PAUL DI FILIPPO

Seeing Is Believing

RON FEWSMITH WAS ABOUT to rob a bank.

Armed only with a color Palm Pilot.

In person, not virtually.

Pausing momentarily outside the heavy glass doors of Merchants' Trust, Fewsmith mentally ticked off the steps in his plan again. Recollections from a hundred heist films interrupted, racing across his cinemaphile's brain. But as customers bustled past him, intent on doing their business this bright Monday morning, Fewsmith broke his reverie, realizing he shouldn't dawdle too long in this spot, lest he attract attention. Still, he hesitated a moment longer, highlighting the stages of his scheme.

He felt assured about all aspects involving the human element. Long months of diligent experimentation had left him confident that no individual in the bank would offer him any resistance, so long as he held firmly to his little Digital Assistant and remained free to deploy it. In fact, events should transpire so smoothly that no employee of the bank would realize that a robbery was even in progress. Only reconciliation of the day's transactions later that night would reveal a shortage of cash. And by then Fewsmith would be safely home, untraceable.

No, his only risk lay in the security cameras. The cameras made him sweat. There was no way that he could alter the images recorded by these monitors. Hence his disguise and adopted persona.

Fewsmith wore a large handlebar mustache reminiscent of one a nineteenth-century pugilist might have favored. Colored contacts altered his eyes. His clothing betokened some recent immigrant to these shores, perhaps a rube from the Balkans or outermost Albania. And his burlesque accent had been practiced for days.

Thus armed and accoutered Fewsmith felt, on the whole, confident of success. So: no more hesitation over this highly practical debut of his invention. Into the bank!

After joining the short line of customers standing more or less patiently in the chute of velvet ropes, Fewsmith quickly advanced to lead position. When called by the next available teller, Fewsmith put on a big smile and strode boldly forward.

The teller -- a young pimple-faced fellow wearing a clip-on tie instinctively smiled back. "How can I help you, sir?"

Fewsmith removed a sheaf of tattered foreign currency from his pocket and plopped it on the counter. "You change?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to see one of our customer service reps for that."

"No understand. Please to use translator."

Fewsmith proffered the Palm Pilot and the clerk reluctantly took it.

"Is this like some kind of computer dictionary? What do I do?"

"Push button here."

The teller depressed the indicated control.

Instantly a series of whirling alien glyphs, phantasmagorical in their variety and motions, flooded the color screen. When these icons cleared they were followed by a compressed digital movie, flickering at a subliminal rate. Fewsmith had carefully crafted the loop out of snippets from an old industrial training film that depicted stacks of cash being removed from a drawer and passed through a teller's slot.

The clerk seemed staggered for a millisecond by this mini-movie, but quickly recovered, his faculties apparently undisturbed. "I'm sorry, sir, but this screen's blank. Your machine must be broken."

Handing the device back, the teller reached into his cash drawer and removed a half-dozen fat stacks of banded cash. His hands seemed to be operating independently of his consciousness, as if two separate personalities shared his brain and body. The effect was disconcerting even to Fewsmith, who had witnessed it before.

Passing the money to Fewsmith, the teller said, "Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."

Fewsmith deposited both the bait money and the U.S. cash in capacious coat pockets. "Tenk you."

Fewsmith nodded to the armed security guard on the way out, ready with a second digital movie, tailored for just such a situation and safely stored in the terabyte memory of the PDA, to show the guard if necessary. But the rent-a-cop suspected nothing and merely nodded politely back.

Outside the bank Fewsmith walked several blocks to an alley. He discarded his mustache in a dumpster, found the change of clothes he had hidden there and swiftly donned them. He transferred the money to new pockets. The Albanian costume joined the mustache in the trash. He retrieved his car another few blocks on and headed home.

Triumph! Willadean would be most proud of him! Perhaps she would even finally consent to go to bed with him.

And if not -- well, Fewsmith tremulously admitted a harsh yet welcome truth to himself for the first time. If Willadean continued to play hard to get, he now knew for sure that he could have her against her will, or any woman he wanted.

"Tenk you very much!"

STINGO STRINE TILTED back the Paw Sox cap atop his balding head and scratched his gleaming pate. He studied the imploring, hopeful, anxious face of the president of Merchants' Trust, a corpulent fellow named Shawn Hockaday. The immaculately besuited fat man looked as if he were on the verge of tears. Strine felt a deep urge to help the poor guy. But at the moment he felt as baffled as the executive himself obviously did.

"Play the tape again, please," Strine urged in a desperate bid for inspiration.

Hockaday thumbed the remote control, and both Strine and he concentrated on the screen of the small TV in the president's office..

The camera perspective was from high over the shoulder of the teller at his station. The black-and-white images were remarkably crisp. All events unfolded in plain sight. Nonetheless, they remained as baffling as ever.

The mustached man lent his PDA to the clerk, who studied it for only a moment before returning it, along with approximately one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in unmarked, un-dye-packed bills. Then the customer left and the teller went calmly about his business.

The tape ended and Hockaday turned to Strine. "It was a simple holdup note on the PDA screen, wasn't it? That's what it had to be."

"Well, you know, that's exactly what I thought at first. Some new high-tech twist on the oldest routine imaginable. But a simple note demanding dough doesn't explain the rest of it."

Strine referred to the fate of the hapless teller, who had been immediately suspected of collusion with the thief. Upon discovery of his malfeasance, he had been hauled shaking and stammering into police interrogation. Steadfastly denying all wrong-doing or even knowledge thereof, the kid had consented not only to a polygraph test, but also to a course of sodium pentothal. Both approaches had been conclusive

As far as the teller knew, nothing unusual had occurred that day. No robbery, no foreign customer. When shown the tape of his actions, he had fainted. Revived and white-faced, he looked as if he had walked into his apartment and discovered his doppelgaänger screwing his girlfriend.

"Any luck on enlarging the screen of the PDA so we could read it" asked Strine.

"None. The face of the device was blocked by Mr. Fergus's body."

Strine stood up with barely contained irritation The absurd face of the robber, his baffling actions -- both irked him immensely. How had this guy done it ? In fact, what had he even done? This situation was more frustrating than the Buckner Tunnel. Not since the botched rotator-cuff surgery that had ended his professional career had he felt so powerless.

Strine hated to look uncertain in front of a client, especially one this important. Strine's caseload had been pretty pitiful these past six months, and scoring big here could garner him lots more business.

Generally, Strine avoided hypothesizing openly before a client, but in this case frustration forced the words out of him.

"Maybe the PDA was chemically tainted with some kind of knockout drug or hallucinogen. But the perp didn't wear gloves. And what kind of drug has those effects? Leaving someone awake, making him act against his will, then wiping his memory? Could it be hypnotism? It didn't look like any hypnotism I've ever seen. And it was over too fast."

"Mr. Strine, we summoned you because we felt we needed more coverage than the authorities could provide. But if you feel the dimensions of this investigation are beyond you, perhaps we should call in a larger agency."

"No! Give me a fair shot at it. I've only just come on the case. If I don't have something solid to report in twenty-four hours, then you can yank me off it."

"Very well then. I'll be awaiting your first report."

Strine was ushered genteelly out the back door. Out on the street, he belabored his brain.

Who could he consult about this? What kind of expert? A hacker? But there had been nothing extraordinary about the PDA, no online mumbo-jumbo. No, the answer had to lie in what Fergus had seen on the screen

What Fergus had seen. Now Strine knew whom he had to visit.

If only Professor Parrish Maxfield would talk to him after that very unfortunate date Strine had taken her on.

Willadean Lawes riffled the stack of cash gleefully as Ron Fewsmith looked on with hopeful adoration, an adoration tinged, however, with no small impatience.

Her lustrous tawny hair -- a mop big as a muskrat -- swirled as Willadean tossed a handful of bills into the air with a shout. She failed to note her boyfriend's subliminal impatience; or, if noted, she could not be bothered to cater to the emotion. The sight of more money than she had ever before beheld utterly captivated her. To think that little Willadean, whom all the good folks of Pine Mountain, Georgia, had looked down on as white trash, now had enough money to buy the best house back home in her native town. Well, maybe not the old Bishop mansion, but at least a house better than the drafty shack she had been born and raised up in.

And this was just the start! From here on out, Ron and Willadean were on Easy Street. They'd soon be deeper in cash and all the good things of life than a mudbug in muck. Finally Willadean Lawes would have what she deserved. And when Willadean rolled back into Pine Mountain, dressed in designer clothes and sitting pretty behind the wheel of a big new Cadillac, she'd just like to see Shem Bishop try to look down her nose at her. Why her sneer would be big as a doublewide trailer!

Fewsmith reached across the table and gently stroked Willadean's wrist. "Dearest, what do you say? How about a little reward for your daring bank robber?"

Leaning across the table, Willadean gave her beau a peck on the cheek. His disappointment rivaled her glee.

"Willadean -- " Fewsmith began stridently.

"Oh, hush now, Ron. You know I ain't letting you into my pants until after we're married. And there won't be no marriage until we are on a totally solid financial footing. That's why we need to start thinking about making our big score, and soon."

Fewsmith's hand strayed menacingly toward his holstered Palm Pilot, but Willadean only leered in supreme confidence.

"Now don't go thinking you're gonna start sending instructions to my ol' Executive Structure that easily. It's a neat trick you've discovered, but it only works if the victim ain't ready for it. Ali's I've gotta do is shut my eyes or look away, and your gimmick is useless. And don't think I didn't see you uploading all those porno loops into that gadget, thinking to imprint me with 'em. Lord, I never knew anyone could make plain ol' sex as complicated as those folks did! But you'll just have to restrain yourself a little longer. Grub up some rocks in the pasture, or chop some logs for the woodpile. That always worked for my Daddy after Momma passed on, God bless her soul."

Fewsmith looked disconcerted. "Pasture? Woodpile? I live in a condominium, Willadean!"

"No matter, you get my drift."

Fewsmith's face assumed a devious expression. "What if I use the Level

One Bypasser on some other woman then? Would you be angry with me?"

Willadean experienced a deep satisfaction at this proposal. Having Fewsmith despunked by someone else would be a relief. So long as the unlucky bitch didn't set her claws into Willadean's gravy train. But she was crafty enough not to show her true feelings. Frowning, she said, "Well, I don't know. I'd be awfully jealous at first. But I suppose every man's entitled to a little tomcatting before he gets hitched."

Smiling broadly, Fewsmith said, "It's settled then. I promise you I'll be extremely careful, Willadean. I'll use all the proper protection. You have nothing to fear in the way of venereal repercussions."

Willadean paused a moment to consider her own variegated past love life, then said, "That's mighty thoughtful of you, Ron." Then, despite her initial lack of interest in the topic, she became intrigued by the notion of Ron Fewsmith attempting to seduce some strange woman, even with the aid of his Consciousness Bypassing Device. Hard to imagine any sexual bravado from this joker, even armed with his digital seducer. Why, when she had latched onto him in that yuppie bar a year ago, she damn near had to drag him out from under his barstool.

"You just gonna walk up to some gal on the street and zap her?"

"Far from it. I have a certain, ah, conquest in mind. Someone who's seen fit to deride my scientific abilities in the past. My only regret is that she won't retain any memory of the proof that my theories were correct all along."

PROFESSOR PARRISH MAXFIELD had a run in her stockings, a long hideous laddering from ankle to hemline (and that border hovered well above her knees), visible from across a large room, and the sartorial blemish couldn't have surfaced at a worse time. Not only had she been scheduled that morning to deliver an important presentation to the Board of Directors of Memetic Solutions, but now the infuriating yet attractive Stingo Strine had shown up on her office doorstep. His humble attitude, literally cap in hand, failed to mollify Parrish. Not only was she irritable from the massed gazes of the Boardmembers on her legs rather than on her Power Point slides, but the memory of her first and only date with Strine still rankled.

Last summer, Parrish had promised to take her nephew Horace to a weekend Pawtucket Red Sox game. The Paw Sox were the farm team for the Boston Sox, and usually put on a good show.

Prior to the game, Horace had cajoled her into angling for an autograph from the Paw Sox's pitcher, one Stingo Strine. The popular Strine was attempting a comeback after complicated shoulder surgery, a comeback that would soon prove impossible. But on that day he was still cocky and confident.

Horace had led his aunt to the lowest tier of stadium seats. From this vantage, fans could dangle balls and pens down via plastic pails on ropes to the players as they entered onto the field. Spotting Strine, Horace had begun yelling the pitcher's name and jagging his lure like an overanxious fisherman.

Strine had been ready to walk past the offered baseball until he looked up and spotted Parrish. Smiling broadly, he took the ball and scribbled something across it, then trotted out onto the field.

Gleefully, Horace hauled up his prize. He studied the ball and a confused expression clouded his face.

"Auntie Parrish, what's this mean?"

Parrish took the ball. Strine had indeed autographed it. But he had also included the comment "Pitchers do it until they get relief," and his phone number.

After her indignation had faded, Parrish inexplicably found herself experiencing a growing interest in this arrogant ballplayer. Did he think he was propositioning a married woman? Did he care? His performance that day, pitching several respectable innings despite obvious pain, also intrigued her.

After returning Horace to his parents, Parrish called the number on the ball.

Next weekend Strine arrived at her house in a vintage Mustang. He wouldn't tell her where they were going. With good reason, for their destination proved to be a strip club named Captains Curvaceous, "popular with all the hip guys on the team."

The evening went downhill from there, culminating in a short wrestling match in the Mustang which made Parrish feel as if she had somehow vaulted back to 1965.

Several calls from Strine afterward had earned him nothing but the blast of receiver smashing into cradle.

And now here he stood, suitably hangdog and repentant. But intrinsically changed? Parrish had her doubts.

Before she could order him out, Strine launched into an obviously well-rehearsed speech.

"Professor Maxfield, I just want you to know that I'm here for professional reasons, not personal ones. But before I get into the nature of my visit, I'd just like to apologize for my treatment of you last year. I was under a lot of stress then, physical and emotional, and I was hooked on pain meds too. I realize that's not an excuse, but I just wanted you to know where my head was at then. It was a crummy place to be, and you stepped right into it. But things have changed for me since then."

"Oh, yeah? How? Did you get traded to a Little League team?" Strine winced. "No, I left the game entirely. I finally admitted to myself that my pitching career was over, without ever getting to the majors. It was real hard to let go of a childhood dream, but I think I'm better off now."

Parrish felt bad, despite her ire. Maybe she had misjudged this guy.

"So, what are you doing now?"

Strine put his cap back on and took out a business card. Parrish took it, read it, and was stunned.

"Private investigator?"

"It was my uncle's firm. He took me in full-time last year just before he retired. I used to help him during the off-season, so I had a pretty good grasp of the business."

"And a case brings you here to me now?"

Strine pulled up a chair and leaned forward earnestly. He recounted the whole story of the Merchants' Trust robbery, concluding, "So the only thing I could come up with is, this guy's using some radical, unknown kind of mind-control device. And then I remembered that was your field."

Indeed, during various nervous moments of that awful evening Parrish had babbled about her researches. She was surprised that any of her words had penetrated against the competing assaults of lap dances and jello-wrestling by bimbos with more silicone in them than a Home Depot caulking aisle. It was a miracle that Strine had remembered her end of the conversation, such as it was.

"Well, I wouldn't call what we do here at Memetic Solutions 'mindcontrol.' Although we are studying the way various ideas can colonize people's minds. But, yes, there are certain applications...." Despite her resolve not to get involved with any aspect of Strine's life, Parrish found herself becoming professionally interested. "Summarize for me again what the robber did."

"He convinced an innocent honest kid to steal from his employer and then forget all about it. It was almost like he temporarily stole the kid's consciousness, or bypassed it entirely."

Parrish frowned. "Bypass -- No, it couldn't be -- "

"What? Tell me! You onto something?"

Parrish stood up and began to pace. She turned to confront Stone with a demand.

"Tell me -- what do you know about modern theories of consciousness?"

"About as much as you know about pitching."

"Well, let me see if I can bring you up to speed. One of the most radical new theories about how our brains work maintains that the self you imagine to be in control of your mind -- the structure you might think of as your ego or consciousness -- is simply a shallow mask over much deeper processes. And it is these processes which determine our behaviors."

Strine scowled. "You're telling me we're all zombies or puppets? I don't buy that."

"Oh, but in a way, we are. That is, if you insist on identifying only with these facades. But if you chose to displace your sense of self deeper -- well then, there's no problem."

"So you say."

Parrish felt rhetorical fire building, her typical reaction to encountering disagreement. "Look, any seemingly reasoned actions you take, any ideas or opinions or conclusions you formulate, any likes or dislikes you characterize as quintessentially 'you' -- none of these actually originate in the outer levels of your brain. None of them are a result of the supposedly rational chains of reasoning you can observe, which are in reality always constructed after the fact. They all flow from the depths upward. Even sensory impressions are not permitted to be acknowledged by the mask of consciousness unless the lower levels first select them and pass them on -- a process called 'outing.'"

Strine's face reflected the contortions he was going through while trying to internalize this re-ordering of existence. "What about free will then?"

"Oh, you've still got free will. It just doesn't reside where you imagined it did.'

Strine pondered this, then finally said, "It's like the Wizard of Oz."

"Huh?"

"You remember. Everyone thinks Oz is this big glowing head. But Oz is really a little guy pulling levers in a hidden booth."

"Almost exactly! But now imagine that the glowing head has some semblance of fake autonomy and believes that it's really running things. 'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,' the head says on its own, and believes it! We call this face of Oz 'Level One,' the aspect of your mind that imagines it runs things. Level One is a two-dimensional skin, without actual free will. Level Two is analogous to the subconscious, the deep three-dimensional realm where all the important things get hashed out. And the Central Executive Structure is the intermediary between them, the mechanism that selects what will be outed. Level One simply performs and believes whatever the Central Executive Structure sends it. And Level One has no direct access to the workings of Level Two."

Strine lifted his cap and brushed a hand across his bald strip. Parrish thought the humble gesture rather charming.

"Man, this is your job, to sit here all day and think up this weird stuff? And I thought my business was oddball. How can you hope to get anything marketable out of this kind of blue-sky stuff?"

"Well, admittedly, the hypothesis I just outlined has stalled at the theoretical level. I myself have moved on to other areas of research. But there was one guy here who just wouldn't let go of this paradigm. A real fanatic. He kept pushing and pushing, claiming that he was learning the 'protocols' of the Central Executive Structure and the 'grammar' of Level Two. He said his goal was to insert orders into Level Two, which would then be transmitted through the CES and manifest as programmed actions in the subject. He actually got some intriguing results. But he refused to take new direction from the Board, and eventually he got fired."

Standing excitedly, Strine said, "A mad scientist with a grudge. That's perfect! What's his name?" Before Parrish could answer, her intercom bleeped. "Doctor Maxfield, Ron Fewsmith is here to see you."

ADJUSTING THE DRAPE of his jacket, Fewsmith opened the familiar door to Doctor Maxfield's office. He pictured himself as the quiet yet deadly protagonist of the Coen Brothers' The Man Who Wasn't There, going to his fateful interview with his wife's lover. How often had he passed through this door, eager to share his latest findings with his beautiful coworker, only to be shot down like a lovestruck duck falling for a decoy? For that was what Maxfield was: a cold, hard, wooden imitation of the woman he needed her to be. She had derided both his timid overtures of undying love and his scientific discoveries. Thank goodness he had fallen in with Willadean, strict though she was! At least Willadean cared for him! True, the difference between the two women was like the difference between Veronica Lake and Christina Ricci. But now the invincible Professor Maxfield would pay for years of insults with her glamorous body, which luckily did not share the hardened nature of her mind. A mind completely amenable to whatever Fewsmith chose to insert within it.

But there was no sense in appearing slovenly, even though Maxfield would retain no memory of his visit. He did not want to endure her contempt even for one embarrassing minute that would later be wiped from her mental record.

Fewsmith strode boldly into the dragon's den. But he was brought up short by the unexpected presence of another person, standing at some remove from Maxfield and her desk. The stranger was a largish, hulking, low-browed type. Obviously not a fellow scientist, but probably one of the janitors here to replace a lightbulb. Or, at a stretch, a phone technician perhaps. Although the man held no tools -- No matter, he'd be easy to dismiss.

"Hello, Parrish. It's good to see you again."

"I don't wish I could say the same, Ron. What do you want?"

"I'm here to share something of vast importance with you, Parrish. A discovery so enormous that it will revolutionize life as we know it. But I can only tell you in private."

"No can do, Ron. You can spill anything you want to tell me in front of my colleague here, Professor Strine."

Fewsmith narrowed his eyes on the stranger. Was that ridiculous cap he wore advertising a sports team? "Professor Strine? Really? I don't believe I've ever seen any of your papers before in the customary journals."

The fellow glared back. "I only publish in, ah, foreign ones."

The man was a buffoon. Fewsmith had no idea what connection Strine bore to Parrish Maxfield, but he was plainly a trivial nuisance. Strine would be easily disposed of once Maxfield had gotten her dose of erotic instructions. "Oh, that explains it then. Pardon me. Very well, I'll be happy to let both of you in on my discovery. You first, Parrish. Just take a look here."

Fewsmith unlimbered his PDA and held it in front of Maxfield's eyes. He triggered the sequence intended specifically for her, and in one short compressed burst the visual commands raced past her sight and penetrated her Level Two.

Fewsmith stepped back and keyed up the general-purpose immobilizing sequence he had once intended to use on the bank guard. "Now it's your turn, Professor Strine."

But Strine did not react as expected. Instead, he leaped upon Fewsmith and began struggling for control of the Palm Pilot. The two men careened around the office clumsily, tumbling over chairs and dislodging books from the bookcase, until Strine finally wrested the PDA away. Sweating, frightened and disheveled, Fewsmith staggered back against the outer door, fumbling for the handle. Grinning nastily, Strine advanced on him.

But then a long low moan interrupted, and both men found their attention drawn to Doctor Parrish Maxfield.

She had stripped off all her clothes and stood writhing and fondling herself like Pamela Anderson at a satyrs' convention.

Strine froze, and the naked professor hurled herself upon the detective, the closest male available, in order to satisfy the script she was running.

Fewsmith used the opportunity to escape. He dashed out past the startled receptionist, fully expecting Strine to collar him at any moment. But the man never appeared, and, out in the parking lot, Fewsmith slowed, panting. He could safely assume that his pursuer had his hands full.

After all, those routines he had scripted -- sexual exercises whose delights Strine was even now usurping from their rightful recipient! -- were enough to keep any man busy.

Even if the lucky, damnable bastard was trying to escape them!

The only suitable covering to cloak a naked woman available at Memetic Solutions proved to be a large silver mylar sheet from one of the animal testing labs, where semiotic simians passed primitive memes back and forth in controlled circumstances.

Wrapped up like a baked potato in foil, Professor Parrish Maxfield sat on an office chair next to her pile of ripped and unsalvageable clothing. Her disarrayed hair framed an angry face. Her legs were crossed at the knees and one anomalously shod foot, suspended in midair, bobbed with furious impatience.

Strine admired her composure. He doubted that had their roles been reversed, he could have shown such sangfroid.

Battling the amorous advances of the professor had taken all of Strine's efforts. Luckily, the office door had slammed behind Fewsmith on his hasty way out, and no curious co-worker had intervened to witness the tussle.

Dominated by the script Fewsmith had uploaded to her Central Executive Structure, Parrish had wrestled Strine to the floor. There, oblivious to his clothed state and lack of cooperation, she had enacted a variety of sexual situations, one posture after another, her face simulating all the requisite emotions and reactions, the appropriate repertoire of sounds and encouragements issuing from her lips. All Strine could do was to hold her tight and constrain her wild bucking so that she did not harm herself.

Needless to say, wrestling thus with a naked woman -- particularly one he had earlier fantasized about -- caused no small degree of excitement in Strine's own pelvic region, despite the bizarre and unwarranted nature of the attempted copulation. Before too long, Strine's pants could have illustrated the tent pages from the REI catalog.

Thankfully, once Parrish reached the end of the enforced simulation, her instant confusion and lack of immediate memories, her distress at suddenly finding herself naked -- all these created a confusion that helped Strine conceal his problem until it had subsided.

Strine had initially said, "Everything's okay. Don't worry. It was Fewsmith, but I stopped him. Wait here."

With a half-assed excuse he had convinced the curious but respectful receptionist of the urgent need for a covering of some sort, and, once the blanket was found, darted back into Parrish's office. She wrapped herself up, and Strine explained everything to her.

Parrish's last memory ended with the receptionist announcing Fewsmith's arrival. So far as Parrish knew, the man had never even entered her office.

As the full implications of what she had just undergone hit her, Parrish Maxfield moved from a flushed embarrassment to rage.

"That bastard! He planned to use me like some kind of mindless sex toy! Well, there's no question now. I'm coming with you when you go after him."

"Hold on now a minute. This could be very dangerous. I don't think you realize -- "

"Dangerous? How could that little twerp be dangerous ? We've got his gadget, don't we?"

"Sure. But he must have another, or can get one fast. It's just a Palm Pilot, after all. It's these files that are deadly, and I'm sure he's got backups of those."

"Hand that over."

Strine gave Parrish the PDA. She jabbed at its buttons.

"Don't!"

"I'm just bringing up the directory. Hmmm.... These file names are pretty cryptic. 'Marching,' 'Surrender,' 'Handover'.... Hard to tell what they do."

Something bothered Strine. "How can he construct and review these hypnotic routines without being affected by them himself?"

Parrish powered off the Palm Pilot and handed it back. "Oh, that's simple. If he's really discovered the language of the subconscious, then he must have learned about some command strings, such as one that informs the CES to disregard whatever follows. Kind of like stop and start and skip codons in DNA and protein replication."

"Um, if you say so. But still, I don't feel you should, ah, expose yourself any further to this guy's crazy nastiness."

"Ridiculous! I'm a big girl, and now I have my own score to settle with Mister Fewsmith. Besides, I can provide backup for you."

Strine considered. He was hardly averse to spending more time in the company of Professor Parrish Maxfield.

"Okay. What's our next step then?

"First we get Fewsmith's address from Human Resources. Then we'll need to stop by my apartment for some clothes."

Parrish toggled the receptionist, and within minutes had the information they needed.

"Um, do you want me to go to your place and bring the clothes back here?"

"That would waste time. I don't care what people will think when they see me like this. Do you?"

Strine grinned broadly. "Actually, I'd be flattered to be connected to your current condition, as long as you were smiling about it."

Parrish tried to look sober, but failed. Her wry grin made Strine desire her all the more. "Don't get any funny ideas. This is strictly a business arrangement."

"Right." Strine reminded himself that many business arrangements he had been involved in ended up in one or both parties getting screwed.

The young receptionist's hands stopped in mid-glide above her keyboard, and her eyes behind her funky glasses widened to dramatic dimensions. Holding her head high, Parrish strode by her with a curt, "I'm taking the rest of the day off, Enid."

Half suspecting another attack by Fewsmith, Strine hovered protectively over Parrish until they were safely in his car.

"Got rid of the Mustang, I see."

"It's garaged. I use it on the weekends. But it's too conspicuous for stakeouts and tailing people."

"Still, an old Buick with bodyrot isn't much of a babe magnet."

Strine sighed. "It came with the firm. My uncle -- Jesus, I don't know what kind of sex maniac you take me for! Just because I tried to get in your pants once."

"Twice, counting today."

Strine grew angry. "Listen, honey, a different kind of guy would have jumped your bones while you were out of it without a qualm."

Parrish looked contrite. "That's true. I apologize. I guess I'm a little more distraught about what happened than I wanted to admit."

"Okay. Apology accepted."

"By the way -- did you just use the word 'qualm?'"

"What's the matter? Can't a ballplayer -- an ex-ballplayer -- have a literate vocabulary?"

"Sure. But 'qualm?'"

"How about 'the aginbite of inwit' then?"

"Oh, a Joyce scholar in juvenile headgear!"

Strine shrugged off the jab. "Being on the road most of the summer means you read a lot."

Parrish seemed done with teasing. She said nothing, but continued to study Strine until he actually grew uneasy.

Once Parrish had dressed again, they headed across town to Fewsmith's last-known home.

On the way, Strine wanted to talk some more about this whole new way of regarding human awareness.

"Despite everything I've seen, I just can't quite believe our brains work the way you and Fewsmith claim they do. Like now, when I'm talking with you. How can some shallow mechanical construct be formulating all this speech?"

"It's not. Your Level One is just relaying rapidly formed sentences that have been outed by the CES from your Level Two region."

"I just can't buy that."

"That's because one of the most vital artifacts of Level Two is a belief in the primacy of Level One, as a kind of public face for daily interactions. Look, where did you get that word 'qualm' a minute ago? Was it a conscious choice? Could you have predicted even a millisecond ahead of time that you'd use that word? No, of course not. As Professor Jeffrey Grey says, 'Consciousness occurs too late to affect the outcomes of the mental processes it's apparently linked to.' Simply put, the Level One persona you imagine to be in charge is nothing more than a monomolecular film over the depths of your mind. Let me ask you this: who's driving?"

"Huh?"

"Who's driving the car right now while you're talking with me? Are you consciously steering and using the brake and the accelerator? Or are subconscious routines handling everything, well below your Level One awareness?"

"But that's just training and habit and, and -- "

Strine's brain -- every level -- began to hurt. He stopped talking before he made it worse.

They parked a block away from Fewsmith's building. Without any concierge, the premises offered little barrier to Strine's expert skills: he awaited the entry of a resident and slipped in behind the unsuspecting fellow. Soon he and Parrish stood in front of Fewsmith's apartment door.

"What now?" whispered Parrish.

Strine placed an ear to the door. "I don't think anyone's home. I'm going in. You willing to break the law?"

"Against this jerk? Of course."

The interior of Fewsmith's home -- and it was definitely his, as revealed by some junk mail on a tabletop .... was in wild disarray, revealing a hasty exit, possibly permanent. Dresser drawers had been left open, and a suitcase with a broken zipper lay discarded.

"He's split. Damn it! Now how do we find him?"

Parrish held up a frilly slip. "Can you believe that creep was actually living with a woman? What did he want with me then? Just revenge?"

"Maybe his regular girlfriend couldn't conduct science-type pillowtalk with him."

"Yeah, right, like that routine he zapped me with even included foreplay."

Strine kicked angrily at the abandoned suitcase. "If only we could read those files without being forced to enact them! They might give us a clue. Say, maybe I could put myself through them, and you could take notes and try to guess what each one represented...?"

Parrish pondered this suggestion. "No, too iffy. How could we be sure what real-world action was represented by some odd set of calisthenics? And what if some routines were meant to inflict harm on the subject or on others? No, we need to be able to review the routines harmlessly, just as Fewsmith does -- Wait a minute! I know someone who might be able to do just that!"

"Let's go then!"

On the way to the car Strine .asked, "Who is this person? Another scientist?"

"No, she's my guru, Kundalini Glastonbury."

This time it was Strine's turn to stare at Parrish.

BUSY DAYDREAMING about her new life to come back in Pine Mountain -- she had just shocked all the mousy women at the church social with her chic clothes and big-city ways for the hundredth time Willadean was unprepared for the alarming entrance of her frustrated lover-in-name-only.

Fewsmith's mild face was reddened with consternation and exertion. His flyaway hair resembled a badly groomed Shih Tzu's. He was huffing and puffing and it took him a few seconds to get his words out.

"They know it's me! They know it's me!"

Willadean jumped up, instantly tense and infuriated. "Who knows about you.* Out with it, peckerhead! What happened?"

Fewsmith recounted the fiasco in Parrish Maxfield's office. Willadean relaxed just a little when he finished his tale.

"Okay, let's look at this objectively like. You show this scientist gal your little computer screen and she gets all sexed-up and goes into heat. Then the stranger starts brawling with you. Maybe he was just jealous you turned on his nerd girlfriend. How's any of this connect you to the bank job? Your old flame ain't gonna remember nothing, and the guy who whomped you don't know you from Adam's uncle."

"But why did he jump me so fast? Maxfield hadn't even had time to react to the instructions, but he was on me! It was as if he recognized what I was doing. That's the only explanation. The cops have already been to visit them, seeking their help, and they were warned in advance of what I could do."

Willadean glowered. "You know, you just might be right for once. Okay, we can't take any chances. We're gonna have to go for the big score right now. To heck with any more planning! Luckily we've still got a few hours until the armored car pickup at five. Meanwhile, we pack up a few things right away, load our car, and cruise around till five, killing time. Once we have the dough, we hit the road with no one the wiser. Are you sure the guards pick up a million dollars every day?"

Fewsmith seemed to be regaining a little composure. "At least." He went to his desk on which sat a PC, unlocked a desk drawer and removed a second Palm Pilot. He cabled it into the bigger machine. "You start packing. I need to download a few routines. It's all prime material, derived from several exemplary films, including a segment from one very fatal thriller for anyone who crosses us this time. In fact, I just hope that guy who was in Maxfield's office shows up again! I'll settle his hash!"

Willadean patted the scrawny shoulders of her meal-ticket. "That's the way to talk, tiger. But don't forget my part just cause you've got a hardon to get your revenge. Where's that tape I need?"

Fewsmith dug out a standard videotape cassette. "Here you go."

"And this is gonna work just as good as your dinky computer thing?"

An exasperated sigh gave evidence that Fewsmith's temper was still not in equilibrium. "Of course! I take control of people through their visual systems. It doesn't matter how the instructions are delivered. They could come through a flip book if you could flip the pages fast enough! No, there's nothing to worry about on that end. But are you sure you can get into the control room?"

Willadean bumped Fewsmith with her bountiful hip, almost sending him staggering. "Didn't I spend a couple of months already cozying up to this bird? He's already let me in once while he was alone on duty, and we tore us off a -- I mean, we had us some smooching."

Fewsmith looked forlorn. "Willadean, if I thought you were giving your favors out left and right to everyone but me --"

Enveloping the smaller man in her capacious bosom, Willadean said,

"Aw, honey, you're so cute when you're jealous."

And so goddamn annoying, she thought

Parrish felt a little guilty intruding on Kundalini Glastonbury at this hour. Glastonbury conducted a lunchtime session of astral travel instruction for busy office workers who couldn't attend her nighttime classes. Then, from one to two, the guru locked her classroom door and took her own vegan lunch, followed by a session of meditation and pranayama breathing to get herself centered for the rest of her equally busy afternoon. And now here Parrish blew in, interrupting her spiritual guide's only private time. But such impoliteness couldn't be helped it they were to catch Fewsmith before the renegade memetician could subject anyone else to his mind games.

On the drive over, Strine had quizzed Parrish with genuine curiosity about her outré spiritual practices. He seemed baffled at the seeming incongruity with her scientific side. Finally Parrish had gotten exasperated.

"Listen, nothing says science has all the answers about the universe. Haven't you ever heard of 'hidden variables'?"

"No. What are those?"

"The postulated rules of the universe that exist down below any level we can observe, and which would explain all the seeming inconsistences of modern physics and other disciplines. I'm a firm believer in them. And my teacher helps me access that side of existence."

Strine snorted. "Fairies. Elves. And I thought ballplayers were superstitious."

Parrish folded her arms across her chest. "All we care about now is results, not how we get them. At least give Kundalini a chance."

"Wasn't that a John Lennon song?"

"Jerk!"

It took Glastonbury several minutes to respond to their insistent knocking. But at last she appeared, a petite woman with a mop of tight blonde curls and startling eyes like chips of Arizona sky, wearing a worn green leotard that had plainly seen many a backbend.

Seeing only Strine at first, Glastonbury scowled. "Mister, this had better be the number one crisis of the last ten kalpas -- " But when Parrish stepped forward, the bristling yogini softened. "Kundalini, I'm sorry to interrupt your private time, but we desperately need your help."

"Come in, dear, come in."

Glastonbury was brought up to speed in only minutes. Unlike Strine, she easily accepted Parrish's paradigm of human mentality as conforming to facts she already knew under another guise.

"I think I can handle these deviant instructional blasts," said the small woman with utmost confidence. "They're just like intrusions by Tibetan dons into the Maya level of consciousness." Not for the first time, Parrish found herself wondering just how old Glastonbury was. "I'll disconnect my mind from my body entirely. The routines might run internally, but they won't make it past my temporary barrier. But tell me this: what am I looking for?"

Strine, who had been impolitely rolling his eyes at this talk, said, "Except for his vindictiveness against Ms. Maxfield, Fewsmith seems motivated mainly by money. So we're after something like the trick he pulled at the bank, something involving cash or other valuables."

"Very well. Just give me about five minutes to prepare myself. Then you can start showing me the movies."

Glastonbury did not assume a full lotus, but rather reclined on her back on the floor, her muscles going slack.

"The corpse position," whispered Parrish.

After allowing the stipulated time to pass, Parrish positioned herself to hold the PDA above Glastonbury's open eyes. Then, one by one, she launched the various mental-subversion files

Aside from a few minor twitches, Glastonbury exhibited no effects from watching the preemptive commands. Apparently her Level Two and CES had been completely snipped out of the motor loop.

"Jesus," said Strine, "I never would've thought it possible -- "

Parrish paused long enough to spare her partner a gloating smile.

Finally the directory was exhausted. Parrish handed the demonic device back to Strine, and he stuck it in a back pocket. The investigators sat back for several minutes while Glastonbury came out of her suspension.

"Whew! I feel like I just had a three-day-workout with Mister Iyengar's evil twin! This technology is absolutely perverted, Parrish. I trust you'll make sure it does not spread."

"Yes, mahatma."

"C'mon, c'mon! Any leads? Do you recall anything that could help us ?"

Glastonbury fixed a penetrating gaze on Strine and said, "Before I gaze into my crystal ball, you must cross the gypsy's palm with silver."

Strine had his wallet out but stopped when the two women began to giggle. Chagrined, he repocketed his cash and finally joined them in laughter.

When they had finished chuckling, Glastonbury said, "There's one image that seems relevant. I saw people pointing to a giant television screen mounted on a building. Then the screen began showing them what to do. Money was involved somehow. But the rest of the details are hazy. My Level Two isn't much more forthcoming than yours, I'm afraid, after those unnatural assaults."

"Giant television on a building.... Not the stadium then -- that screen's freestanding. It's got to be that bigscreen unit down in Blackmore Square. It's the only one in town. Let's go!"

Glastonbury made a bow to usher them out, which Parrish returned.

Give Strine credit: he tried to copy the elegant gestures of the women, despite ending up, thought Parrish, looking rather like a bobble-head dashboard figurine.

WAITING NERVOUSLY a few feet away from the parked Wells Fargo truck in Blackmore Square, Ron Fewsmith examined the bandages wrapping his left hand. Bulkier than required by any unswollen appendage, the wrappings concealed his deadly Palm Pilot, leaving the screen exposed. Wary of flashing his instrument of coercion -- surely the police would be watching for just such a move after the bank heist -Fewsmith had conceived of this concealment. Additionally, the sympathy generated by the sight of the bandages should help focus the attention of his victims on the display.

Fewsmith felt confident of his ultimate success, despite his jitters. Had he not selected coercive routines from among the work of the finest auteurs? A shouted command from the old Superman TV show; some images from the sci-fi masterpiece Strange Days; crowd scenes from Cotton Comes to Harlem -- What more would he need? Once Willadean succeeded in launching these subversive images upon the giant flatscreen mounted on the Berkeley Building -- the mosaic of panels was now occupied by the feed from CNN -- a carefully planned chaos would erupt, during which time Fewsmith would hijack the entire contents of the armored car, easily a million or more in unmarked cash. He and Willadean would rendezvous at their vehicle, then make good their escape.

Images of a naked, supplicating Willadean -- fabricated solely from Fewsmith's imagination -- swarmed his vision, distracting him for a moment from his fixity of purpose. If at this advanced stage of their relationship she still refused to let him have his way with her, then she'd find herself dumped on the side of the highway. Let her even go revengefully to the authorities and try to strike a plea bargain, if she wished. Fewsmith had nothing to fear. With his invention, he could become invisible at will. All he needed to do was immerse himself in some pleasant Mexican village, say, then program all the inhabitants to deny his very existence when questioned. He could live like a potentate -- with his own harem -- on the proceeds of this day's robbery, not to mention any future conquests.

A far cry from the humble and demeaning researcher's existence.

Recalling his old life led Fewsmith to relive his humiliating experience in Parrish Maxfield's office. He looked about the busy square for that hulking cretin who had assaulted him. Pedestrians thronged the sidewalks, nothing more than dismissable programmable robots, and traffic flowed in complicated patterns through the five-way nexus. No sight of that aggressive jerk though. But Fewsmith remained vigilant.

Two guards trundled out a bag-laden trolley from the bank door beside which Fewsmith stood. The other two guards stationed by the rear of the Wells Fargo truck instantly came alert, weapons poised.

At the same moment several bystanders shouted, "Look!" Fewsmith knew then that Willadean had succeeded in getting her tape to play.

Fewsmith felt particularly proud of the sequence of commands now cycling over and over on the big TV. First he had included the comic-book-hero command to yell "Look!" and to point at the screen. This insured that as soon as a few people were enraptured, the rest would quickly follow, obeying their natural instincts to follow a pointing finger.

But the next set of commands was a stroke of genius.

All around Fewsmith people began to take out their wallets and open their purses and throw their cash into the airs

Cars screeched to a halt. The few citizens not captured by Fewsmith's video began to dive after the flying dollars. As more people entered Blackmore Square they either became captivated by the money-throwing instructions or naturally fell to scooping up cash.

Within moments, the scene resembled the arrival of U.N. food trucks at a refugee camp. Any police arriving now would have their hands full.

The four Wells Fargo guards were well trained, huddling protectively around their trolley and refusing to look anywhere except around themselves at eye-level. But they hadn't counted on the nature of the second assault.

Fewsmith triggered a blood squib in his bandages. Moaning in mock pain, he stumbled toward the uniformed men.

"My hand, my hand! Someone crushed my hand!"

The guards naturally looked down at Fewsmith's bloody hand. There they viewed a vivid shifting collage of scenes from Groundhog Day, The Underneath, The Newton Boys, and even that awful remake of Dog Day Afternoon, Swordfish. They instantly stiffened. Fewsmith said, "Follow me." Two guards began to push the trolley while the other two marched ahead like slave automatons to clear a path.

Fewsmith chortled once his car came into sight. Parked several blocks away in an alley that led conveniently out of the traffic congestion, the getaway vehicle was just as he had left it.

And there stood his woman by the car.

"Willadean," Fewsmith called out.

The woman turned.

Parrish Maxfield.

Strine drove like Hell's own perpetually summoned firemen toward Blackmore Square, just six blocks away. Already early confusing reports of trouble there had erupted from the car radio.

"We've got to stop the dissemination of the blipvert first," Strine said. "Then we can try to nab Fewsmith."

"Blipvert?"

"Sure, that's what these things are. Don't you remember Max Headroom?"

"Max whosis?"

Strine narrowed his eyes for a moment upon Doctor Parrish Maxfield before he had to swerve wildly to avoid a taxi stalled in their lane.

"What were you doing about fifteen years ago?"

"I was twelve, and busy building molecular models with Legos."

"You're that young?"

"You're that old?"

"Forget it then. Just wait in the car while I go up to the control room. Good thing I was able to reach my uncle. He got the security codes and the location of the place from a buddy in the agency who installed their alarm system."

"I'll do no such thing. I'm going after Fewsmith myself. I owe that bastard a good kick in the balls."

Strine thought his head would explode. "You will not! It's too dangerous!"

"Who the hell are you? My nanny? Besides, I've got the perfect defense against Ronnie and his primitive toy. Now, if he had learned to program Level Two and the CES with sonics or haptics, we'd be in trouble. He would have been able to take over someone with a sound or a touch. Hmmm, I wonder if prior instances of this discovery formed the basis for a few legends? The Sirens, the Old Man of the Sea -- "

"Forget all that. Besides, what kind of defense can you have? You have to look at him to nab him, and then he's got you."

Parrish patted her purse. "Don't you worry your little Level One about me. My secret weapon's safe in here."

Abandoning any attempts to convince the stubborn memetician of the foolishness of her plans, Strine concentrated on getting them as close as possible to the civic uproar in Blackmore Square. When they finally had to ditch their car, they were only a block away.

Strine began to trot toward the Berkeley Building, Parrish following gamely along.

"Don't look up!"

"Do you take me for an idiot?"

Darting around the mad masses of money-flingers and money-graspers, avoiding rogue cars in motion whose drivers had decided to take to the sidewalks, the pair ended up at the door of the Berkeley Building.

"There's Fewsmith!" exclaimed Parrish, pointing across the turbulent streetscene. "He's got some kind of entourage pushing a trolley and he's moving slow. I'll recognize his getaway car when I see it, and I think if I anticipate his vector I can beat him to it without him seeing me."

"No, don't," Strine said. But Parrish had already hotfooted off. Strine hesitated a second, thinking to follow her. But the insanity in the square and the possibility for casualties determined his course of action, and he raced inside the building.

Safe behind the locked door of the control room, the unsuspecting horny technician knocked out cold upon the floor, Willadean Lawes surveyed the scene outside the tenth-floor window with immense satisfaction. She could spot the tiny figures of Fewsmith and the guards moving safely but slowly away from the armored car. Once her partner was definitely out of the chaos, she would leave behind the controls of the no-longer necessary bigscreen and hook up with him. But till then, she'd guard the room so that no one could halt the projection.

Polishing a small silver pistol on the cloth molding her pretty rump, Willadean thought of how best to dispose of Fewsmith, and when. Maybe after they got out of the country. Let him do all the driving, get exhausted and clumsy, and then he'd be good as dead. Sure, she'd lose the expertise with the gadget contained within his cooling brain, but who cared. A million large would last ol' Willadean a good long time. And she could be the belle of Baja as easily as the princess of Pine Mountain.

A solenoid latch clicked, and the outer door swung inward. Willadean trained her pistol on whoever was entering.

The intruder was a rough-edged, good-looking bruiser. Willadean felt her heart go thump-a-thump. Maybe this guy was another crook, out to share the score. If so, Willadean might have herself a new partner.

The guy's words broke Willadean's illusion. "Okay, I'm guessing you must be Fewsmith's woman. Better throw in the towel now, before anyone gets hurt. Your buddy's already captured."

Willadean risked a quick glance out the window and saw no confirmation of this joker's threat. She laughed. "Good try, pal. I was born on a Saturday, but not last Saturday. Now I think I'll measure you for a clay cabin."

"Wait! I've got something you want!"

Willadean's trigger finger eased back. "Now what might that be?"

The guy moved his hand slowly to his rear pocket and came up with a Palm Pilot.

"Just this!" he said, mashing a button.

Willadean tried to avert her eyes, but it was too late.

The sound of breaking glass was followed before too long by a muffled thump from street level.

Strine let loose a gust of relief. "I thought that was what 'defenestration' meant!"

THE MESMERIZED GUARDS halted when Fewsmith did, standing like toy soldiers in the Nutcracker. Parrish felt a brief surge of fear, thinking she'd become the target of their rifles. But apparently Fewsmith had not written that routine into the command set he had instilled earlier in them.

An obnoxious leer overspread the rogue scientist's face, and Parrish felt her fear displaced by cold anger against this little weasel.

"Well, well, well -- if it's not the dull-witted Doctor Maxfield. Have you dropped by to see if you can co-author a paper with me ? If so, I'm afraid you're much too late."

As Fewsmith gloated, Parrish slinked her fingers into the purse slung from her shoulder. She knew she'd have to goad him into using the Palm Pilot and then match his actions precisely.

"I wouldn't want my name in the same journal as yours. You've warped an important discovery for selfish personal gain. Why, you're no better than that Frenchman who claimed to have discovered N-rays!"

Bristling at this vile scientific insult, Fewsmith raised his bandaged hand. "I think I'll let you have the fate I intended for your big dumb boyfriend. Look away if you want, but then of course I'll simply escape."

Parrish had her trump card in her fingers, held nearly out of her purse. "Do your worst! I'm not afraid. And he's not dumb!"

Fewsmith triggered his deadly sequence just as Parrish whipped her mirror into place, shielding her own eyes.

A look of utter horror flashed over Fewsmith's face, as he was overwhelmed by his best composition: a melange of images from Go, An Affair to Remember, City on the Edge of Forever, and The Laughing Dead. Then he was darting out into the street, looking frantically about for a moving car. Spotting a racing ambulance, he hurled himself beneath its wheels

Once again Parrish turned her eyes aside in time to miss the worst.

The cessation of the command sequence on the big public screen resulted in a gradual diminishment of the chaos in Blackmore Square, as the cycle of infection and reinfection ground to a halt, and even the most recently commandeered minds resumed their normal functioning. Trotting back to the center of the outbreak, alongside the incoming flood of EMTs, policemen, firemen, National Guard troopers and reporters, Parrish knew then that Strine must have succeeded, and she experienced a little surge of pride in his accomplishments. The emotion took her by surprise, but her flexible intellect smoothly integrated the new feelings into her estimate of the man.

The crowd of stunned, disoriented, and embarrassed citizens was parting like wheat before a thresher, as someone bulled through the mass. Parrish caught sight of a bobbing baseball cap and sped up to meet the detective.

Spotting her, Strine raced to her side. He hugged her, and she returned the gesture. But then he released her, a sober look replacing his joy at finding her unharmed.

"We're going to have some serious explaining to do, once they make the inevitable connection between us and Fewsmith, so we'd better get our story straight."

"What do you mean?"

"Just look around you! The two people who caused this disaster are both dead -- apparent suicides, luckily -- but the cops will still want to know how they did it."

Parrish pondered the matter. "I think we should tell them Ron bragged to us about some sort of novel aerosol CBW agent. They'll discount the bigscreen images as just visual noise meant to distract the bank guards. Anything but the reality. Fewsmith's discovery is too dangerous to release. Can you imagine the kind of irresistible dictatorship that could be set up by some madman conversant in the grammar of Level Two? No, much as it pains my scientific soul to say it, this knowledge has to be expunged."

"But how?"

"I saw Fewsmith's Palm Pilot crushed under the ambulance. That leaves yours and the videotape from the control room. I assume you took the tape? Good! Give them to me."

Strine complied, and Parrish hammered the Palm Pilot against a nearby hydrant till it shattered. With Strine's help, she cracked the video case and unspooled the tape down a sewer grating.

"Now we race to Fewsmith's home before the cops even figure out the address, then erase any traces of his invention we find there. Et voilŕ the world is saved!"

Strine looked at her admiringly. "You don't have any desire to take over Fewsmith's invention and run with it? This could mean a Nobel Prize for you. It was only Fewsmith's greed and hatred that stopped him from getting the honors he deserved."

"Nuh-huh! I'm not strong enough to resist the temptation. Are you?"

Strine appeared to be considering the matter. "Well, there are a few things I'd change."

"Like what?"

"Well, the attitude of a certain beautiful woman toward a certain ex-ballplayer named Stingo Strine."

Parrish smiled. "No need to use a machine. Consider it done."

"Really?"

"On the level."