She was not to be pigeon-holed, the novelist was discovering.

        “Jeff...weren’t we in the middle of something?”

        He put on a concerned face. “I was just killing time, waiting for you to get off the phone.”

        The two dripping suits caught her eye. “Uh-huh. Do you always wait in the nude? Never mind darling, I’m just teasing. Actually, I’m jealous! If I had the time, I’d join you. But I’ve got to make a call to Steven Spielberg right now. I think he might be interested in backing the VirGen. I can finish telling you about Bernie some other time. Are you staying for supper, Colleen?”

        “Sure, if you don’t mind. Is anyone else coming over?”

        “No, and it’s a good thing, because I’m getting low on food.”

        Jeff offered at once to make a grocery run, but she told him it wasn’t necessary. Maybe tomorrow. She went back in the house.

        Jeff shook his head admiringly. “Love that woman! But let’s talk about you instead. Where do you come from, and what were you before, and how did you get to be who you are now?”

        “That’s easy! I’m a retired whore from Mustang Ranch. I moved on to Las Vegas when the IRS shut them down. But pretty soon I figured there wasn’t much future in that line of work and decided to retire early and take up painting. Anything else?”

        That was both more and less than he’d expected. It threw him just slightly off balance, poise-machine notwithstanding. Of course, it was just possible she was putting him on.

        “You don’t say. Aren’t you a bit young to be retired?”

        “So what? I didn’t like the hours. Now I get to see the sun. Can you blame me?”

        “Certainly not! It must have been tough being…a person in your profession.”

        “It was at first, but once I learned the ropes, I was able to limit my services to a few well-paying customers. My heart goes out to the girls on the street who have to turn fifteen-minute tricks all night long or get beaten up by their bloodsucker pimps.”

        “Then you weren’t so much a prostitute as a call girl.”

        “What’s the difference? I sold my body, you sell your mind. We’re all whores, one way or another. And please don’t tell me that’s a cliché! I’m sick of writers who go around with their noses in the air saying everything is a cliché. I hope you’re not one of those.”

        “I don’t think I am,” he said quickly, wondering if she were right. “On the other hand, if you think about it, life itself can seem like a cliché. There’s nothing new under the sun.”

        She gave him a suspicious look, but went on. “It wasn’t a bad life. I even got some sexual enjoyment out of it, now and then. I know whores aren’t supposed to enjoy sex, but I did, sometimes.”

        “Would you ever consider going back?”

        “Fuck, no! I’ve got a good life now, even though it may not seem like much to you. I’ve got my freedom, I’ve got my art, and I’ve got my friends.” She thought of something else. “And sometimes I do massages. I’ll give you one, compliments of the house, just to show my gratitude for this morning.”

        “Thanks. I might take you up on it some time, but I probably won’t. No offense, but I have to watch myself. I find it’s too easy to become addicted to things I find pleasurable.”

        She grimaced and threw up her hands. “It’s your loss! Don’t say I never offered.”

        “I won’t.” He let it go at that. It was time to go in and give his landlady a hand in the kitchen. She always insisted he eat with them if he was around, and he tried to make himself useful in small ways.

        “Had enough? Any longer and I think I’ll pass out. We New Yorkers aren’t used to the rigors of California. The only hot tub I’m familiar with is the Jacuzzi at my health club. It’s indoors and it’s always full of naked men. I never get into it.”

Chapter 4

Jeff was talking with Diana in the living room that evening when a knock sounded at the back door. He went to answer it, but as he reached for the knob the door flew open and a slender woman of slightly more than average height carrying a small black suitcase pushed past him. Heavily made up, she wore a sequined 20’s-style ballroom gown and a hat with a big feather slanting down over one eye. Without pausing she said, “Hi! Is Diana home?”

        “Sure. Come on in, I guess,” he said to her back.

        “Who’s there?”

        “I think it’s Theda Bara.”

        “Who?”

        “Never mind. Before your time.”

 By now the woman was halfway to the living room.

        “Sorry to barge in like this, Diana, but I just need a minute to change. Is it okay?”

        “Of course, Raquel! What’s going on?”

        By the time Jeff returned, the woman had already taken off the hat with the feather, put the suitcase on the coffee table, and opened it. Now she held up a slinky black dress with a frilly bodice. “What do you think of it?”

        Diana inspected it, eyes shining. “You lucky dog! Can you actually get into something like that? Even if you can, it won’t cover your butt. You’ll be arrested.”

        “They wouldn’t dare. I’d scream sexual harassment.” She glanced at Jeff and back at her friend.

        “This is our writer-in-residence, Jefferson Fox. I told you about him.”

        By habit, he braced himself. People’s reactions to his name were unpredictable. Sometimes they froze. Sometimes they gushed. This woman did neither, but extended a warm hand.

        “Hi, I’m Raquel, Luigi’s wife.” She inspected his face closely. “Diana said you had a beard.”

        He smiled wryly at her, remembering Colleen’s brash comment on his beard’s resemblance to female pubic hair. “I did have a beard, but it itched so I got rid of it. How come the Theda Bara outfit?”

        “Who?”

        “There I go again! Never mind.”

        “I just left Antonini’s. I do dinner theater there. I would have changed before leaving, but a stage-door johnny’s been hassling me. Now I’ve got to get ready for my next gig.”

        “Which is?”

        “Selling long-stemmed roses in restaurants.”

        “Ah, so. I’ve seen people like you going from table to table. Any money in it?”

        “On a good night, maybe three hundred.” The actress took the skimpy dress into the bathroom, shouting over her shoulder, “Wait till I tell you who was there tonight, so close I could have touched her!”

        The phone rang. “Where’s that damn cordless?” Diana heaved herself up and went to answer it in the kitchen.

        Raquel came out of the bathroom, wriggling and tugging at the dress, trying without success to work it down over her bottom, apparently too anxious to go on talking to be modest. Finding that her friend was not there, she went back into the bathroom muttering obscenely about how well the dress had fit in the store.

        Diana returned, and presently Raquel emerged again, this time triumphantly sheathed in the minimal dress.

        “You did it!”

        The actress twirled around several times to show it off. “It fit perfectly in the store, but I must have picked up a few ounces since then. Anyway, like I was saying, you won’t believe who was in the audience tonight, so close I could have touched her! It was Lisa Marie! Elvis’s daughter! They told me later. And I didn’t recognize her! I fucking didn’t recognize her.” She repeated the last few words to drive home the utterly humil­iating fact. Then she was out the door again and instantly back with a huge package of long-stemmed roses. “I’ve got to get these things potted. Can I do it in the kitchen, Diana, or should I use the bathroom?”

        “Let’s go in the kitchen, so I can tell you what’s been happening. Come on Jeff, you can listen and take notes.”

        The author settled himself at the table and got his notepad and pen ready. Raquel began putting small glass vials of water on each rose stem to keep them fresh. Jeff wrote, “Tricks of the trade,” on his pad, and drew a picture to remind himself later.

        Diana went into high gear. “This morning we had to resus­citate Colleen. Another binge. Luckily the landlord didn’t call the police. Her place was a mess! She was sprawled on the floor, on top of tubes of paint and cigarette butts. We had to lift her onto the couch and undress her to check for bruises, but I had to chase the landlord out because he wanted to watch. What a creep! Jeff went out and got her some orange juice. Colleen and Jeff spent the afternoon in the hot tub together, buck naked. I wanted to join them, but I was on the phone trying to get Steven Spielberg’s office to track him down. I know he’ll go absolutely ballistic when he hears about the VirGen. It’s a challenge he won’t be able to resist, and with him money is no object. He’s a billionaire like Bill Gates. It seems like everyone is a billionaire these days. I remember when a million dollars was a big deal! I’m working on a plan to raise money for a new klystron tube, and then we’ll be showcasing again. Jeff’s going to get the first live demonstration because he hasn’t checked out the Hallu yet. He may even write a script for the Autoscripter! Did I tell you he’s agreed to be my Chief Financial Officer when the project gets going? Craig’s going to be the C-O-O.”

        “C-O-O? What’s a ‘Coo’?” Raquel asked, bewildered.

        “Not ‘Coo’, C-O-O. Chief Operating Officer. I’ll be C-E-O, of course.” Diana went on about her plans for the company and how much money it would make, and how she planned to set up spiritual healing centers.

        Raquel made little noises to indicate she was listening, but went on busily potting the long-stemmed roses. Fifteen minutes later she was gone in a whirlwind of petals. Jeff put away his notepad. Except for “Tricks of the trade” and the picture, it was covered with doodles. “So that’s Luigi’s wife. She’s a real ball of fire! By the way, did I really say I’d be your CFO?”

        She thought back. “I think you did. We were talking about the need for corporate officers, once the company gets going. Since you wrote that book about Wall Street, I asked you if you’d consider being my Chief Financial Officer.”

        Jeff tried to recall the conversation. It had probably been shortly after he moved in. “I think I might have said I’d be glad to help distribute the profits, once they start rolling in.”

        “There! I knew I remembered correctly. That’s what the Chief Financial Officer does, doesn’t he? But you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I won’t hold you to it.”

        “Thanks. Meanwhile, maybe you shouldn’t tell people I’ve agreed to do it. They might get the wrong idea.”

        She shrugged. “Okay.”

        “By the way, you were going to finish telling me about the lawyer, and how you were going to raise another fifty thousand. I’m really curious to...”

        The phone rang.

        “Hello? Mother! What’s going on?”

        Jeff left the room and dutifully entered the Raquel episode in his computer journal. Diana’s voice went on for what seemed like hours. Meanwhile he could hear other people coming in, and someone turned the television on to catch the latest scores. He wondered how long he could put up with this madhouse, and the frustration of never being able to get to the bottom of things. Earlier, in the living room, Diana had been giving him a blow-by-blow account of an earlier involvement with a banker, a media consultant, and a shipping magnate. Just when it looked as if she had a deal, the banker got a heart-attack while having intercourse with his mistress, who was coincidentally the consultant’s wife. The outraged husband then showed up at the hospital with a gun, while the banker was still in intensive care.

        At that point in the story Raquel had shown up. Diana’s stories had a way of being interrupted at the critical point, leaving the upshot forever in doubt—unless she could be reminded, at an opportune time, and felt like picking up where she had left off.

        This evening, Jeff decided not to join the noisy bunch in the living room. After wrapping up his notes and some corre­spond­ence, he crawled into bed and pulled a pillow over his ears. He resolved that the next time Diana launched into a story, he’d suggest she first finish the ones left hanging.

Chapter 5

During the next few days Jeff stayed holed up in his room organizing his notes and sketching out possible plot-lines. It was the way he always began a new book. At first he had held off taking notes, wanting to be where the action was, but now he began to suspect that Diana was longer on words than action. Furthermore, from what others had said, things must once have looked brighter than they did now. The machine was on the fritz and she was scraping the bottom of the money barrel. Jeff began to wonder if the plan to raise fifty big ones was anything but a figment of her imagination.

        He looked forward to Craig’s return this weekend, even though the two of them had not exactly hit it off. Diana’s newest lover had been packing for his trip back to Chicago when Jeff first moved into the guest room, and he made it clear the arrangements were not to his liking. He did not see why the writer couldn’t stay in a motel. Diana had tried to explain Jeff’s need to be in the midst of things at all times, but Craig was obviously jealous and in no mood to listen to reason. The two men had managed to be civil to each other, but that was all. Jeff’s main memory of Craig was of him up to the elbows in dishwater. That was to his credit, since in other ways the burly man with the big mustache appeared to be typically macho. He spent a lot of time drinking beer and watching sports on tele­vision.

        While Craig was in Chicago, there was a certain awkward­ness in the situation. Jeff felt he was playing the part of surro­gate boyfriend, but without the perks. He and Diana would spend all day in the same general vicinity, rubbing elbows and sharing food, conversation, and the company of friends. Yet when it was time to retire, they headed off to separate bed­rooms. In New York he had always managed to carry on at least one discrete affair, which satisfied his libidinous urges. Here, he had no one.

        True, his eye was on Karen Reich, a female psychotherapist of about forty who resembled Elizabeth Taylor at the same age. She came to Diana’s Saturday night salons regularly and often read sections of the novel she was working on. But Karen ap­peared to have no interest in developing a relationship of any kind. He wondered if she had a regular lover and concluded that it was likely, given her intelligence and attractiveness.

        Meanwhile, living in the same house with Diana posed its problems. Jeff found himself in a state of perpetual arousal around his sexy landlady. She radiated energy of the most sensual kind, yet appeared blithely unaware of the fact. He began to crave any excuse to get out of the house.

        Thursday morning when he turned the computer on there was a message from Nelson complaining that he’d never seen Martin Schofield’s original letter. How about attaching a copy along with the next message? Jeff was reluctant to spend the time. He had to remember where in Toto’s memory he had stored the letter. The original paper letter had been discarded once it had been scanned into the computer. Eventually he found the file and inserted a few paragraphs of it in his message.

Nelson: Here’s the guts of Schofield’s letter. I’ll spare you the details of Diana’s early life as an Ohio farm girl among the Bruderhof, her college days at Antioch, and how she raised two kids in Xenia after her husband died.

Dear Mr. Fox:

  I enjoyed “Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips” immensely. You really gave it to Wall Street! I always look forward to your newest book with keen anticipation.

  Now let me get to the point quickly. Diana Thornton, a beautiful woman who attracts men the way honey attracts bears, is developing a remarkable device she calls the VirGen--which stands for ‘Virtual Reality Generator’. It’s derived from an Air Force training-simulator which was scrapped and sold as war-surplus after swallowing the usual billions. Using a garage for a laboratory, she and some engineer friends turned it into a cutting-edge multimedia system.

  Diana is confident it will earn her and her associates a fortune as it ushers in the new age of Virtual Reality. Her daughter, a luscious blonde, is always at her side when they meet the public. If that sounds sexist, I apologize, but I think it’s both true and relevant--this story is a Hollywood romance from start to finish. I think it would make a good novel and an exciting movie, especially since there is reason to believe the competition is out to destroy the machine before it ever sees the light of day. Diana’s been tricked, attacked, sued, and slandered during the course of the project, but she’s tough and sticks to her guns! Remarkably, she is also the sweetest, kindest, most considerate person you could ever know. Her loyalty to friends is absolute.

  The device is revolutionary, to say the least. Its essential principle is to inject a controlled hallucination into the mind of anyone connected to it. I’m not sure exactly how it works, or why the project was canceled by the military.

  This is an ongoing story whose last chapter is yet to be written. Diana gave me her personal assurance you would be welcome to spend as much time and ask as many questions as you like....

          How much of Schofield’s letter is true I can’t say, even after meeting Diana and her daughter—except that both are babes.

          So here I am, living in a bedroom about the size of a monk’s cell, which they refer to as the “guest room”. The project itself looks to be dead on arrival for lack of money. To make matters worse, I’m horny as hell and no one seems to care.

          No doubt you’re touched by all this, but not to worry. I’ll find some way of coping. You can put your hanky away and go back to rejecting manuscripts.

Jeff.

        He was feeling irritable from trying to remember all the people he’d met and the conversations he’d listened to in the last few weeks, wishing now he’d taken the time to get every­thing down as it happened. There had been computer program­mers, artists, engineers, technicians, and media people. As a rule, people seemed to regard 2:00 a.m. as normal bedtime at the Thornton beehive. He was still trying to get a handle on the situation, sort out the people, and decide what was worth noting in the computer journal and what was not. As a rule he entered everything, if he had the time, not knowing what would turn out to be useful. Most of his entries seemed trivial when he set them down, and would probably be dis­carded—but sorting the wheat from the chaff could be done later.

        On Thursday evening while he was enjoying supper with Diana and her daughter, Jeff had once again asked about her plans to raise money and when he could expect a demo when the phone rang—in typical fashion—just as she was starting to explain. He listened carefully, jotting down entries in his mental journal as he did when it didn’t seem appropriate to take notes with a pen and pad.

        She had picked up the phone. “VirGen, Incorporated! Yes, this is Diana. Well, that’s the name of my company, that’s why. It’s a spiritual enterprise, dedicated to the New Age of Light. Who? Jacqueline who? Oh, Jacque! Jacque Verbost! I didn’t recognize your voice! It’s been years! How are you? Good! I’m fine, great, never been better! What’s the occasion?”

        Diana put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s an old friend of mine from Xenia. She was always a pain in the ass. I wonder what she wants?”

        The phone call was no reason to stop eating. Diana tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and made comments between bites. “Uh-huh. Me? Sure, most every time. Well, that’s too bad. You finally did? Really? Great! He did? How long? You’ve got to be kidding! You poor thing. What did he do next? And then what did you do?”

        Jeff lifted an eyebrow solemnly at Starla. “Sounds pretty bad. Or pretty good.”

        “With Mother you never know.”

        Diana’s plate was clean and she had refilled her wine glass three times when the conversation ended. She held her hands to her head, shaking it from side to side woefully. “Why me, oh Lord?”

        Jeff waited expectantly, mental pen poised over mental notebook.

        “This woman—Jacqueline Verbost, Jacque—I haven’t spoken to her in years! I didn’t know if she was dead or alive. No phone calls, no Christmas cards. Nothing. Not that I cared. But now this!”

        “Okay, Mother, what?” Starla said, irritably.

        Her mother inhaled deeply. “She’s just had her first orgasm! She’s forty-eight and she’s never had one before! It lasted twenty minutes. She’s completely freaked out.”

        Starla perked up. “A twenty minute orgasm? And she freaked out? Why, for gosh sakes?”

        “She said it felt wonderful, absolutely heavenly, but she came all over the bed. She didn’t know women could ejac­ulate.”

        “You’re kidding! That’s what freaked her?”

        “Yes, she was totally embarrassed. The man had sense enough to act like it happened every day. Gee, I’d like to meet him! Naturally she had to give me a blow by blow description.”

        Starla looked pained. “Really, Mother.”

        “What? Oh. Anyway, she even called her ex-husband. She said it was just to get his reaction, but I think there was more to it than that.”

        Starla smirked. “He must have been thrilled to get the news.”

        Jeff told Toto all about it when supper was over. If he did manage to cobble a novel together out of all this, the story might serve to provide atmosphere. It was certainly typical of the tenor of life in the Thornton residence. As he typed, he could hear Diana on the phone again. Before morning everyone in greater Los Angeles would know exactly how long Jacque’s first orgasm had lasted.

Chapter 6

By Friday afternoon, suffering libido pangs from living in close quarters with Diana and her daughter, Jeff gave Colleen a phone call. Under the circumstances, it might have been exactly the wrong thing to do, he suddenly realized, as she answered the phone in a sultry voice.

        “It’s Mr. Nobody Special, Colleen. What’s happening? Oh, I’m fine, I guess. Just going a little stir-crazy. Living in the middle of a three-ring circus without anything getting accom­plished is starting to bug me, and I need a break. I thought may­be we could go out for coffee or something.”

        She thought that was a fine idea, except for going out for coffee. Why didn’t he just come over?

        The place had been cleaned up since the last time he was there, and the odors of tobacco and alcohol were gone. She was working on the canvas that had been knocked off the easel when she crashed into the table. It appeared to be a self-portrait, but in a style reminiscent of Gauguin, as if she were a native Tahiti woman. The picture showed her in a colorful wrap, naked from the waist up.

        “Nice,” he said. “Your subject has a great body.”

        “Thanks,” she responded easily, “I do my best to keep it in shape. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go on working, if you don’t mind. I can talk while I work. There’s beer in the fridge.”

        He accepted the offer and tried to make himself comfort­able on the small sofa. “I appreciate this, Colleen. It’s a relief just to get away from her royal highness and all that incessant phoning. Sometimes I can’t picture her without a phone glued to her ear. She carries the cordless one in her pocket when she goes outside.”

        “I know.”

        “Did you know Craig’s flying in tomorrow? That should be a change in pace, at least. She’s excited. Says he’s getting a divorce and is going to move in with her as soon as it’s final. What do you think? Is he on the level?”

        She paused, brush in hand, squinting at the painting. “Why do you ask?”

        “I’m getting fond of her and wouldn’t want to see her get hurt. He seems okay, but you never know.”

        At his urging, Colleen filled him in on Diana and her succession of lovers. He felt no compunction about asking, since the queen bee had urged him to do just that. “There are no secrets among friends,” she had said. He’d made the usual promises to disguise people’s identities, but her response was just a shrug. Colleen had known Diana for about three years and turned out to be a fount of information. Jeff wished he’d thought to bring a tape recorder.

        Diana had lived with the chief inventor of the original Air Force training-simulator, the basis of the VirGen. She had tracked him down after buying the equipment, and they had moved to Los Angeles to develop it, with the idea of going into business together. Unfortunately, he had turned out to be an alcoholic who quarreled incessantly about how to exploit the machine, and even what to call it. Instead of “VirGen”—her idea—he preferred the military’s “KAHI”, for Klystron-Assisted Hallucination Injector.

        “KAHI—that sounds like a radio station instead of a machine. I’m surprised you can remember what it stands for.”

        “Some things stick in my mind. Of course, I might be wrong. Anyway, Diana kicked him out, and then lived with different guys, one after the other. I have the feeling she chose each one for his usefulness as much as anything. Let’s see—there was a business executive, another inventor, a scientist, and an artist, I think, but not necessarily in that order. Craig is only the latest.”

        Jeff thanked her for the information. “Diana seems reluctant to tell me what her new boyfriend does. I never got a chance to ask him, and when I ask her she changes the subject or goes vague on me. I wonder why?”

        Colleen smiled. “Craig sells bulldozers.”

        “You’re shitting me!”

        “I shit you not. He sells bulldozers and those things that look like big praying mantises.”

        “Backhoes.”

        “They met at a blues bar where she hangs out sometimes. She must have figured if he could sell bulldozers he could sell VirGens. It’s not that she’s cold-blooded,” Colleen quickly explained, noting his look. “They really did hit it off. But then she’s like Will Rogers. She never met a man she didn’t like.”

        Jeff watched the artist’s deft brush-strokes in silence, ad­miring her body and the way it moved. She was barefoot as usual and wore frayed jeans and a long shirt that served as an artist’s smock. Slim and taller than average, she could have been the perfect fashion model—or not. Too much in the bosom department. He sighed unhappily. Watching her at work was having the same effect on him as being around Diana.

        “By the way, how about that coffee? Have you got time for a break?”

        “Yeah, why not? It’s not like I’ve got a deadline to meet.”

        They drove to a nearby café. Fortunately, the distraction of traffic was helping him cope with his libido problem. How annoying it was, he mused, to be bossed around by your instincts as if you were a dog or a rabbit.

        Sitting in a booth now, with their coffees steaming in front of them and a muffin they’d agreed to split, he decided to get Colleen’s take on the libido matter. The redhead had a way of making insightful, if cynical, comments. But he would have to sneak up on the subject.

        “There’s something I usually ask people once I get to know them. But remember, I’m one of those weird literary types, so please bear with me. Tell me—what do you think about consciousness?”

        “What’s to think? Either you are, or you aren’t.”

        “I mean, what is it and where does it come from? Is it just something that the body produces, or is it a separate principle?”

        Colleen stared blankly at him. “You are asking the wrong person. I happen to think questions like that are a waste of time. Besides, just because I read doesn’t mean I think.”

        “That sounds like something Descartes would say.”

        “Oh yeah?”

        He was disappointed. Not one to give up easily, however, he took the risk of pushing her. “You’re probably right—it’s a waste of time. Still, I can’t help wondering about the nature of the ‘will’. For example, when you go on one of your toots, is it a conscious decision or do you feel as if your body—or some­thing else—is forcing you to do it?”

        This time she didn’t give him a flip answer but considered the question, stirring her black coffee needlessly. “I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you. It’s like a tension that keeps getting worse. It’s as if I can’t relax because something is trying to get out, and I don’t want it to. I know that if I start drinking, it’ll be gone when I come to.”

        “I see. What about the cigarettes?”

        “As long as I’m smoking, I can go on drinking. That’s the only way I can drink enough to get thoroughly polluted before I pass out. I hate to do it, knowing what it does to my body.” For a moment she looked sad. “Don’t you have anything like that?”

        He broke the muffin in two and nibbled on it to gain time. He should have foreseen that she would turn the conversation around.

        “Yes, but I think what I have is different. My problem is simply part of nature’s plan to keep the species going.”

        Colleen curled her lip. “I’m not talking about getting your rocks off! I’m an expert on that subject. Do you have anything else that drives you bananas?”

        “No, I don’t think so. Or if I do, I probably deal with it sexually. Is that likely? As you say, you’re the expert.”

        She suddenly looked bored and that was not a good thing. The interlude had been distracting but was of little help when it came to his essential quandary. As they went back up the steps to her studio apartment Colleen said, “What about that massage I offered, compliments of the house?”

        He felt his heart pounding as he followed her inside. “Would I have to undress and get covered with oil?”

        “Well yes. Of course! Is that a problem?”

        He chuckled ruefully. “I hate to confess this, but the only massage I ever had was by a nurse in a hospital. So—are you a trained masseuse?”

        “Absolutely! Don’t worry, I won’t spill oil in your ear.”

        “Hmm.”

        “Oh, come on. It can’t hurt and might even cure what ails you.”

        He agreed, but was torn between desire and fear. Something could go haywire in a way he didn’t want to pursue mentally. After all, she had been a prostitute, and he had never been intimate with a woman in that profession. What if she were planning a sexual massage—the idea intrigued him—but what would it entail? He felt like a child facing his first day at school.

        Undressed, but with a towel around his hips, he lay face-down on the folding table she produced from a closet while she put a disk in a player. He wondered if the sheet covering the pad had been used by someone before him, although it appeared clean enough. Despite the relaxing music, he realized he was frowning. He tried to put on a confident smile.

        “That’s better,” she said, rubbing a handful of oil on his back. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you—at least nothing you don’t want. Such a baby! It always amazes me that you big cheeses turn out to be such little boys when you’re not in control.”

        That helped set his mind at ease. At least she wouldn’t try anything without his okay. He told himself there was no need to worry. Most likely sexual massages were reserved for paying customers, not friends—assuming she still gave them at all.

        Colleen was stroking his back with long, smooth motions. He could feel the tension beginning to drain away. She took her time on his back and legs, then had him turn over. He kept his eyes shut in order to fully enjoy the sensation of her hands gliding around on his body. It was good to be kneaded, squeezed, lightly pummeled, and stroked. She gave him plenty of time to adjust to what she was doing to him. Periodically he would murmur, “Ahh, that’s nice,” or, “That really feels good.”

        A half hour into the massage he asked, “How long does this take? Just curious.”

        “As long as necessary. Don’t worry about it.”

        She had him roll over from time to time, and was so pains­taking and patient and careful where and how she massaged him that he found his earlier erotic tension melting away. It gave him a new sense of confidence in his ability to remain cool. He imagined Diana coming into the kitchen in her slinky kimono, all voluptuous curves. He would glance up at her and say hello, then open the morning paper. She would lean over to stroke Sheba, and her bare breasts would be visible momen­tarily under the gaping kimono. He would look at them and yawn, turning to the business news. The idea of being so utterly cool produced a sense of empowered peace.

        He was lying on his back when she said softly, “How’s that?”

        “Great!” He opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him.

        “How about a little variety?”

        “Ah...variety?”

        “Sure. I could give Peter and the twins a workout.” Her fingertips lightly brushed the towel where it bulged slightly. It could have been a casual accident. “Just a little icing on the cake. It’s up to you.”

        He shrugged uncertainly. “Sure. Why not?”

        “Now relax, this isn’t going to hurt. I can see you tensing up again.” She resumed the massage, but added certain vari­ations that he found pleasurable, once he’d gotten used to the idea. She would stroke his thigh, sliding the towel up an inch or two higher with each stroke. It brought back a memory of his doing more or less the same thing with a girlfriend’s skirt.

        “How’s that feel? Should I stop?” Colleen was teasing him, he realized, and he decided not to answer except for a contented sigh. She had offered. Let her follow through.

        “Would you like me to take my shirt off?” Quickly action matched the words. “There—I can see that got your interest up! Now you won’t keep your eyes closed all the time. I was afraid you were going to sleep.” She prattled on, probably as much to ease her own nervousness as anything. Clearly she was a master at this sort of thing, but he was not her typical customer.

        As with the cake itself, so with the icing. The massage had been languorous, a break in the hectic fabric of twentieth-century time. Similarly, what she was doing now took so long he wondered that his body was capable of enduring it without peaking out. He craved that, but wanted to postpone it— knowing it would mean the end of the exquisite treatment he was being given. The sway of her breasts was mesmerizing.

        But of course it had to happen! After his breathing had slowed, Jeff gave her an appreciative grin. She looked down on him benignly. “Was that good?”

        “Was that good! That was magnificent! Thanks. I don’t know what else to say. I had no idea it could be like that.”

        “My pleasure. So how do you feel about massage, now?”

        “You can count me among the converted.” He got up and started dressing. “Listen...I’m not sure what’s acceptable at a time like this, but I’d like to show my appreciation somehow without insulting you.”

        “You already did that, remember? The other morning when I was dying and you put me on the couch and went out for orange juice? I’m the one trying to show appreciation.”

        “Okay. But if I can give you a ride sometime or help out in any way, just let me know.” He remembered something. “By the way, are you coming over for dinner tonight? Diana men­tioned she had invited you.”

        “I don’t think so. Adam usually comes over on Friday, and I’m pissed at him right now. He was going to give me a ride to the beach and he never showed up, never called or anything. He can be a real fuck-off. Besides, Diana said Naomi might be there. She’s a good person but she gets under my skin. Will you be at the salon thing, tomorrow night?”

        “I wouldn’t miss it. You’re coming aren’t you?”

        “Sure. I usually bring sketches to show. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

Chapter 7

When he got home, Diana was measuring out ingredients, her nose in a recipe book. She glanced at the novelist as he took a seat at the table. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten swallowed up by a black hole.”

        He turned over sundry clever responses, quickly rejecting them all. “No, I was over at Colleen’s asking questions and generally making a pest of myself, as usual.”

        She gave him a sharp glance. “Did you learn anything?”

        “Nothing you’d mind my hearing, I’m sure. Filled me in on the history of the VirGen. Colleen’s a fascinating person and I’m starting to fall in love with her—just as a friend, of course. By the way, does she have something against Naomi?”

        “Why? Did she say something?”

        “Didn’t want to come to supper if Naomi’s going to be there.”

        “Colleen probably didn’t have to worry about that. Naomi always backs out at the last minute with some cockamamie excuse. Usually it’s something to do with Michael, her father. He’s had health problems for years, apoplexy or whatever, although it doesn’t keep him from working. He does special effects for the studios. I think Naomi irritates Colleen in some way I can’t quite fathom, although they seem to get along okay.”

        Jeff got a soft-drink from the fridge and sat again at the table. “I think Naomi’s charming. She’s got a fresh innocence about her, a certain virginal look that I find very appealing.”

        “That may be what irritates Colleen. Naomi actually is rather innocent and looks much younger than twenty-three. She could play the part of Lolita with no trouble.”

        “I’m surprised. Her writing shows considerable worldliness.”

        “Yeah, well that may be because Naomi listens to Colleen talk about her life, and then puts the information into her stories. I think that’s what really irritates Colleen.”

        Jeff found that interesting. He’d been impressed with Naomi from the first time he met her at one of Diana’s salons. She looked like a Maxfield Parrish nymph. She had read her short stories to the group, stories replete with details about the seamy side of life. Now it began to make sense. It was Colleen’s life she was writing about.

        Adam knocked at the back door. The only people who knocked on the front door were first time visitors and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Adam opened the unlocked door, went past the laundry tubs and the door to the half-bathroom, and joined them in the kitchen, waving a limp greeting. After pulling a beer from his six-pack, he put the others in the fridge and sat at the table next to Jeff. He tipped his chair back against the wall.

        Diana, cookbook in hand, gazed down at him fondly. “How’s it going, Adam?”

        “Okay, I guess. Tired. Had a rough night.”

        “Work or play?”

        “All work, sad to say.”

        “Did you know Craig’s coming back tomorrow? But just for a few days. He’ll be at the new sales office most of the time—wouldn’t you know it? I’ll be glad when he finally moves out here permanently. I can sure use him.”

        Adam threw his head back and gulped down half the can of beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and went ahhhh. Diana shifted into high gear. Cooking always had this effect on her. She hummed with energy like a human dyna­mo, talking and chopping food, her impressive body swirling this way and that as if she were performing an exotic dance. Talking seemed to be an essential part of cooking, and the actual words didn’t matter. She would change the subject at will, without transition.

        “This waiting is killing me. I want to start manufacturing machines! I want to write plays! I want to set up healing cen­ters! Damn that klystron tube anyway. Why do the things have to cost so much? I want to start showcasing again!”

        Adam looked glum. “Tell me about it. I can’t even test the software. So what’s happening on the money front?”

        “I’ve got a deal cooking, and I think Rupert Murdoch may be interested, if we can give him a demo.” She stretched to get a package of spice from a high shelf. “Adam, could you reach that for me?” While he was getting it, she started filling a skillet with chunks of meat. Then she ran to the sink for a saucepan of water, sliced vegetables, and lighted the oven, still talking. Jeff estimated that Diana could talk six times as fast as any other human, once she got up to speed. Before either of the men could comment on a remark, she went on to the next subject. Did they know her son Nick and his wife had a new baby girl? It was her second grandchild. She was now twice a grand­mother. She wanted them to call the baby Lucy but they pre­ferred Nicole. “At least they didn’t name it after me. I hate it when people do that—you get little Diana and big Diana, and I can do without that!”

        The cordless phone rang and she tucked it between cheek and shoulder, directing her words at the phone instead of the two men. Adam finished his beer and got another one from the fridge. He looked at Jeff and shook his head as if Diana’s outpourings were too much for him to handle in his present condition.

        She went on. “I only wish Craig could be here when we talk to the venture capitalists. People love him! On top of that he knows how to spot phonies. He says he’s anxious to help us with the injector. I hope Peggy doesn’t give him any more shit about the divorce. What a bitch she is! He’s afraid he won’t be able to see his kids if he moves out here. His boss says it’s fine if he wants to head up the Los Angeles sales office. Craig’s the one who’s been setting it up, so it’s only right he should do it. He wants to move out here to be with me in the worst way. Peggy better not try to stop him! I wonder what he ever saw in her, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if he gets soft on her when he’s there. He says sometimes she tries to sweet-talk him. He’s such a big pussycat. People take advantage of him. I don’t think his kids appreciate all he’s gone through for them. I know Peggy doesn’t. The man’s a saint! That’s what I call him some­times. Saint Craig. When he moves in with me, his office will only be twenty minutes from here. In his spare time he can help with the Hallu. Once we’re on a roll I’ll make him Chief Oper­ating Officer. He’s looking for a new career anyway. At his age, why not? Did you know we’re both the same age, forty-five? I’m a Virgo and he’s a Pisces. Lots of people make career changes in their forties. Why not Craig? He’d be a good media man.”

        Diana put on reading glasses and buried her nose in the recipe book for three seconds, frowning intensely. She measured out some curry powder. Adam got another beer from the fridge.

        “I’m worried about the so-called venture capitalists we’ve been talking with,” she fretted. “Sid Lethe reminds me of a used-car salesman. He always talks like he’s Daddy Warbucks but I don’t think he has a pot to pee in. He sells tee-shirts with butthead logos on them. Stuff like that. Supposedly he’s head of an investment syndicate. I don’t believe he’d be putting up any of his own money. But if he won’t tell me whose money he’s fronting, I’m not interested. What if they’re involved with the Mafia? I don’t want to wake up and find a horse’s head in bed with me! What do you think, Adam? What would you do?”

        “What would I do? I’d carry a gun.”

        Jeff decided he better listen more attentively. He’d talked with Sidney Lethe and his confederate, Francesco. Diana had told them the novelist was her financial adviser, Jeffrey Fellows. He’d played along with the gag just to learn more. They seemed to like him, but that was most likely because they knew he could keep Diana under control long enough for them to talk in complete sentences. She had the nasty habit of char­ging into the middle of a phrase and utterly demolishing it, leaving little bits of words stuttering in her wake.

        “I’ll tell you something else, darlings. I’m not giving up a controlling interest in the company, no matter how much they offer! These guys don’t know diddly about multimedia. About the only thing they’re good at is name-dropping!”

        Adam said sourly, “If you don’t trust these guys, why are you talking to them?”

        “At the moment they’re all I’ve got going for me. Sid’s actually pretty cool, but Francesco’s a real jerkoff. He likes to say he’ll have the Sultan of Brunei burping diamonds for me. Jeff, why can’t you get them to see that we’ve got to keep con­trol if they want to make money?”

        Jeff tried to look hurt. “Diana, you know I’ve tried! I told them without you and your crew the Virtual Reality Generator would be just so much army surplus junk. But they think they can assemble a technical crew of their own overnight.”

        She turned to stir the skillet with a spatula. “Well they’re wrong! Our people are the best and they’re all ready to go. Adam, I’m talking about you. You and Luigi are wizards.

Besides, we’re offering an artificial intelligence system along with the Hallu. Who else has a machine that can create its own productions out of an ordinary typewritten script?”

        “We can do that?”

        “Isn’t that what you’ve been working on?”

        “Well yeah, but I never said we were ready to go with it. You have no idea how difficult it is.” Adam pulled the tab on another beer can. It hissed at him. Diana interrupted what she was doing to come over and ruffle his hair affectionately. “How can you drink so much beer without going to the bathroom?”

        “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got hollow balls.”

        “I think you’ve got a hollow head. You’ll wreck your kidneys at this rate. Now are you telling me the Auto­scripter program isn’t done? Luigi said he thought it was almost done.”

        “It works, but I need a real workstation. I’m really pushing it with my old Pentium-4 PC.”

        She glowered at him. “You didn’t tell me you needed a work­station. Why didn’t you tell me you needed a work­station? I would have got one for you!”

        “With what? The company hasn’t had any money ever since Manson pulled out. Jeff told me about the trip to the water company. What will you do next time they turn the water off?”

        “Well…” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll just drive over and use your shower. We can even take a shower together!”

        Adam’s face lit up briefly. He raised the newly-opened beer can to his lips.

Chapter 8

When it became apparent that it was to be just the three of them, they sat around the kitchen table. Diana had whipped up a lamb curry with grape leaves in a buttery garlic cream sauce, an exotic shredded bok choi concoction with snow peas and feta cheese, and a Caesar salad with fenugreek oil-and-vinegar dressing. For dessert there was a persimmon-flavored pudding with a light sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar.

        Adam reluctantly set his beer aside in order to give his attention to the tangy white wine, a Chardonnay from St. Fran­cis of Sonoma. Diana said that Martin Schofield had brought it on his last visit. Yes, that Martin Schofield, the letter-writer. Jeff asked about Martin. He hadn’t been down recently, she ex­plained, but when the project got underway she hoped he and his wife Marie would move to Los Angeles and be part of it. Martin knew computers and his wife knew law. Both would be needed. It seemed the VirGen’s owner had plans for everyone. She’d even thought of something for Garth, her daughter’s new boyfriend, the one who never seemed to be able to connect with a job.

        A few minutes into dinner the phone rang. “Hello, VirGen, Incorporated. Naomi, darling! We were wondering where you were. I see. Not at all! No, I didn’t go to any trouble, just the usual. We’re all enjoying ourselves. Jeff’s here of course, and Adam. I wasn’t positive Adam would come so I didn’t mention it before. Okay, tell him I hope he’s feeling better. Maybe some other time.”

        She hung up. “Naomi had to fix supper for her father. Michael’s had another one of his spells. I wish he’d see a healer! The doctors don’t do anything for him, but he’s too stubborn to try alternative medicine. What do you think?”

        Adam’s face was gloomier than before. “I take it she’s not coming.”

        “You can see her tomorrow night.”

        “It’s not the same. I can’t really talk with her at the writer’s workshop.”

        “Salon.”

        “Whatever. I wonder why she’s so cool toward me? When the others say something about her writing she warms up to them, but when I do she lets it drop.”

        “Did it ever occur to you that she’s looking for more than chiseled features and curly blond hair?”

        Adam snorted. “Oh, get off my back, Diana. I’m not just a nerd. I go to plays. I read books. When I’m pricked, I bleed. I grant you I’m horny a good bit of the time. Just because I’m divorced doesn’t mean I’m lacking the normal urges.”

        Diana put on her best motherly look. “Look Adam, it’s been twelve years! Naomi’s pretty observant. She knows you don’t stay with a woman for long. She also knows you use Colleen when you can’t find someone else.”

        Adam’s ears turned a fiery red, while Jeff’s pricked up: apparently Colleen had not fully retired. He decided this was a good time to give the food the attention it deserved. The other two did the same, and for a while there was silence except for the clink of tableware.

        At length, Jeff patted his lips with a napkin. “No wonder Craig wants to move in! You put Julia Child to shame.”

        Diana smiled appreciatively. “Thanks, but there’s a lot more than food involved in our relationship. He’s very earthy, very much in touch with his body. That’s rare in a man.”

                                     *   *   *   *

        Adam left right after supper, disappointed that Naomi, once again, had chosen not to join them. Jeff did the dishes, then went into his room intending to work on his notes. He had scarcely done an hour’s work, however, when there was a light knock on the door and Diana pushed it open a crack. “Are you in the middle of something?”

        “I was just putting down a few thoughts. Come on in.”

        She sat on the edge of his bed. The one other chair was piled high with clothes.

        “I want your opinion on something. You always have such good ideas.”

        “What’s up?”

        “Sidney and Francesco are pushing me for a full-scale demonstration to impress their investors. They think the Hallu is the biggest thing since television. The problem is, we can’t do it until we get another klystron tube. I’ll put it to you very simply. How would you like to invest fifty thousand dollars in the company for a ten-percent interest? It could be the chance of a lifetime!”

        Jeff pushed his chair back slowly, running a hand through his hair and trying to look sympathetic. Turning down appeals had never been one of his strong suits. “You know how I feel about that, Diana. You asked me when I first showed up if I wanted to invest, and I explained that I have to stay completely objective. I know that you...”

        She held up an imperious hand. “That’s not what I really wanted to talk to you about. I just thought I’d ask in case you had changed your mind. Sid told me they would help with the klystron money if they had to, but I don’t like their terms. I’m supposed to get a loan, putting up the injector as collateral, and they’ll co-sign. It stinks. If things didn’t work out they could pay off the loan and end up owning the machine.”

        Jeff found her situation to be a mix of the tragic and the comic. She couldn’t pay the water bill, but was scheming to raise fifty thousand dollars—which would in turn enable her to raise another three million, after which she would revolutionize the media world and usher in the New Age of Light. He was beginning to share Colleen’s cynical views.

        Diana was saying, “I don’t want to go with their plan, and I think I have a better one. It’s risky and might not work, but I think it’s worth trying. Remember that lawyer I told you about—Bernie Manson?”

        At last! She was about to reveal the Plan. “The lawyer who tried to steal your company? By the way, he’s not related to Charles Manson is he?”

        “I don’t think so. At least I hope not! Anyway, he’s suing me and the case comes up pretty soon. I don’t want to lose my company to him over a stupid misunder­standing.”

        “Misunder...I thought he was trying to swindle you!”

        “Well, yes, I’m sure he was, but a judge might see it differently. Bernie advanced a chunk of money and spent a lot of time helping us get going, so I guess it was only fair that he get something in return. What I’m asking you is, can you think of any way we could get him to drop the suit and advance us another fifty thousand?”

        Jeff wanted to explode, but contained himself. “Wait a minute! Didn’t you just say you had a plan?”

        “I do, but I want your input first. Two heads are better than one.”

        “Could you get me another cup of coffee while I think about it?”

        “Sure!” Her footsteps echoed down the hall.

        He did some head-scratching, figuratively and literally. As an author he found her question an intriguing challenge. What motivated men—men like Bernie Manson, at least—to change their minds? Obvious answer—money and sex. No good. Those were the brutish tools of organized crime and the CIA. This called for something subtler. Still the basic carrot and stick, of course, but what carrot, and what stick?

        Diana came back with the coffee and got onto the bed again, this time leaning against the headboard and pulling her legs up in a pose that reminded him of a pin-up poster. Once again he was grateful to Colleen for having eased his tension earlier in the day.

        “Any bright ideas?”

        His brain percolated as he sipped the coffee. “Do you think he’d be open to negotiation?”

        “He might be. He really believes the Hallu is an important invention, and he’d like to see it succeed.”

        Jeff tried to look sincere, not an easy task for him, given his overall skepticism. “Okay. See how this strikes you. First, talk to him. Get him warmed up. Make him feel this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. Try to make him see the prob­lem you’re facing, and explain the exciting new develop­ments that could boost the prospects for success. That’s the carrot.”

        She nodded eagerly.

        Jeff continued, “The stick is that if he tries to take over the company he’d end up with nothing to show for his investment. Your people would walk out on him. Certain vital blueprints and documents would somehow get ‘lost in the shuffle’. He’d still have to buy a klystron and pay off creditors, before he could even begin to move ahead.”

        She was grinning triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I had in mind all along! If that’s how you see it too, maybe there’s a good chance it will work.”

        They spent another hour working out the details. By the time they were finished, Jeff’s only concern was that it sounded too perfect. “Remember,” he warned her as she climbed off the bed, “the best-laid schemes of mice and men…”

Chapter 9

Saturday morning got off to a slow start. Jeff let himself sleep till ten, ignoring Sheba’s noisy purring and her relentless kneading of his body. Ten was late for him, even considering the typical wee-hours bedtime at the Thornton human watering hole. Starla had showed up late the previous evening, appar­ently after a spat with the chronically-jobless Garth, and had watched the late show and a red-eye movie. Whether her mother also stayed up that late Jeff didn’t know. This morning the sky appeared overcast from what he could see through his one small window.

        When he came into the kitchen both women were there, looking glum and sullen. He suspected another mother-daughter argument. Diana, he knew, wished her daughter would choose a man and get on with her life—instead of behaving like the fe­male equivalent of Adam. Starla’s mass of thick blonde hair was tangled and her eyes looked puffy. Jeff went around to the front lawn to get the newspaper, poured himself a cup of coffee, and retreated into his room saying he wanted to catch up on the latest developments in the ongoing murder trial. It was a bald-faced lie: the only subject he found more boring than the trial was sports.

        The room was chilly, and he put on a sweater. He poked his head into the kitchen. “Hey—isn’t the furnace working?”

        Starla’s voice sounded disgusted. “They turned off the gas! I told Mother that would happen.”

        “It’s not my fault. I sent them a check last week.”

        “They must not have got it. When did you send it, yes­ter­day?”

        “So what? I called them and they said it would be okay. I called them again this morning and they said they’d made a mistake and shouldn’t have turned if off. They’re sending a man out to turn it back on. So get off my back!”

        Jeff ducked quickly back into his room to the sound of rising voices. He skipped the news and turned to the business page. There he noticed an article about computer software. A name stood out: “Clay Small”. That had to be the same person he’d talked with once or twice at the gym. How many Clay Smalls could there be in the software business? The article said Clay’s firm was sponsoring a three-dimensional animation showcase, featuring software from FantaSoft, a Seattle company. He tore out the article, thinking Adam might be interested.

        Craig showed up early that afternoon, and was sunning himself with Diana on the patio when Jeff came out.

        “It’s the Fox!” he boomed warmly, seeming to have forgot­ten his earlier ambivalence. “Have you been taking good care of my woman?”

        Jeff looked for a hint of sarcasm but found none. Craig was all walrus-mustachioed ebullience, and the author found him­self thinking that his own poor excuse for a mustache looked laughably puny next to Craig’s. He shook the sales­man’s meaty hand. “You have no idea how glad I am you’re finally here.”

        “Oh? Why?” He fixed Jeff with dark eyes in which little points of lights shown brightly.

        “I need help with the dishes!”

        The salesman chuckled. “Is that all? I was afraid you needed help with your book.”

        “I do, but that’s not your problem. How long are you here for?”

        “A week at most, but I’ll be at the office most of the time. Seriously, how is the book coming along?”

        “I’m still just taking notes. Actually, I haven’t totally committed to writing one yet.”

        Diana had been on the edge of the conversation. “What! I thought that was the whole reason you were here!”

        “It is, but I’m still waiting for something to develop. You’ve come up with a lot of ingenious plans, Diana, but...” He shrug­ged and raised his eyebrows. “The best-laid schemes...last night, remember?”

        Craig was looking back and forth between the two with a worried look on his face. “Best-laid schemes? Last night?”

        She caught his concern and gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “We were hatching a plot involving a lawyer, that’s all.”

        “Oh,” the salesman said, sounding relieved. Jeff could imagine how Craig saw the situation. Diana’s lusty past was an open book. Craig’s own relationship with her had barely begun, and now this intruder was using words like “laid” and “last night”.

        Diana took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “How’s the divorce going? Has the court still got a lock on your assets?”

        “Wouldn’t you know it? Peggy is playing hardball. You know I’d be putting money into the enterprise if I could, baby. But I think we’re over the worst of it. She’s agreed to visiting privileges. Now if we can only get the property questions settled... Ugh. What a mess! Don’t ever get married, Jeff.” Craig shuddered involuntarily, but then hurriedly qualified the remark. “I mean, don’t unless you’re absolutely sure it’s the right woman for you.” He cast adoring eyes on Diana.

        The day had warmed up and the sky had cleared. What the new arrival had been looking forward to most, he said, was getting in the hot tub and soaking for several hours. With the gas turned back on, Diana had set the thermostat up so the water would be hot. She and Starla seemed to have worked out their problems and Starla was again her usual sunny self—all smiles, long lashes, and big blue eyes.

        Craig brought a bottle of wine and four glasses out to the tub. To Jeff’s disappointment the order of the day was bathing suits, most likely because of Starla and the reciprocal agreement about boyfriends. Outside of that minor annoyance, he found the experience delightful. The tub was large enough for six people and they were only four, so there was plenty of room to spread out. Craig seemed to be in a garrulous mood. He eyed Diana’s daughter approvingly. “So, Starla, how’s your love life going?”

        She dropped her eyes modestly. “Generally okay. Garth and I had a tiff last night, but we’ll get over it. He’s out of work right now and I guess I said something insensitive.”

        “What ever happened to that funny little guy with the big ears? The one with the radio talk-show? I liked him.”

        “Oh, Scott.” Starla looked away, following a bird’s flight. “He’s around. We still go out sometimes but not, you know, seriously. Right now he’s working up a comedy act.”

        “Great! Is he going professional with it?”

        “No, he just wants to hit the amateur clubs. Come to think of it, he’ll most likely be here tonight to practice on us.”

        “And does Adam still have the hots for Naomi, and does she still treat him like shit?”

        “Yes, and yes,” Starla said, beginning to tire of the inquisition, but playing along for her mother’s sake. “If she ever actually warmed up to him, he’d decide she wasn’t his type. It’s like Groucho Marx’s comment that he wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would accept him as a member. I think Adam feels the same way about women.”

        Diana got out of the tub and went in the house for snacks. Jeff asked Starla, “What’s in all the boxes?” He indicated the jumble of equipment covered with blue plastic sheets. Cables, plugs, and odd-looking gizmos were visible where the plastic failed to cover them completely. Pools of rainwater completed the look of neglect.

        “There’s not enough room in the garage for everything. When we bought the Hallu at the auction, it was about ten tons of stuff. We had to take all or nothing. Luigi and the other guys picked out what they needed to build a prototype and the rest is sitting here rusting away. I don’t know what we’ll do with it. Sometimes the guys come and poke through it, looking for a part.”

        Jeff shook his head. “I can’t imagine how Diana found people to work on it.”

        “Mother’s a genius at networking. First she dug up the original inventor, but he turned out to be a drunk and she had to kick him out. Then she remembered Luigi and Raquel, back in Dayton. He fools around with electronic stuff and she does theater. They don’t have any kids. Mother talked them into coming out to Los Angeles. If you ask me, they’re both geniuses.”

        Jeff enjoyed listening to Starla. She had the delightful habit of touching you on the arm or shoulder when she was making a point. His only problem was wanting to touch her back. “I met Raquel the other night, getting ready to sell roses, and Luigi earlier. So where did Adam come from?”

        “He’s done computer-animations for all the big studios. He thought the Autoscripter concept was so fascinating he agreed to work on it for nothing. I’ve seen it work, and it’s awesome!”

        Diana came out carrying a bag of chocolate-chip cookies and got back in the tub. Craig reached in the bag and brought out a fistful of cookies. “What’s your new plan, sweetie? I know you’ve been dying to tell me.”

        Diana looked at Jeff, as if he were her conspirator, then back at her boyfriend. “See what you think of this. It involves Bernie Manson.”

        “The shyster who’s suing you!”

        Diana laid out the essential plan, which met with Craig’s enthusiastic approval. “If you and Jeff can pull this off, you deserve the con-man of the year award!”

        Jeff gazed at him coolly. “I’d rather think we are bringing him back into the fold for everyone’s benefit, including his.” He emptied the bottle of wine into Craig’s glass. “I think you can use a little more of this.”

        Diana was obviously enjoying the interchange, but she wanted to finish explaining the plan. Her eyes rested fondly on her gorgeous daughter. “Starla will be there, and I know Col­leen will come too. She loves any challenge that involves men.”

        Craig whistled. “A guy would have to be made of granite to resist weapons like that!”

        Diana went on, “I don’t know what his fantasies are, but we’ll find out and play to them. I guess our ace in the hole would be Colleen, if it came down to that.”

        Jeff felt a sudden pang. “Isn’t that pushing things a bit?”

        “I don’t think we’ll have to go that far, but it’s nice to know we can if necessary. Colleen’s like an old war horse who charges into battle at the sound of a bugle!”

Chapter 10

Fortunately Diana believed in lots of pillows or there never would have been enough seating spaces for the people who showed up for her salon. The small living room couch had room for two or three people at most, and there were two easy chairs. Since no one wanted to sit in a straight chair, everyone else perched on a pillow on the floor. Diana wanted to have logs flickering in the fireplace, but people told her it got too hot.

        Saturday night was religiously observed as a time for people to come together and share their latest creative output. Since everyone but Colleen was a writer, what Diana hosted was really more of a writer’s workshop than the “salon” she insisted on calling it. She had always admired the grand salons of Ger­trude Stein where Hemingway, Pound, and the other literati gathered. Some irreverently called it Diana’s Saturday Night Live. There were regulars and one-timers. You never knew who would stick. For some, such as Naomi, it was their only social life.

        People started arriving after supper and stood around drinking wine and talking until it was time to begin. Adam showed up alone, followed by Colleen. Starla had given her a lift, since she wanted to bring her easel and a large sketchbook. Diana immediately buttonholed the artist in the kitchen and signaled Jeff to join them.

        “Make sure I get a chance to talk with you before you leave, Colleen. I don’t have time now.”

        “Great. I love a mystery!”

        “Jeff can tell you about it if he wants to.” She bustled off, preoccupied with getting ready for the other guests.

        Colleen looked through the kitchen door into the living room, where Adam was getting settled on a stack of pillows. “Okay, what’s this mystery?”

        “I’ll let Diana tell you. I’m sure she can explain it better.”

        She jabbed him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. “See if I give you any more massages.”

        “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

        “No, that’s okay. I’ll wait and hear Diana’s version first, then I can get the straight story from you later!”

        Karen joined them, crisply pretty in a dark skirt and white blouse, highlighted with colorful ceramic necklace and earrings. At the last meeting she’d arrived wearing a suit, explaining that she’d had a late appointment and didn’t want to take the time to change. Jeff welcomed her warmly, but was immediately at a loss. He would have liked to escort her into the living room to be sure they got seated next to each other, but didn’t feel right about simply walking away from Colleen. Fortunately, Starla came into the kitchen at that moment to load a tray with snacks and started talking to the redhead.

        Jeff poured two glasses of sherry and sat next to Karen on the sofa. “How’s the novel coming along?” he asked.

        “Very slowly. What’s more to the point is, how is yours coming along?”

        “I haven’t even begun to write it. I’m still just taking notes. In fact, I don’t even know if there will be a novel. So far I have a lot of characters but no plot. If something doesn’t happen pretty soon, I may just pack it in and take my editor’s sug­gestion after all.”

        “Which is?”

        “To dredge up the facts behind the FBI assault at Waco.”

        “Would you like to do that?”

        “I would hate it! That’s the kind of writing you wrap fish in. I’d much prefer an exciting Hollywood story about glamor­ous people who are about to shake up the entertainment world.”

        She gave a silvery laugh. “In that case, what are you doing here?”

        He shared her laugh but said, “Keeping my fingers crossed. Diana’s got a plan. If it works, I’ll at least have the beginnings of a plot.”

        He took advantage of the gap in conversation to taste his sherry. Karen challenged his poise-machine. Knowing she was a psychologist made it all the worse. He put the glass down and changed the subject. “I understand Scott is going to practice his stand-up comedy routine on us tonight. Have you met Scott?”

        “Yes, and I listen to his talk show on KFUN. He’s a riot!”

        A small group had formed in the adjoining dining room. Jeff recognized Naomi in peasant skirt and sandals. She was talking with a tall white-haired man he hadn’t seen before. “I wonder who that is?”

        “I don’t know. Diana usually manages to find fresh blood to keep things interesting. That’s what I thought you were at first.”

        “Now I’m just dried blood, I guess!”

        She gave him a perplexed look. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a writer. You people are always playing games with words, and it leaves me cold. I like substance more than sym­bols. That’s why I practice body-centered therapy.”

        He felt slightly put down. “Thanks for warning me. Since your last name is Reich, I’m sure I would have made a bad joke about Orgone sooner or later, but now I’ll forget it.”

        “You have no idea how grateful I am for that!” She rolled her eyes up in profound relief. “Every job has its cliché-jokes. I have a patient who used to be an elevator operator, and it drove him nuts when people would tell him life has its ups and downs, imagining they were being witty.”

        Jeff chuckled sympathetically. “Poor guy. But I’d think he would have gotten over it by now.”

        “His problem has nothing whatsoever to do with that! It just came up incidentally.” She looked away.

                                     *   *   *   *

        People began filtering into the living room and found seats on cushions here and there. One area in front of the stereo cabinets was left open for presentations. Scott was last to arrive. He gave Starla a long kiss and hug, which she returned warmly, stooping slightly to do so. The two of them sat near the door to the kitchen so she could keep the wine and refreshments flow­ing. Jeff had asked her once whether she didn’t feel left out, since she didn’t write, act, or paint. “I find life itself is all the creative challenge I need,” she had said.

        One of the easy chairs was reserved for Diana, as hostess. Craig usually occupied the other one, when he was there. This evening, however, she led the white-haired man to the chair and had Craig sit next to her on a footstool.

        When people had quieted down, the hostess said, “I’d like to introduce Foster Holtzman. I met him at a lecture on tran­scen­dentalism a few weeks ago. He’s writing a book on Tibet, but doesn’t want to read tonight.”

        The man smiled and nodded, appearing somewhat nervous as he looked around the room. He reminded Jeff of Timothy Leary.

        “Dr. Holtzman is a philosopher and the world’s foremost Tibetologist. Did I get that right?”

        “Ah, not necessarily the foremost! But I did study in Tibet.”

        “Well, I hope you’ll come back and share with us.” Diana radiated enthusiasm. “Colleen, why don’t you start by showing us your sketches? For those of you who don’t know, Colleen’s doing murals at the nautilus gym in exchange for workout privileges.”

        The room was suddenly hushed with expectation. The regulars had seen Colleen’s work before and knew what to expect. The redhead set up her easel and flipped to the first page. “These aren’t all for murals, necessarily, but tell me which ones you think might work.”

        As she turned the pages of her sketch-book, people paid her compliments and suggested that certain of the pictures would make good murals. It was obvious that Colleen’s talents weren’t limited to massage. There were seascapes, faux Gauguin portraits, abstracts, and sketches of city life. The last picture was a realistic full-color sketch of a young and totally naked Arnold Schwartzenegger sitting on a chaise lounge admiring his very erect penis, which he held in one hand.

        Foster Holtzman gasped. If anyone else was shocked, it wasn’t apparent. A few people chuckled.

        “That one’s not for the nautilus place. I’m doing a mural for a gay bathhouse too.”

        “What’s the trade-off there?” Scott asked.

        “They give me money and I buy groceries. It works out just right. They get to look at pictures and I get to eat.”

        Naomi had perked up at the last picture. Now she gushed, “I really like that one. It’s so honest and sensual!”

        Colleen smiled quizzically. “It’s pornography. It’s what artists and writers do when they run out of imagination—not that I have, yet. But I do have my bad days.”

        Diana cut in quickly. “Colleen’s going to do backgrounds for the Hallu scripts.”

        “Maybe,” the artist corrected her. “Don’t forget, I’m retired!”

        Foster Holtzman looked interested. “Really? At your age? What’s your secret?”

        She laughed. “I quit working.”

        “But how do you live?”

        “I trade things, do odd jobs, get bit parts in film.”

        Diana decided it was time to get moving again. “Colleen darling, thanks for showing us your pictures. We’d better move along so everybody will have time. Karen, how’s the novel going?”

        “Not well! In fact, I didn’t even bring anything to read. I’m stuck, bogged down completely. For those of you who don’t know, I’m trying to write a story about a psychologist who is trying to help a patient who is addicted to computer games. The problem is, I’ve never played a computer game myself. I’ve put the book on hold while I decide what to do next.”

        This got an instant rise out of Adam. “Why don’t you just buy a game and play it?”

        Jeff felt an alarm bell going off somewhere inside his head. Adam—every woman’s image of the handsome young knight—would be only too happy to escort Karen into the mysteries of computer games. He would explain about sound cards and graphic drivers. He would select an exciting game that would challenge her intellectually and emotionally, and would guide her hand as she tried to manipulate the mouse. One thing would lead to another. Jeff wondered if Karen was aware of Adam’s reputation. She had only recently joined the group.

        The curly-haired programmer was reeling off games he had played, giving capsule descriptions of each. When he paused for a swallow of beer, Karen took charge quickly. “Adam, I’m sure this is exactly what I need to know, but I’m not sure every­one else does. Maybe we should discuss it later?”

        Diana agreed quickly. “That’s a good idea. “Okay…Scott, why don’t you go next? You look like you’re on pins and needles!”

        “Thanks! I really need an audience to help me with this comedy-club shtick I’m trying to scope out. Being on the radio is one thing—you’re like the little man behind the screen in the Wizard of Oz—but this is something else. You’ve got to look them in the eye and they stare right back at you. So don’t be kind to me! I’m not after sympathetic laughter, here.”

        That got a little spontaneous laughter, which he acknowledged with a grin. He got up from the cushion, giving Starla’s hand a squeeze. Pulling a rolled-up script from his pocket he stood next to Colleen’s easel, which still had the last picture on it. He glanced at it and did a double-take.

        “Hey, it’s me! You must have caught me off-guard!”

        He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.

        “Okay! Here I am on stage. It’s amateur night at the comedy club—one of the most sadistic rituals ever conceived by the mind of man. The crowd is out for blood. I’ve just been intro­duced by the MC, who thinks he’s the comic. The audience is howling. The hecklers are getting their verbal tomatoes ready. At least I hope they’re verbal!” He paused. “Hey, I haven’t even started! You’re not supposed to laugh yet!”

        The laughter caressed him again.

        “You understand I’m not allowed to appreciate—or even acknowledge—your reactions. People can sense when you’re out to con them for your own gratification. It’s one of the toughest tricks of the trade: keeping a straight face when every­one else is laughing.” He unrolled the script and pretended to look at it, to let them know this was the real thing.

        “Anyway, did you know I have a shrink—no offense, Karen—I have a shrink because of my ego problems? I know, I know, you look at me and wonder how a kick-sand-in-your face, six-foot-six guy like me can have ego problems, right?” He scanned the crowd, deadpan, measuring their titters and chuckles.

        “That is a laugh, isn’t it? Now, my shrink is this kindly old German doctor with a pointy beard, and it bothers me the way people lay their sick trips on him hour after hour, day after day, year after year. It’s obvious he doesn’t get any sympathy or personal fulfillment, just a lot of shit.” Pause. “And two hun­dred bucks an hour, of course!”

        A few people glanced in Karen’s direction as they laughed. She grimaced and waved her hand back and forth across her chest, palm forward, as if to say, “No way!”

        Scott then launched into a long-winded story about the doctor changing places with him. Jeff whispered to Karen, “Sounds like a shaggy doctor story to me!” She shushed him.

        Scott had the psychoanalyst talking about his own dream. “The doc says, ‘In ze dream I had very large genitals.’ I say, ‘Very interesting.’ I figure it’s a case of penis envy. Men have that worse than women, you know. I tell him, ‘Please go on. Maybe I can help you come to grips with it...’”

        Groans. He waved them down and went on. “The doc says, ‘Vell, in ze dream I had zis huge schlong! Not as large as in real life, you understand, but still huge...’”

        Scott wound it up soon after, and invited everyone to catch him at the club. Starla got another bottle of wine from the kitchen and went around the room filling glasses. Diana asked Adam if he wanted to read, but he begged off, saying he hadn’t had time to write recently and was just there to listen and offer criticism.

        Naomi sat in a corner on a huge pillow, long brown hair hanging down her back and over her shoulders, looking forlorn. Scott’s routines had brought only the faintest of smiles and a few crinklings of the nose. She brightened immediately, how­ever, when Diana said, “It looks like it’s up to you, Naomi!”

         The nymphet picked up a manuscript from the floor where it had lain all evening. “I don’t think I can read the entire thing tonight. It’s pretty long.”

        “Take as long as you like, dear. We always enjoy your writing. What have you brought—more of your novel?”

        “No, it’s a short story. I have to take a break from the novel every so often, to let it rest. When I go back to it, I’m all charged up again.”

        Jeff glanced at Adam, who was leaning forward slightly, forehead puckered and eyes fixed on her face in anticipation.

        “I call this an erotic tale,” Naomi went on. “I think the honestly-erotic genre has been neglected in our culture. You either get romantic tripe like The Bridges of Madison County or outright pornography. There’s very little in between. I wanted to write a truly erotic story. You’ll have to decide for yours­elves how well I’ve succeeded.”

        Colleen rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

        “The title is Harry and the Schoolmarm. I was going to call it Rosalie, but I wanted something more distinctive. Too many titles are just single words or women’s names.” She looked around the room to be sure everyone understood. No one objected, and she began to read. It was a story about an un­married high-school teacher who apparently seduces, or is seduced by, one of her male students. After about twenty minutes Naomi concluded with a paragraph which read:

  My kitchen is small and it suddenly seemed as if we were much closer together than before. We sat face to face across the table and enjoyed the pie and coffee. When he was finished, he made no move to go. I had hoped he wouldn’t rush off right away.

        “I think that’s enough for tonight. I don’t want to try your patience.”

        Craig expostulated, “Do you mean you’re going to leave us hanging just when things start to get interesting? Have pity, Naomi!”

        Colleen looked faintly disgusted. “Cut the crap and finish the goddam story, Naomi. We’ve got plenty of time.”

        But the young reader was firm. “No, this is a good stopping point.”

        Adam had remained entranced the entire time. Finally, already cowed by her expected response, he mumbled, “Really great stuff. I wish I could write as well as you do.”

        “Thanks,” she said coolly, rearranging the papers.

        Diana indicated the formal part of the evening was over, but invited them to stay as long as they liked. “If Craig and I duck out early, I think you’ll understand!” she said with a naughty grin.

        Craig looked up at her with pure adoration on his heavy features. His impressive mustache had curled up at the ends like the Esquire Magazine icon. Jeff stroked his own paltry cookie duster. It had to go, and that was that. Now he noticed Diana looking intently at him. When she had caught his eye, she jerked her head in Colleen’s direction. He gave her a quizzical look, pretending not to understand, and turned to Karen as if she suddenly required his full attention.

        “I guess I never mentioned it,” he began, “since there was no reason to, but I’ve played a few computer games myself. It’s a recent hobby.”

        “Really? I wouldn’t think you could spare the time.”

        “I was surprised to find that some of the games are quite challenging, intellectually. Of course, most are designed for teenage cretins who just want animated bloodshed.”

        He had got her attention. Good! Let Adam stick to chasing nymphets.

        “Well maybe you could help me pick out a game, one that’s addicting. But I know my little office computer won’t handle it. Maybe Adam could help me beef up my machine or buy a more powerful one, since he’s a computer expert.”

        Jeff shook his head impatiently. “Adam’s just a program­mer! He writes software. That doesn’t mean he knows hard­ware. Actually, I’ve spent a lot of time checking out computer equipment for my own needs. Besides...”

        Karen was looking at him, one eyebrow lifted. “Well...if you can find the time, I would appreciate the help. My novel isn’t going anywhere until I learn more about computer games.”

        “I’ll be happy to look over your manuscript, too.”

        “Thanks!”

        Karen politely declined his offer to go out for coffee or a drink, saying she’d had a long day and couldn’t wait to get into bed. He bit his lip just in time to avoid making a sophomoric comment.

        Scott and Starla left soon after, saying they were going to a nearby blues bar. Holtzman thanked his hostess for a wonderful evening and promised to return. Adam offered Colleen a ride home, and the two of them left. Jeff wandered back into the living room, which appeared empty at first glance. Then he noticed Naomi still perched quietly on her big pillow in the corner. The manuscript lay on the floor beside her. She smiled mistily at him when he took his seat on the sofa again.

        He smiled back. “I’m glad you’re still here. I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed your story tonight! There was a…crisp simplicity about it. The selection from your novel last week was—how can I put it?—somewhat turgid. I had no idea you were so versatile.”

        Naomi looked doubtful. “Thanks. I’m glad you liked the story. Ah…what exactly does ‘turgid’ mean, anyway? I should know, of course.”

        “Well, it isn’t necessarily bad! You might have wanted to create that effect deliberately. It can mean bloated, distended, swollen, grandiose, or bombastic—depending on the context, of course.”

        Her gaze was worshipful. “I only wish I had your command of language.”

        He waved it off. “What you’ve got is much more important. You have a sense of life, a sense of what makes people tick.”

        “Do you really think so?”

        “Absolutely. Take that story you read tonight, for exam­ple. There’s not a thing I would change about it.”

        She lifted the manuscript and held it out to him. “But you don’t know how it ends.”

        “I’d rather listen to you read the rest of it next week. Believe me, Saturday will be a long time coming!”

        It was unnerving to confront those innocent hazel eyes. Go over and sit next to her. It’s what she wants. You can stroke her hair and help her understand many things...

        Naomi roused herself. “I guess I’d better shove along. I hate to go back home after the salon. Saturday night is my only night out. Most evenings I’m busy doing homework or taking care of Daddy.”

        “So, when do you find time to write?”

        “While I’m behind the counter at the bookstore, or in history class at City College. I have to fit it in whenever I get the chance.” She stood and moved toward the door. “Jeff...I know you must be busy too, but is there any chance you could, you know, take a gander at my novel? I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels.”

        “You’re the one with the tight schedule. What’s a good time?”

        “I could come over almost any evening after work.”

        “Well I’m here most of the time. Just drop in when you feel like it, or call first if you want to be sure. I know Diana wouldn’t mind. If she has guests, we can go in my room and close the door.”

        He saw a slight flush come to her cheeks as she said, “Sure, why not?” As he walked out to the car with her, some­thing crossed his mind. “Oh, before I forget—I’d enjoy it if you could join Diana and me next Friday evening for dinner.”

        “I’d like to, but...is Adam coming?”

        “I don’t know. Does that matter?”

        She looked down at the sidewalk.

        He went on, “Maybe with me there it would be different.”

        “Well…okay. Tell Diana I’ll be there. Thanks!”

        Naomi lingered a moment, looking up at him with shiny eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from giving her a parting kiss. Instead, he touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Well, good night!”

        “Good night. See you soon!”

Chapter 11

He awoke at eight Sunday morning, refreshed if not completely slept out. For once people had gone to bed at a decent hour, mainly because of Craig’s arrival. Diana and her lover had apparently been trying to make up for lost time. It reminded Jeff of an old Tarzan movie. First there was the soft creaking of boughs in the wind, then a stampede of elephants, and finally the ape-man’s triumphant cry mingled with the scream of a leopard.

        No one else was up yet. He hadn’t heard Starla come in, and speculated idly on where she had ended up. After feeding Sheba and fixing himself a bagel and coffee, he went back into his room to write a letter to Lizbet. Addressing thoughts to his sympathetic friend and former lover was more satisfying than making a journal entry.

Dear Liz:

Hope you’re well and happy. Toto and I am well, but I’m not completely happy, for reasons I’ll explain later. (By the way, thanks for giving my computer a name. I didn’t like the idea at first, but now it seems quite natural. The thing does seem to have a personality.)

          First though, remembering your interests, I’ll clue you in about the house I’m living in. You might want to get an air-sickness bag ready—I know your aversion to clutter. Diana is not only a queen bee but a pack rat. A future archeologist could reconstruct the entire culture by sifting through this mess. I’m up to my keister in old newspapers, magazines, books, objets d’art, and media equipment. You may find it inconceivable, but I actually find a certain charm in the clutter. It reflects the dynamism of the chief inhabitant. She’s a powerful ship leaving a broad wake.

          Mine is the only uncluttered bedroom (if you overlook a pile of clothes on a chair). It’s a one-small-window hole in the wall they refer to as the “guest room”. Both of the women’s rooms—Diana’s and Starla’s—are obstacle courses of clothing, jewelry, posters, paintings, photos, bedding, half-read books and stuffed animals. The main bathroom has towels and bathing suits draped over the tub and shower-stall. Makeup tubes, toothpaste, shampoos, con­ditioners, and creams litter the counter around the basin. The drawers under the counter are crammed with razors, aspirin, hair dryers, combs, brushes, rollers, hair-nets, and at least one electric massager. By contrast, the half-bath off the kitchen which I use looks barren and forlorn.

          The living room, at the front of the house, has the usual furniture plus a clutch of pillows on the floor to take care of overflow crowds. From the living room you can see into both the dining room and the kitchen, each with its own unique blend of clutter. To the rear of the dining room, overlooking the patio, is a glassed-in porch that Diana uses as an office. Her small desk is stacked high with manilla folders, bills (mostly overdue), letters, and proposals—plus an assortment of electronic gadgetry. There are several computers, of which one may be operable. I think there’s a fax machine buried somewhere underneath it all.

          So much for setting. When it comes to action, there isn’t any—the reason for my un­hap­piness. Diana needs an expensive new part for her dream-injector, but is fresh out of money. Even so, I can’t see this bunch revolutionizing the media world with nothing but a pile of war-surplus junk. She seems to think she’s “The Little Engine that Could”, but I see her as “The Little Engine that Is Running Out of Steam.”

          Let me know what’s new with you—and please sign up for email! All this printing and having to lick stamps and envelopes is hopelessly Medieval!

Love, Jeff

        He got the Times off the front lawn, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table. But he refused to tackle the paper just yet. Old memories of his times with Liz flooded his mind, and he was in no hurry to dispel them. Why is it, he wondered, that good relationships often go sour, only to turn sweet again when the level of intimacy has diminished? Liz had been a good and amusing correspondent ever since he had been on the opposite coast.

        Diana came into the room, radiating bliss.

        “So,” she said, smiling benignly.

        “So, indeed. Craig still recuperating?”

        “I thought he was dead until I poked him. He’s been under a lot of stress…” She paused and began to hum a tune from Pirates of Penzance. Then she went on, saying, “A salesman’s lot is not a happy one.”

        “No doubt. But I’ll bet you’re happy he’s back.”

        “That’s the understatement of the year! I hate sleeping alone!”

        “You should have told me.”

        “I’m not that type of girl.”

        “Of course. I’m completely out of line.”

        “That’s all right, darling. I imagine you’re lonely too. Do you have a lady friend back in New York?”

        “I maintain a harem, as everyone who reads the gossip columns knows.”

        “Seriously.”

        “I’m never serious if I can avoid it. Being serious is for people who take themselves that way.”

        She looked at him blankly.

        “Sorry. Just the Oscar Wilde in me trying to get out. As for being lonely, I’m still licking my wounds from a recent indis­cretion, so I probably deserve to be lonely.”

        “Oh?” He had her interest now, and regretted it instantly.

        “Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Yes, I do miss my lady friends.”

        Craig appeared momentarily in the far hallway, on his way to the bathroom.

        Jeff said, “By the way, I took the liberty of urging Naomi to come over for dinner Friday. I hope you don’t mind.”

        “Mind! Of course not! I’ve been trying to get her to come for weeks. The trouble is, she knows that Adam makes it his business to eat here on Friday evenings. I could invite her some other evening, of course, but I was hoping she and Adam could get to know each other better. It might be good for both of them.”

        As Diana busied herself in the kitchen, Jeff scanned the front page. A large black headline proclaimed the death of hundreds of people in an earthquake.

        Craig, blinking uncertainly, came into the kitchen. “Mornin’ Jeff! I hope we didn’t keep you awake last night.”

        “That’s okay, I’m used to it.”

        The salesman’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that?”

        Jeff panicked, immediately realizing the implication of his remark. “I mean…I’m used to noises at night. In New York the garbage trucks make a racket all night long. You learn to live with it.”

        Craig seemed relieved. He sat at the table and glanced at the newspaper headlines. “Wow! I can’t believe this!”

        Jeff shook his head sadly. “I know. It’s tragic.”

        “Tragic? It’s beyond tragic! It’s a total disaster! Who’d ever think the Knicks would have it over the Bulls by that many points?”

        Jeff choked on his coffee but recovered quickly. “Who indeed? But…um…why is it a disaster?”

        Craig looked at him blankly. “I guess it depends on who you like. Me, I’m a Bulls man, being from Chicago.” His eyes narrowed again. “Which team do you root for?”

        Diana chided him gently. “Sweetie, Jeff may not follow sports.” She broke some eggs into the frying pan and added onions, diced green peppers, and cheese. She stirred it all together with a fork, still humming the ditty from Pirates of Penzance, which was about policemen, not salesmen.

        Jeff shared a few bites of omelet with the two lovers, then pointedly left the kitchen. Dishes from the night before were still stacked on the counter. Okay Jockstrap, the ball’s in your court now. Total disaster, indeed.

        He showered and went outside for some sunshine, which today was dimmed by a hint of smog. Sheba was stretched out on the chaise, belly up, paws curled, motionless. “You can’t fool me, cat!” he told her. Rather than disturb the sleeping animal, however, he decided to go for a walk in the neigh­borhood, wondering idly what new excitements, oddities, or emergencies the day might bring.

                                     *   *   *   *

        Craig drove over to his new office that afternoon, even though it was Sunday, while Diana busied herself with paper­work and phone calls. Jeff took advantage of the time to enter notes in his computer. By evening, everyone was ready to relax in the hot tub. Starla had phoned earlier, and Jeff answer­ed the call. She said she and Garth had made up and she wasn’t sure when she’d be home. No word about Scott. Jeff speculated on the lightning transition from one young man to the other, but remembered some of his own rapid lovemaking transitions. Colleen came over for supper. She was feeling blue and wanted companionship.

        Apparently the mix of people this evening suggested nudity. Diana went first and the rest followed her example. Craig offered no objections. No doubt he enjoyed being in the tub with two very attractive naked women, and the presence of another man wasn’t going to spoil it for him. As usual, the salesman brought out a bottle and glasses.

        Diana sipped her wine reflectively, then suddenly snapped her fingers. “I knew there was something I wanted to tell you! Being in the tub reminded me. I was going to explain why Naomi’s so cool toward Adam.”

        “Cool!” Colleen sneered. “She’s a block of ice.”

        “I told Jeff I’d explain what’s behind the Lancelot thing.” Diana’s face became animated the way it always did when she was about to launch into a particularly juicy story. “One night last summer we had a birthday party for Adam. It was just a few good friends: Luigi and Raquel, Naomi and Michael—her father—and let’s see, Colleen, you were there of course, and Adam’s current woman. I forget her name. I hadn’t met Craig yet. In fact I was still having an affair with Michael.”

        Craig’s head swiveled. “You never told me about that!”

        “Darling, you can’t expect me to tell you everything I’ve ever done,” she pouted. “Besides, it didn’t amount to much. Anyway, back then, Michael and Adam were still friends. I think they had worked together one time, at Paramount or whatever. So, there we all were on the patio having a party. It was a sultry evening. We had strung up colored lights and crepe paper on the trellis and bushes. Of course the hot tub was steaming, and we had rigged up a spotlight on it just for fun. Back then we hadn’t made any rules yet, and anyone who wanted to was free to go nude in the tub.

        “Well, Adam had too much to drink, and I guess his girlfriend must have too. The two of them were the last ones left in the tub, and Adam got an erection! That’s no big deal of course, but he had to show it off. He stood on the seat right about where your head is now, with the spotlight on him, and cleared his throat. His woman squealed and everybody looked.

        “After a few seconds he got back down in the tub. But they were feeling so horny they just had to get it on right then and there! They dragged a pad from a lounge chair behind those bushes over there, and—ye gods what a racket! Not only that, they kept at it all night! The neighbors must have thought we were having an orgy. The next morning we found them passed out, still stark naked.

        “The upshot was that Michael was outraged, and told Naomi that Adam was a degenerate and if she ever had anything to do with him he’d disown her. Adam was pretty embarrassed the next day, and his girlfriend was totally humil­iated. She kissed him off, just like that.”

        “A woman’s got her reputation to think of,” Jeff reminded her.

        “That’s right, she does. Maybe it’s different with a man. When the story got around, his buddies dubbed him Sir Lance­lot. Now you see why Naomi’s so squirrely around him. It probably has as much to do with her father’s feelings as her own.”

        “Thanks for cluing me in. I understand Naomi’s problems a lot better now.”

        Colleen snorted. “Her real problem is that she’s still got the box her cherry came in! That’s not surprising, since she never dates. It really pisses me off when she uses me in her so-called erotic tales. She should get a life.”

        “You weren’t ever a schoolmarm, were you?” Jeff inquired.

        “No, that part she made up. But I’m wondering how the story will end.”

        Diana said, “What Naomi needs is to meet a man who isn’t going to threaten her with commitment. Someone who’s exper­ienced and gentle, preferably an older man. Young ones are too clumsy.”

        “Amen,” Colleen breathed.

        Diana contemplated the author. “Now take Jeff for instance.”

        “Hey! Leave me out of this. I’m not in the deflowering business.”

        “Why not?”

        “It’s messy, it’s awkward, and it’s usually frustrating. I think Sir Lancelot’s the man for the job. He’s obviously out for blood!”

        Diana laughed heartily. “Okay, maybe you’re right. If she does come for dinner Friday we can try to get things going. I think she’s influenced too much by Michael’s paranoia anyway. It’s time she started making her own decisions.”

        They sat in silence after that, enjoying the pulsing of the warm water around their bodies. Craig kept everyone’s wine glass full. This was a quiet residential neighborhood, except when Diana threw an outdoor party; but even then the patio’s cement block wall blocked the sound to a large extent. Over­head the sky was its usual orange-pink nighttime color—the city’s neon lights always found something overhead to reflect on, whether it was mist, clouds, or smog.

        Jeff got to thinking about the plan to raise money. “So, Colleen, did Diana explain things to you last night? Sorry I couldn’t join the discussion.”

        “So I noticed. Karen is attractive, isn’t she? Anyway, about Bernie—I think it’ll be a blast.”

        Diana added, “Colleen’s had to tame tougher guys than Bernie Manson. He may be a lawyer on the outside, but inside he’s just a man. She’ll toast his buns!”

        Craig’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Hey! I heard a good lawyer joke from one of my customers the other day.”

        Diana looked doubtful. “I hope it’s not as gross as the last one.”

        “You got something against gross?” He drained his glass defiantly. “Anyway, this lawyer has trouble with a bleeding rectum, and the doctors decide he needs a new one. They put out a call for a new asshole, and when it arrives they sew it in and send him on his way. For three days everything looks good but then tissue-rejection sets in—the asshole rejects the lawyer!”

        Jeff chuckled and Colleen laughed out loud. She said, “You’ll have to tell that one to Scott! He can use it in his comedy act.”

        “I was thinking of telling it to Bernie!”

        Diana slapped his shoulder smartly.

        “Don’t you dare!” She turned to Jeff. “Listen, darling, you’ve got to start the ball rolling tomorrow. I’ll call Bernie in the morning and introduce you. Are you sure you don’t mind getting involved?”

        He was dead-set against getting involved, but by now he knew he was cemented into the plan. “Mind? Not at all! I really get off on trying to match wits with lawyers. Sure I do.”

        The sarcasm was lost on Diana. “I’m glad you feel that way, because this plan is on our critical path! I have a lot of other irons in the fire, but they all depend on getting the injector going again. And the first thing we’ll do is let you see what it’s like, for yourself. It’s a transformative experience! I’m hoping you’ll decide to work with us, because we need all the creative talent we can get. I know eventually we’ll get Spielberg and his buds on board too. Then watch out!”

Chapter 12

Monday morning Jeff got right down to business by shaving off his mustache. He felt instantly better about himself. Now he matched his preferred self-image again. Booting up Toto, he was immediately hit with a short but jarring email message from Nelson to the effect that the motion picture option had been dropped. There would be no Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips on the silver screen after all. The author sucked in his breath angrily and let it out with a hiss. He dug into his private supply of liquor and had a quick pick-me-up. It wasn’t Chivas Regal, but it did the job.

        The film producers had been so enthusiastic! What could have happened to change their minds? He put the bottle away, remembering Colleen—he didn’t fancy being found under a bush. Nelson had added insult to injury by demanding to know how the new book was coming along, what the working title was, and when he could put it on his schedule. Jeff sent him a hasty email reply:

Nelson: Thanks for brightening up my morning, old buddy, just when I’m trying to screw up my courage for a meeting with some putz of a lawyer named Manson, who could make or break this project! I have not begun the book. There is no working title. And you can forget about putting it on your schedule.

          I take that back. The working title is, “All the Queen’s Men.” It just came to me! The book’s going to be about Diana and a bunch of men who think with their little heads. If you need to ask what that means, you’re probably one of them.

          How are things in the Big Apple? Wish I could say I missed it. Despite the insanity out here, I’m having a lot of fun. I haven’t had a chance to check out the Virtual Reality Generator yet because it’s broken, but meanwhile I spend half my time drinking wine in a hot tub with naked women. Eat your heart out! Oh, and be sure to tell me right away about all the new movie offers you dig up. I’ll be holding my breath. Come to think of it, in that’s not such a bad idea in Smog City!

Jeff.

        Toto flashed him a confirmation that his message had been launched onto the information superhighway. For some mo­ments he sat staring at the laptop, lost in reverie. The screen­writer they’d picked to turn Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips into a film had insisted the movie would be a blockbuster, if not an acad­emy-award winner—but that was just the screenwriter preening himself. For Jeff personally, it would have meant as much as a million up front, and more down the line, mainly from added book-sales. He had been lustily looking forward to the perks—flashy sports cars, parties, hot-and-cold running starlets. He realized the prospect was more attractive than the reality—indeed, being in a position to turn such things down would be a perk in itself! He sighed, trying to dope it out. His best guess was that the banker who was putting up the money had finally read the book and had a fit. Jeff had roasted the Wall Street types in Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips, whose focus was on—what else?—money and sex.

        All at once feeling the need for a good physical workout, he got dressed and headed for the back door with gym bag in hand. But Diana intercepted him, alarmed. “Jeff! Where do you think you’re going? Have you forgotten the plan?”

        “Plan? What plan?”

        “I was going to call Bernie Manson and introduce you, remember?”

        He sighed, found himself a comfortable chair near a phone, and waited as she dialed in the kitchen. When she called out for him to pick up, Bernie was on the line and greeted him raspily. “Diana tells me you’re working on a book about her.” The voice reeked of skepticism.

        “That’s true, I am. Actually it was supposed to be about the Virtual Reality Generator, but that seems to be on ice at the moment.”

        Dead silence.

        Diana’s voice cut in quickly. “Bernie, Jeff wants to get all sides of the story, so he can give a fair picture. Would you be willing to talk to him?”

        “I don’t see what point there would be in that,” the lawyer rasped.

        “Jeff—can you explain?”

        He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to talk with as many people as possible so that no one feels left out. From what Diana tells me, you’re a key figure in the drama that’s un­folding here. Without your input, it’s going to be difficult for me to present an unbiased picture. I think you can appreciate my position.”

        “I see. What kind of book is this, an exposé?”

        “No, no, nothing like that! It’s a novel.”

        “What you’re saying, in effect, is that I might end up as a character in your book. You are aware of the libel laws, I presume.”

        Jeff put on his coolest voice. “That’s not really a problem for me, Mr. Manson. I’ll put a disclaimer in the front of the book. As a lawyer, I’m sure you’re familiar with First Amend­ment rights. Look, I’m certainly not interested in libeling you. Quite the contrary! That’s why I’d like a chance to get your side of the story. Can’t we at least meet somewhere?”

        In the end the lawyer agreed to meet him at a cocktail lounge named “Helen’s Hideaway” near his office later that morning.

        Diana was ecstatic. She ran into the room and hugged him. “Operation Manson is underway!”

        “Shouldn’t that be Operation Fleece Manson?”

        “You’re being much too cynical. He’s going to end up a rich man when things work out.”

        “And if things don’t work out?”

        “We’ll cross that road when we get to it, which is never. Now what are you going to tell him? I want to be sure we keep our stories straight.”

        Jeff reviewed his understanding of the plan again. “You say I can invite him over any evening for dinner?”

        “Yes. No, wait!” She looked at a calendar. “Not Wednesday. That’s the full moon!”

        “So?”

        “That’s our Dryadic ceremony. We can’t do it that night.”

        Jeff knew by now to let well enough alone. “Okay. That leaves tomorrow and Thursday. Friday’s reserved for Adam and Naomi, assuming she doesn’t chicken out again. Can I go to the gym now? I’ll have just enough time for a workout before meeting Bernie.”

        “Where’s your suit and tie?”

        “I have to wear a suit and tie?”

        “He’s got to be impressed. Don’t you think it would be a good idea?”

        “Diana, let me clue you in on something. Anybody who’s really successful doesn’t wear a suit and tie. A suit is damned uncomfortable and a tie is literally a hangman’s noose! It’s a symbol of vulnerability and bondage. Not wearing a suit shows one of two things. Either you’re out of the loop or you’ve beat the system. Bernie’s going to have to decide for himself which one I am. Just to be sure he makes the right decision, I’ll give him a copy of my book, with my picture on the back cover.”

                                     *   *   *   *

        Bernie Manson, Esq. didn’t seem as formidable in person as he’d sounded on the phone. In his mid-thirties, he was square-jawed, handsome in a conventional way, with thinning sandy hair and skin of that grayish tone that suggests long hours at a desk under fluorescent lights. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a nondescript tie that had been loosened. Jeff had no trouble spotting him at the bar, based on Diana’s description, and immediately suggested they take a booth for more privacy. The lawyer agreed in a voice that seemed to have lost most of its raspiness.

        Jeff handed him a copy of Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips. “I can autograph it for you if you like.”

        “Thanks. Hey—that’s a pretty good picture of you!” He looked from Jeff’s face to the book-jacket photo and back again several times.

        “Do you think so? I always wonder why they make you twist sideways like that and dip one shoulder—as if you’ve just finished swinging a golf club. Or maybe that’s the idea.”

        Bernie regarded him with a certain fascination. The waitress came by and Jeff ordered a blended Margarita with salt. Man­son asked for a refill of his V.O. on the rocks, still looking at the author as if he were a lesser deity.

        “So you really are Jefferson Fox.”

        Jeff had learned to cope with the entire crazy spectrum of reactions people came up with. He smiled obligingly and held one hand in front of his face for inspection. “Well, I was the last time I checked. Why?”

        “Frankly, I was expecting one of Diana’s screwball schemes, a ringer or something. Now let me get this straight. You’re actually writing a book about her and the dream machine? How’d you hear about it, anyway?”

        “A mutual friend clued me in. It sounded exciting enough to check out. I understand you were instrumental in setting up the corporation. Was that complicated? I’m pretty naive when it comes to business affairs.”

        “It’s all in the day’s work. I do a lot of corporate law. Did Diana tell you why I’m suing her?”

        “I couldn’t make much sense of what she said. You know how emotional she can get.”

        “Tell me about it! The woman’s a holy terror when she gets going.”

        “So—why not go back to when you first met Diana?”

        Bernie quickly warmed to the task. The essentials of the situation were as Diana had described them, but it seemed that misunderstandings had arisen from the very beginning. She had objected to putting things in writing, not only with Manson but with everyone she dealt with. As far as she was concerned, people should trust each other or not even think of doing business together. Eventually, Bernie said, he decided it was simply impossible to do business with her. He wanted out, and he wanted the money that was owed him.

        Jeff nodded encouragingly. “I’m finding this extremely helpful. Please go on.”

        The lawyer paused and looked at his watch. “I’ll bet you’re getting hungry. I know I am. Why don’t we continue this over lunch? Dottie—” He swiveled around and motioned to the waitress. “When you get a minute, honey.” To Jeff he said, “I want to make sure you’ve got the whole picture. I don’t care how long it takes! Unless you’ve got something else planned?”

        “Not at all. I was hoping we could do this over lunch anyway.”

        Dottie took their order, and Bernie went into detail about the lawsuit. Jeff was optimistic about the way things were going as lunch was served. The lawyer was convinced he had a sympa­thetic ear and would be treated well in the book. By the time they were finished eating, Jeff was congratulating himself that phase one of the plan was going to be a success.

        Then the monkey wrench fell in the gears. “I think you see why I can’t drop the suit. I’m sure that’s the real reason Diana wanted you to talk with me, although you obviously have reasons of your own. There’s nothing she could offer that would make me want to change my mind. We went over all that before I filed suit. So there’s no point in my accepting her dinner invitation.”

        Whoa! That wasn’t how the script was supposed to go. Jeff thought quickly. “Well, that may be true—but she seems to think there’s a new wrinkle that might change everything. I grant you, Diana always talks as though people were lined up at her door waving their checkbooks. But the fact is, I tagged along to a meeting with some venture capitalists. She had show­cased the injector for them, and told me it knocked their socks off. You’ve tried the machine, right? I haven’t had the pleasure.”

        “Oh yeah. It’s for real. That’s why I put up the money in the first place.”

        “So you know that what I’m saying is entirely possible. I wasn’t supposed to tell you this since Diana wanted to break it to you herself at dinner, but maybe it’s better if you hear it from me first.”

        “I appreciate that, but...”

        “They’ve offered to put up an initial three million dollars.”

        Bernie coughed and quickly put his napkin to his lips.

        “The idea is to get the machine into production as quickly as possible. Her technicians are ready, and she’s lined up a factory.” Jeff took a final sip of coffee and started to get up.

        “Wait! You’re not kidding? What’s the name of the firm?”

        Jeff stood, frowning down at the man in the rumpled brown suit. “I may have said too much already, since it’s really none of my business. I’m only here to write a novel. I was hoping it could have a happy ending, but either way I make money. Take that book I gave you. It’s full of sleazy characters who end up destroying each other out of greed. It was a hit when it came out, and it’s about to be made into a motion picture. Sometimes I think people prefer reading about rotten characters.”

        “I see. Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hear what she has to say.”

        Jeff leaned over and put a friendly hand on the lawyer’s arm. “That’s completely up to you. Just between you and me, though, I would never turn down a chance to sample Diana’s cooking. If nothing else, the woman is a culinary genius!”

        “Is that a fact? Well...” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Would it be all right if I brought my wife?”

        Wife! Why hadn’t Diana warned him? Talk about monkey wrenches! “I’m sure it would be all right...ah...if you’re sure she wouldn’t be bored by a lot of talk about business.”

        Manson came off it, laughing at the joke he’d played on the lesser deity. “Just kidding! Marriage is one trap I’ve managed to avoid so far. Okay, what’s a good time?” He pulled an appointment book from his pocket. “How about Wednesday evening?”

        “Could you make it Tuesday or Thursday, instead? I think she mentioned something about an important meeting Wednes­day. Maybe it was with the backers. I honestly don’t remem­ber.”

        “Hmm. Let’s make it tomorrow night then. I didn’t want to go to that ABA meeting anyway. It’s always a bore.”

        Victory! He shook hands warmly with the lawyer as they left.

Chapter 13

When he returned home there was a message from Karen, asking him to call. This Monday had not begun well, but it was rapidly picking up speed.

        But when he returned the call, it was to talk with her alter ego, the answering machine. During the day she was normally with clients, of course, so he couldn’t complain. Temporarily at loose ends after his meeting with the lawyer, Jeff decided to update his journal. He booted up the ever-faithful Toto for the second time that day, opened the file named “VirGen”, and scanned through the last few entries before beginning, as was his habit.

        As his eyes darted over the text, he shook his head in amaze­ment at the crazy-quilt of unrelated events that the past week alone had produced. He had thought his life in New York was full, but now it seemed like a vast wasteland of cocktail parties and ultimately-vacuous quests for physical love, inter­spersed with the unavoidable hours in front of the computer. His comings and goings merged into each other with a gray same­ness that made it hard to distinguish one day from the next.

        Here, living in Diana’s guest room, virtually every day was memorable for one reason or another. The problem was know­ing what to enter in the journal and what to ignore. Periodically he went back and purged things that seemed utterly useless—in terms of the novel he was hoping to write. That would simplify his task later. Similarly, he added notes about things that might have seemed unimportant at the time, but now took on height­ened interest in the light of new developments.

        Last Tuesday’s entry recorded a day with even more sur­prises than usual, especially considering the dramatic way it had begun. A little shudder went through his body as he remem­bered Colleen’s body sprawled among the tubes of paint. Re-reading the entry now, he inserted details and cleaned up the text, letting himself relive the events. He had the capacity to completely lose himself in such reveries for hours at a time.

        But now wasn’t one of those times! Being hit right between the eyes, first thing in the morning, with the news that his motion picture option had been dropped was not Jeff’s idea of an upbeat way to start the day. He had sent off a snappy mes­sage to his editor and had a quick pick-me-up out of his private stock, then headed for the gym—only to be intercepted by Diana and her plans! But now he was free to do his workout, so he turned the computer off.

        It was the sort of health club one would expect to find in Los Angeles: big, crowded, and noisy, even on a Monday afternoon. Rows of stationary bicycles, each with a television monitor, stretched across the room. You could choose your course, anything from a peaceful country path to the Alps, and the scenery would go zipping by on the monitor as you pedaled. Furiously pumping male and female bodies drenched the air with their fragrance. Grunts came from the room where the Nautilus machines and free weights were.

        After a workout and steam, Jeff showered and went back to the locker room. He turned his nose up at the Jacuzzi, happily remembering the superior facilities at Diana’s place.

        A man, a lanky six-foot-four, set his gym bag on the bench where Jeff was dressing.

        “Hi, Clay,” the author said. “Remember me?”

        “Jeff! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Did you do something to your face?”

        “I nuked the mustache this morning. It just wasn’t me. How’s business?” The ironically-named Clay Small, whom the writer had met during a previous workout, worked for a soft­ware firm.

        “Okay. Nothing special. How’s the book coming along? You put me in the story yet?”

        Jeff put on a rueful smile and shook his head. “I haven’t started the actual writing yet. But Clay, when I do, I don’t think I can use you. You’re just too damn nice.”

        “No I’m not. Ask my wife!”

        “I’d rather keep my illusions, thanks.”

        Jeff finished dressing and was starting to leave, but suddenly remembered the newspaper article he had torn out for Adam. “By the way, I saw your name in the paper the other day. You’re sponsoring some kind of software demo?”

        “Yes, it’s this Friday evening. They’re flying a team down from Seattle. You’re welcome to come.”

        “Gee...”

        “We’ll be serving coffee and chocolate-chip cookies.”

        “I’ll be there! In fact, I’ll probably bring a couple of friends,” he said, quickly thinking of Karen and her need to know more about computers, and his need to help her with that very thing. Diana or Colleen might want to tag along too.

                                     *   *   *   *

        On his return from the gym, Jeff had returned to updating his notes when the shrill sound of the phone interrupted him. He had just recorded his meeting with Manson, ending with Manson’s acceptance of an invitation to come to dinner tomor­row evening.

        “Jeff! It’s for you!” Diana’s penetrating voice came from the back porch she used as an office. “I think it’s Karen.”

        That pulled him sharply back to the present. The phone-tag was about to end. He wondered if she was going to take him up on his offer of help, and crossed his fingers. With any luck, this could be the start of something he’d been trying to arrange ever since he met the pretty psychologist at the first salon.

Chapter 14

“I’m spending this afternoon with Karen,” Jeff said the follow­ing day during lunch. “I offered to help her buy a new computer and pick out a game.”

        Diana frowned. “I thought Adam was going to help her with that.”

        “No need to impose on his time. I’m pretty computer-savvy. By the way, have you told him Naomi’s coming Fri­day?”

        “No, but I’ll be sure to.” She was briefly pensive. “Why don’t you invite Karen for dinner tonight?”

        “Is that wise?”

        “The more the merrier! Karen is a warm, friendly, person. The plan is to make Bernie feel like part of the family. “

        “I’ll ask her. But I don’t think you should expect her to be part of Operation Fleece Manson.”

        “Please don’t call it that!”

        “Sorry. I guess I should try to control my cynicism. Well, I’m off to the library to read computer-game magazines, then on to Karen’s place.”

        “Say hello for me, and don’t forget to invite her!”

        Later, driving to a computer-game store with the psycho­logist, he filled her in. “I suggest we look for games first. Each one has its own hardware requirements. It would be frustrating to buy a computer and then find you couldn’t play a particular game on it.”

        “Is that possible?”

        “Possible, but not too likely. Still, why take chances? This field hasn’t settled down yet. Just when you think you have the very latest equipment, some hotshot announces better sound and more colors.”

        He pulled into a mini-mall and parked in front of a software store. They walked along the aisles of colorful boxes, most of them showing space-ships or monsters. He spotted a box with a horned angel on it. “This is the one I was looking for! I haven’t played it, but it’s been well-reviewed.”

        “Lucifer’s Reprieve! What’s it about?”

        It was fresh in his mind from the library’s copy of Computer Gaming World. “You are Lucifer, fallen Angel of Light. Because you led a revolt of the angels you were cast into Hell, where you now rule. However, ruling Hell is no picnic and you have asked God for a reprieve. It’s granted on con­dition you help humanity evolve. The game begins with you appearing on earth bathed in light, as an Avatar. Your Lucifer identity is a secret, of course, because people would never take kindly to the Devil as an Avatar. Messengers from God are supposed to come straight from Heaven, in the tradition of Zarathustra, Jesus, Mohammed, and such. The game conven­iently ignores the problem of being born and growing up.”

        “Great. What then?”

        “You have to go around helping humanity, or you’ll be cast back into Hell. Naturally you have certain supernatural powers, being Lucifer.”

        “Naturally. Well, that sounds easy enough!”

        “Doesn’t it? But unfortunately you can’t know for certain how your meddling will affect things. You may stop a war now, but the result could be a bigger war later on—one that’s beyond even your powers to stop. You may prevent an epidemic, but the consequence could be a population explosion followed by mass star­vation.”

        “Not so easy after all! How do you know when you’re winning?”

        “You don’t! That’s the challenge. The game’s designers have their own ideas about what a proper Avatar should and shouldn’t do. You want to avoid screwing things up beyond all possibility of redemption, of course, but beyond that it’s anyone’s guess how you convince the Deity to take you back.”

        “Back?”

        “Back into Heaven. That’s your ultimate reward.”

        “I see. Okay! I think that’s the one for me. If I don’t get addicted to this game, I’m probably not addictable. This should help me get some insight into my patient’s obsession. He’s neglecting his job and family.”

        “I remember your describing the plot at the salon.”

        “No, I’m talking about real life. I’ve always wanted to write, and I thought this case would make a perfect plot. But there’s also a very desperate man I’m trying to help.”

        Next stop, the computer store. Fortunately, money was not a problem for Karen. Her practice paid well and she had no dependents. Thus when it came to selecting computer hardware Jeff simply recommended the biggest and best of everything. This was completely justi­fied, he explained, since it would avoid the need to upgrade for another year or two at least.

        They wheeled a shopping cart full of boxes out of the store. He was looking forward to helping her unpack everything and assemble the computer. She wanted it in her upstairs bed­room, which was spacious and looked out through French doors onto a small redwood deck.

        Jeff explained that setting up the computer and the devices connected to it was only half the problem. The other half was installing the game and getting it to work right. That was often tougher than setting up the computer itself, he had discovered.

        She was helping him connect the monitor and computer when the phone rang. Karen ignored it. “Let it ring! This is the time of day when all the phone companies call and try to get you to switch your service.”

        “Right. Screw the phone companies. Hey listen—is that your answering machine? It sounds like Diana!” He grabbed for the phone. “Diana? Yes I know, but…unbelievable as it sounds, I forgot! What time is it anyway? Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes! I don’t know. Just a sec.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece. “How’d you like to come along to dinner? She’s got a real feast prepared.”

        Karen looked dubious. “Is this some sort of special dinner? Who’s going to be there?”

        “Just some people. You know most of them. Craig, Colleen, Starla, and a guy named Bernie. Really, I’d like you to join us.”

        “All right. I had no particular plans for supper anyway.”

        “Diana? Karen will be coming too. How’s it going? Great! Okay, I’ll see you in a flash.”

        He stood and stretched amid the jumble of boxes and instruction manuals. “I guess we’re not too late. I told her I’d be with you this afternoon. That’s why she called here.”

        In the car, he filled her in succinctly on the nature of the dinner meeting, hoping she wouldn’t feel he had conned her into something. Karen was not connected with the VirGen project and only knew it was a constant preoccupation of Diana’s. “They’re trying to get the lawyer on their side, so he’ll drop the suit,” he concluded.

        “Sounds reasonable.”

        “I think so. It’s sort of an olive-branch kind of thing.” But he felt an immediate pang of guilt. It was more like a Ulysses-and-the-Sirens kind of thing, he very well knew.

                                     *   *   *   *

        Dinner was in progress when they arrived. Several open bottles of wine were on the table along with the food, and the diners looked as if they’d been enjoying themselves. Bernie Manson stood and shook hands with Karen as Jeff introduced her.

        “Ah-ha! This is the woman who is writing a novel about computers. I’m quite impressed! I’m a complete klutz except for doing email and looking up legal stuff—case histories and such. I’ll have to read your book when it comes out…”

        Jeff sensed that Bernie would have liked to go on talking to her, but put the impulse on hold. “By the way, Jeff, you were right about Diana. She is a superb cook. And the wine! Some­body knows how to select it. Was it you?”

        “Diana has a good friend up in Sonoma who brings it when he comes down to visit.”

        “Lucky Diana! Lucky me!” Bernie seemed relaxed and happy. He was telling stories about his vacation in Bora Bora two years earlier. Colleen gave him her big gap-toothed smile every time he looked at her and both Craig and Starla laughed at his jokes. Jeff hoped they weren’t overdoing the bonhomie.

        During dessert, the lawyer tried to bring the conversation around to the matter at hand. “I’ve been anxious to hear what’s happening with the injector but you haven’t said a word. Am I going to be kept in suspense forever?”

        “Oh, there’s no hurry,” the machine’s owner reassured him. “We didn’t want to spoil dinner with business talk. Let’s finish dessert and then we can have coffee and brandy in the living room.”

        “Tell me more about Bora Bora,” Colleen said. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.”

        “Well, perhaps that could be arranged! I’ll get back to you on that.” He laughed at his own parody of a businessman. “Ser­iously, it’s everyone’s dream of paradise—at least where I stayed, which cost me, let’s see—how much was it?—about six hundred a night. That’s with meals and liquor, so it wasn’t all that expensive as such things go. And that was for two, you understand. I’d never go alone!”

        Jeff sensed that Karen was taking everything in with a psychologist’s practiced eye. He wondered what she was thinking. Was it all too transparent? After all, Manson was a lawyer. As such, he had to be familiar with the games people play. Would he savor the dinner and the attention, and then say condescendingly that nothing he’d learned would tempt him to change his mind?

        Finally, in the living room, after a little more desultory conversation, they got down to brass tacks. Diana leveled her eyes at him. “What Jeff said is true. The firm we’re dealing with is a high-tech investment syndicate. We originally show­cased the VirGen to the two men who head it up. They were as impressed as we all were, and we’re currently wrapping up the final contractual details. I thought you’d want to know, since you are, after all, a principal officer of the company.”

        “That’s true, I am! But I’m surprised that matters to you, after what’s happened.”

        “Darling, you have to okay any contract, since you have a lien on the corporation’s assets! Why do you think I’m wining and dining you? But seriously, I was hoping we could work things out as friends. I’d like to put this unpleasantness behind us and get on with the project. Instead of making things diffi­cult for each other, we could all be sharing the pie together—and it’s going to be a very big pie, from what I can tell! I’m ready to let bygones be bygones if you are. When the deal is done, you’ll get everything that’s coming to you and a lot more.”

        The lawyer sipped his brandy slowly. A small frown clouded his flushed face, as if he were trying to evaluate the situation. The fact of the matter was that he had begun the evening with a cocktail and was now stuffed with food, wine, dessert, and brandy. Beyond that, the sheer quantity of female charm assembled in his honor must have had its effect on his calculations. He was used to Diana and Starla, of course, from his earlier association with the project, but now here were Col­leen and Karen, both new faces. If he were any kind of man at all, Jeff reasoned, Manson would be hatching plans that had nothing to do with the VirGen.

        Nevertheless, he appeared to be making a valiant effort to stay on track. “That’s all very well, but we have to get down to specifics. I want facts, figures, and names.”

        Diana waved a hand breezily. “You’ll get them! The first thing is just to agree in principle that we’ll go about this like adult, caring, human beings and not vultures. I personally have very little interest in the money, as I’ve told you many times. I simply want to be involved in the next media revolution. When the VirGen hits the market, it’s going to be like the early days of movies and television.”

        Starla smiled radiantly. “That’s how we all feel!”

        “I’m planning to spend full time on the project,” Colleen added. “I’ll be playing dramatic roles for the adventure scripts. I normally work as a bit player in the movies, but I’d rather be helping Diana.”

        “I understand, but...you say you act in the movies?”

        “Just small roles. I was one of the cocktail hostesses in Pulp Fiction. Most of what I did ended up on the cutting-room floor, of course. You know how it is in the movies!” She produced a tinkly laugh, then became serious and looked closely at his face. “You know, Bernie, you seem just a tiny bit tense, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

        “That’s funny. I was just thinking how relaxed I felt!”

        “Ah, but you can’t always tell! You may think you’re relaxed, but some parts of your body remain tense by habit. I can give you a massage sometime, if you like. I used to do it professionally. It’s so rewarding to help people get relaxed and start feeling good again! I think I even enjoy it more than act­ing!” Colleen tossed her head, smiling radiantly. Her tumul­tuous red hair undulated and shimmered. She stroked it sen­sually with one hand.

        “Well...I don’t know. Sure! Why not?”

        “A person like yourself deserves a good massage now and then. Being an attorney must be terminally stressful. The whole system depends on you guys—the government, business, all of us. I’ve always wished I’d gotten into law. In fact, I originally planned to go to law school after I finished college.”

        “Is that a fact? Where did you graduate? UCLA?”

        “Oh no, nothing like that. Just City College. In fact, I didn’t even graduate—I had to quit to take care of my father. He had a stroke that left him partly paralyzed. My mother died when I was an infant, unfortunately.”

        Clearly, Bernie was in no mood for sob stories, and quickly shifted the conversation. “Without a college degree you’re very limited as to how far you can go in life.”

        She shrugged. “I know, but I guess we can’t all be big winners. I have to work in a bookstore sometimes, to help make ends meet, but I don’t mind. I love books! I do a little writing too, although I’m not very good. I’m trying to do erotic stories right now, but I don’t have much experience to base them on. Of course, that could change any time.”

        “Well…yes! No doubt about that. You know, I’ve been consid­ering doing a book about one of my cases. But I can never seem to find the time.”

        By the end of the evening Bernie had decided they were good people, all of them, and deserved better from life. They seemed like family to him. He’d make sure the suit didn’t come up in court without his say-so, and maybe the nasty thing could be dropped entirely. Naturally he wanted to talk with the new backers, but it looked to him like Diana had finally pulled it off. He for one was happy for her and wanted to be on the team, along with Colleen and the others. Karen said she had enjoyed the evening and thought he would be doing the right thing, from what little she knew of the project. Craig told Bernie he was looking forward to working with him, and didn’t tell the joke, the one about the rectum rejecting the lawyer, although at one point it had seemed he was about to—until Diana kicked him under the table.

        Finally, Jeff suggested that in his forthcoming novel the attorney might even turn out to be a major character. That, of course, would never work unless there was a romance with one of the female leads.

        “Really? Which one?”

        “I’m just thinking out loud. It could depend on how things work out in real life—not that I’m bound by reality, you understand! I have to go with my instincts.”

        When it was time to go, they all accompanied the glowing attorney to his car. At the last minute Colleen asked if she could hitch a ride home with him. “...but only if it’s on your way. I came over on my bike, but I hate to ride at night.”

        “I wouldn’t think of letting you ride your bike home at this time of night! There’s all sorts of crazies out there, not to men­tion drunk drivers. Where do you live? Won’t your father be worried about your getting home so late?”

        “My father?”

        “Yes, don’t you live with him? You said...”

        “Oh, we recently decided he needed a live-in nurse. I have my own apartment, just a few blocks from here.”

        Diana watched them drive off into the night, a smile of beatitude on her face. Jeff was not so sanguine. “Don’t you think Colleen was overdoing it just a tad?”

        “I don’t think we have to worry about that. He’s so taken with her he’ll never notice.”

        “What if he propositions her?”

        “I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t—but she’ll know how to deal with it! By the way, I loved it when she started doing Naomi. I practically cracked up. Taking care of her sick father, trying to write erotic stories but not being experienced! You may have noticed I excused myself to pay a quick trip to the kitchen before I lost control!”

Chapter 15

Craig had gone to his office the next morning, leaving Jeff and his fellow conspirator to share coffee at the kitchen table. The author decided to speak boldly and let the consequences be damned. “Okay—I haven’t had a chance to ask until now. What’s a Dryadic ceremony?”

        “It’s tonight, during the full moon.”

        “Not when, what?”

        “Haven’t I mentioned it before? It’s strictly a woman-thing. Men aren’t allowed. I’m glad you reminded me, since I’ve got to pick up some things for it.” She grabbed a notepad and felt-tipped pen. “Let’s see—finger cymbals, a few more crystals, body oil. Some feathers. I wonder where I can get feathers?”

        “How about a millinery shop?”

        “That’s an idea. Hmm. No, I don’t think so. Those are treated. We need natural feathers.”

        Jeff put his fingertips to his temples, pretending to be in deep concentration. He snapped his fingers. “What about a pheasant-plucker?”

        Diana reached for the phone book and began leafing through the yellow pages. “Would that be listed under pheasants or plucking, do you think?”

        He took the book away from her. “Just kidding. Haven’t you heard that old tongue-twister? Now are you going to tell me about the Dryadic ceremony, or am I not supposed to know?”

        “We’re learning to be wild creatures again. We want to find our primal centers and connect with the energy of nature. The Dryads help us.”

        “Wood sprites, right? Or is that Druids? I get them mixed up.”

        “Not Druids, Dryads—although they’re similar. Female nature spirits that live in trees. We want to find our roots.”

        Spirits...trees...roots. Jeff let it percolate through his gray matter. So this was why the meeting with Bernie had to be Tuesday or Thursday instead of Wednesday. It was simply a matter of priority. The sacred before the profane.

        “Who else is in your group?”

        “Raquel, usually, and Colleen, although I think she just joins us for the fun of it. A few others you don’t know.”

        “Starla?”

        “She wouldn’t be caught dead at a Dryadic ceremony.”

        “How about Naomi?”

        “Yes, but it’s the same as with dinner—she always says she’ll be there but never shows up.”

        “What exactly do you do and where do you do it?”

        “It’s in the woods, naturally. We had trouble finding a spot that was private enough in Los Angeles, as you can imagine. During the ceremony we take off our clothes and dance around a fire. I have a book that we’re following. We burn incense and chant, and do rituals with special objects. We embrace the trees. I think it’s helping me develop my psychic abilities. You can read the book if you like.”

        “I’d rather come to the ceremony.”

        She looked at him scornfully. “I told you men aren’t allowed! You guys have your own rites. Go talk to the Masons.”

        The phone rang.

        “VirGen, Incorporated,” she said, lapsing into the business voice she reserved for daytime. The phone made its crackling noises. “He did? Why that little letch! What did you do? And then what happened? Well it served him right! Listen, you’re coming tonight, aren’t you? By the way, do you have any feathers? Good, bring them along.” Diana looked up at Jeff, but went on talking. “Want to hear something funny? Jeff wants to come watch the ceremony—what do you think of that? You wouldn’t mind? But what about the others? Hmm. No, I don’t think so. Okay, pick you up around eight then.”

        “What’s the verdict?”

        “Colleen wouldn’t mind personally, but she agrees the others might. Why would you want to come, anyway? You’ve seen plenty of naked women before.”

        He laughed. “Never enough! No, it’s not that. This is some­thing out of the ordinary, which is what sells books. I always make it a point to write from first-hand observation. Inciden­tally, how in the world did you manage to find a private spot in the woods in the middle of Los Angeles?”

        She looked smug. “It’s not fifteen minutes from here. Promise not to tell anyone. It’s just outside a cemetery. Beyond the stone wall there’s a patch of trees cut off from the nearest houses by a freeway. It’s practically inaccessible.”

        The author shook his head in admiration. “That’s a real find! Don’t you think I could just watch from inside the graveyard, with my binocs? I could hunker down behind a tombstone.”

        “You wouldn’t be able to see over the wall.”

        “I could crawl up on a crypt. No one would have to know I was there.”

        “People would know when they read about it in your book.”

        “You could tell them you described it for me.”

        A mischievous look crept into her eyes. “Okay, but you wouldn’t make fun of the ceremony, would you?”

        “To me, other people’s beliefs are sacred.” No matter how bizarre, he wanted to add.

        Starla wandered into the room wearing big fuzzy slippers and a shorty nightgown. She yawned and stretched, lan­guorously. With a smile at the novelist she sat at the table and started peeling a banana. Sans makeup and with her hair in a mess she looked—but Jeff found it expedient to look elsewhere. He found her disarray all the more stimulating, especially as she began nibbling on the banana.

        “Pumpkin, you were perfect last night!” mother told daughter. “You laughed at all the right places, and when you said that’s how we all feel about the VirGen, it was the clincher.”

        “Thanks. Isn’t Bernie a scream! I know he was just dying to grab somebody, after he’d had a few drinks.”

        “Colleen called and said he did make a grab for her.”

        “No kidding! What did she do?”

        “It was in front of her place, after he parked. She pretended to play along, then grabbed his nuts and jumped out of the car.”

        “All right! I’ll have to remember that trick.”

        The phone rang, and Diana motioned to Jeff to pick it up.

        He answered it reluctantly. “Hello…yes, this is Jeff. Oh—hi, Bernie! We were just talking about you. Everybody said what a great time we had last night, and how we’ll have to do it again soon. Uh-huh. I’m glad you feel that way too. Like to talk with Diana? She’s trying to grab the phone out of my hand! Here she is.” He thrust it at her.

        She looked daggers at him. “Hi, Bernie. I hope you don’t have a hangover. What’s happening?”

        The phone crackled and popped. Jeff found it impossible to catch any words. He waited restlessly, wondering how the lawyer saw things by the gray light of dawn. Starla nibbled placidly at the banana, pulling its peels down one at a time. Jeff winked at her. She smiled back. His discomfort level went up about ten notches.

        Diana’s brow suddenly furrowed. “As a matter of fact, Colleen did call this morning. She told me she had a great time last night, and especially enjoyed hearing you talk about Bora Bora.”

        “Okay, what’s the problem?” Jeff asked when she had finished.

        “I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet! I knew this would happen. He’s pushing to meet the venture capitalists.”

        “How can you prevent it? He’s certainly not going to cough up any more money till he’s sure you have a deal.”

        She looked glum. “You’re probably right. I’ll have to dope something out.”

        “All I know right now is, I promised Karen I’d be over this morning to pick up where we left off. We were just starting to get things connected when you called.”

        “You were? Sorry I interrupted! I had no idea...”

        “I’m talking about the computer, Diana!” Noting her puzzled look, he added, “I did mention I was helping her buy a new computer, didn’t I?”

        “Oh, that. I forgot.” She looked vaguely disappointed.

        Jeff got up to go, but found it impossible to leave. Starla was placidly finishing off the banana, sitting with the chair tipped back against the wall, bare legs wound around the rungs. He picked up his cup and dawdled over the last few sips of coffee. As the last bite disappeared into her mouth he put the cup on the table and managed to stagger into his room, almost tripping over Sheba.

                                     *   *   *   *

        Karen greeted him at the door with a warm smile, looking radiant and fresh. He wanted to embrace her, cover her lips with hot kisses, and ravish her on the spot. It was only the flawless functioning of his poise-machine that held him in check, and forced him to make do with a quick hug. On the way up to her bedroom, she explained that she hadn’t waited for him but had finished setting up the computer herself. It made him feel sud­denly useless. This was supposed to have been a compli­cated project requiring his expert assistance.

        “They make it so simple these days!” she cooed. “It’s all color-coded, and when you’re done you just hit the power button and this comes up on the screen.” She indicated the Windows logo on the monitor, superimposed on a summer sky. “You wouldn’t even have had to come over. But now that you’re here you can help me get the game going. You said that can be tough.”

        Jeff took a chair next to hers in front of the computer. “It’ll be just my luck if it runs without any problems! You’ll think I’ve been putting you on.”

        “I’m a better judge of character than that. And speaking of character, I found your lawyer friend most interesting.”

        “Interesting, yeah. Apparently he made a grab for Colleen in the car last night.”

        “That poor woman—I didn’t know she had such a tragic life.”

        “That was Naomi’s life she was describing, so don’t get your panties in a bunch! As for Manson, Diana thinks we’ve turned him around, but now he wants to meet with the syndicate heads. If he discovers the deal isn’t quite what Diana said it was, he’ll back away. He won’t kill the lawsuit and he sure won’t kick in any more money.” Jeff put his hands to his head. “How did I ever let myself get involved in such a Byzan­tine mess?”

        “You tell me.”

        He opened the box marked Lucifer’s Reprieve and found the CD-rom disk, speaking as he worked. “Probably the same reason I’m here with you now. An inability to leave well enough alone, coupled with insatiable desire.”

        “Sorry I can’t help you out on that score.”

        “So I’ve noticed! Clue me in, at least.”

        “Jeff, you’re a nice man and I like you very much, but I can see that you’re blocked emotionally. It makes anything but a superficial relationship impossible.”

        “Any suggestions?”

        “Have you tried psychotherapy?”

        “I never felt the need for it.”

        “Men like yourself seldom do. But I simply can’t relate to a man who won’t admit his vulnerability.”

        He thumbed clumsily through the stack of papers and in­struc­tion booklets, annoyed to find himself having a crucial discussion with the woman he wanted—while trying to install a computer game! He wondered idly if this were how the Fates amused themselves.

        “They always make it difficult to find what you need to get the game going.” It was a struggle to stay calm. “So, you think I’m emotionally blocked?”

        Karen shrugged her shapely shoulders, revealed in all their ineffable desirability by the sleeveless blouse. He was missing something here. If he was so rejectable, why was she so irresist­ible? He set the instruction booklet down and confronted her. “I am, in case you hadn’t noticed it, an adult human being, male. By and large, I enjoy life. I’ve achieved a modicum of success, and I’ve got genuine feelings. I don’t feel the least bit blocked.”

        “Nevertheless.”

        “Well, supposing I am blocked, just for purposes of discus­sion. Are you suggesting you could help me?”

        “Yes, but unfortunately men like yourself always refuse to be helped.”

        He picked up the booklet again and resolutely continued with his busywork. It helped him avoid panic. He sensed she was offering him a way out of his dilemma, but he was reluc­tant to give it serious consideration. Scanning the instal­lation instructions, he slipped the disk into the computer. The light on the CD-rom drive came on briefly. He clicked on one of the icons. “Tell you what. Let me get the game going and then I’ll take you out to lunch and you can tell me more. I’m genuinely intrigued. What do you say?”

        “Okay, but I’d rather eat here since I’ve got food already fixed. I’m always willing to take a chance on a new prospect. Maybe one of these times I’ll be delightfully surprised!”

        They continued the conversation over lunch, a tuna casserole she had made the night before, served with white wine and a fresh green salad. Jeff complimented her on her excellent food sense.

        “Thanks! I think that’s because I get a lot of pleasure out of everything I do.” Apparently seizing the opportunity to advance her case, she went on. “It comes from being sensual. Emotional blockage interferes with sensuality. That’s why therapy is so important.”

        Jeff countered, “I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of exposing my inner self. We’re all charnel houses inside. I’ve come to terms with mine. Why open it up?”

        She shook her head emphatically. “Like most people, you cut yourself off from your unpleasant side and think you’ve come to terms with yourself. But you haven’t! You’re holding tight inside, and you can’t grow stronger until you’ve exposed your most vul­nerable areas. Defenses are expensive and limit­ing. It’s like staying inside an armed fortress. You’re safe, but you’re also a prisoner by choice. Take the risk of coming out­side, and you find new opportunities.”

        This seemed to make a certain amount of sense. Anyway, nothing ventured, nothing gained. “How would you go about liberating—if not shrinking—my head?”

        “I wouldn’t concern myself with your head. My focus is the body. Your defenses are in fact maintained by chronically-tense muscles. I teach you to relax them so your inner self opens up. Then you can deal with what you’ve been repressing.”

        “That sounds like it could be unpleasant.”

        “It could be, without someone to help you through the process. But when your body is relaxed and your energy is streaming, everything can seem pleasurable—even the most shocking memories! That’s the magic of body-centered ther­apy! You don’t even need to talk unless you want to. Your secrets are safe, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

        “I’ll have to confess, it was. I don’t know. It might be worth trying.”

        “We could even try a trade. I’ll help you loosen up, and you help me with my writing—and with the computer, if I need it. That way it wouldn’t seem so formal. I don’t think it’s a breach of medical ethics. We’re exchanging professional services. It’s done all the time.”

        With a certain amount of trepidation, Jeff agreed to an appointment at four o’clock the next day. If nothing else, it would be a novel experience.

Chapter 16

When he got back to the house, Diana was at her desk in read­ing glasses busily stitching a doll. Jeff watched her, curious at the unusual activity. Finally he had to say something. “What is this, a new hobby? Or is this how you relax?”

        “I don’t have time for hobbies.”

        The object of her attention was dressed in a rumpled brown suit and carried a briefcase. Recognition swiftly dawned. “It’s a Bernie doll!”

        “That’s the general idea. I’m going to take it along tonight to help us concentrate on getting him into the hot tub.”

        “Whatever in the world for?”

        “He’ll be more suggestible in the tub.”

        “I see. And if he’s not?”

        “We can drown him! I know Bernie’s type. When his clothes come off, all the power symbols are gone—you know, the watch, gold pen, keys, money, credit cards. The illusion of male priesthood vanishes, leaving a soft little animal in its place. I’ve tried to get him in the tub before, but he always refused.”

        That evening Jeff studied the map she had drawn for him, then gathered up his notebook, recorder, flashlight, and binoculars and drove to the small cemetery next to the patch of woods. It piqued his curiosity to think that women would actually prance around naked at this time of year, out in the open and at night. Maybe the fire kept them warm, but what he recalled about outdoor fires was that you broiled on one side while you froze on the other. He hoped she was right about the seclusion of the place. Scenarios sprung to mind involving a grounds-keeper, the police, or worse.

        Arriving near the place, he parked his car and trudged up a narrow road, then onto a rutted dirt path leading to a refuse site. A mound of grass-clippings and dead flowers, a few tools, and broken headstones occupied the area. At one side a few small wooden crosses had been planted. He shone his flashlight on one of them. “OUR BABY” it said simply.

        Beyond the refuse site was a decaying stone wall with a rusty iron gate hanging open. He went into the cemetery after checking the map again, and quickly found himself near the point where Diana had marked an X. He put the flashlight away, finding that the moon provided adequate light despite the shifting clouds. He shivered, happy that he was not to be one of the celebrants.

        She had obviously overestimated the height of the wall. By standing on a fallen tombstone he was able to peer over it. Presently nothing happened, and he began to worry that she had sent him on a wild-goose chase. He was gradually waking up to the fact that with Diana, as with the Almighty, nothing was impossible. His mind scanned the possibilities:

        1) It was a practical joke on him.

        2) He was looking over the wrong section of wall.

        3) He was in the wrong cemetery.

        4) They had called it off.

Maybe they were simply late. That would be likely enough, considering that:

        A) They were women.

        B) Freeway traffic was unpredictable.

        C) It didn’t matter when they arrived anyway.

        He crossed off “A”, deciding it reflected latent sexism on his part. Starting to reflect on “B”, he heard voices, then the sound of feet tramping through underbrush. The voices were hushed, but unmistakably feminine. He crouched so that only his eyes were above the wall, and uncased the binoculars. Unfortunately, the sound of a helicopter that had been a low drone now increased, drowning out the voices. He trained his binoculars on the thing but was unable to identify any markings.

        He scanned the wooded area. For some time he could discern nothing, but all at once there was a flicker of fire. It annoyed him that the helicopter seemed to have gone into a circular pattern above them, but he doubted if anyone in the chopper could see the flames. From above, Los Angeles was a vast Christmas tree of moving lights.

        Presently he observed figures moving around the fire, but it appeared they were fully clothed. Now the sound of soft chanting reached his ears as the chopper went thwip-thwip-thwipping off into the distance. He turned on his little recorder. The women began to cast off articles of clothing. With the binoculars he was able to make out the three he knew—Diana, Colleen, and Raquel—and four others of various ages.

        When the women were entirely naked, they periodically moved out of the circle of fire-dancers to embrace the nearby trees. Some of them rubbed oil on each other. Raquel lighted incense while others shook rattles. After that came ritual danc­ing in which odd-shaped items were held aloft—sometimes on fire—and then brought down to the earth repeatedly. The chant­ing changed to singing and one of the women played on her Celtic harp while another blew on panpipes.

        Jeff was in a virtual reverie of fascination at the sight of so many unclothed female bodies gyrating around the fire. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt a sense of envy. For the life of him, he could not imagine mere males conducting them­selves in such a fashion, and yet he longed to join the group.

        For another hour or more he watched the Dryadic cere­mony, jotting notes from time to time, until the women left. Then he returned home and fired up Toto. It was a night to remember; it was a night to be recorded for posterity; it was a night to titillate the readers of his next best-seller.

Chapter 17

His first therapy session was scheduled for this afternoon. Jeff looked forward to it with mixed emotions. At four, he was to show up at Karen’s house and, he assumed, lie down on her analyst’s couch while she worked her magic on him. He couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. Had it been Colleen’s magic he was anticipating, he would have been more sanguine. No matter what the therapist said about body-centered therapy, he was convinced it was his mind she wanted to tinker with.

        This was to be a trade between professionals: psycho­therapy in exchange for literary criticism. That seemed to be the only sort of relationship she was willing to agree to, for the present at least. He’d invited her to the beach, to a play, for a walk in the park, and to a movie. So far she had accepted a dinner invitation just once and that was all. It frustrated him no end.

        Thinking about this afternoon as he had his morning cof­fee on the patio, the typical picture associated with Freudian analysis filled his mind for want of anything better. He would be lying on the analyst’s couch, with Karen behind him in her chair holding a notebook and pen. Scott’s comedy routine about the German doctor came to mind, and he wondered if he could avoid thinking about it during the session. He tried to remember why he was doing this. According to Karen, until he had fully integrated his twentieth-century mind with his animal self he would be no fit lover—all previous romances to the contrary. He sighed. The crazy things I do for love, he thought, reaching down to stroke the cat’s back as she walked by. Maybe you should try being spayed, Sheba said huffily.

        Meanwhile this Thursday morning, the pilot light had gone out on the furnace. Diana had tried to light it unsuccessfully, assuming it had something to do with them shutting off the gas and turning it on again. Craig having flown back to Chicago early that morning, Jeff agreed to see if he could get the pilot working again when he had finished his coffee.

        Diana brought the cordless phone out to the patio and had the instrument glued to her ear as usual. Sidney Lethe had called, demanding to know when he could expect a showcasing for his clients. He said Francesco had some questions about the contract wording, and would call after lunch.

        Then Bernie was on the phone, insisting that he had to meet the syndicate heads and wanting to know the name of the firm. Diana made a little buzzing noise and said, “Just a sec, I’ve got another call.” She put the phone on hold briefly, then told the lawyer an important call was coming through from New York and she’d get back to him.

        “What do I do now?” she asked Jeff. “I can’t let him talk to Sidney. He’ll realize things aren’t quite as far along as I said.”

        “Don’t ask me! By now, Bernie was supposed to be on his knees begging you to accept his check.”

        She looked fierce for all of five seconds, then brightened. “I’ll just have to let Sid in on it. He knows what we’re up against anyway. Damn it, I wish he had a more impressive office. Bernie would take one look at that seedy hole-in-the-wall they call their corporate headquarters and take a walk. Any ideas?”

        “Maybe they could meet here.”

        “No good. I want him to feel like he’s in the presence of big money. It’s got to be a conference room with a mahogany table and plush chairs.”

        “What about meeting at a bank?”

        “That’s an idea! Do you know any good banks? All my accounts are overdrawn.”

        “I can try. I’ll tell them who I am, show them my book, and say I need a place to meet with some media people about arranging a bank-loan for a motion-picture. What the hell, it doesn’t cost them anything to let us use their damn conference room.”

        She clapped her hands. “Do it! Let me know as soon as you find out. I’ll try to set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I think I can prime Sid to say all the right things. He has gold-foil business cards and a pin-striped suit. I’ll make sure he wears it. What’s the best kind of tie?”

        “They’re wearing muted power ties with miniature embossed filigrees these days, with just a dash of whimsical color. I can pick one up for him. I don’t know if Francesco should be there, though. He doesn’t have Sidney’s class, and he’s often crude. What do you think?”

        “You could be right. Sidney can explain that his partner has an important meeting at corporate headquarters, which is why we’re using the bank’s conference room. I like it!”

        Jeff inspected his fingernails while Diana doodled on the notepad, waiting for the next call, or perhaps deciding who to phone next.

        “Thanks for letting me watch your ceremony last night.”

        “You were there? I forgot all about it! Could you see enough to make it worth your while?”

        “Yes. The only problem was that damned helicopter. At first it kept drowning out your music. I hope it didn’t interfere with the ceremony.”

        “It was annoying, but we focused on making it go away. You may have noticed that it did.”

        He shook his head in feigned amazement. “Yes, I must confess I was surprised when it suddenly flew away like that! You people must be on to something. Did you focus on getting Bernie into the hot tub, too?”

        “Yes, but we’ll just have to wait and see if that worked as well. What did you think of the ceremony? Was it exciting?”

        “It sure was. I felt like a kid looking at a TV program my parents had forbidden me to watch.

        Her eyelids fluttered as they often did when her mind had shifted gears and was racing ahead. “Listen! I just had a great new idea! Bernie may not have to meet Sid at the bank after all. I’ll tell him we’re setting up a meeting for tomorrow morning, but meanwhile maybe he’d like to come over tonight for dessert and coffee, just you, me, and Colleen. She said she was avail­able any time, and if we can get him into the tub, I bet we can clinch this thing right now!”

        Jeff wagged his head from side to side, skeptically. “I don’t know, Diana. Remem­ber, he came on to her in the car and she grabbed his nuts. That must have hurt.”

        “Piffle! That would just get him excited. Besides, Colleen isn’t out to turn men into eunuchs, so I’m sure it was just a playful squeeze.”

        “Yeah, but the bottom line is, he’s going to blow the whistle if he can’t get some hard facts. The man’s not a com­plete fool.”

        “Well, the facts of the matter are, Bernie himself did some pretty questionable things. I showed the papers to another at­torney and he said I should counter-sue. I would have, if I’d had the money.”

        As usual, Diana was not to be thrown off course, once she had a plan, and Jeff just shrugged mentally. He was, after all, just a disinterested observer. At least, that’s what he told him­self.

        Now she spread the new plan in front of him, revising and refining as she spoke. It occurred to Jeff that such creativity should be rewarded, if not in this life then in the next. He speculated on which realm she would be consigned to, Jeho­vah’s or Lucifer’s. That recalled the game he had chosen for Karen, and that in turn reminded him of his scheduled therapy session. He suffered a pang of anxiety.

        Diana had finished outlining her plan. “What do you think?”

        “It could be worth a try. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

        Jeff put off the pilot-light problem until after lunch, preferring to work over his notes on the laptop. Then he found the instruction manual for the furnace and read the part about the pilot-light. He opened the panels and poked around with a flashlight. After some false starts, he found the plunger and held it down while he held a flame to the pilot-light.

        Just as the flame caught, the phone rang. Diana picked it up in her bedroom. “Jeff, can you get on the other line? It’s Franny about the contract.”

        “Tell him just a minute. I’ve got to hold this thing down for a few seconds.” When he released the plunger, the flame stayed lit. He had five minutes, then it was necessary to come back and turn the main valve on.

        On the phone Francesco was complaining that the contract wording was inflexible and one-sided. Jeff listened patiently and interceded when he felt that Diana wasn’t giving the man a chance to get a word in edgewise. After five minutes she seemed to have grabbed the ball anyway, so he went to the furnace and turned on the valve. The flame lit with a satisfying whoosh.

        Before he could get back on the phone, however, there was a knock at the back door. He went to answer it, and found a beautiful woman on the stoop. His poise-machine went into high gear and began to vibrate ominously. The woman was obviously Marilyn Monroe, in the flesh—all blonde hair, red kissy lips, and billowing skirt.

        By now, however, he had learned that such surprises were to be expected at Diana’s house. “Oh hi, Raquel. I didn’t recognize you at first! Come on in.”

        “Hi Jeff. Is Diana here?”

        “She’s on the phone in her bedroom.” He felt it best to add a warning. “It’s a business call.”

        Raquel swished past him and he was able to get back on the line. At first he heard Diana still emphatically making her point. Then there was a shriek and laughter. Jeff couldn’t make out the conversation, since Diana had obviously set the phone down on the bed or put it in her lap. The sounds of giggling and laughter were briefly audible, then Diana’s voice saying peremptorily, “I’m sorry—I’ll have to call you back.”

        She hung up before Francesco had a chance to say good-bye.

        Jeff joined them in the bedroom. The way she’d handled the conversation struck him as highly unprofessional, but he was a mere recorder of events, not their critic. He waited for a gap in the conversation. “I suppose you’re on your way to the matinée at Antonini’s, Marilyn—I mean Raquel! Do you always get in costume at home?”

        She shook the blonde wig. “No, not usually. I wanted to get Diana’s reaction before I went on stage. How do you like it?”

        “Norma Jean would be pleased, I’m sure.”

                                     *   *   *   *

        Later, after Raquel was gone, Diana rang up the venture capitalist again. “Franny? I’m sorry. Jeff and I are back on line.”

        The writer quickly apologized. “Sorry I had to duck out, earlier. I was trying to get the heat turned on.”

        “Oh yeah?” Francesco’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Listen, don’t let me stop you guys! You want to talk contract, or yuck it up some more? Pleasure before business, I always say.”

        Diana broke in, clearly not amused. The brief interlude with Raquel was simply part of her normal rhythm, the way she conducted her life. “Franny, let’s get this over with. I’ve got other calls to make!”

        Jeff soon realized his own role in this conversation was only to act as referee, and he had no stomach for it. Eventually he was able to excuse himself and start getting presentable for the ordeal he’d agreed to.

        On the way to Karen’s, on impulse, he stopped and picked up a small bouquet of roses. His new therapist met him at the door and accepted the roses, flashing him a big smile. She looked cool and professional in navy-blue slacks and frilly white blouse. As usual she had on colorful ceramic earrings and brooch, and Jeff thought he could detect a subtle perfume.

        “They’re beautiful!”

        “You’re beautiful! I couldn’t resist.”

        “Actually, I was wondering if you would show up. You’d be surprised how many no-shows I get, on the first appoint­ment.” She ushered him into her office. “Have a seat.”

        “What, no couch?”

        “This is just your preliminary interview. I’ve got to start a file on you before we get to work.” She sat at a small desk with a pad and pen and put on reading glasses with harlequin frames.

        “How’s your alter-ego coming along?” he asked.

        “Excuse me?”

        “Lucifer.”

        “Oh! I haven’t had a lot of time to play just yet, but it looks fascinating. Now suppose you let me ask the questions.”

        “You’re the doctor.”

        “I’m not actually a doctor, you know, I’m a psychologist.” She jotted down the facts about his life, then asked if he had any questions.

        “Could you explain your basic approach?”

        “I don’t want to spend a lot of time talking about it, but I’ll give you a capsule summary. I make use of Wilhelm Reich’s ideas on muscular armoring. Chronically tense muscles block the emotions. Since the emotions tell us what we need to know about the world and ourselves, we tend to spin private fantasies to make up for the loss. Gradually the fantasies become our reality. The result is anxiety neurosis: we have to defend our fantasy-world, or face the emptiness lurking behind it.”

        “Depressing idea, I must say. I don’t think that’s my problem, but if it is, I hope you can fix it.”

        “All we can do is try.” She led him into a room adjoining the office. It was decorated with abstract designs and contained a chair, a folding screen, and a long padded table. She pressed a button and the room was suddenly filled with New Age music—soft sighing sounds with harp riffs and plaintive woodwinds.

        “This is the therapy room. It’ll be necessary for you to strip down to your shorts. You can do it behind the screen.”

        “This looks like a massage table!”

        “It is, but you won’t be getting a massage, I assure you. This is entirely different.”

        When he was face down on the table she began pressing her finger tips on his back, shoulders, and neck.

        “Don’t make any special effort to relax. I’m probing for tensions. When I find one, I want you to concentrate on where my fingers are and exactly how it feels. If anything comes to mind, let yourself have whatever feelings go along with it. A tension reflects something you’re trying to control. You can only decide to stop controlling it when you’ve let it into consciousness.”

        “There! That spot feels tense.”

        “Try getting the feel of it. Then actually try to increase the tension a little, rather than letting go of it. That will put you in touch with it.”

        Jeff followed her instructions, and began to enjoy the process. When she had him roll over, however, he became edgy.

        “Ah, Karen? Listen, there’s something I’m concerned about. If I don’t mention it now, I won’t be able to keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

        “That’s good. Tell me what’s concerning you.”

        “What happens if I get aroused?”

        “Don’t worry about it. At some point you will become aroused, since you’ll discover blocked sexual energy, and what we want is to let it flow freely.”

        He eyed her uncertainly. “Flow freely?”

        “In a manner of speaking.” She smiled reassuringly, appreciating his ambivalent take on the matter.

        “Are you sure this is the best thing for me? I’m already pretty much like the leprechaun in Finian’s Rainbow. When I’m not near the girl I love, I love the girl I’m near. What if you make it worse?”

        “I haven’t seen you acting like a lecher so far.”

        “That’s only because of something I call my poise-machine. If you make me give it up, I’m lost.”

        She gave him an understanding look. “I haven’t met a man yet who didn’t have a bag of tricks designed to keep himself in a straitjacket. What you don’t realize is that once you’re out of the straitjacket you’ll feel so good you won’t always be seek­ing gratification. Now shall we get down to work?”

        All too soon, Jeff was both surprised and disappointed when she informed him the session was over.

        “That felt good,” he told her. “You know, the leprechaun also said, ‘So this is what it’s like to be human. I’m beginning to like it!’ That’s how I’m feeling right now.”

        “That’s how you’re supposed to feel all the time. Being alive—and human—should be pleasurable. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?”

        He got dressed and went back into her office. “Could I make a call? Diana was setting something up for tonight, and I want to see if it’s going to happen.” He dialed and spoke briefly. To Karen he said, “I promised to spend the evening playing more lawyer games, but I don’t have to show up till later. Can I tempt you with dinner?”

        “Thanks, but I’ve got other plans.”

        He experienced a sudden sinking feeling. “I have no right to ask this, but would you mind telling me if you’re seeing someone on a regular basis? I’m at a disadvantage here.”

        “As it happens, my plans are to visit the medical library and then come back here and play Lucifer. I’ll snack if I get hungry. As a rule, I’m too busy for romance—not that I have anything against it.”

        They set up an appointment for him to come over and fulfill his part of the exchange. Her creative-writing problem of the moment was that her characters were too “indeterminate”, as she put it. In trying to give each a fully-rounded personality, she had made them Everyman and Everywoman.

        “That’s a common problem,” he consoled her. “It’s tough giving people problems when you, as their creator, can so easily make them perfect. I’ve got sympathy for God. Maybe that’s why Lucifer was necessary, in the overall scheme of things!”

Chapter 18

Bernie Manson knocked on the door around eight. Colleen was already there, having ridden her bike over earlier, for dinner. Diana embraced the lawyer and led him into the living room, where rum cake and coffee were set out. He and Jeff shook hands warmly, and Jeff asked him how business was.

        Bernie shrugged and made a wry face. “The same old shit. It’s a game. For some of my clients—who are getting along in years—litigation takes the place of sex. They sue each other for recreation.”

        People had gotten seated and were enjoying their rum cake and coffee. It wasn’t long, however, before the lawyer wanted to talk shop. “So Di—what’s happening with the money people. Any progress?”

        “Absolutely! There’s an exciting new development. I’m just waiting for Sid to let me know when’s a good time to meet with you. He’s quite busy, as you can imagine. I’ll update you later, while we’re having a soak.” She gave him an inviting smile. “I’m assuming you’d like to join Colleen and me in the hot tub after dessert. Jeff—what about you?”

        “Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss that for anything! If Bernie doesn’t want to join us, I guess I’ll just have to play footsie with you girls all by myself.”

        The lawyer looked confused all at once, and seemed to be on the point of making his excuses. Then he slapped a hand to his head. “My God! This is so weird. I had a dream last night about a hot bath! I just now remembered it. It was incredibly realistic. Isn’t that strange?”

        Colleen shook her head soberly. “I don’t think so, Bernie. It’s synchronicity. Carl Jung talks about it a lot. The dream was probably your unconscious telling you what was going to happen tonight.”

        “You really think so? I’ve never believed in that stuff.” Bernie seemed to be trying to regain his sense of self. “Well, I had no idea you were planning this, so I didn’t bring a swim­suit. Guess I’m out of luck!” He said it in the tone of one who has been reprieved.

        Diana shrugged it off. “Oh, we normally don’t bother with swimsuits—but we can if you’d prefer. I keep a number of spare suits around just in case. It’s up to you.”

        The lawyer squirmed briefly, no doubt balancing the prospect of being in the tub with two naked and voluptuous women against that of revealing his own physical shortcomings. Apparently the former prospect outweighed the latter. “Well, okay, I guess. But I can’t stay for long. I’m a pretty busy guy too.” He looked at Colleen with suddenly-heightened interest.

        As soon as dessert was over, Diana showed Bernie where to change and gave him a towel. Soon the four of them were luxuriating in the bubbling waters. A wet bar had been impro­vised on the encircling seat. Diana had provided a bucket of ice, assorted bottles of liquor, slices of lime, and dishes of beer-nuts, crackers, black olives, and feta cheese. “Aren’t we the decadent ones, though!” She sighed happily. “So what? I don’t care. Life is short!”

        “But eternity is long,” Manson reminded her. “Sin in haste, repent at leisure.”

        Colleen flashed him an appreciative smile. “Hey, that’s pretty good!” She touched him lightly on the shoulder. “You really must give writing a try! You’ve got all these clever little sayings. And didn’t you say you were going to write a book about one of your cases?”

        He became instantly modest. “It’s just a dream. I’ll probably never get around to it. I’ve always envied people like Jeff, who can just sit around and crank out one best-seller after another. I’ve got to keep my nose to the grindstone, day in and day out. There’s never any time to be creative. What I wouldn’t give to be a writer and have all that free time! No appointments, no deadlines, no irate phone calls.” He sighed heavily.

        Jeff put on a sympathetic face. “It suits me, but you know, it must take a lot of grit to be a lawyer. I don’t think I could handle it. In fact, I doubt that most men could.”

        Colleen agreed solemnly. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Bernie. If you can handle being a lawyer, you could probably dash off a best-seller without even thinking about it.”

        “Do you think so?”

        “Sure! After all, you’re very experienced in what you want to write about. For me, it’s a lot tougher. As I mentioned be­fore, I’d like to write erotic stories, but...” Colleen held up her hands.

        Bernie appeared abstracted, despite Colleen’s tantalizing banter and the sensuality of the situation. Finally he pushed Diana to get on with it. “You said there was a new devel­opment?”

        “Yes, there is! I didn’t want to lead off with it, because quite frankly it’s a worm in the apple. But I think when I’m finished you’ll figure a way to handle it—if you want to, that is.”

        “I’m not sure I like the sound of this!”

        She brushed it off and moved ahead quickly. “I told you if you came over this evening I’d answer all your questions, including the name of the firm we’re dealing with, which is Sidney Lethe and Associates. I’m not going to hold anything back, and everything I tell you can be confirmed with them.”

        “Now you’re talking! So what’s this about a worm in the apple?” He held his glass out for Colleen to refill, looking faintly apprehensive.

        “Sidney insisted he had to see the paperwork, going back to day one, or they couldn’t deal. I took it all down to his office and waited while he and his attorney went over everything—patents, incorporation papers, contracts, letters of intent, equity allocations, the whole ball of wax. The attorney’s name is Morty Lynchberg, by the way. Maybe you know him?”

        “No. But listen—do you think that was wise?” Manson’s voice had tightened a notch.

        “I had to. It was that or forget the whole thing! Morty was very concerned about your role in the company, after reviewing the papers. He said that not only were there irregularities that might be grounds for a counter-suit, but it appeared that certain statutes might have been violated which could result in criminal proceedings.” As the lawyer started to object, Diana held up an imperious hand. “Wait! Let me tell you how I see things. I think they’re just looking for a way to get you out of the picture! I told them I wasn’t interested in a counter-suit, and that I wouldn’t be party to any criminal action against you. I told them I wanted to clear the deck of all legal actions on both sides—assuming you agreed.”

        “Good. Good. Of course I agree! I already said I’d put the suit on hold.” The beads of sweat on Manson’s forehead seemed excessive for the temperature of the tub, since no one else was so affected. “In fact, I was planning to file for with­drawal tomorrow anyway. We don’t want any legal actions gumming up the works. I hope they can appreciate that.”

        But Diana forged ahead relentlessly. “Unfor­tu­nately, Sid was coming around to Morty’s point of view, even after I told them how I felt. If there was the possibility you could be forced out of the company, they’d be willing to advance me whatever it took for legal fees. But I said no way will I go along with that kind of action! Bernie is my friend, whatever shit has gone down, and I still want him in the company, and I still want him on the board! I explained that you know a lot about the VirGen technology and that we’ve been through a lot together.”

        “You can say that again!”

        “I told them, let’s forget the counter-suit and the rest of it, and try to figure out what to do next. It seems our one big stumbling block is that Sid’s clients won’t commit to putting up the three million until they get a personal demonstration of the VirGen. All of us know the machine is beyond fantastic, but the machine went down before the investors could try it out for themselves.”

        Bernie seemed to have relapsed into a mellower state when Diana assured him of her support. He sipped his drink thoughtfully and munched on the snacks. “So what’s holding things up?”

        “You know our klystron tube blew, and we’ve got a lot of overdue bills. It’ll take about fifty thousand to get up and run­ning again. But money’s not really the problem. I can get the money. It’s mainly a question of who we want to cut in on the deal, and what we give them in return. I felt it was best to run it by you before we went any farther.”

        “I appreciate that. So what’s the quid pro quo?”

        “I’m figuring ten percent of the action. Granted, I’m not wild about giving up another ten percent of the company for a lousy fifty grand, but that seems to be the minimum anyone will accept.”

        Manson’s face had begun working as she talked. “That is absolutely out of the question! Ten percent of the company is going to be worth millions the day we go public!”

        Diana sighed. “I know, but what else can we do? It’s that or sit around with our thumbs up our butts while someone else takes the ball and runs with it! Our window of opportunity is closing, now that people have heard about the Hallu. Our patents aren’t worth all that much, when you come right down to it, because you can’t patent a concept—and that’s mainly what the VirGen is, just a concept.”

        Manson’s face was now a study in tensions, from jaw to forehead. He stopped munching on the snacks and even forgot to taste his liquor. “Who is it, exactly, that you are talking with?”

        “Bank of America wanted to ink a deal this morning, but I held them off. Of course Sidney Lethe wanted to put up the money himself, but he wanted ten percent of the action plus a lien on all my personal assets, for security. I told him to shove it. Jeff was kind enough to say that if no one else came through, he’d be willing to advance us the money. He makes that much every month on book royalties, so it wouldn’t put a strain on his finances.”

        The author lowered his eyes modestly.

        “That’s damn decent of him,” Bernie said coolly, clearly not relishing his financial low-man-on-the-totem-pole status.

        “I wasn’t going to give it to just anybody,” Diana explain­ed defensively.

        “Well thank God for that! I’d put up the money myself before I’d let some filthy banker in.”

        Diana looked astonished. “You? Bernie, you haven’t got that kind of money to play around with! Besides, I couldn’t let you, not after what you’ve put up already.”

        The lawyer thrust his glass at Colleen for a refill. “Of course I have the money! All I have to do is call my broker and tell him to sell a few bonds.”

        The VirGen’s owner looked dubious. “But what am I going to tell Sid and Morty? They simply won’t believe you’re putting up more money after you sued me. Morty called and said he was starting the paperwork for a counter-suit, even after I told him you were dropping your case against us. I don’t think he trusts you.”

        “Fuck that! You can tell them I’m not only killing my suit, I’m taking another ten percent equity too! Make sure they don’t try any funny business, okay?”

        “Okay, but are you sure? I can always get the money from someone else.”

        “You’re damn right I’m sure! You can tell the other people to forget it—they’re out of luck. Sorry Jeff, but you know I was in this thing long before you ever heard of it.”

        “I know, Bernie. I wasn’t really anxious to get involved anyway, but I thought if it would help Diana, I’d do it.”

        “Well, now you don’t have to. I’ll make out a check tonight before I leave, and it’ll be good by the time it hits my bank.”

        Diana looked doubtful. “Bernie, if you really want to, I guess we can handle it that way. Let’s see—shall I call Sid, or do you want to?”

        “You call him. Tell him he’s not dealing with somebody who was born yesterday, here! I’ve been around the block a few times.” He looked defiantly at the circle of faces.

        “I guess that’s settled, then! Let’s not talk about it any more tonight. I just want to relax and look up at the stars for a while.”

        “Look, you can actually see the stars for a change!” Colleen said.

        Bernie laughed, although the remark didn’t call for it. He was like a man relieved of a heavy burden, who was now basking in well-earned euphoria. Everyone settled down and quietly contemplated the unusually starry sky. At one point when the snacks got low, Jeff graciously got out of the tub, wrapped his towel around himself,  and played waiter. Even though this wasn’t his affair, he felt a glow of success over the evening’s outcome. The best-laid plans of mice and men, he mused, do not always go awry. His admiration for Diana’s talents rose by several notches.

        Later that evening, when they were dressed again, Manson pulled a blank check from his wallet and made it out for fifty thousand dollars. He noted on it, “For additional ten percent equity in VirGen, Inc.”

        He thrust it at Diana, who seemed reluctant at first, but then accepted it graciously, and wrote out a receipt. “I’d suggest a toast,” she said solemnly, “but I think we’ve had enough to drink already—and I’m worried about you getting home okay.”

        “I’ll be all right. I have a good feeling about tonight.”

        Colleen was standing to one side. Bernie looked her up and down, in a way that suggested an insider’s knowledge. Whatever else had happened this evening, he had certainly gotten an eyeful. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other night. I just had too much to drink, and got carried away. If I promise to behave, can I drive you home again?”

        She laughed gaily. “Sure! And that offer of a massage is still good.”

        Manson’s eyes opened wide. “Really? I might just take you up on that. What’s a good time? Tonight?”

        “No, it’s been a long day. How about first thing in the morning? It’s a nice way to start the day. Tell you what—be there by eight-thirty. Otherwise I’ll be gone, since I’ve got a busy day planned. If that’s inconvenient, we can do it some other time, maybe next week.”

        The lawyer frowned, thinking rapidly. “No, I can make it. I’ll call my office and tell them to reschedule my appointments. I’ll tell them something has come up unexpectedly.”

        She laughed, pretending it was a joke. “Oh, you are a funny man!”

        Bernie looked at her uncertainly. He gave a self-depre­cating laugh. “You think so?”

        The two of them said good night and headed out the door. Diana shook her head in admiration at Colleen’s finesse. “That should keep his mind clouded a little longer! I just hope he remembers to cover the check.”

        “I think he will,” Jeff said, still euphoric over the even­ing’s results. “You even had me convinced—I was beginning to think I should put up the money after all!”

        “You still can, if you like. I’ll give you another ten percent interest. If Bernie objects, we’ll just reason with him. The man is putty in our hands!”

        “He’ll be putty in Colleen’s hands tomorrow morning.” Something bothered him all at once. “I wonder...”

        “What?”

        “Oh, nothing. Nothing I want to talk about, anyway.”

Chapter 19

The next morning found a message from Nelson. It had a penitent tone. Jeff wasn’t the only one upset about the motion-picture option. As far as Nelson was concerned, they’d been pricks to drop him like that, with no explanation. He was shopping the book around to other studios. Meanwhile, he hoped Jeff was enjoying himself in Hollywood.

Nelson: Things could be looking up! Last night we outfoxed a shyster who had the chutzpa to sue Diana for legal fees after trying to steal her company. Now the poor goose is even going to sink more money into her enterprise! This little episode should appeal to the public’s taste for skewering lawyers, so I’ve finally got some­thing solid to work with. By the way, I worked up some ad-copy for the new book. Let me know how you like it!

Literary Lion Jefferson Fox roars back with All the Queen’s Men, a sexciting Hollywood romance! Experience the VirGen, the most powerful Virtual Reality Generator ever invented! Play high-stakes financial games along with Diana the Serendipitous and her daughter, Starla the Luscious. Dance naked in the woods with Dryadic nature-worshippers. Put bankers, legal beagles, and media barons through their paces with nothing more than a whip and a hot tub! This Foxy tale probes under all the phony tinsel to get at the real tinsel that is Hollywood! Pulp fiction at its finest!

          Kidding! I figure that’s what your ad-man will come up with anyway, so I wanted to beat him to the punch.

          By the way, you may be amused to know that I’m trapped into spending every Saturday evening playing God to a coterie of neophyte authors. They write predictably about hope, idealism, courage, unre­quited love, sex, more sex, and addiction to computer games.

          One of the women who shows up regularly has caught my eye. Her name is Karen Reich, and she’s a psychotherapist distantly related to Wilhelm Reich, the Orgone man—if you’re old enough to remember. This woman is a real knockout! Picture Elizabeth Taylor at her best. The only problem is that she insists I get my head shrunk before she’ll go out with me—although she expresses it somewhat differently! We’ve agreed to exchange professional services: she massages my ego and I massage her syntax.

          Karen, as it happens, wants to write a novel based on one of her clients who’s a computer-game addict. As an addict myself of a different sort (sex) I’m helping her with the project.

Jeff

        That should hold him. Poor man, he was imprisoned in the steel-and-concrete jungle that was New York. His daily life was a dreary round of being unable to find a taxi when he wanted one, getting trapped in elevators when the power went down, and—worst of all—fighting off the hordes of intense young writers doing Hemingway and Salinger knockoffs.

        “How are you, Sheba?” he asked the cat as he filled the Mr. Coffee machine. Are you writing a novel too?”

        I got that out of my system years ago, the cat said.

        He opened a can of cat food. “They say fish is brain food, Sheba. You ought to be pretty smart by now—unless this is chicken.”

        “What are you babbling about?” Diana asked, suddenly appearing in bathrobe and hair curlers. “Who’s here?”

        “I’m talking to the cat, if you don’t mind.”

        “I see. What did you think of last night?”

        He made a circle with thumb and forefinger and held it up for her to see, just so. “Perfectimo.”

        “I won’t rest easy till the check clears. I wonder how the massage is going.”

        “I’m sure Colleen will let us know. What’s on the schedule for today? Going to change any more attorneys into pussycats?”

        She slumped into a chair. “This is hard work. You may think it’s all fun and games, but I’ve got my entire life on the line. Did you know I got an eviction notice last week? Fortu­nately I can pay the back rent now, so we won’t be out on the street—unless Bernie’s check bounces. If it does, there’s going to be one lawyer minus his nuts!”

        “That’s pretty extreme.”

        “My situation isn’t? That fifty thousand is already spent. The klystron alone is twenty thousand. The rent on our test equipment is overdue, and so is the rent on the showroom. I bought a new computer for the Hallu on credit and haven’t been able to keep up the payments. They’re threatening to repossess it.”

        The phone rang. She picked it up and barked, “This is Diana!” Jeff could tell her mood from the way she answered the phone. Usually it was a businesslike, “VirGen, Incorporated.”

        When she put the phone down her face was sanguine again. “Colleen says she massaged the hell out of Bernie and he’s going goo-goo, ga-ga. He called his broker from her place and told him to sell fifty bonds. Ta-da!”

        “Great!”

        “Well, that’s it. I’m outta here! First stop is the bank, then Pacific Microwave to pick up the tube. Can you call Luigi and ask him to meet me at the showroom around one o’clock?”

        She was singing in the shower as he made the call to Luigi.

                                     *   *   *   *

        The afternoon found Colleen and himself in the hot tub again. They hadn’t bothered with the charade of putting on suits this time. No one else was around at the moment. If anyone did show up it would probably be a friend. If not, what the hell—this wasn’t Boston. The redhead was lying back in the tub very low in the water, tresses floating on the roiling sea of bubbles. Now and then the tip of a breast would poke above the surface, as if to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Colleen looked supremely satisfied. For some unaccountable reason it bothered him.

        “Tell me something. You don’t mind working on a guy like Manson?”

        “No. Why should I?”

        “Just curious. I’m sure if you could do me, you could do him.” It sounded blunter than he had intended.

        “Do him?” She tilted her head back and laughed out loud. “You’re jealous! You’re wondering if I gave him the full treatment, aren’t you? C’mon, confess!” She eyed him smugly, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

        “Why should I care? It’s none of my business.” He made a supreme effort to appear unconcerned, but tanked horribly. The poise-machine was getting out of kilter from overuse. “Okay, you’re right. I can’t help wondering. So shoot me.”

        “Actually, I was surprised when he asked for that. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve! But then he is a lawyer, isn’t he? He’s got to have a lot of nerve.”

        Jeff gritted his teeth. “So?”

        She laughed. “I acted shocked. I asked him what kind of woman he took me for. He turned bright red. It was funny.”

        It was Jeff’s turn to laugh. Irrationally, he felt profound relief. “You’re a real trip, you know that?” He splashed a little water in her face, and she splashed back enthusiastically. It quickly grew into a lusty fight. Jeff rose to gain the advantage, and she followed his example. The sight of Colleen’s bare breasts gyrating as she pummeled the water quickly produced a predictable reaction, however, and he had to sink down quickly, hands raised in surrender, closing his eyes against the splashes.

        “I give up,” he gasped. “Stop, or I might be tempted do something we’d both regret.”

        “Would that be so bad?”

        She was a trip, for sure. “I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

        “You and Bernie. You’re always going to get back to me on something. Men are so indecisive!”

        He chose to let the whole thing drop, full of passion but reluctant to risk whatever might be implied by a sexual relationship with Colleen. It was something he would have to sort out later, in a cooler frame of mind. They looked at each other like two cats in the early stages of the mating ritual—wary and alert, but motionless.

        Eventually he spoke. “Naomi and Adam are both going to be here for supper tonight, for a change. I talked her into it.”

        “Well, la-de-da! Mr. Lonely Hearts Club man. I know Diana’s been trying to get them together for ages, but how come you’re so interested all of a sudden?”

        “Do you want a phony reason or the real one?”

        “Need you ask?”

        “Naomi’s starting to bug me. She keeps giving me the dreamy-eyed look I used to get from some of my female students. It’s tough to resist. I’d like to get her shacked up with Adam for my own protection.”

        “I understand how you feel, but he’s wrong for her.”

        “Why? He’s got plenty of experience.”

        “That’s sure as shit, but it’s all the wrong kind. He’s just out for self-gratification. It could mess up her mind big time.”

        Jeff swirled the water around and watched the bubbles pop and fizz, wishing for once something in life could be simple. He went on stubbornly. “I don’t see it that way. Adam could do what he usually does, and that would be that. When it was over she’d begin dating other men. Her writing would benefit. She’d be far better off having a real lover like Adam than romantic fantasies about me.”

        “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s face it—you’re a pretty romantic guy! She could do a lot worse! First of all you’re rich. I could stop right there, but I won’t. You’ve got a good face and a full head of hair. You keep in shape, and you’re fun to be with. I mean Christ, compared to most of the men I know you’re a fucking Kevin Costner!”

        “Gee, thanks—I guess.”

        “No problem.”

        The author brooded. “I guess you could be right about Adam. He might not be right for the job. I think he’s put Naomi on a pedestal. If she ever gave him a tumble he’d decide she was a whore.”

        Colleen was fixing him reflectively with her frank green eyes.

        “What?” he asked, uneasily.

        “I think Diana’s right. You’d be perfect! You even care about her as a person, no matter what you say.”

        “It’s not that simple, Colleen. I’m not fond of picking cherries. Besides, I’m her father’s age. Subconsciously it might seem incestuous to her. Talk about messing up her mind!”

        “That’s bullshit! Age has nothing to do with it. All she needs is a man with a little sensitivity and savvy—a man who knows where he’s at, what he’s doing, and why.”

        He was silent for a long moment. “You may be right, but there’s someone else I’m interested in at the moment.”

        “Karen?”

        “I guess it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? We’re starting to get to know each other pretty well.”

        “Are you fucking her?”

        “Really, Colleen!”

        “What?”

        “Never mind. No, it’s not that kind of relationship—yet. There’s this doctor-patient thing she’s hung up on.”

        The redhead gave him an incredulous look. “Are you trying to tell me you’re her patient?”

        “Her client. She prefers that term.”

        “But why, in the name of Christ?”

        He smiled wryly. “She thinks I’m emotionally repressed. The only way she’ll consider a relationship is for me to undergo therapy first.”

        Colleen splashed water in his face. “That’s it! Now I’ve heard everything.”

        “It’s that bad?”

        “Bad? It’s crazy! Here you are, living with Diana and Starla—two very sexy women who have been known to sleep around when they’re in the mood. There’s Naomi practically throwing herself in your arms. I might even be available if you asked me right. You could be screwing your brains out! Instead, you’re letting Karen shrink them. I don’t get it. What do men want, anyway?”

Chapter 20

Naomi showed up for dinner that evening, blowing Adam’s mind ever so briefly. Diana had outdone herself and prepared an especially sumptuous dinner. It was served on her prize embroidered tablecloth in the dining room, using the good silver, bone china, and long-stemmed wine glasses. A bottle of Petite Sirah from St. Francis and a Gewurztraminer from Gundlach Bundschu complemented the food.

        At first everyone was the picture of polite. Naomi even inquired into Adam’s progress on the Autoscripter program, about which she knew little and cared less. He was happy to expound at tedious length, prompting Diana to interrupt with an amusing story about Bernie, their pet lawyer. She jumped up and retrieved the doll with its little briefcase.

        Naomi gushed over it. “That is so precious! I wish I had time to sew.”

        She was also impressed by Diana’s account of the Dryadic focusing that had apparently worked its magic on the lawyer, and promised faithfully to attend at the next full moon.

        Later, as conversation turned to literary matters, Adam inquired into the nymphet’s massive novel, which she had been working on for the past several years. “How’s the magnum opus coming along? Making any progress?”

        “Afraid not. Daddy’s had another one of his little strokes, and I haven’t had time to write, this past week.”

        “I’m real sorry to hear that. Did anything set it off, do you think, or was it just one of those things?”

        “It’s hard to tell. He’s under such horrific pressures at the studio. You know how it is in television. I hate the mass media! He came home Monday evening with a headache and after sup­per it hit him. His speech is more slurred again, and his face is twitching worse than ever.”

        “God, that’s awful!” Uneasy at the path the discussion had taken, Adam paid a brief visit to the bathroom. Diana tried not to appear offended when he returned with a can of beer from the fridge. It seemed insensitive—especially in the context of the wines she had uncorked.

        They ate in silence for a while. Jeff had trouble thinking of anything intelligent to say, considering the mix of people and their contrasting interests. He toyed with the idea of telling them about Nelson and the lost motion-picture option, as a neutral subject, but realized that would bring up the subject of his own career—something bound to enhance his own stature in Naomi’s eyes at the expense of Adam’s. The news about Michael’s stroke had put a damper on the mood. Even Diana seemed at a loss for words for a change.

        Eventually their hostess took the tack of trying to steer Adam into saying something that would indicate he had turned over a new leaf. “The Autoscripter program worked beautifully today, Naomi, in simulation mode. Adam’s been working almost around the clock on it. He’s becoming a workaholic. How long can you go on like this, Adam? Don’t you need some R & R?”

        “I’m getting R & R right now. It’s all I need.”

        “What about going out?”

        “I haven’t gone out on a date for weeks. Months.”

        “Surely you haven’t given up dating permanently?”

        Sir Lancelot shook his curly blond locks with an air of disgust. “I’ve considered it. What’s the point, anyway? I’m beginning to think it’s a waste of time. What I really want to do is write science-fiction and create computer games.” A light came into his eyes, and he became more animated. “I’ve got this great concept for a new game, if I ever get time for it!” He glanced at Naomi, who had a far-away look. She continued to eat in a mechanical way. Anyone but Adam would have quickly switched to a different subject.

        “Dig this,” he went on heedlessly, appealing first to Diana, then to Jeff. “You’re a young caveman in the Stone Age, a member of the Bear Clan. Your goal is to become the leader of the clan, and then go on to conquer nearby clans as well.”

        “Okay so far,” Jeff said. “How do you go about it?”

        “You have to kill as many animals as possible for their meat and skins, to prove you’re a brave hunter and a good provider. Then you have to construct weapons out of bones, sticks, and stones.”

        “That sounds challenging!” Diana was obviously trying to wax enthusiastic for Naomi’s benefit.

        Jeff could see that Adam was digging himself a pit, and made an effort to pull him out of it. “I imagine community leadership would be important as time goes on. A truly suc­cessful clan-leader would work for peace and prosperity for all his subjects, no?”

        Adam scratched his head, frowning. “Sure, I guess that might be an angle, but the winning strategy is to amass as many weapons and wives as possible, so you can produce lots of armed warriors and kick butt, big time. That’s the sort of action that sells games, and I want this game to sell!”

        Jeff shrugged and poured himself more wine. So much for lending a helping hand to those bent on self-destruction. Out of idle curiosity he asked, “What are you going to call it?”

        “The Cave of the Bear Clan. That’s your headquarters. Titles are important, and that has a good ring to it. It’s bound to be a hit. People are into computer games that let them feel pow­erful. It’s why they’re so addicting.”

        With the glass on its way to his mouth, Jeff froze. “Wait a minute! Say that again.”

        “What? I said I’m calling it...”

        “No, no. The last part, about addiction. That’s okay, I got it. Did you know Karen is hung up on that problem?”

        “Sure, she’s talked about it a lot. It’s what her novel is about.”

        “I guess it’s pretty obvious when you think about it, but you’ve just made it crystal-clear to me. In real life we don’t have much influence in the world, but in the game we do.”

        “Of course! That’s the whole idea. That’s how game programmers get you hooked. In my game...”

        Jeff put the glass down. “But the more influence you acquire in the game, the more reluctant you are to return to the real world. That’s exactly how Karen describes her patient!”

        Naomi perked up at last. “Does she have a real patient like that? I thought it was just in her novel.”

        “Yes she does. The novel is only secondary. That’s the main reason she’s playing a computer game—to get the feel of what it’s like to be addicted. I helped her pick out a game.”

        Adam’s blue eyes became larger. “What is it? How did you know what to pick? If she’s playing the wrong game, it could be a waste of time. Maybe I ought to suggest something for her.”

        “No, we both think this game is perfect. It’s called Lucifer’s Reprieve. Maybe you’re familiar with it.”

        “Familiar with it? Man, that’s been at the top of the charts for the last six months! I’d buy a copy if I had time to play it.”

        Naomi sounded peeved. “If you’re all that interested in the Lucifer game, maybe Karen would let you play it on her com­puter when she’s not using it. You could help save our natural resources by not buying another copy. I think it’s disgusting how much paper and plastic they use!”

        Adam wriggled uncomfortably, and made a stab at humor. “She might try to shrink my head when I wasn’t looking!”

        Naomi ignored the witticism. “A little therapy might do you some good, Adam. My dad says you’ve got serious prob­lems and ought to do something about them.”

        All humor vanished as Adam reddened. “What does he know about my life? He’s basing it all on that one incident. I was drunk. I’d been having a lot of problems. Everyone has problems now and then. It doesn’t mean they need to be psychoanalyzed.”

        “You could at least get a professional opinion. My dad...”

        Diana cut in quickly. “How’s Michael doing, sweetie? Is he getting back to normal?”

        “It’s hard to tell. Some days are worse than others. Anyway...”

        “I’ve got to go over there and see how he’s doing. You should have called me right away! I can usually cheer him up.”

        “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.” Obviously wanting to get off the subject, Naomi turned to Jeff. “Do you have a favorite author?”

        He felt like being flip and naming himself, but decided it was pointless and would only annoy the young woman. “I like Tom Wolfe pretty well.”

        “Do you! I absolutely adored Of Time and the River. It’s so poetic and sensual, don’t you agree?”

        Adam cut in officiously, “That’s Thomas Wolfe! Jeff means the one who wrote about the master-of-the-universe dude. Tom Hanks played him. That movie really sucked!”

        Naomi was again offended. “Just because the movie was bad doesn’t mean the book was. I like Tom Wolfe too. Is that who you meant?”

        “Well, yes. But I liked Of Time and the River too.”

        Adam groused and busied himself with his food. Diana took over the conversation, waxing euphoric on her plans for the VirGen. That recalled the software demonstration scheduled for later that evening, the one being hosted by Clay Small. “Why don’t you come with us, Naomi?” she urged. “It would be something different. You need to check out new things every so often.”

        “Thanks, but I’m really not interested in technology. And besides, Daddy’s expecting me back.”

        After dinner, when she had gone, Adam was still in a snit. “What’s with her, anyway? It seemed like everything I said got her pissed.”

        “She’s had a rough week. Michael’s attack has probably left her feeling edgy.” Diana patted his arm. “Cheer up Adam. It’s not the end of the world!”

        “It might as well be, as far as my chances with Naomi are concerned.”

        “Well, it’s partly your own fault, you know. You should develop a little more sensitivity.”

        “Sensitivity! She’s the one who needs a lesson in sensi­tivity. She practically said I was a nut case. It’s Michael’s doing. Damn his ass anyway! Him and his frigging apoplexy. I’ll bet he fakes it, just to keep her under his thumb.”

Chapter 21

Jeff drove his own car so he and Diana could leave early if they chose. Adam’s Morgan roadster darted through traffic and quickly disappeared. Jeff snorted and shook his head. “Why would anyone want a car with a leather belt across the hood?”

        “It’s an image thing. When Adam’s wife left him for a chiropractor it shattered his ego, and he’s still trying to put it back together. He’s been on the rebound longer than any man I know! What’s tragic is that every time a woman turns on to him he panics and dumps her. But then of course he’s a Two of Spades.”

        Jeff cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

        “It’s the card of fear. In this lifetime his task is to confront anxiety and overcome it. Unfortunately, he’s letting himself be driven by anxiety, at least up till now. Whenever a relationship starts to get serious, he imagines how terrible he’ll feel if it doesn’t work out.”

        Jeff digested what she had said. “That’s pretty tragic, but what’s it got to do with a card?”

        “Oh that. I thought you knew about The Book of Cards. Haven’t I discussed it before? Remind me to look you up when we get home. When’s your birthday?”

        “I never tell people my birthday because it means they want to know my sign. As soon as they know my sign they start babbling.”

        She was silent, perhaps offended.

        “Okay, just for you.” He gave her the date.

        “You’re an Aquarius! I might have known! I can’t wait to find out what your card is.”

        A local bank had offered to let Clay Small host the demo in its meeting room at the rear of the building. A computer club that was mostly made up of retired people was acting as co-host. Jeff parked the car in the lot behind the building and they went into the room, which was rapidly filling with people. Just inside the doorway was an easel holding a sign in large bold letters:

MORPHSOFT BY FANTASOFT

MORPHING—TWEENING—LIGHT-SOURCING

WE DO IT IN ALL DIMENSIONS

ANIMATION TOOLS FROM AMERICA’S

LEADING ANIMATION SOFTWARE COMPANY

        They registered and took pamphlets, then looked for Adam. At the front of the room Jeff saw Clay sitting behind the dais with several other people. He went up and greeted his tall friend, who stood and shook hands. “Jeff! Glad you could make it! How’s the VirGen project coming along?”

        “Your thing tonight might be just the ticket for us. Our chief programmer says we could use more advanced software. I’ll have to introduce you two later.”

        He rejoined Diana at the back of the room as a man in a blue blazer stepped to the dais and adjusted the microphone. After a cursory introduction to hype his company, he got into the nuts and bolts of the software. “It’s a whole new technical approach, using interframe interpolation, automatic anti-aliasing, and MPEG-4 compression. What you’re about to see is not only state-of-the-art, it’s beyond state-of-the-art!”

        Peering between two heads, Jeff managed to get a view of the large screen. A computer was projecting a picture of a ballet dancer in leotards magically changing into a gorilla as she whirled. At the end of the sequence, the hairy ape bowed grace­fully, apparently unaware of the transformation it had gone through.

        “How about that! What you are seeing is full-screen, full-motion, three-dimensional, thirty-frames-per-second animated morphing. And here’s the kicker. You can do it on your home PC! You don’t need a powerful work­station, and you can morph anything at all into anything else. You can change a car into a duck!”

        Jeff leaned over to whisper in Diana’s ear. “What about the other way around? That would be more useful.”

        They found Adam among the standees. Diana looked around. “I can’t believe the age of these people! It’s the Geritol set. What do they care about morphing, anyway? Golfing, I can understand. Oh well, maybe this is cheaper.” There were a few younger faces, probably drop-ins attracted by the newspaper article.

        Adam pulled away from them, trying to listen. Jeff saw a coffee urn at the other side of the room and made his way over to it, remembering that Clay had said there would be refresh­ments. He poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a fistful of cookies.

        As Jeff was carefully wending his way back to his friends, there was a sudden tremendous KER-THUD and the building shook and reverberated, then was silent. Startled, he slopped coffee on the floor as crumbs trickled through his fingers from the crushed cookies. The man in the blue blazer stopped mid-sentence and a murmur went through the crowd.

        Earthquake! Just what you might expect in California! No one seemed particularly upset by it, however. Before long the speaker was morphing gorillas back into dancers, with var­iations. Someone went out the back door to investigate, and Jeff rejoined his companions. “What do you think that was?” he asked Diana.

        “Who knows? It was too abrupt for an earthquake. Most likely it was a trucker backing into the building, spaced-out on drugs.”

        The man on the dais was explaining about tweening now, having morphed the car into a duck as promised, and Michael Jackson into Madonna for good measure. Tweening was having the computer generate all the frames between one scene and another. Inevitably, he explained, if you morphed, you tweened—but the reverse wasn’t necessarily true. “Somebody should put a stop to this before it gets out of hand,” Jeff whispered to Diana. “It sounds like something out of Alice in Wonderland!”

        “MorphSoft is a complete animation software package,” the man on the dais was saying. “Remember Show White? It took years to make, with thousands of dwarfs—ha-ha!—slaving away at their drawing boards, painting individual cels. Now, one good cartoonist could do it in a couple of weeks, using MorphSoft. Most of you could probably do it, for that matter, using the supplied clip-art!”

        “Amazing if true,” Jeff said wryly. “Of course, everybody will be turning out porn instead of Snow White.”

        A person went out the door, then another several followed him.

        A kid in baggy shorts that were about to fall off asked if the program could do superimposed recursive tweening, semi-transparently. “No problem!” the man in the blue blazer reas­sured him enthusiastically. “It’s part of your basic package.” He clicked on something and the ballet dancer began changing into a gorilla again, only this time all the tweened images remained on the screen as ghost-images.

        “Cool,” the kid said.

        A white-haired lady with square spectacles stood and spoke in a reedy voice. “What about wire-frame conversion?”

        “Absolutely!” Now it was the duck’s turn to strut its stuff. First it turned into the skeleton of a duck, but with bones made of wire, then the wire skeleton morphed into a car chassis. “We call this peeling the flesh, or stripping the bones.”

        “Would I be able to do that too?”

        “Certainly, madam! Of course you might find it a little painful.”

        It got a few laughs. Jeff heard a crackling noise from above and glanced at the ceiling,

        Suddenly the back door flew open and someone yelled, “The water main’s been hit! Water’s pouring onto the roof!” A louder murmur went through the crowd this time. Most people didn’t seem to think it was that serious, but some began to trickle out the door.

        Annoyed, the man at the lectern tried to go on with the show. He gave up, however, as the trickle grew into a steady stream. “Maybe we’d all better go outside and check our cars. The parking lot might be flooding. We can pick up again later—or reschedule if necessary. Be sure to pick up some of the brochures on the way out if you haven’t already.” He waited stoically on the dais, like a captain on the bridge of his sinking ship.

        Outside, a heavy mist filtered down. Jeff saw the top of a geyser shooting up over the building and blowing back onto the roof. Streams poured out of relief-holes along the parapet, pro­bably indicating a build-up of water. Being outside did seem prudent, as things stood.

        Adam took in the scene briefly, then said he was going to leave before there was a traffic jam. Diana watched his departing form moodily. “Hmph. Typical Two of Spades! Always running away.”

        In front of the building the crowd circled the scene of the accident. A car was smashed up against one of the structure’s marble columns, hood buckled and steam rising from the engine. Glass littered the sidewalk. Someone said that the driver had crawled out and limped away, doubtless afraid of being arrested. The odor of alcohol was mixed with that of burnt rubber and hot oil. A fireplug had been cracked off from its supply-pipe and lay to one side as the geyser thundered into the sky.

        Diana was transfixed in what appeared to be ecstasy. People milled around the scene of the accident and peered into the big plate-glass windows of the bank building. Jeff went to see, with Diana close behind him. Water dripped from the ceiling onto desks, papers, telephones and computers. “Curiously refreshing, isn’t it?” he said. “I wonder why?”

        Police had started blocking off the street and sirens sounded in the distance.

        “Don’t you think we better get out of here?” he urged.

        “Let’s wait and see what happens!” She was like an excited child, practically jumping up and down. “I wish I had a cigarette!” She eyed a nearby smoker hungrily.

        “C’mon Diana. You promised.”

        A fire engine roared to a halt in the middle of the lake that had developed in the street, sending a spray of water over nearby onlookers and disgorging bulky figures in yellow slickers. One of them poked a rod into the street, apparently looking for a shutoff valve, but without success. Old Faithful continued to roar splendidly into the sky. The crowd grew larger by the minute and business at the nearby McDonalds picked up. A stream of people flowed out to gawk, sipping cokes and munching french fries.

        Diana couldn’t stand still. “Hey, I know—let’s go back inside and tell the man we were blown away by his demo!” She took the reluctant author by the hand and towed him back around the building and into the conference room.

        A small knot of people clearly more interested in computers than disasters surrounded the man in the blue blazer. Clay was off to one side talking with some of them. Jeff observed that water was starting to drip from the ceiling near the computer, but apparently no one else had noticed it. Diana elbowed her way to the dais. At the first opportunity, she complimented the lecturer, eyes twinkling. “This sure beats anything Microsoft has ever put on!”

        He gave her a twisted smile and smiled thinly. “I must remember to tell my boss, so we can arrange to do it this way every time.” All the way from headquarters in Seattle, the demo a bust, and here was this dippy woman with a crazy pile of tousled brown hair making jokes at his expense. A drop of water spattered on the lectern. He looked nervously at the ceiling. “Clay—can you give me a hand getting this stuff bundled up?”

        Just then a ceiling tile gave way and a torrent of water came cascading down. There was a mad scramble to get the computer and projector out of the way. Jeff and his companion grabbed some of the boxes of software and stacked them out of harm’s way. After several frantic minutes, the area where the water was pouring down had been cleared, and the two visitors turned to go. As they were leaving, however, Clay grabbed Jeff’s arm. “Wait! The cover has water damage but I’m sure the disk is okay. It would be a shame to throw it out.” He slipped a dripping box into Diana’s large handbag with a glance over his shoulder. No one seemed to have noticed.

        Jeff gave him a quizzical grin. “Thanks, Clay, I’ll give it to our programmer. And maybe I’ll put you in the book after all! It’s been a pretty exciting evening.”

        He decided not to take the freeway home, since there was no hurry and he needed time to relax. Sherman Way at this point was broad, tree-lined, and dark except for an occasional street light. He drove slowly, enjoying the change of pace. She was silent, perhaps deciding what sort of spin to put on to­night’s adventure. If the story of life were to be told, Diana would certainly be the one to tell it. Things happened around her, and were then forever being reborn. If their new life was more colorful than the original, few complained. Assuming reality was an illusion anyway, as all the philosophers insisted it was, then a creative story-teller was simply enriching reality. Karen had once said, “When I’m around Diana, it seems as if life goes into Technicolor!”

        Jeff was finding it difficult, now, to visualize life back in New York. His memories were all shrouded in a gray haze, and his old self seemed impossibly remote and vaguely unlikable. Diana’s magic was that you started thinking and feeling the way she did—you became optimistic, enthusiastic, outspoken. Keeping secrets was simply not worth the effort. Bored sophis­tication was, well, boring. True, you often got into raucous arguments, but you always ended up laughing.

        “Quite an evening,” he said at length. “Too bad Adam didn’t get to see the entire demonstration.”

        “That’s okay, he keeps up with the technology. I just wish he understood what our own project is all about.”

        “Which is...?”

        “Personal empowerment! I had a dream years ago about the New Age of Light, when everyone will undergo a quantum leap in consciousness. The VirGen will help bring it about. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to explain it to Adam, but he always tunes me out. He’s bright, but he’s not a vision­ary like George Lucas, unfor­tunately. George would under­stand!”

        The car drifted lazily along the dark boulevard, under the big trees. Jeff shoved a cassette in the player and presently Leonard Cohen sang, “I’ve seen the future, and it is murder...” How would Diana’s vision square with Leonard Cohen’s? Was the future already all planned out, or were the Fates happily playing dice with the universe? Einstein, Jeff recalled, had denied that God would do any such thing. Only time would tell who was right...

        Abruptly his musings were interrupted as the peaceful street changed into one fronted by a half-block-long, garishly lighted, mini-mall. Rock music blared from one of the store-fronts. Jeff swerved into the parking lot and stopped the car.

        “We finished off Craig’s birthday scotch yesterday. I’ve been feeling guilty about it.”

        “That’s okay. You don’t have to buy another.”

        “But I want to! It’s partly for selfish reasons.”

        He went into the convenience store. A short mustachioed clerk, probably a mid-Eastern immigrant, looked at him blankly from behind the counter, pinpoints of light in his dark eyes. As Jeff scanned the bottles in the locked display case, a thin swarthy man in a black cowboy hat loped into the store with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

        The clerk motioned to him. “There’s no smoking!”

        “Que?”

        “Is California law. You cannot smoke in here.”

        The latino played dumb and took his time picking out a Hustler magazine, a six-pack of beer, and a bag of potato chips. The cigarette was still going as he paid and left. The man behind the counter held up his hands. What could you do?

        Jeff bought a bottle of whiskey and went back to the car. He handed the bottle to Diana, started the engine, and got back on the boulevard.

        “You didn’t have to buy Chivas Regal!”

        “I wanted to celebrate. Wow, the ethnic tension around here. It makes my skin crawl!”

        “That’s why this project is so important! When everyone feels empowered, they won’t be at each others’ throats. Right now a handful of media moguls control all the news and enter­tainment, and everyone else feels powerless. We’re going to let anyone come up with a scenario and have it produced, using the Autoscripter program. Granted, it won’t be mass media any­more, but you and your community will be able to enjoy it instead of sitting at home watching the nightly television holocaust. We’ll bring power to all the people!”

        “But what if people script sex and violence for them­selves? What if it produces riots instead of community solidarity?”

        “That’s why we have to be careful who we deal with. Where are we, anyway? I’m completely lost.”

        “We’re almost home. I took an extra couple of turns so Leonard Cohen could finish. Besides, I like talking to you with­out always being interrupted by the telephone. By the way, I am so glad you lost your cellphone!”

        “To tell you the truth, I am too!”

Chapter 22

Sheba was on the stoop waiting for them. I know it’s late, but how about a little snack? Cats don’t catch mice these days, you know. It’s totally uncool. You can get infected and have to go to the vet.

        Jeff reached over to stroke her back. “Hello Sheba. How come you never say anything?” Sheba purred. I do, but you never listen.

        The clock over the stove showed 10:15 p.m. For once, no one else was in the house. Starla was probably with Garth, unless she had waltzed back to Scott, who was always waiting in the wings.

        As Diana played back her phone messages, Jeff turned on the gas jets in the fireplace and lighted them. Flames leaped up around the wooden logs he’d stacked on the andirons earlier. He turned down the thermostat on the furnace, then shut off the jets once the logs were on fire.

        She came into the living room. “How cozy! Guess what—Craig called three times! He’s dying of jealousy.”

        “Poor guy. What’s he jealous of?”

        “He just wishes he was here. It’s snowing in Chicago, Peggy’s giving him shit about the divorce, and his boss is waffling about letting him relocate.”

        She looked at the fire. “Now what was I going to do when we got home? I know it was something.”

        “Have a drink?”

        “No, but that’s a start.”

        Jeff went in the kitchen and opened the whiskey.

        “I know what it was!”

        When he returned, she was flipping the pages on a large purple book with intricate gold tracings on the cover. “What did you say your birthday was? Wait—I remember. Ah, here it is. You’re a Five of Spades! Wow!”

        “Wow?”

        “A Spade represents labor and wisdom—being a digger for truth. A Five is versatility. It says you should be a good writer.”

        “It better! What kind of card are you?”

        “I’m a Queen of Clubs.” She found the section. “Here, you can read it.”

        “Hmm. Interesting. What’s your birthday? It seems to make a difference.”

        She told him. He scanned the text. “It says you’re not a fluent speaker. How can that be?”

        “Give me that book! Where does it say that?”

        He pointed out the one phrase that might damn her faith.

        She was grimly patient with him. “Darling, you have to read the whole thing. Besides, I’m not a fluent speaker. I go in fits and starts and my grammar is lousy. Now listen to this: it says I’m a keen judge of literary merit. What do you think of that?”

        Jeff indulged her. “Maybe there’s something to this after all!” He took the book from her and read another few para­graphs about her card. “I see that as a Queen you have power and receptivity, and as a Club you’re on a quest for universal knowledge. It says you’re a messenger of the gods.” He closed the book. “I guessed as much.”

        Diana looked beatific and preened herself.

        He put Tchaikowski’s Romeo and Juliet on the stereo. They played a few games of checkers. Most of the time she won, since he was in no mood to compete. When the fire be­came glowing coals, his mind turned to thoughts of bed. The Queen of Clubs was stretched out on the couch and looked as if she might doze off. Her eyelids fluttered. It was now almost midnight.

        “By the way,” he said, “the hot tub’s still on.”

        “Oh.” She opened her eyes and sat up. “I forgot! Would you like to take a dip before we call it a night? I would.”

        Several minutes later they were in the tub together, lying back and gazing up at the misty tangerine sky. The throb of the jet-pump was a soothing background rhythm.

        Diana smiled softly. “There! Craig’s fantasy has come true!”

        “How’s that?”

        “That’s what he was really jealous about. He said he kept imagining the two of us together, naked in the hot tub. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.”

        “Well, if he’s going to have fantasies like that, what does he expect?”

Chapter 23

He awoke Saturday morning to find Sheba sitting on top of him, purring. He reproved her. “You’re getting mighty friendly, cat. I was dreaming I had to get something off my chest!” The cat went scampering into the kitchen as he threw off the covers and got out of bed.

        The Queen of Clubs was up before him for a change, ornate in a red-and-gold kimono, a decided improvement over the usual terrycloth robe. She looked up at him as he came into the kitchen. “Well, Luigi tells me the Hallu’s working again. It needs tweaking, but it’s working. Anytime you’re ready...”

        “I’ve been ready ever since I got here! What about right now?”

        “Just let me get dressed and we can go. I’ll let him know we’re coming.”

        Starla sauntered into the kitchen, fully dressed and looking preoccupied. She refilled her coffee cup. “G’morning Jeff! I heard you finally got Adam and Naomi together last night. Congratulations!”

        He gave her a rueful grin. “For what it’s worth. What are you up to today? Another fight with Garth?”

        “No, Mom asked me to come over and make out checks. It’s going to take hours. If Bernie hadn’t come up with the money I don’t know what we would have done. Things were down to the wire!”

        Diana looked at her disapprovingly. “Something would have turned up. It always does.”

        Jeff dialed Karen. “Diana’s got the dream-injector running again. What say I come over later and tell you all about my demo? Unless you’re too busy bringing down the light, that is.”

        She caught the reference instantly. “No, I’m afraid my Lucifer isn’t doing all that well. So far she’s been screwing every...”

        “She?”

        “Of course! Gods can be whatever sex they like. Anyway, she’s been screwing everything up! She botched a chance to save the rain-forests and the greenhouse effect is causing the oceans to rise. There’s a war raging in the Holy Land and a plague is spreading across Africa. Everything she does only seems to make things worse. I didn’t realize being an Avatar would be this tough. But the game’s sucking me in, at least, and that’s what I wanted.”

        An hour later Jeff was at the showroom, eagerly antic­ipating his first adventure inside the VirGen. Luigi, friendly and self-effacing, short of stature but generous of mind, got him prepared. The author made himself comfortable on the padded test bed as the engineer attached small sensors to legs, arms, chest, and throat. Then a large helmet was lowered over his head, suspended by a counter-balanced support-arm so that there was no pressure on his body. It fit snugly around his neck and shoulders. He was now sealed away from the room and found himself in deep silence and darkness. Within the helmet, small pads pressed against his face at key points. Diana had explained that the sensors let the VirGen know how he was reacting to the adventure. There were no joysticks, buttons, or other controls. Instead, his subvocalizations and other faint muscular impulses would be fed into the computer’s analytical circuitry. In the production model the sensor arrangement would be simplified so that getting ready would be almost as easy as putting on a jacket and sitting down in front of a television set. As it was, getting ready had taken several minutes.

        The klystron hummed as it beamed its microwaves into his brain-stem. The first indication of anything unusual was a sudden onset of dreaminess, without any feeling of being sleepy. His mind was still able to carry on a train of thought, but his body seemed to be receding into the distance. It felt pleasant, if disorienting, and reminded him of a sensory-deprivation experiment he’d once taken part in while researching New Age therapies. At that time he had been immersed in a tank full of lukewarm water.

        Before long he was aware of a soft rushing noise and sounds that might have been music but were so distant he couldn’t make out individual notes. The effect was relaxing and he could feel what remained of his body releasing a myriad of minor tensions. The sense of dreaminess increased and he felt his mind wandering.

        It could have been his imagination, but he thought he sensed a flash of light. It was so rapid as to be almost unno­ticeable. At the same time he detected a faint whisper in his ear. It might have been words or nonsense, or only random noises. Gradually he became aware of shapes in the darkness. They brightened and took form until he realized they were the buildings and graceful spires of a fantastic city that reminded him of the Emerald City of Oz. He seemed to be walking along a street, feeling so light on his feet that the movement was effortless. He could hear wind-chimes in the distance, the soft soughing of a breeze, and what might have been a choir singing in a church-loft far above the street.

        It was total delight! There was no possibility of deciding whether or not he would immerse himself in the new ambience. It was simply happening, and he had no wish to resist it.

        A tall, slender, figure approached in a diaphanous gown that fluttered in the breeze. “The Wizard will see you now,” she said to him pleasantly. “If you will follow me...”

        They went through a high-arched doorway and along a corridor, until he was ushered into an enormous chamber where colored lights twinkled in every crevice. The guide left him alone. Across the room he now perceived, as if slowly emer­ging from the wall, the features of a large face with a benev­olent expression. “Welcome to the Wizard’s sanctuary!” it said in a deep voice.

        Jeff found himself replying with thought-questions. “How do you do? Who are you? Where am I?”

        Before the Wizard could answer, however, the scene faded and there was only blackness and silence. The nothingness was profound. He wondered if something had gone wrong with the machine. But after a short period a pinpoint of light appeared in the distance.

        The dreamy feeling was still strong, and his body-aware­ness was ephemeral. It felt almost as if his body had vanished along with everything else. The point grew larger and bright­er—a process that could have taken minutes or hours. It seemed to be approaching him. The only way he could describe it to himself later, since it was a novel experience, was that pleasurable tingles were running all over his dream-body.

        As it approached, the point spread out and took on form until the fuzzy outline of a body appeared, as if seen through a frosted glass pane. Then the fuzziness went away and he could make out the features of a man. The face looked familiar, and Jeff suddenly realized it was his father, as he had appeared shortly before his death some years earlier. The man gazed at him lovingly.

        “Dad!” Jeff said mentally.

        “Jeff, my boy! What a surprise! We’re together again, at long last. It’s great to see you, son. But tell me, how did you die?”

        “Die? I didn’t die. At least I hope I didn’t! I’m in some kind of machine...it wasn’t supposed to do this. I was just talking with a wizard. It’s supposed to be a hallucination.”

        “Well, I don’t know about all that, but I’m certainly not a hallucination, and neither are you! Where I am is the real world. If anything’s a hallucination, it’s Earthly existence. You’ll understand that when you truly wake up, as I have...”

        His father’s voice became too soft to hear, and the image rapidly faded into darkness. Now the only sound was static. Jeff felt the pressure-pads pulling away from his face. The helmet lifted and he sat blinking in the sudden light of the showroom.

        Diana was looking down at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Jeff. There must have been a bug that crashed the program.”

        “Whew!” He shook his head to clear it. “That’s enough for now, anyway. I had no idea…” He waited while Luigi removed the sensors.

        “Tell me—what happened?”

        He told her about the city and the Wizard, and how everything had gone black at that point.

        “That’s when the bug crashed the Autoscripter. Up to that point, you got exactly what was programmed. But what hap­pened after that? We didn’t realize at first that the program had been interrupted, and let you go another five minutes.”

        “That’s all? I thought it was a lot longer. I had a sort of dream. My father appeared and asked how I’d died.”

        Diana and Luigi exchanged glances.

        “It seemed unbelievably real.”

        “It would! Anything else?”

        “Not that I can remember, but it seemed like I was watching a point of light for hours after the Wizard and before the rest of it. Are you sure it’s only been five minutes?”

        She nodded. “More or less. Well, that confirms it. We’re definitely going to have to develop two separate versions.”

        Luigi agreed. “We’ve also got to have an automatic abort any time the program crashes. People looking for pure enter­tainment could get freaked out by near-death episodes. We’ve got to save that for the therapeutic version of the machine.”

        As he regained his bearings, Jeff listened to them discus­sing the situation in technical terms. His head was awash with images. Right now he just wanted to get away and think through what had happened. It reminded him of the way he’d felt after an acid trip, many years earlier. There was so very, very, much to think about. He needed a peaceful beach on an island in the middle of the ocean, with palm trees fluttering in the breeze.

        “Listen you two, I’ve got to be by myself for a while. I’m going to drive down to Will Rogers beach and just look at the waves.”

        “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? Can you drive okay?”

        “I think so. If I can’t, I won’t.”

        He left after phoning Karen to say he’d be there later on that afternoon. Right now he wanted nothing more than to savor his adventure alone.

        At the beach he walked from one end to the other, then looked for a secluded place to sit. For several hours he did nothing, recalling stories he’d heard about people who had supposedly died on the operating table, and then came back to life. Was this machine capable of simulating such conditions? He remembered now the reason the military had scrapped the project. It was termed “anomalous interference”. Were people having otherworldly adventures in the middle of their training sessions? Clearly it would never do, if it couldn’t be prevented. But what about Diana’s plans? He’d have to ask her. It was all too much for his poor brain right now, still reeling from an injected hallucination followed by a near-death episode. His entire picture of what was real and what was illusory had come under attack.

        Later that afternoon Jeff drove to Karen’s house. She led him up to her bedroom and turned on the computer. “I’ve transferred my novel from the office machine to this one, since it’s more comfortable up here. So tell me—what was the VirGen like? Did you enjoy your demo?”

        “My mind’s still boggled!” The first part of his adventure now seemed like a dream, while the meeting with his father remained vivid. He gave her the gist of what he’d been through.      “Diana said something about the machine being a doorway to the psychic realm—what she calls the psychosphere—but I never gave it much thought. Now I’m beginning to wonder! If there is such a thing as a psychosphere, maybe a machine could create a doorway to it.” She touched him on the shoulder to show concern. “Are you sure you want to help me right now?”

        “It might help me get reoriented.”

        They sat together in front of the computer. “Let’s see—Lucifer game or novel? I guess the game is where I need help the most. It seems like I’m getting deeper in the hole, no matter what I do. Even God might have trouble bailing me out of the mess I’ve created!”

        “That sounds pretty serious. What seems to be the trouble?”

        She sighed. “I thought computer games were all fantasy, but this thing is far too much like the real world! My planet’s crawling with billions of people, and they’re destroying the ecosystem. Already there’s been mass starvation in some areas. The problem is, I thought I’d be helping mankind if I cured cancer and got rid of malaria and… Well, people were grateful and started worshipping me, so then I started wiping out virus­es, right and left. I know you warned me about that, but I couldn’t stand to let all those people die when I could prevent it!”

        He chuckled. “Sorry, I know it’s not funny, but I think the designers were right on track!”

        Karen frowned at him. “I don’t know. The implications are stagger­ing! I wonder if the game will let me re-invent some predators, to limit population growth. It looks like the only way to save my planet from total disaster. The ecosystem is going downhill fast.”

        “I’d look into it. The designers probably foresaw the dilemma you’d find yourself in, and provided a way out.”

        “Hmm. I hope so! Well, thanks for the insights. I’ll look into it later. I guess right now we should work on the novel.” She activated the word processor program and started paging through the document.

        “How much is the game helping with your novel? I mean, in the sense of getting you addicted?”

        “Actually, the power it has over me is frightening! Last night I played until 4 a.m. When you’re in the middle of all that action and excitement it’s hard to let go, especially when you feel responsible for what’s happening.”

        Jeff commented, “At dinner last night, Adam said the programmers are deliberately trying to hook you. It makes sense—that’s their power trip.”

        She nodded. “Yes, of course. And I can see how anyone who finds life frustrating could get completely sucked in. I’m not worried personally—I have a lot going for me in real life—but being a powerful Avatar is exciting. Promise me you’ll help me come back to reality if I ever go over the edge!”

        She had found the page she wanted. Jeff read it slowly, gradually reassembling his literary persona. Soon he was talk­ing about syntax and grammar, connotation and denotation, analogy and metaphor. It was not, he reflected sadly, the sort of talk that leads to more interesting things—but then, more inter­esting things had already been ruled out, at least for now.

        Jeff invited her to have dinner with him before the “salon” that evening. She accepted gratefully, explaining that there hadn’t been much time for cooking ever since she’d become a world leader—or to be more precise, the bumbling Avatar Lucifer.

        Later, at dinner, Karen brought up something that had been troubling her. “If computer-game addiction is a threat now, what’s going to happen when the VirGen hits the market?”

        “That troubles me too,” Jeff agreed. “It’s so...magical! You leave the real world behind and go off into a fantastic adventure—and it feels like you’re actually there in person! Has Diana ever told you how it works?”

        “No. She just talks about the wonderful things it can do, and how it’s going to change the world.”

        Jeff explained what he knew about the inner workings of the VirGen from talking to Diana, Luigi, and Adam. Karen’s face revealed her concern. “So the VirGen is basically a hyp­nosis machine! I hate to think what it could be used for, in the wrong hands.”

        “That’s why Diana insists on knowing who’s putting up the money. I understand she’s already turned down offers, even though she’s flat broke. Some of the others think she simply wants to keep control of her baby, but I don’t buy that.”

Chapter 24

Karen rode with him to the salon after they’d finished dinner. Tonight’s crowd was smaller by one—Craig was back in Chi­cago and Scott wasn’t there, but Bernie Manson had eagerly accepted Diana’s invitation. The hostess had him sit beside her in the seat of honor. As usual, Starla circulated with wine and a tray of snacks. Colleen said she’d been too busy working on murals to have any new sketches.

        When things had quieted down, Diana addressed the group. “I have an announcement to make, for any of you who haven’t heard. The VirGen is working again! Jeff got the first crack at it this morning.”

        There was a round of applause.

        “We’ll be showcasing next week for the big media outfits. I’ve invited the Disney people, and they’re definitely interested. Dreamworks may send someone. The more demand we can build up, the easier it will be to raise money. Bernie agrees it’s the best way to go. Naomi and Foster—I think you’re the only ones who haven’t met Bernie Manson. He’s our attorney and he’ll be on the team from here on out!”

        The lawyer gave them a toothy smile. Foster Holtzman, PhD, looked dubious. He had a bias against lawyers and business-types in general. They didn’t mix well with philo­sophy, to his way of thinking.

        “Bernie isn’t a creative writer, but he’s thinking of doing a novel about one of his cases.” She looked at him encouragingly.

        “Yes, I am! I do mainly corporate law, not criminal law, so you might think I’d have trouble finding a case that was exciting enough to base a novel on. But that’s not true. Corpor­ate law is often very exciting! I’ll be writing about a case of blatant patent infringement. Millions of dollars were at stake.”

        Dr. Holtzman wiggled his bushy eyebrows and decided to be open-minded and agreeable. “That’s the kind of story I’ve always wanted to write, but there’s very little drama in my life. Sometimes I wish I were a lawyer instead of a philosopher. It must be very stimulating!”

        “Don’t wish that!” Manson warned him, with sudden intensity. “Philosophy is just as important as law. You should practice amor fati—loving your fate!” He gave Colleen a look that suggested shared intimacies.

        The salon’s hostess glanced around the room. “How’s your book coming along, Karen? Have you managed to figure out the addiction problem yet?”

        “Getting closer! I’m sucked into a computer game called Lucifer’s Reprieve and wow! Am I ever addicted! But that brings up something I’ve been meaning to ask you about, Diana. I didn’t realize how rapidly computer-game addiction was growing in the general population. I wonder if the VirGen isn’t likely to make things even worse?”

        Diana immediately assumed a defiant look. “People have always gotten addicted to things to help them escape from reality. You name it: liquor, drugs, sex, movies, television… even Rush Limbaugh! Some people are addicted to books! That may be the worst, because it’s completely anti-social. At least when you drink or go to the movies you’re with friends!”

        “But what about the VirGen? That’s not a social exper­ience.”

        “It can be programmed so any number of people can share the same hallucination, just like networked computer games.”

        “My God!” Holtzman breathed. “It’s what the monks talk about! They share communal visions, but only after years of study and practice.”

        Diana beamed. “We can do the same thing, using the VirGen. Each person in the group can combine his own life-experiences with the script images to create a shared Virtual Reality. Of course, that’s pretty much the way real life works too, when you come to think about it.”

        “Ah, yes,” the philosopher agreed. “Life’s but a waking dream!”

        Jeff broke in. “What about my near-death episode? Is that going to be a problem?”

        “Who knows? That’s why I want to create two versions of the injector, one for entertainment and the other for paranormal stuff. Just think: we could be on the verge of a door into the psychosphere! It might become as common to converse with the spirits of the dead as to call your mother on the phone. I know it sounds weird, but don’t laugh—today’s crazy idea is tomorrow’s reality.”

        A general discussion ensued which took up a good bit of the evening, since it appeared no one had brought anything to read but Naomi, who waited diffidently on her pillow in the corner. Eventually Diana called on her, however, and people settled back for the denouément of Harry and the Schoolmarm.

        Naomi had the manuscript turned to the page where she had left off. “I’ll read the last paragraph to remind you of what was going on.”

My kitchen is small and it suddenly seemed as if we were much closer together than before. We sat face to face across the table and enjoyed the pie and coffee. When he was finished, he made no move to go. I had hoped he wouldn’t rush off right away.

    Naomi continued the tale with a blow-by-blow description of what she obviously considered to be a sensitively erotic epi­sode. Even­tually it became quite explicit and Jeff wondered how much had come from Colleen, indirectly.

        In the end, the schoolmarm had been thoroughly seduced and ravished by her pupil, having been a most willing and yielding woman. Naomi’s voice became full of dark yearning, tempered by guilt and defiance, as she read the last paragraph.

Afterward, I made us more coffee. We sat smiling wordlessly, our eyes bright with remembered passion. But all too soon he headed home under the stars. As I watched his figure recede into the darkness, I wondered how I could manage to face class the next day. The thought of him looking up at me as usual was agonizing. I knew that what we had done was terribly wrong, especially the part when he was lying back on the sofa with one leg hanging off and I was kneeling in front of him. But he said it gave him a very special pleasure, and the warm glow that filled my body was worth it all. I knew if I ever got the chance I would do it again, all of it!

        Naomi laid the manuscript on the floor beside her and looked around uncertainly. When it became obvious she had finished, Bernie clapped enthusiastically. It set off a sympa­thetic wave of applause, even though that was not the usual practice after a reading.

        “That was superb!” Bernie gushed. “With a little work, that story could rival The Bridges of Madison County!”

        Colleen seemed to have been overcome by a sudden fit of coughing. Naomi frowned at her, then looked back at Bernie and batted her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. “Do you really think so?”

        “Absolutely! I only hope I can write as well, when I get around to it. You’re an inspiration. If a person your age can create something that powerfully moving, there’s no reason a person with all my years of experience can’t!”

        Naomi just looked at him, obviously at a loss for an appropriate response. She smiled modestly.

        Jeff drove Karen home at the end of the evening. After opening the door to her house she turned to him, took his hand in hers, and gave it a squeeze. “I think we both need to get to bed!” His eyes must have lit up because she added quickly, “Separately. I was going to invite you in, but maybe it’s not such a good idea right now. I’ll say good night out here.”

        He leaned over to give her lips a parting kiss, but she turned away at the last minute and offered a cheek instead.

Chapter 25

On Sunday Karen agreed to take a break from saving human­ity—in her role as the Avatar Lucifer—and accompany Jeff to Raquel’s matinée at Antonini’s. The actress had worked up a one-woman magic show that included sawing herself in half with a chain-saw. Karen held her hands to her eyes at the last minute, then peeked between her fingers as Jeff laughed at her.

        “How does she do that?” the psychologist asked later, as they were walking along the ocean beach. “I would have sworn the saw was going right through her hips!”

        Jeff smiled euphorically. The day was sultry and he had finally gotten Karen away from her computer. Seeing a show together was a breakthrough in their relationship and he was newly optimistic, feeling it could lead to other things quite naturally.

        “It’s pretty simple, actually. Luigi helped her with it. He’s an engineer, as you know, so they make a perfect team. She invents the tricks and he builds them. Remember how the long box was suspended over the fire? It looked as if she’d be roasted as well as sawed in half. But the fire is actually part of the illusion. The flames conceal a hidden chamber that she can lower her butt into when she lies down in the box. It’s well insulated against heat, of course. Then when she cuts through the box with the chain-saw it doesn’t come anywhere close to her body. Fortunately she’s slender and very supple.”

        Karen shook her head. “I think I’ll stick to cutting through emotional boxes and leave the high drama to Raquel! Speaking of high drama, how do you feel by today? Have you completely recovered from your VirGen adventure?”

        “Pretty well, thanks.” Her concern instantly increased his romantic feelings, and he assayed an arm around her waist. She pulled away and reminded him again of the California law that barred sex between a doctor—or any health-prac­ti­tioner—and a patient.

        “I’m not proposing sex, just a little friendly intimacy!”

        “Jeff, I thought I explained how I felt about that. You haven’t had enough time to work on your emotions yet, and I don’t feel comfortable with anything beyond simple friend­ship.”

        “Colleen thinks I’m nuts! You realize what this is doing to me, of course?”

        “It’s not my fault. I’m doing my best to help you.”

        “Ha.”

        “I am! You’ll understand later, after more body work.”

        “Can’t we accelerate the process somehow? Have you got time for more sessions?”

        “I suppose I could make time. I might have to charge you, though.”

        “I’ll pay, I’ll pay!”

        “I was kidding! We can’t go too fast, because you need time to integrate. It’s like weight-lifting. You need time to recover from each workout. But if you like, you can come around on Tuesday at four, and again on Thursday. How’s that strike you?”

                                     *   *   *   *

        The Tuesday afternoon session went very well, except that he became mildly eroticized, as she put it. “Try to let the erotic feelings spread out through your whole body, instead of keep­ing them confined to your genital area.”

        “I really have no control over it,” he apologized, as she ran her fingers up and down his torso, seeking out tense muscles.

        “That’s okay, you don’t need to. I’m retraining your body. Just let my fingers do the work, and don’t make a conscious effort to relax. There!” she said with a note of triumph. “See how your erection has subsided? You’re becoming degenital­ized. That’s a very healthy development.”

        “It is?”

        “Yes. When it comes to sensuality the focus for most men in this culture is on the sex organs. Women can feel good doing almost anything physical. Haven’t you ever noticed how happy a woman can be when she’s cooking or cleaning house? It’s tragic the way men have been cheated of that experience.”

        The psychologist continued her finger-stroking in silence. Jeff closed his eyes and felt the energy spreading pleasantly throughout his body. It reminded him of the massage Colleen had given him.

        “Uh-oh!” Karen stopped what she was doing. “I see we’ve gotten regenitalized again! Maybe what I’m doing brought back a memory of something overtly sexual.”

        “As a matter of fact, it did, but I’d rather not talk about it.”

        “Okay, I’m not asking you to repress any memories! But try to focus on the physical sensations my hands are producing, even if it makes you anxious at first. We want to get you to the point where you’re a happy, natural, animal instead of a horny, unnatural, man!”

        After the session he helped her with the novel, then she urged him to stay for supper. As they ate, it occurred to him that Karen might be able to help him decide what to do about Naomi. “I want to ask for your advice about something person­al, not as a therapist but as a friend.”

        “Okay.”

        “Both Colleen and Diana think it’s high time Naomi lost her virginity. Otherwise she’s stuck in a fantasy existence, at least when it comes to romance.”

        “They may be right, but so what?”

        “I’m getting to that. I know it’s a little chancy trying to manipulate someone for their own good, but it’s something people do all the time anyway. I figured that Adam, with all his experience—and his infatuation for Naomi—might be the ideal one to initiate her into the mysteries of the birds and the bees. So I got her to come for dinner when Adam was there, even though she usually gives him the cold shoulder.”

        “How did it go?”

        “It bombed! Adam’s preoccupation with his own problems makes him appear insensitive, so it looks like he’s not going to be the one for the job. Meanwhile, the women are urging me to play Sir Lancelot instead! I’m not sure what to do. Is this idea totally off the wall? I want to know what you think.”

        She sat back in her chair and leveled her gaze at him. “Now let me get this absolutely straight! You’re asking me whether I think you ought to try and seduce Naomi for her own good?” Karen’s voice rose several semi-tones in pitch as she spoke.

        “Ah…in a nutshell, yes. Frankly, I think it’s likely to happen anyway, in the normal course of events. Naomi’s giving me a play and I’m pretty frustrated, as you well know. One of these times—who knows? Since you’re my therapist, I thought it might be a good idea to run it by you.”

        “I thought you were asking me as a friend.”

        “That’s true, I did say that. But maybe as a therapist you could make a better call.”

        Karen crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I certainly can’t advise you on something that affects someone else’s life! Maybe I could if you were both my clients. As it is, ethically, my hands are tied. It’s a matter for the two of you to work out.”

        “Well, thanks anyway.”

        “But Jeff…” She leaned over and put a hand on his. “Speaking not as a therapist but as a friend, if what you say is true…you never know, it might help her. I’m not giving advice, you understand, just voicing an opinion. Diana and Colleen are both pretty savvy women. And it wouldn’t have to interfere with our own relationship, such as it is. I know you’re only thinking of what would be best for Naomi, and aren’t simply out to satisfy your own lust.”

        “God forbid I should do that!”

        She gave him a suspicious look. “I suppose you are getting pretty frustrated, living around all those attractive women.”

        “I can’t deny it. Even if the therapy works, it’s going to take time. Meanwhile, as you say, I’m frustrated.”

Chapter 26

Wednesday was a frenzy of activity as people prepared for the first big showcasing. Scheduled the next morning for an outfit called Paragon-Monarch Studios, it was designed to introduce the media world to the new dream-injector technology, which now incorporated the Autoscripter. Jeff took Toto to the show­room so he could enter notes on the preparations. The whole staff was there, beefed up now by people who had dropped out earlier from lack of money. Diana had taken care of back pay and put everyone on salary again. Luigi and Adam were in the midst of things, as was Walt, the dour technician who had loyally helped the operation along from the very beginning.

        Adam had found the bug in the software which had caused Jeff’s demo to abort, and was now testing new scripts. Starla and Walt cleaned up the large showroom and tried to make it look more like a theatrical venue with new carpets, designer-lights and framed artwork for the bare walls.

        Sidney Lethe was on the phone again, demanding a demo for his investors. Diana refused to take the call and had Starla tell him there was a lot of work to be done first. Bernie left a message asking how things were going and offering to help. When no one called him back, he drove to the showroom and made a pest of himself. He wanted to know why Colleen wasn’t there. Wasn’t she supposed to be a key member of the team?

        By evening Jeff decided he had seen enough. Back home he booted up Toto again so he could finish the day’s notes and catch up on correspondence. So much was happening so fast, all at once! He had to keep on top of it—this phase of the pro­ject would doubtless be a critical episode in the novel.

        He wrote to his editor:

Nelson: Just a note to keep you up to date. Things are looking sweeter now that our queen bee has found more honey! The VirGen is working again, and I’ve experienced it firsthand. I can now say this, unconditionally—it’s worth writing about! I take back what I said about Martin Schofield. The guy obviously knew what he was talking about. Diana is getting ready for live shows first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll keep you posted. Jeff.

        With his correspondence out of the way, Jeff settled into another project, this one for his commanding officer, the queen bee. Since he’d been functioning as her de facto financial adviser, he’d taken an interest in the contract she had been hashing over with Sidney Lethe & Co. From the smattering of business law he’d learned while researching Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips, the contract looked like a formula for disaster. Diana said she had written it herself. Now he pored over the text of a new contract he’d worked up. He had just put the finishing touches on the document, all seventeen pages of it, when she returned from the showroom late that evening. The noisy little printer was spewing forth copies, buzzing like a frantic insect. She knocked and pushed his door open, looking tired and frazzled, hair hanging in confused masses. “Jeff—what’s happening? I heard the printer going.”

        “It’s your new contract. If this doesn’t satisfy Sid and company, I don’t know what will! I’ve also made sure your interests are well protected.” He assembled one copy and stapled the pages.

        “Let me see it! We’ve got to review this, line by line. I want Craig and the others to go over it too.”

        “Good. When’s Craig getting back?”

        “He’s flying in on Saturday. God how I miss that man!” The disheveled woman’s eyes brightened through the veil of exhaustion and rested on his. Jeff found her direct gaze dis­concerting, but had learned that it was simply her habit to look people in the eye. Nevertheless, he couldn’t avoid the feeling there was more to it than that, at the moment.

        She seemed to give in to fatigue, and sat on the edge of his bed. He glanced apolo­getically at the tangle of blankets and pillows. “Sorry about the bed. Not one of my top priorities, I’m afraid.”

        She smiled absently. Clearly uncon­cerned about his house­keeping habits, she slid back and leaned against the wall, pull­ing her knees up and hugging them. “I can’t wait till he gets here! Sleeping alone is just not my thing. What’s this, Wed­nesday?” She counted on her fingers. “Tonight, tomorrow night, Friday night. Three more nights! Oh well. I suppose I can hold out—if I have to.”

        He returned her gaze uncertainly, trying to gauge the implication of “if I have to”. It was obvious she wouldn’t have to, if the two of them could agree on a mutually-satisfactory interim arrangement. She waited, watching him.

        The printer stopped just then. He assembled a second copy of the contract and stapled it, wondering whether he was being prudent or just cowardly. It crossed his mind to wonder whether he would have behaved in the same way before Karen had worked on him. His tendency had always been to act first and ask questions later.

        Diana sighed again and got off the bed. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning, then. We can review the contract later. I’m too tired right now. Good night!”

Chapter 27

“I never heard of Paragon-Monarch Studios. Who or what are they?” Jeff asked over breakfast Thursday morning.

        “They’re a media conglomerate. They own most of the big-name multimedia companies you have heard of. Once they’ve seen the Hallu they’ll insist on having it! Why don’t you come along and watch? Starla and Luigi and some of the others will be there. Adam can’t make it, but we don’t need him. He’s finished the scripts and tested them.”

        “If it’s anything like my experience, they’ll certainly be impressed!”

        “It better not be like your experience! I don’t want them going psychic on me. The so-called anomalous interference is why the Air Force canceled the project.”

        “Are you sure you can you prevent it?”

        “It only happens when there’s a lull in the action. Adam changed the program so it will jump ahead if the subject doesn’t react within five seconds. If the hallucinations can be main­tained at a high enough level of intensity, there’s no problem. For today’s demo, Adam’s using some of Colleen’s painted backgrounds along with clips of herself in action. It should be pretty stimulating.”

        “I can imagine!”

        Later, at the showroom, he met the people from Paragon-Monarch Studios, which turned out to be a single diminutive woman named Fran Hunter. Jeff shook her hand as Diana introduced him.

        She gave him a hard stare. “Where have I heard that name before? Wait—I know! You did the book for that motion-picture option we dropped recently. I’d apologize, but I had nothing to do with it.”

        “I wasn’t happy with the terms anyway, so don’t give it a thought.”

        “I won’t. What brings you to Hollywood?”

        “As it happens, I’m researching a new book centered around the machine you’re about to experience. I’m pretty excited about it!”

        “Is that so? Well, I hope you’re not disappointed. I’ve seen a lot of so-called breakthrough inventions that turned out to be ninety-nine percent hype.”

        Fran was of a type he’d met before—hard, highly-compe­tent, skeptical, a mid-level executive obviously sent out to get the facts, with a zero tolerance for nonsense. He was glad when the boss took over. Diana could usually charm anyone, although in this case he had his doubts. With her statuesque build, bee-hive pile of brown hair, and garrulous nature, Diana would be precisely the sort of person likely to offend this petite, feisty woman with her short-cropped hair, steel-rimmed glasses, and business suit.

        When everything had been explained to her satisfaction, Fran took her place on the test bed, wincing as Luigi attached the sensors to her body.

        Jeff spoke softly in Diana’s ear. “Any stiffer and I’d think she had rigor mortis!”

        “Shh!” she hissed at him impatiently, as Luigi lowered the helmet. Everyone stood in a ring around the machine to watch the demo, even though the only thing to be seen was Fran’s gradually softening body as the klystron radiated her brain-stem.

        Thinking back to Diana’s description of the adventure Fran was about to experience, Jeff was pensive. “I wonder how she’ll react to seeing Colleen in action?”

        “Luigi switched scripts at the last minute. Luckily he had one starring Adam himself. Fran ought to get off on that!”

        “I hope it’s not like that hot tub scene you described—the Lancelot thing.”

        “Scarcely! But he does strip if you get into that branch of the script. She looks like a cold fish to me, so she may never get into that branch. But it’s still an interesting adventure. She’ll find herself in a tropical paradise, alone on a beach. She’ll see footprints in the sand, and if she has any sense at all she’ll follow them. Eventually she’ll come across Adam, in ragged jeans and tee-shirt, working on an old hulk of a boat.”

        “I think it’s amazing you can inject all that into her mind, even considering my own experience.”

        “Her subconscious builds the visual scene from subliminal images, while a voice just below the conscious threshold guides her fantasy.” Diana explained how, if Fran warmed up to the sight of Adam, the script would suggest that she was advancing toward him, and when she got close enough his image would stand and greet her. All this had already been put on videotape, then digitized into the computer so it could be controlled a frame at a time. If her bodily responses were negative, Adam would go on working on the boat and not notice her. This was a critical juncture. With no definite response from her, the hal­lucination could become unstable and she might “go psychic”. What that would mean for Fran, no one could predict.

        “Adam’s program modification fixes it so that if she doesn’t respond, she’ll get a strong new stimulus—for example, a whale might leap out of the ocean suddenly. It’s important to keep the hallucination going intensely, to prevent a breakout into the psychosphere.”

        As they watched, Fran’s breathing became deeper. Jeff heard a sigh from within the helmet.

        “Looks like she’s getting into it!” Diana said happily.

        The petite woman’s breathing began to accelerate.

        Jeff was curious. “I wonder what she’s hallucinating now?”

        “We could check on the computer monitor. It shows which branch of the script she’s in. But I’d rather just watch her reactions. It’s tough keeping track on the monitor. The script has hundreds of branches and they don’t show up as pictures, only descriptions.”

        “I must not have gotten my fair share, then.”

        “You certainly didn’t! Sometime you’ll have to check out the Colleen script, which I know you’ll find exciting. The hallu­cinations can seem just as physical as real life. Normally, when you think you’re experiencing your body, what you’re really experiencing is your brain. Impulses come up from the body and stimulate the areas of the brain they’re wired into. Those same areas can also be stimulated by memories or hallucin­ations. That’s why you can have lucid dreams, in which you seem to have a solid body. Your brain is actually a complete simulation machine! All we’re doing is giving it suggestions and it does the rest.”

        By now Fran was breathing very heavily and rapidly, and making noises inside the helmet. Diana went over to the mon­itor, where Luigi was keeping track of Fran’s progress. “Jeff, come over here!”

        He joined them at the computer monitor. “She’s got her­self off on a dead-end branch that Adam said would never be used unless a person reacted negatively to absolutely every­thing! I wonder what’s happening?”

        “Uh-oh,” Luigi said. “Look at that!”

        “Shit! Adam’s thrown in a shot from King Kong! Probably his idea of a joke. Damn his ass, anyway! I’ll bet Fran thinks she’s Fay Wray and the ape’s got her in his fist. We better abort. Luigi, can you force the program into another branch so we can bring her down easily?”

        “I could, but it might be worse than just letting things go black. It’s the shock of having one reality turn into another.”

        “I guess you’re right. You better just terminate and get her out of there before she goes psychic. That’s all we need right now! Jeff, can you get ready to welcome her back to reality?”

        He positioned himself next to Fran and put on his most sympathetic expression as Luigi lifted the helmet. The woman’s face had turned gray and her eyes darted rapidly around the room before settling on the people next to her.

        “Whoosh!” she said at length, as the sensors were re­moved from her body. “What kind of Pandora’s Box have you opened up here? I have never in my life experienced anything like that! Can I have something to drink?”

        Diana looked down at her with an expression of concern, motioning at Starla to find something quickly. “How are you feeling?”

        “I’m wrung out emotionally! Such an intense experience! I don’t know what to make of it. That was certainly a handsome young man on the beach, but I felt if I got any closer he might turn out to be dangerous.”

        “He’s very nice and wouldn’t have hurt you.”

        “Well, I couldn’t know that, of course! It’s part of my job to play a lot of computer games. Just when you think you’re safe, something attacks you—as the gorilla did just now. That’s why I kept my distance from the man. It looked like he was holding a hammer, but it could have turned out to be a weapon.”

        Starla handed her a glass of soda. Fran took it gratefully and drank most of it at once. “Can you help me up? My body doesn’t seem to be responding properly.” As Jeff assisted her, she went on. “This thing could be dangerous, especially if it got into the wrong hands! I had no idea it would be so realistic.”

        “It really is, isn’t it?” Diana agreed emphatically.

        “I’ll have to reserve judgment as to its use in the entertainment field. I can’t exactly see how it would qualify as a new mass medium. It would be far too expensive to equip theaters with these machines. Maybe as a theme-park attraction...”

        “Exactly! That’s just what we had in mind. Of course, once the price comes down people could enjoy the VirGen at home, too.”

        Fran shook her head. “I don’t think most people would want their children to have such intensely-realistic fantasy experiences. Can you imagine being totally immersed in Grand Theft Auto? I shudder to think of it.”

        Jeff and Diana walked out to the parking lot with her. The woman strutted with quick little steps, high heels clicking on the pavement, making it hard to keep up with her.

        “What do you think?” Diana insisted. “Don’t you agree there’s a place for the VirGen in the multimedia world? Nobody has anything like it!”

        “I’ll grant you that much. Whoever gains control of this machine will have something unique to work with. But they’ll have to work fast. I understand the principle you’re using here, and you can’t patent a principle.”

        She opened her car door. “I’ll make a full report to my superiors, and then it’s up to them. Please don’t phone me, since I’m very busy. If I want more information I’ll call you. Thanks for...a most remarkable experience!” She allowed a small, formal, smile to cross her face as she shook hands and got in the car.

        When Fran had gone, Diana stamped her foot. “Damn Paragon, anyway! Why couldn’t they have sent a man? We would have played the Colleen script and he would have come out of the Hallu like melted butter! Instead we get this uptight little bitch. People like that keep their jobs by playing it safe. She’ll go back and tell them we aren’t quite ready for prime time. I know the type!”

        Back at the house again, Diana called Paragon and insisted on speaking with Fran Hunter’s superior. He was in a meeting, his secretary said, but she’d ask him to call back as soon as it was over. Diana fumed and got out the vacuum cleaner. For the next hour it wasn’t safe to be anywhere in her vicinity. Jeff made himself scarce in his room and communed with Toto, who seemed to find the story amusing. Toto always created a lot of typo’s when he was amused. The phone rang several times. Jeff hoped that at least one of the calls was from Para­gon-Monarch.

        As he was finishing with his notes, the door burst open. “Guess what? I was wrong! Fran went back there and prac­tically came in her supervisor’s ear! I just got off the phone with him. I guess she figured she’d better clue him in, in case word got to him from some other channel first. He wants to schedule another demo for himself and his own boss first thing in the morning! I take back what I said about Fran. No I don’t! She only did it out of fear. I still don’t like her. But I don’t care—I guess it takes all kinds.”

        She was practically babbling from sheer happiness.

Chapter 28

It was four that afternoon and therapy-time again. Now Jeff looked forward to it eagerly—in contrast with the first session a week earlier. They’d made good progress in Tuesday’s session, and he was beginning to enjoy the full-body sensuality Karen was teaching him.

        He had stripped to his shorts and now lay on his back on her massage table. His therapist said, “Before we start, it’s best if I determine your ambient libido level. A certain amount of libido can help, but too much interferes with the bodywork. Can you get a sense of it, and give me an indication on a scale from one to ten?”

        Jeff checked out his inner condition. “I would say my ambient libido level, as you put it, is a lot closer to ten than one.”

        The therapist gave him a pro forma smile, which said she was fully cognizant of the parameters of the situation and was prepared to deal with it. Jeff relaxed slightly. She looked down at him with her fingertips on the edge of the table, punctuating the smile with a slight frown. “First I want you to understand that the field of psychology is quite broad and embraces many therapeutic practices beyond those familiar to most lay people. I’m saying this so you won’t jump to any unwarranted conclu­sions. It may strike you that what I will be attempting is strange or unusual, but in fact it is simply one of the methods used in classical Reichian therapy.”

        “Really. Okay. I guess I can accept that, depending.”

        “The law makes exceptions for certain techniques as long as they remain within the bounds of generally-recognized thera­peutic approaches. I want you to understand that, before I con­tinue.”

        Jeff indicated his comprehension with a nod, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

        “Before we proceed, it will be necessary—just this once—for you to strip completely. Here, I can take those. Good. Now in today’s session I’ll be helping you overcome your sexual dysfunctionality.”

        “I don’t think I’m dysfunctional.”

        “But you’re not functioning sexually, correct?”

        “Through no fault of my own.”

        “That is as it may be. All I’m suggesting is some thera­peutic exercises which will address your condition of chron­ically-elevated libido. They’ll be along the lines of what we’ve been doing up till now, but with a slightly different focus. You may recall that I have been emphasizing whole-body sensuality, by encouraging the migration of libidinous energy away from the genital area and into the soma. Today I’ll begin with that technique as usual, but then reverse it.”

        What followed was delightfully similar to his experience with Colleen, except that Karen began with strokes designed to lead energy away from its source and into the rest of his body, first. When she sensed he was feeling thoroughly relaxed, she changed the direction of the strokes. “Now we are regenital­izing the energy in order to move towards orgastic sufficiency. Inadequate conclusion of the libidinous arousal can be respon­sible for chronic nervous excitability. The typical male climax is usually premature, due to defensive armoring which prevents the energy from spreading into the somatic tissues fully. That’s why I began with the typical degenitalizing strokes, and only now am regenitalizing the energy. How are you experiencing this?”

        It was an effort to talk, and he failed at it.

        “That’s all right. It’s not important that you verbalize at this point. I simply want to make sure you’re fully conscious of what I’m saying, so you can participate in the process mentally and physically.”

        He managed a faint smile, just to show she was getting through to him.

        “Do you feel the energy flowing back towards the genital area?”

        He nodded helplessly.

        “All right then, just relax and let it happen. We’re going to move toward an increase in orgastic sufficiency which should take care of your libido problem for several days at least.”

        The therapist continued rebuilding his level of genitalized libidinous excitation. As she applied the varying techniques, he found it surprising that more people did not insist on this psy­cho­therapeutic approach. His body was responding magnif­icently. Periodically she would assure him that things were on track or, as she put it, satisfying the parameters of classical Reichian methodology. She asked him to try and feel the ac­cumulation of energy in his procreative organs. He tried, and did.

        “The key is to delay the concluding event for as long as possible, while increasing the level of libidinous tension. It’s important that the energy level be kept on a slowly rising curve. Too little stimulation, and the level falls; too much and it peaks prematurely. A fine balance has to be maintained. This is why I’m alternating between high and low arousal techniques, while avoiding anything that might precipitate the concluding event before there has been a sufficient accumulation of energy.”

        After some minutes she seemed to sense that conditions were now right. All at once she sent his excitement curve sharply higher by introducing a brand new arousal technique that caught him off guard, and it produced the concluding event with dramatic impact. He groaned in ecstasy, too overcome to be embarrassed. It was an overflowing never before exper­ienced. Compared with Karen, Colleen was a rank amateur. He wondered how both of them would feel about that assessment, as his mind reeled from the psychic impact of the suddenly-released energy.

        Eventually his breathing slowed. “Don’t be in a hurry to get up. It’s important to come to terms with your feelings. The afterglow is important too. Let your mind wander all over your body and try to appreciate what a magnificent instrument it is.”

        He did as instructed, in no hurry to get up anyway. Finally he opened his eyes. “Are you sure this sort of thing doesn’t put you off?”

        “Not at all. In fact, I enjoy getting back into this branch of therapy every so often. It’s been quite some time since I’ve taken anyone through the entire sequence. You have nothing to worry about. I know that men always feel they should be active and in control, but sexual activity works best when you just turn it over to your body and let your mind be a passive observer. This experience should help you be a much better lover.”

        Karen gave him a sweet smile and that reassured him somewhat, but it was still very hard for him to grasp what their relationship was and what it might evolve into. In some ways it had been a typical courtship, with dinner and a show and walks on the beach. In other ways it was anything but typical. She hadn’t permitted any of the physical intimacies common to courtship, yet she had given him an orgasm on a massage table as if she’d been a retired prostitute like Colleen. It was totally baffling.

        When he was dressed and they were sitting across from each other at her desk, she brought up the matter of Naomi again. “How’s it look? Do you think there’s any possibility she’ll give Adam a chance?”

        “She’s coming to dinner again tomorrow night, in spite of last week’s fiasco. I’ve been urging her to be gentler with Adam, and remember he’s a human being first, whatever else she may think he is. We’re still hoping she might open up to him—emotionally, that is.”

        “Of course. But it doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to see that Naomi prefers you over Adam. I wouldn’t be sur­prised if things turn out the way you suggested, and if they do I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

        “Karen, you amaze me. You can sit there as cool as a cucumber, knowing how I feel about you, and tell me to go ahead and have an affair with Naomi.” He shook his head in bewilderment.

        She reached out and took his hand, and patted it. “You see, that’s precisely why I wasn’t willing to get into any sort of serious relationship with you. You simply have no under­stand­ing of these things, so you can’t experience the way I feel about the situation. The idea that I can care for you and enjoy being with you, and yet be content for you to engage in sex with Naomi, is completely foreign to your way of thinking and feeling.”

        He dropped his eyes. “I’m afraid it is. Well, at least we’re making progress, aren’t we?”

        “I think we are, yes.”

Chapter 29

The following morning a somewhat mel