J. C. Mitchell

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A LITTLE CHAOS BETWEEN FRIENDS

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a science fiction novel

Chapter 1

As Alex Martell emerged from oblivion, sirens wailed and a red light flashed above him. Had he been in an accident? Panicking, he struggled through the thick layers of sleep. Wait! he called out, although he couldn't hear his own voice. The puppies! In the back seat!

Can anybody--

He opened his eyes. The room was quiet. The alarm clock on the dresser was flashing 3:14 on and off, on and off, and daylight was streaming through the window.

"Shit." Alex reached for his watch on the nightstand

. The watch said 8:48 AM.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to erase the fatigue. He'd been up late putting the finishing touches on a feature story for the June issue of McDingle's Monthly. After working on it for several weeks, writing and rewriting and rewording and reworking until he was ready to heave his computer across the room, he'd spent most of the evening trying to write a satisfying conclusion. The last paragraph was always the hardest part for him; but by some stroke of luck, or perhaps genius or desperation, he'd come up with something that would suffice. At 12:13 AM he saved the last changes, dmailed the final draft to McDingle's, turned off his computer, and collapsed in bed. And now, even though he'd slept eight hours, he felt drained. On top of everything it was April 5th, which happened to be his birthday.

As he dressed he tried to piece together the fragments of his dream. He was racing down the highway with a newborn litter of puppies in the back seat. But he couldn't remember where he was going. And who were the puppies? And why the hell was he in such a hurry? Why couldn't he remember? Was this a sign that he was becoming overly obsessed with dogs? On the other hand, was there any good reason why he shouldn't be obsessed with dogs at the moment?

He trudged into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. As he studied his features in the mirror he noticed a rich network of red veins which crisscrossed the whites of his eyes. They contrasted sharply with the green of his irises, making his eyes look like ghoulish Christmas ornaments. His skin had a sallow appearance which lent a yellowish-orange cast to his red hair. Sighing, he looked down at his feet. At least he'd managed to find a couple of socks that matched.

On the way to the kitchen he peeked in the hall closet that served as his office. A fax had come in. It was from McDingle's Monthly:

"Alex--Received the feature. I think we'll go with your title, The Meteoric Rise of MicroBark and President Rex 'Spot' Bates. I'll have Accounting wire payment at once. Have a really great birthday! - Marsha."

Alex contemplated his plans for the day as he loaded up the coffee maker. First, he needed to vacuum the house. He intended to yesterday--he got as far as installing a new bag in the vacuum cleaner--but then the phone rang, simply the first of an endless progression of distractions and interruptions throughout the day. Not that he minded; most of the interruptions were friends and associates calling to wish him a happy birthday. Why they all called a day early he had no idea. But now it was officially his birthday, and he still needed to vacuum.

He also planned to do some research on schizophrenia in preparation for a human-interest piece he was writing for American Psychotic Weekly. A week from today, at 1:13 in the afternoon, he would be on a flight to Minneapolis to interview a group of schizophrenic patients and learn if the recent Presidential assassination had affected them in any way. In addition, Eccentric Times wanted another article from him, and the next issue's deadline was only a week away. He had no ideas for the article yet. His mind felt like an overfarmed field.

He turned on the coffee maker and stepped out on the back porch. The air was surprisingly fresh and invigorating. He watched the fluffy white clouds rip across the sky as if they were late, out of time. He imagined he was watching the hours of his life slip away like insubstantial wisps. It seemed like the harder he worked, the faster time sped by and the less chance he had to enjoy it. Entire months would breeze by almost unnoticed. Today he turned thirty-three. Soon he'd be thirty-five and then forty-six and then sixty-eight, and then he'd be dead. And what would he have to show for it, besides perhaps a vacuumed floor? Not very damn much.

As he felt the breeze brush sensually and invitingly against his face a flash of inspiration struck, and he strode back into the kitchen, slamming the door defiantly. So screw the magazines, he thought--after all, today was his birthday, goddamnit! And what he really wanted to do on his birthday, more than anything else, was Absolutely Nothing. For too many weeks he'd been overworked, overextended, and overstressed, and as a result his nerves were worn down to miserable shreds. Today seemed like a perfect day to put the brakes on for a few hours, relax and do something pleasant, something that would help unclench the clenched parts of his body and mind. To hell with deadlines--he was taking the day off.

As the coffee brewed he poured some Frosted Ding-O Flakes into a bowl and tossed a banana and some orange juice into the blender. He glanced at his watch: it was 9:04. He flipped the switch and the blender roared noisily into action with a surprising lurch across the counter, ejecting the lid and spitting out several ounces of bright orange banana particles in the process. At the same instant he heard what sounded like something shifting in the closet by the back door. Frowning, Alex retrieved the lid and clamped it firmly onto the blender as the remaining contents mixed together for approximately fifteen seconds. Then he poured the resulting pumpkin-colored slush into a glass and poured milk on his cereal. The final stream of coffee gushed noisily from the machine into the carafe. The timing was once again perfect: it was 9:05 and he had the whole day ahead of him. He checked the closet briefly; the vacuum cleaner had fallen against a folding chair. Perhaps it was trying to remind him that he needed to vacuum. Okay, so maybe he'd vacuum later--but not until he'd spent at least a few hours doing Absolutely Nothing.

As he ate his breakfast and watched the clouds skate across the sky, Alex decided he could successfully accomplish Absolutely Nothing by sitting in the back yard with a good book. Granted, he planned to actually read the book, which could be considered doing something. But to Alex, who never seemed to have time to read for pleasure anymore, it sounded like a heavenly idea.

A half hour later, at 9:41 according to his watch, he was sitting in his favorite lawn chair in the back yard under the oak tree. Alex took great pleasure in his yard; it was big, woody, and quiet. Quiet, that is, if you ignored the squirrels screeching above him as they bombarded the ground with acorns, not to mention the starlings noisily demolishing the remains of the bird feeder. And if you ignored the crows who were gathering on the roof for their daily shriek session. And also that dog barking a few houses away. Okay, so maybe "quiet" wasn't exactly the right word. Peaceful, that was it. It was so peaceful he considering chucking the whole book idea and taking a nap instead. But then he thought better of it and opened his book, Time Management for Procrastinators, and turned to Page One.

Approximately forty-two minutes later he became aware of a vague pulsating sensation on the soles of his feet, a subtle vibration as if someone or something large had just entered the yard. He glanced around self-consciously for a moment but didn't see or hear anything unusual. It's probably the neighbor's cat, he told himself, and he returned to his book. He was still feeling the effects from driving home from MicroBark on Wednesday. It wasn't a long drive, but a multiple-car collision on the expressway interchange had caused a horrendous traffic jam. What would normally be a fifteen-minute drive had taken him over two hours, and by the time he'd reached his house he'd transmogrified into a ranting mass of quivering nerves, and they hadn't stopped quivering yet. Okay, he thought. I just need to unwind. He took a deep breath, rolled his head back and forth across his chest a few times, and settled back into his book.

A few minutes later he realized he had been reading the same sentence over and over again:

"Make a daily list of the things essential for you to accomplish. Make a daily list of the things essential for you to accomplish. Make a daily list of the things. . . . Make a daily list. . . ."

For Chrissake, relax! he scolded himself, staring determinedly at the sentence again. I can feel myself relaxing, relaxing, he repeated to himself as his eyes scanned the sentence backwards and forwards several more times, memorizing each word individually and meaninglessly. His feet continued to vibrate ever so slightly.

Alex sighed and tossed the book on the grass. He glanced at his watch: it was just 10:30. He stood, stretched, and strolled nonchalantly toward the front of the yard, peering up into the trees and under and around the bushes in hopes of spotting whatever creature was destroying his reverie. The starlings had decimated the feeder and departed, the squirrels had settled down to their daily routine, and the crows had thinned out to a conservative gathering of random shriekers. Alex watched the crows for a moment and then returned to his chair.

As he sat he became aware of a low mournful sound, the bleating of a large aquatic mammal, perhaps. Since Alex couldn't think of any large aquatic mammals native to the area, and the crows and squirrels didn't seem to be particularly disturbed, he decided that he was hearing things. You're way too tense, he told himself. This is no good--you've absolutely got to relax-- And then he heard the faint but distinct sound of someone moaning in pain. He stood up again and stepped slowly around his chair, eyeing the immediate vicinity while he strained to hear where the moaning was coming from. He knew that he himself wasn't moaning, and he was pretty convinced that his chair, the trees, and the camellias behind him weren't moaning, and he doubted that the overgrown lilac bush by the back door was moaning. But somebody in the immediate vicinity was either moaning in pain or doing a flawless impression of somebody moaning in pain.

"Hello?" Alex said aloud, warily eyeing the perimeter of the yard. "Is somebody there?"

The lilac bush shuddered.

"Oh, my God. . . ." it moaned.

Alex approached the bush hesitantly.

"Hello?"

A long silence followed, and then the bush spoke again.

"Oh-h-h-h-h. . . ."

Alex pushed back the overgrown branches which dragged on the ground. Hidden beneath the foliage a man, or what appeared to be a man, lay curled up on his side. His clothes were wrinkled and grass-stained and his hair was tangled with several forms of plant life. Having just awakened he seemed disoriented. Then he noticed Alex.

"Wh-what time is it?" he said. That was about the last question Alex expected a strange man moaning under the lilac bush in his back yard to ask.

"It's a little after ten-thirty," he replied. The man pulled himself slowly out from under the foliage and looked around, blinking.

"Where am I?" He smelled faintly of alcohol.

"You're in my back yard. Are you all right?"

"Where?"

"I just said, in--"

The man shook his head impatiently.

"No, what part of the world?" he said.

Alex hesitated. Wonderful, he thought. A nut case, right here in my own back yard.

"Illinois," he said.

"Where in Illinois?"

"La Verne."

"Damnit! What the hell am I doing here?" The man looked around frantically, seemed about to stand but then decided against it. He examined his muddy hands and brushed a wad of congealed lilac leaves from his shoulder. Then he clutched his head with both hands and began rocking and moaning "Oh, my God. . . ."

Alex had no idea what to do. As a freelance writer whose specialty was interviewing unusual people, he'd found himself in some strange situations before, but never in this particular one. He'd never encountered a total stranger in his back yard, much less one sleeping under a bush. As he leafed through the compact encyclopedia of his mind, looking for the proper thing to say to a moaning man who's been sleeping under a bush--let's see, would that be under Moaning or under Bush?--the man stopped rocking.

"Oh, hell, this is a mess," the man sighed. Standing shakily as if he'd been sleeping for years he made his way over to the porch, where he plopped his thin frame down with the fatigue of an ancient man. Underneath the dirt and debris he looked like he was around Alex's age. He combed his fingers through his thick dark mop of wavy hair, unleashing an assortment of twigs, plant debris, and small insects, and sighed again. Alex waited patiently for an explanation.

"What can I say?" the man said after a while. "I'm supposed to be dead, but obviously I'm not. Oh, fuck." He threw his head back and looked at the sky. "This whole thing is a mess!"

Having no idea what the man was talking about, Alex was at a complete loss for words. The man seemed to sense this right away.

"My name's Peevey, Malcolm Peevey," he offered, his pale blue eyes flashing as though this would somehow explain everything.

"Alex Martell." They shook hands. Alex felt a tinge of relief; at least the guy was friendly.

"Well, Alex," Malcolm began, his eyes darting around the yard as if they were looking for a place to alight. "I guess I'd better explain myself--if I can figure out how. You see, I--well, I tried to kill myself last night. Wait a minute--was it last night? What's today?"

"Friday."

"Hmm, I don't know. I can't tell anymore."

He shook his head in confusion. It struck Alex that he looked vaguely familiar.

"At any rate," Malcolm continued, "I had to stop the whole process. I had no choice left but to end it then, whenever 'then' was--and whatever 'it' may be, too, I suppose. So . . . well, to put it bluntly, I jumped off Suicide Bridge. Or at least that's what I thought I did. I'm sure I did. But everything's become so . . . unpredictable. And on top of everything I'd had quite a bit to drink." He shuddered slightly and rubbed his temples.

"Why did you want to kill yourself?" said Alex.

Malcolm smiled feebly.

"Oh, that's a long, long story," he said. "An unbelievably long story. But I should leave now because you've been extremely kind and I apologize for disturbing you and your bush here, and I'm sure you have a million things to do."

The hairs on Alex's neck bristled slightly at this assumption. Today was his absolutely essential, self-appointed day off, after all, and it wasn't even noon yet.

"No, not really," he replied carelessly, wondering what sort of ordeal he might be launching himself into. After all, the guy could be nuts; it was hard to tell just yet. Or he could be about to hit Alex up for a few bucks. Or he could be about to hit Alex, period, for that matter, and perhaps clean out his house and steal his car. Alex had always thought of himself as a good judge of character, however, and this strangely familiar-looking intruder didn't strike him as particularly dangerous. And maybe, just maybe, there was a story here he could use.

Malcolm leaned toward Alex suddenly.

"Say," he said, staring glassy-eyed. "You don't--you don't happen to have--"

Oh, boy, Alex thought. Here it comes.

"--any aspirin, do you?"

"Sorry, I just ran out last night. But there's a drugstore down the street."

Malcolm nodded and then winced, as if nodding was too painful.

"Figures," he muttered.

"Say," said Alex after a moment. "By any chance, have we met before?"

"I don't know, it's possible."

"You look really familiar."

"Hmm. Are you around the University much?"

"Not really. Are you a student there?"

Malcolm squinted at Alex for a moment.

"No, a professor," he mumbled.

"Really?" Alex sensed a potential Eccentric Times story here. "So what subject do you--"

"My God!" Malcolm broke in. "These pants are--look at them, they're filthy! I'm a total mess!"

"I wouldn't say that. You just look like you've been doing some gardening. Weeding, perhaps. Or pruning some lilac bushes."

"Yeah, right." Malcolm felt around in his pockets. "I have a comb somewhere. . . ."

Alex's curiosity was growing by the minute. Whatever this intruder's story was, it promised to be more interesting than Time Management for Procrastinators, and a lot more interesting than vacuuming. But what if the guy wasn't a college professor after all? What if he was simply out of his mind? It was possible, Alex thought, and he might be wasting his time. On the other hand, if the guy was suicidal, he ought not to be left alone.

"Listen," Alex said. "How about if I show you where the drugstore is, and then I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

"No, just point me toward the drugstore."

"But there's a McDingle's Coffee House right next door."

"No, thanks, but--"

"Come on. I'm really curious to hear your story."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. Besides, I have a right to know what you're doing on my property."

"Hmm, you do have a point. But that's a tough one."

Malcolm surveyed the yard intently, as if he were rearranging the shrubbery in his mind. Then he fixed on Alex with his intense blue gaze.

"Can I use your bathroom first?" he said.

"Sure."

"And I'll buy the coffee, okay? It's the least I can do."

Malcolm emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later looking considerably tidier. As they stepped out onto the front porch Alex noticed the clouds were still sweeping quickly across the sky, stirring up eddies of trash and debris in the street.

"Shit!" Malcolm dashed out to the curb where a small black leather portfolio was lying open, several pieces of paper attempting to escape in the wind. He stuffed the loose papers back in the case which was already overstuffed with notebooks.

"Is that yours?" called out Alex.

"Yes, unfortunately." Malcolm snapped the portfolio shut and glanced up and down the street nervously.

"Is anything missing?"

"Not really." He contemplated the portfolio for a moment.

"Well, looks like it's your lucky day."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because," he said, picking up the portfolio, "every Godforsaken piddling detail of my story is right in here."

Chapter 2

As they entered McDingle's Coffee House Malcolm did a quick scan of the place and then made a beeline for an isolated booth in the back. They ordered two double Caffé Americanos from the birdlike waitress. Malcolm tossed three aspirins into his mouth and washed them down with a large slurp of coffee.

"What part of La Verne is this?" he said.

"Belmont," said Alex. "Southwest. We're on Prospect."

Malcolm surveyed the surroundings for a moment.

"To tell you the truth, Alex," he said, "I don't know where to start."

"How about at the beginning?"

Malcolm took a long slow drink of coffee and sighed.

"They make a decent Americano here," he said. "Strong." He closed his eyes for a moment or two, as if waiting for the caffeine to refuel his brain. Just when Alex started to wonder if he'd fallen asleep, his eyes popped open.

"I'm a professor of practical chaology at the University of La Verne," he said. "Or, rather, an assistant professor. Sort of. And only part-time. At least I was, once. I guess you could call me an ex-chaos teacher. That seems safe." He stared at his coffee intently and then looked at Alex. "Do you know much about chaos?"

"Well, I know there's a hell of a lot of it in my life these days," said Alex, stirring sugar into his coffee. "Mornings, especially. You should see my sock drawer."

Malcolm nodded, still watching Alex closely.

"Do you know anything about chaos theory?" he said.

"Chaos theory? Sure, a little bit."

"Like what?"

"Well, I did an interview once--I'm a freelance writer, you see--and I interviewed this twelve-year-old genius who was studying to be a meteorologist. She tried to explain the Butterfly Effect to me."

"The Butterfly Effect, yes! A perfect start!" Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table in a rapid galloping rhythm, somewhat suggestive of the William Tell Overture. He spoke progressively faster and more animatedly. "It's said that a single flap of a butterfly's wings--let's say, a butterfly in Thailand--has the potential to create a cascading chain of events which can ultimately result in a tornado on the other side of the world--say, in Kansas. This concept is commonly referred to as 'sensitive dependence on initial conditions.' In other words, the tiniest variation at the outset--even one that amounts to no more than an infinitesimal fraction--can prove catastrophic in the long run. And yet, because absolute exactitude is impossible, these variations are unavoidable. Because of this, predicting the future scientifically is inconceivable. Any prediction you make will simply deteriorate. Do you see what I'm saying? A mere hair's width can completely alter history as we know it."

Malcolm's eyes were gleaming now. He bore no resemblance to the disoriented leaf-covered man who had been mumbling in Alex's back yard a short while ago. And he hardly looked like someone who had just tried to end his own life.

"You see," he continued, launching off into a lecture of sorts, "this is why it's called chaos, because the outcome is unpredictable. Just like socks in a drawer, or in a clothes dryer, for that matter. When you put a load of laundry in the dryer, there's no way you can predict what order your clothes will be in when you take them out again. There's too much turbulence. You can plot this chaotic turbulence geometrically and you know you'll end up with pretty little figures called strange attractors. But you still can't predict the turbulence itself. This drives many scientists and mathematicians crazy when they're unable to prove that something is mathematically predictable. It contradicts the fundamental methods that they've subscribed to for years. But chaos--"

Malcolm stopped abruptly as if he'd run out of steam, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. Just when Alex thought of trying to break the awkward silence, Malcolm started again:

"Those who've been embracing chaos, those willing to accept the possibility that everything they've learned is wrong--these are the people discovering just how widestretching the whole concept is. I mean, chaos is everywhere in our world: in physics, mathematics, biology, chemistry, ecology, medicine, sports, even in the stock market. Look at fractals, for example. The whole physical world is made up of fractal geometry: trees, leaves, coastlines, our own internal organs. It's disorderly orderliness. Oh, Alex, it's so hard to put into words with such a godawful hangover."

"You're doing okay," said Alex. Malcolm took another large sip of coffee and continued:

"I started seeing there was a lot more to this, that it went far beyond the resources of a few university departments. What I'm saying is it's impossible to experiment with certain features of chaos in the confines of a physical space like a university room or lab, especially under the watchful financial eye of certain departments I won't bother naming who choose to continue wallowing in their prehistoric belief systems."

Malcolm paused, distracted by the waitress as she fluttered by.

"My brother was the one who really got me thinking about this," he said, resuming his finger concerto. "He's a school psychologist. Or, I should say, he was."

His face clouded over for a moment, and then he went on:

"Dennis worked at Trausch High School, which is notorious for its high dropout rate. As the school's psychologist he felt his main purpose was to persuade troubled students to stay in school. He experienced such a sense of loss whenever a promising student would stop showing up for classes. He'd become frustrated about not knowing what would happen to a student who dropped out, where the student was going to end up, frying burgers or selling drugs or whatever. But, you see, that same student could also--because of maybe something someone said to him or her, something Dennis himself said unknowingly, or perhaps because a bus was missed or a tire went flat--that same student could end up as President of the United States. Or they could become a doctor or a rock star or a used car salesperson or a bum or a terrorist or even a circus acrobat. They could die the next day or they could live to be a hundred and four. You see, there's no way Dennis or anyone can predict what's going to happen, and that's because of chaos. If he tried the same exact psychological approach with every single student he worked with--said the same exact things to each student in the same exact manner--we're still talking about complete deterioration of any kind of predictable path at the outset."

"More coffee?" The waitress filled Alex's cup without waiting for a response. Arching her drawn-on eyebrows dramatically she flashed a saccharine smile at Malcolm. "And you, sir?"

"Sure. Could I get a glass of milk?"

"Certainly!" she chirped and fluttered away with sparrowlike steps. Malcolm began thumping his fingers on the table again, this time producing more of a calypso beat. Suddenly he leaned toward Alex as if to be discreet.

"Here's where my part of the story begins," he said. "I decided to do an experiment with chaos in everyday life. I wanted to introduce a small, seemingly random but planned error into the fabric of day-to-day life and see if I could consciously trace all the resulting bifurcations. I wanted to see just how many descendent paths I could follow. My aim wasn't to see how well I could predict the future, but just how closely I could follow the future as it happened."

He sat back and sipped his coffee. Alex felt as though some sort of important response was expected from him, but he wasn't sure what his next line should be. He glanced around the restaurant as if searching for some sort of cue. The waitress returned with the glass of milk.

"Would you like anything, sir?" she tweeted to Alex.

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Thank you, he thought. He'd had just enough time to compose an intelligent response.

"So, then," he said. "What did you--I mean, how did you--or where--?"

"Aha!" said Malcolm. "I had a feeling you were going to ask me that." At which point he began tapping his fingers on the table again, but more slowly and evenly than before. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata came to mind.

"About two years ago, relatively speaking, I took a sabbatical so I could work on this experiment full-time. Actually, it was more of . . . a leave of absence, I guess you could call it. Or you could just say I was fired. But that's a little harsh. Perhaps 'drummed out of the Department' is a more concise way of putting it. You see, the other faculty members thought I was straying too far from the basic principles of chaos theory--the mathematical principles, to be exact. Most of them thought I'd gone completely nuts. But as far as I'm concerned, anything can be reduced to mathematics--it's no great mystery. I discovered that a long time ago.

"At any rate, with my newly-found free time and enough money in the bank to keep me going for a couple of years if I was careful, I figured I could spend practically all my time on this experiment. I knew it would be a real challenge, and not simply because of all the work involved. I'd have to be a detective, a snoop, a pretty good actor, a reporter, a crook; I'd need to be Sherlock Holmes and your favorite talk show host combined. I'd be interviewing total strangers and I would need to be able to persuade them to trust my smiling face enough so that they would reveal all kinds of intricate details about their personal lives. I'd need to investigate all manner of records and files in order to collect every single detail I could along every path of turbulence that I could identify and track."

Malcolm took a long drink of milk.

"This probably sounds completely and utterly insane, doesn't it?" he said.

"No," said Alex. "Not at all. Just impossible."

Malcolm smiled and reached for his portfolio.

"I'm surprised that I succeeded as far as I did. I mean, just look at all this information I collected. Sometimes I find it hard to believe myself! Everything's right here, documented up to a point when I was forced to stop."

He pushed the portfolio aside.

"It went way too far," he said. "I don't know what I was expecting. And that's when. . . ."

He dropped his head into his hands and stared at the table in front of him. A long awkward silence ensued as Alex tried to think of something to say. But what could he say? He had yet to learn what horrors were tormenting this mysterious intruder.

"I can't go on this way," Malcolm moaned.

"Listen," said Alex. "Maybe, if you could--"

"I mean it, I can't go on," Malcolm repeated, squinting at Alex. "This hangover is absolutely killing me! The aspirin didn't do a damned thing. You know what I really need?"

"What?"

"Curry."

"Curry?"

"Yes, Indian food! Lots of garlic. It works wonders. And the hotter the better."

Malcolm started to stand.

"Come on, let's go find a McDingle's Indian Restaurant. There's one in Belmont, isn't there?" He looked around for the waitress as Alex, dumbfounded, remained seated.

"Well, come on!" said Malcolm. "Don't you want to hear the rest?"

"Yes, but--"

"And Alex, would you mind if I used your shower first?"

"My--?"

"And could you lend me some clothes? I think they'd probably fit. I really need to change out of these."

"Well, okay, but--"

"Thanks. You see, I--well, I can't go back to my house right now."

"Why not? I have a car. I could drive you."

Malcolm shook his head, slightly dazed.

"No, well, you see," he said, "it's--well, it's impossible. That's all I can say."

****

Two hours later they were in Alex's back yard, sitting under the now-silent squirrel tree. The clouds had almost completely blown away, and Alex was basking in the surprisingly pleasant afterburn of the chicken tikka masala and benghan bharta he had just devoured from his McDingle's Perky 'n' Spicy Indian Meal. Malcolm had showered and changed clothes. He now resembled a young university professor, or at least a graduate student, rather than a bum with a hangover.

"It's a gorgeous day, isn't it?" he said. "Cool and fresh, just like those spring days we used to have."

"I'll say," Alex agreed. "I get so sick of the warm weather all the time. I miss the snow."

"Maybe it'll snow again someday. Things could change."

Malcolm gazed up into the tree above them.

"This is a great yard," he said. "It's peaceful."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, soaking up the calm.

"So," Alex finally said. "Where were we?"

"Oh, right." Malcolm pulled a fat notebook from his portfolio. "I suppose I should start at the beginning of the experiment--although it's hard to say when that was exactly."

"How about the random event you caused? Why don't you start there?"

"That sounds reasonable."

"Can I ask you a personal question first?" said Alex.

"Sure."

"What happened to your brother?"

"Dennis?"

"Yes. I mean, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't. . . ."

"Oh, no," sighed Malcolm. "It's nothing like that. He's just, well, in prison somewhere. Probably for life."

Chapter 3

"To start with," Malcolm began, "I live east of downtown, in Fremont. That is, I did. I'm not sure if I still do, but that's a different story."

"Are you going to tell me that story, too?" said Alex. "It sounds like it might be an important one."

"Eventually. It's actually part of this story--the end of this story, I guess, although I don't think this story's over yet. Perhaps--"

A disturbingly puzzled expression crossed his face.

"What's the matter?" said Alex.

Malcolm shook his head.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "So, where was I?"

"You were living in Fremont."

"Right. I worked at the university, which as you know is just south of downtown. My brother Dennis lived on the north side, up in Bedford, and worked at Trausch High School downtown. Even though I didn't have any classes at the time, I was doing a lot of research at the university library, so I drove there every day. Dennis normally took Ariel Drive all the way from his house to the school. It was a direct route. This one morning--I tossed the proverbial coin and it came up Tuesday--I called Dennis and told him my car wouldn't start. I asked if he could give me a ride to the university. You see, it wasn't that far out of the way for Dennis. Not even five minutes. But from my house to the university it was easier to take Sebastian Way, which has a lot more traffic than Ariel Drive. I figured veering Dennis just slightly out of his usual way on an average morning would be a small enough ripple to cause overall, but it would be large enough for me to be able to track. Also, I needed to be personally involved.

"So Dennis swung by and picked me up. I waited for him on the curb so he wouldn't waste any more time than needed. And I tried to keep our conversation to a minimum so I wouldn't distract him from his normal driving habits. He had the radio tuned to the news as usual, so that part was fairly easy.

"The light was red at Irving Street, so we stopped. The woman behind us, however, didn't. Or, I should say, she did, but not as fast as we did. So she rear-ended us. I can honestly say I wasn't expecting something as overt as a traffic accident to occur. But it turned out to be a minor dent, not even worth fixing.

"So Dennis got out of the car and went back to talk to the woman. They chatted for about fifteen minutes. When Dennis got back in the car he was smiling. I asked him if it was serious, referring to the damage.

"He said, 'Not yet, but it could be someday.' It turns out that Dennis, in his typical fashion, had made a date with the woman for the following Tuesday night.

"So my first task was to follow Dennis and this woman, Patti Ferzoco, on their date. This turned out to be fairly easy, as Dennis is rather oblivious of the rest of the world when he's involved with a woman--and, of course, Patti would not recognize me. So I spent the evening discreetly tailing Dennis in my car: first to Patti's house, then to a Thai restaurant, then to a movie theater, and then back to Patti's house. All I learned from my efforts was that they ate some Thai food, saw a movie--which Dennis later described as forgettable Hollywood fare--and then they ended up at Patti's house where they talked for a while and then presumably went to bed. I mean, I suppose that's something happening. But they had three more dates, and then it petered out and that was the end of it. So I initially came to the conclusion that Dennis's date with Patti Ferzoco had made little difference in the scheme of things.

"But it turned out I was mistaken; I'd been looking in all the wrong places. In reality, it was Dennis's dog Buzz who created all the turbulence and bifurcations. Lots of them, I might add!

"You see, this was back in the days when men were still men and dogs were still dogs. Even though he was a purebred Orkney dotted terrier--a breed known for its loud bark--Buzz didn't normally bark a lot. Some dogs bark all the time; it's a way of life for them. But Buzz barked only when he wanted something, like when he was hungry and dinner was late. And when dinner was late, let me tell you, that dog really knew how to bark! I'd been over there on many occasions around Buzz's dinnertime. He knew that if he barked long enough and loud enough Dennis would eventually open the door and feed him. That's how it always worked. Sometimes he'd have to bark only ten or twelve times before Dennis would let him into the house and give him his supper. Other times he would go through several medleys of barks punctuated by intermissions of earnest yelps and whines before Dennis would finally remember that Buzz was in the back yard and that it was obviously his dinnertime.

"But this particular Tuesday night, the night of Dennis's date with Patti Ferzoco, Buzz figured wrong. You see, Dennis rushed home from his job that evening with his thoughts universes away from Buzz's stomach. Dennis's destiny, as I've told you, was not to fall in love with Patti Ferzoco. But he was destined to spend the night with her. And because of that he wouldn't think of anything else, including Buzz, until the next morning.

"So while Dennis and Patti spent the night exploring the joys of good food, conversation, and affection, Buzz barked. And that dog, barkless as he normally was, knew how to bark with the conviction of a dog who had one purpose in life and that was to have dinner. Obviously, since Dennis wasn't home and it was past Buzz's dinnertime, Buzz began to bark, undoubtedly figuring that Dennis couldn't quite hear him and that, if he kept barking and barking, the back door would eventually creak open and his loving owner would welcome him inside, dogfood can in hand. But obviously this didn't happen on this particular Tuesday evening, so Buzz barked and barked. And as he barked, his barks evolving into his own exquisite expression of life and doghood, he persuaded several other dogs in the neighborhood to join in, creating a veritable symphony of dog barks reverberating against the sky like pots and pans. And at that point Buzz, enveloped in that pure innocent joy only a dog can feel, pressed his feet solidly against the earth, wagged his tail proudly, and proceeded to bark all night long."

Chapter 4

"Needless to say," said Malcolm, "after Dennis told me about Buzz's night of barking, my next move was obvious."

"And what was that?" said Alex. "To shoot the dog?"

"Of course not! Buzz is a good dog. I could never hurt him."

"And I guess that would be considered murder, wouldn't it?"

"Well, it wouldn't have been back then. But it wasn't Buzz's fault, even though all the neighbors hated him that night and he's probably lucky to be alive today. No, it was obvious that I should talk to the neighbors and interview whoever was home that night. To make things easier I recorded all my interviews--some a bit discreetly--and then I transcribed them later with my own observations. The transcripts are all in here."

Malcolm opened the fat notebook he'd taken from his portfolio.

"That looks like a lot of interviews," said Alex.

"It's not, really. It's just that some people need to use a lot more words to say what they mean. Especially the first person I interviewed, Jay Gabinski. Jay was Dennis's next-door neighbor to the west. I'd met Jay earlier. He's a friendly fellow, very neighborly. Every time I dropped in on Dennis, Jay would be out watering his yard or fooling with some broken piece of furniture on his front porch. I often wondered if he ever went inside his house. He has one of those redwood-burl tans that makes him look as if he spends his entire life in direct sun. It never seems to fade, even in the winter. Here's my interview with Jay:

Jay Gabinski: 3034 North Wesley Avenue, La Verne, IL

Age 48; married with 2 children

Occupation: Industrial Landscaping

Jay was out washing his car when I talked to him. He laughed when I asked him about the night in question, and then he started hosing off his tires.

JAY: Yeah, I remember that night. Yeah, how in the hell could I forget when Peevey's goddamn dog barked all night? Christ, where the hell was Peevey? Why the hell does he let his goddamn dog bark and bark like that? I don't understand the guy! It's ridiculous!

ME: So what did you end up doing that night because of the barking?

JAY: Oh, Christ, I had such a headache! It started as a little headache--I figured it was from the drive home, you know, all the traffic. Man, it was heavy! Anyway, my wife and kids were out of town--they were visiting her folks out there at Disneyland--and I had the next couple of days off. And I was planning to work on the yard because my fence is falling over in the back. Can you see that from here? No, you probably can't--it's leaning like a drunk sailor.

So anyway, as my headache got worse and worse, I became aware of the barking. And do you think it helped my headache any? Christ! I kept saying "Goddamn dog!" over and over to myself as I groped through the medicine cabinet looking for the aspirin. And then that damn shelf came loose and the entire contents of the medicine cabinet went crashing into the sink. And then the lid of the aspirin bottle--one of those impossible-to-open childproof deals--popped off as it hit all the other bouncing containers. I stood there watching helplessly as the last three aspirin tablets in the house disappeared down the drain. It was at that moment I realized just how much I hate dogs.

On that note Jay gave the car a final rinse. Then he began hosing the soapy water off the pavement. He flushed what had to have been several hundred gallons of water down the drive into the street. Satisfied that he'd used up his entire allotment of water for the day, he turned off the tap and threw down the hose. Then he lit a cigarette.

JAY: So with this throbbing getting worse in my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Christ, I hate the way my face is aging, and I could really see it. It was like my wrinkles were all pointing in the wrong direction, as if pockets of Gforces were shaping my features. And the goddamn headache just accentuated the effect. Christ, I looked horrible! It was frightening! Do I look that way now?

Jay looked at me with his face twisted in pain.

ME: No, not at all. You look fine: the picture of health.

Jay took a long drag off his cigarette. Then he exhaled a seemingly infinite stream of smoke.

JAY: Then I stomped out into the yard. I was so mad I could feel my wrinkles literally bulging from my face. I yelled, "SHUT UP! SHUT U-U-UP! SHUT U-U-UP! GODDAMNIT!" And you think that did any good? Hah! Damn dog kept barking! I can't take it, I'm thinking, I'm going insane, I'm gonna killthat doggonnaKILLIT! So to try to keep myself from running over there and ripping out that goddamn mutt's vocal cords, I ran in the house and called my Aunt Mavis in Chicago. Now, I'm the first to admit that my Aunt Mavis isn't exactly the most tranquilizing person to be around, but at least she doesn't bark.

Jay took another long drag and exhaled.

JAY: The phone rang six or seven times before she answered. It takes her a long time to get around the house sometimes. "Listen," I tell her. "I've been promising to come up and fix that damn closet door, and I know tonight's probably a bad time."

Well, there's never a bad time for Aunt Mavis, it seems. She says, "Why, Jay! It's so good to hear from you! Why, just today I was telling Gladys next door about how you fixed my garbage disposal last summer. Remember how you found one of my hairpins in there, and it was all crusty with goop and gunk and blah, blah, blah. . . ."

She always goes on and on like that. It drives me crazy. So I broke in and asked her if I could spend the night. With Aunt Mavis, if you have something to say, you just have to dive in somewhere, head first. She never actually stops talking, ever.

So she says, "You're coming tonight? Why, I'm just making some coffee cake right now, and I can put you up in Ricky's old room! Oh, it'll be so good to see you again! We have so much to talk about! Why, just the other day blah, blah, blah. . . ." And on and on. So I tell her that I'll be there in an hour. And I'm thinking, thank you, Aunt Mavis!

So anyway, the next morning--I did spend the night there, because it's an hour drive and I was pretty tired. So the next morning I woke up to the sound of these goddamn birds screeching. Oh, well, I said to myself. At least they waited until a reasonable hour. I'd managed to get in six blissful uninterrupted hours of sleep and nothing was going to get me upset now. The sun was shining and it was a glorious spring day. In other words, it was a perfect morning for fixing a closet door.

Jay stopped at this point and looked down the side of his garage. After a minute or so he spoke again.

JAY: Damn, I probably won't have time to get to that gate till this weekend.

He threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his shoe.

JAY: So where was I? Oh, yeah. Aunt Mavis was still sleeping, so I decided to help myself to breakfast. I turned on the coffee maker, one of those auto-drip deals, and put two pieces of honey wheat bran bread--have you ever had that stuff? It's pretty good--I put it in the toaster, pushed down the lever, and belched. And this is where it gets ridiculous. I didn't realize that the coffee machine and the toaster were on the same circuit, and Aunt Mavis apparently never used the two appliances at the same time. But rather than blowing a fuse, the overloaded circuit shorted out the refrigerator with this spectacular flash of fireworks. I couldn't believe it! But here's the really weird part: I happened to belch at exactly the same instant that the sparks flew, and at that very instant my ears plugged up for a couple seconds and then popped! It was like there was some sort of temporary vacuum or something, right there in the middle of Aunt Mavis's kitchen.

Jay stopped and lit another cigarette.

JAY: You know, another thing I need to do is stop smoking! Yeah, one of these days. So anyway, I went, "Ah, Christ!" and opened the refrigerator door after the smoke died down. The inside was cold, dark, and silent; it was like a tomb in there, a tomb for Aunt Mavis's soon-to-be-decaying food. Well, I grabbed the quart of milk, seeing as how it was doomed, and poured myself a big glass. And then it struck me: perhaps I'd just done Aunt Mavis a favor! You see, her refrigerator was one of those prehistoric models, you know the ones, complete with microscopic frost-encrusted freezer. So this meant that Aunt Mavis would have to buy a new refrigerator, frost-free and maybe with an ice maker, whether she wanted to or not.

Well, we went over to Craig's New and Used Appliances that afternoon, and Aunt Mavis selected a large almond Frigon DuoFreez side-by-side. So the salesman says to her, "I'm afraid we're out of that model. We might have it in white." And I say, "Why don't you get the other one with the icemaker in the door?"

And she says, real stubbornly, "No, no! I don't want an icemaker. I don't need it, and it'll only be something to break. I don't need ice. I almost never use ice. And I want almond, I don't want white. White will get dirty too fast, and blah, blah, blah. . . ." And on and on like she does.

So then the salesman says, "We have the one with the icemaker in stock." Aunt Mavis says, "Well, how long will it take to get this almond one?" And he says, "Well, anywhere from one to four weeks. It depends." "Okay," she says, "I want to order the almond side-by-side, then. That's the one I want, and I should have the one I want, and blah, blah, blah. . . ."

So I say, "Aunt Mavis! What will you do with all your food? You can't go that long without a refrigerator." But she says, "I don't care about the food in there--it's all bad by now anyway. I'll just have to dump it out. All of it. I'll just go out to eat. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I like to go out!" And then she starts going on and on about some new Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood. . . .

Christ! I knew it was useless to argue with my aunt once she'd decided what she wanted. So I offered to take her out for dinner. I figured listening to Aunt Mavis rattle on for a couple more hours wouldn't hurt me any and would probably help appease my guilt for destroying her appliances. Anyway, she ordered the refrigerator and I fixed her closet. And I never got around to my fence, goddamnit.

Chapter 5

"You're right," said Alex when Malcolm had finished reading. "Jay Gabinski does use a lot of words."

"What strikes me is not so much the number of words he uses; it's the vast number of side trips he takes while he's in the act of talking. And if you analyze those side trips, they're merely bifurcations of his thought processes. You could almost say they're fractal, like the branches of a tree. He starts telling you about one episode, and that episode branches off into two separate episodes, which branch off into two more and on and on. It may seem like nothing more than a load of twaddle to the average listener, but I quickly learned the value of getting all those words down in writing. You never know which ones will be valuable later on."

"That's an interesting way of looking at it. I guess when I interview people for articles, I end up throwing a lot of their words away."

"Well, that's what writers should do. But, you see, I was a researcher gathering data. And the first thing that jumped out at me from Jay Gabinski's voluminous pile of words was the description of the vacuum phenomenon in the kitchen--when he belched at the same exact instant the refrigerator shorted out. I contacted a former student from my Chaos for Fun and Profit class who was working on her meteorology thesis. Jane was studying continental weather patterns and the role of chaos in weather forecasting. When I told her about the vacuum incident, she was interested in performing some tests and taking some measurements in Jay's aunt's kitchen. To make a long story extremely short and simple, Jane and I came to the conclusion that the momentary disturbance in Aunt Mavis's kitchen occurred at just the critical point in time and space to significantly alter the low-pressure zone which was passing through.

"This, through a complicated series of minute divergences, ultimately caused bizarre weather conditions across the continent. Do you remember a couple of springs ago, right when the weather started to change radically?"

"You mean when they had that killer heat wave in the East?"

"Yes, that was part of it. I have a weather summary in here somewhere." Malcolm pulled a small folder out of his portfolio, turned to a page, and began reading. "'The Northeast was unseasonably warm for the month of April while the West was assaulted by a major cold front. Hailstorms rocked Los Angeles, San Francisco experienced ice storms, tornadoes hit the mountain states, dry winds brought on severe drought in the South, and snow blanketed the lower Mojave Desert. With the exception of lettuce, which skyrocketed to five dollars a head, agriculture didn't suffer as greatly as would be expected. Or so they thought at the time. One important crop was significantly affected, but nobody became aware of this fact until much later. You see, it was this same spring that the Midwestern popcorn fields became the new breeding grounds for Sphecius dasypoda, the armadillo wasp, which was driven from its Southern habitat by the arid winds. This normally innocuous wasp makes its nest and lays its eggs in the ear canals of dead armadillos, which can be found in surprising numbers along the highways of Texas and a good part of the South. If you've ever driven across Louisiana on Highway 90, for example, you'd know precisely what I'm talking about. In the north the wasps colonized the popcorn fields and made their nests in the husk of the corn plants--the closest thing they could find to a cold armadillo ear. This didn't hurt the crops per se, but it did change the character of the popcorn. It was later discovered that armadillo wasp egg residue--which up to this time had existed benignly distant from the human palate--would prove in human consumption to have hallucinogenic properties. But I'll get back to that later."

Malcolm then took a small photocopy out of the folder.

"Now," he continued, "this is where some of those extra Jay Gabinski words come in handy. In the process of doing library and computer searches for weather data, my friend Jane ran across this article from the April 28th edition of the Plains Tribune."

Malcolm handed the photocopy to Alex, who read the following:

TRUCKS JACKKNIFE ON INTERSTATE, CAUSE TRAFFIC TIE-UP

Two eastbound semis collided on I-40 east of Oklahoma City earlier today and jackknifed, causing traffic to back up for miles in both directions.

"This is the worst traffic jam I've ever seen," said officer Clancy Magree at the scene. "It'll take hours to get this mess cleaned up. It's going to be a slow ride home for the folks out here today."

The accident occurred when a truck loaded with kitty litter from California veered into a truck carrying Frigon refrigerators, causing the Frigon truck to lose control and jackknife. According to witnesses the kitty litter truck struck the left side of the refrigerator truck, causing it to roll over and dump its load onto the other truck. The two drivers escaped without injury.

Officials at the Environmental Restoration Foundation are concerned because the Frigon Corporation uses recycled CFC-12, or freon, in the manufacture of their refurbished refrigerators.

"Several tons of kitty litter were involved," said ERF spokesperson Rachel Barrett. "It looks as if the force of the impact caused the large volume of litter to crush the refrigerators and puncture their tubes, and this in turn would cause a substantial amount of freon to escape into the atmosphere. We won't know exactly how much freon has been released and what the environmental effect will be until we do further studies."

In the meantime, officials are warning drivers to avoid that stretch of I-40 between Dale and US-177 until the refrigerators and the kitty litter can be cleaned up, which they're anticipating will be by midmorning tomorrow.

Alex handed the article back to Malcolm.

"So?" he said.

"Don't worry," said Malcolm, his eyes gleaming. "This gets good. You see, through the good graces of a private investigator I happen to know, I found out the names and phone numbers of the two truck drivers involved in the accident."

"Why would you be interested in them?"

"Well, for one thing, one of them was hauling Frigon refrigerators, the same brand that Aunt Mavis ordered."

"You've got to be kidding!" Alex laughed. "There's probably lots of trucks on the road hauling Frigon refrigerators!"

"Alex, be patient, okay? I have a ton of information to go through here, and I can't tell you everything at the same time. What's more, I don't think you'd particularly want to hear everything at the same time."

"Oh, I don't know. If you were able to tell me everything at once, I'd give it a try. After all, we are living in the Information Age."

"True. But I have only one mouth, so you're stuck with a linear account--as linear as I can make it, that is. Shall I continue?"

"Yeah, sorry. Go on."

Malcolm opened the interview notebook again.

"First I called Al Strickland," he said. "He was the driver of the kitty litter truck. He was fairly easy to talk to, although he sounded a bit nervous. I think he thought I was an insurance investigator. Here's his interview:

Al Strickland: 1147 8th Street, Apartment F, Bishop, CA

Age 26; single

Occupation: Truck Driver

AL: Well, I was pulling an all-nighter because I was way behind schedule. See, I took off from Victorville right in the middle of that freak blizzard. Man, it was hideous! Can you believe it? Snow on the Mojave? I mean, sure, in the high desert, but I'm talking about farther down, somewhere around Needles--you could see the cactuses covered with the stuff! Jesus Christ, it was insane! I was fighting five-foot snowdrifts! It was a real killer, I tell you. It paralyzed everything for miles around. And nobody seemed to know how to deal with it, either. I mean, any stretch of the highway that wasn't covered with slushy snow was icy slick and treacherous, all the way into Arizona. Man! You know, I've only been soloing for a couple of months, and I don't know about this. I may go back to being a jackhammer operator. I'm thinking it was a lot less stressful.

ME: So what happened when you finally got out of California?

AL: Well, things got easier. But I was so far behind that, I mean, I needed to make it to Charlotte by Friday. And I don't like having to take uppers, man. They're murder on my ulcer! Jesus Christ, it's awful! It's like pouring salt on a snail. So I kept loading up on the coffee. I have these two big thermoses I keep in the cab, and I was refilling them every time I stopped. So I was chugging this coffee and man, I tell you, my stomach felt like an active volcano! And suddenly there I was with two empty thermoses. Jesus Christ! I thought. I'm out again! Well, I'm just going to have to stop and get some more. Jesus Christ, this stuff is killing me!

So I'm hauling ass and my guts are about to explode, and I suddenly think, Wait a minute! I bought some Rolaids earlier! Where are those little fuckers? They've got to be around here somewhere. So I was reaching around for them, across the seat, groping here and there. And I saw the guy on the right in front of me. I knew he was there. I was watching for him. But suddenly this absolutely killer gas pain stabbed me on the left side. It was like my stomach was Vesuvius and my left kidney was Pompeii, you know what I mean? Man, I thought this was it: I thought I was going to die! Jesus Christ, I couldn't even breathe, and I had to pull over right then.

ME: And that's when you hit him?

AL: And that's when I hit him. Man, am I in trouble!

"Next," said Malcolm, "I called up Chuck Lowell, the driver of the Frigon refrigerator truck. He was real friendly, thick drawl. Here's his story:

Chuck Lowell: 10793 South Rossmoor Drive, Chicago, IL

Age 35; married, no children

Occupation: Truck Driver

CHUCK: Well, I sure wasn't in as much of a hurry as that feller who hit me, I'll tell you right now! But I sure was looking forward to seeing my wife. You see, she wasn't expecting me home so soon.

Chuck broke out into loud laughter which turned into coughing. It sounded like he had a nasty chest infection.

CHUCK: Pardon me--bronchitis! See, I'd been driving all over the country hauling refrigerators from the Frigon plant up in Flagstaff. That's where they make them, up there. This particular load wasn't supposed to go to Chicago for another week. But turns out the Chicago distributor was running out of the DuoFreez side-by-side model --that's a real popular one--and demand was high. So there I go, back home to Chicago a week early. And I'm thinking, should I just walk in and surprise Annie? Or maybe I'd call her, make up some story about how I was still in Flagstaff, stuck there because things got backed up, and then BAM! Just walk in on her like that! And I was thinking maybe I could still get a reservation for dinner at the Rusty Broiler, 'cause she loves that place. They make the best steaks, mmm-mmm!

Anyway, that's what I was thinking about, just minding my own business, when that fellow pulls right into my left rear flank. I mean, I could see him in my mirror, and I knew he was going to try to pass me. But, hell, I didn't expect him to try to climb aboard!

Chapter 6

The sun and clouds were tuning up for what looked like the overture to a symphonic sunset in three movements. Alex stood and stretched. He felt strangely disoriented, as if a piece of his life had slipped out through a hole in his back pocket. Impulsively he patted his pants, checking to make sure the pockets were as full or as empty as he'd remembered. Everything seemed to be in order, but somehow this didn't alleviate his feeling of uncertainty.

"I'm going to get a beer," he said. "Would you like one? Or, I suppose after last night--"

"A beer sounds good." Alex ran into the house and brought back two bottles of Armadillo Red Ale. The overture had begun.

"Great sunset," said Malcolm, opening one of the bottles.

"Yeah," Alex sighed. "But it seems a little early today."

"What, the sunset?"

"Yeah." They watched as the airbrushed overture charged into the inky concerto.

"Well, at least it's setting in the right direction," said Malcolm.

Alex still felt uneasy, but he couldn't put his finger on what was wrong. Maybe nothing was wrong. And it was a beautiful sunset, even if a bit rushed.

"Well, then," he said, "why don't you continue?"

"Sure. Do you mind if I jump around a bit?"

"Oh, no, go right ahead," Alex said dryly. "There's plenty of room."

"This is a real challenge," said Malcolm, ignoring Alex's quip. "While I was in the process of collecting this data I thought of everything in terms of multiple dimensions. It makes it difficult for me to give anything remotely resembling a linear account."

"That's okay. It doesn't feel like a very linear day anyway. In fact, doesn't it seem like we just skipped half the afternoon?"

"Oh, it might show up somewhere eventually. You know, this beer tastes perfect right now. After last night I figured I'd never drink again. Of course, I figured I'd never do anything again."

"Well," said Alex, not sure if he was kidding or serious. "If today isn't a linear day, maybe last night hasn't happened yet."

"Don't even suggest that! It's not something I'd want to go through again."

"Sorry. So where were we?"

Malcolm pulled a yellowed newspaper clipping from a folder.

"On the Australotasman sea," he said, handing the clipping to Alex. "This is from the Globe Weekly, from March of last year, to refresh your memory."

Alex read the following:

REST OF AUSTRALIA SUCCUMBS TO GLACIER FLOODWATERS

Most remaining traces of the continent of Australia disappeared under the rising floodwaters this week following another episode of Antarctic glacial melting. Several hundred cities and towns in what was once part of Queensland were washed under the relentless waves with an estimated 50,000 people dead or missing at last report, bringing the total to 600,000. Officials say that additional rescue vehicles will be unable to enter the area until the currents stabilize.

Residents of the remaining coastal areas of New Zealand and New Guinea were advised to find higher ground in anticipation of the next round of flooding, although experts say that the worst is probably over.

"It's likely that this is the last we'll see of glacial floods for a while," said Maureen Conover of the soon-to-be-defunct Antarctic Meteorological Center. "The melting which began a year ago has probably run its course for the time being. We can only hope that we won't experience another episode of acute stratospheric pollution in the foreseeable future."

"So it turns out that the Environmental Restoration Foundation had some valid concerns," said Malcolm as Alex handed back the article. "I don't know if you ever heard about this, but the scientific community came to the conclusion that the initial incidents of glacial melting were caused by a sudden massive migration of chlorofluorocarbons--or CFCs--from the ground into the stratosphere, triggering a chemical reaction that significantly affected the ozone layer. They traced the source of these CFCs to a region of North America, specifically the central portion of the United States. To be exact, the area within a hundred-mile radius of Oklahoma City."

"Oklahoma City?"

"Yes," said Malcolm, his eyes gleaming as he watched the sunset's grand finale. "Right where the Frigon truck crashed."

Chapter 7

The sun sank without a final coda or curtain call, leaving behind a moonless night sky. Malcolm stared at it for a moment as if he'd forgotten what a night sky looked like. Then he took a sip of beer and picked up his interview notebook.

"Now back to the night Buzz barked," he said.

"Buzz? But what about the Australotasman Sea?" Alex was feeling strangely lightheaded for having had only a few ounces of beer.

"I'll get to that in a minute. Right now we need to go back in time. I warned you we'd be jumping around a lot."

"Sort of like time travel, then."

"Possibly." Malcolm studied the sky as if he were searching for some feature that wasn't black.

"You know something?" he said after a moment. "Our brains have a fractal structure. Have you ever thought about that? Think about the vast surface area crammed into the limited capacity of our skulls--"

"What?" Alex felt like he'd been left behind, perhaps deserted at the coffee house with the missing part of the afternoon. Malcolm, on the other hand, was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. He stared at Alex intently as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"Don't you see, Alex? Our minds work in the same way! We seem to have an infinite capacity for thinking, and for going backwards and forwards through time, like we're doing now, while we ourselves remain in one place physically, which happens to be in your back yard. Do you see what I'm saying? We're constantly traveling back and forth through time, and sometimes sideways, too, in our minds."

"So?" Alex said testily.

"So, what?"

"So what the hell do our minds have to do with anything?"

"Well, I'd say quite a bit, wouldn't you? I mean, where would we be without our minds?"

"We'd be out of our minds!" snapped Alex. Malcolm regarded him as if he were a vicious dog about to attack, and then he laughed.

"Sorry," he said. "I get a little carried away sometimes."

"No problem." For all his peculiarities and quirks, Malcolm was starting to grow on him. This, in turn, was only increasing Alex's curiosity.

"So, then, the dog?" he prodded.

Malcolm looked at the black sky one more time as if to make sure it was still black, and then turned back to his notebook.

"Right, the dog. This same night--the night I talked to Jay Gabinski--I stopped off at the house of Ricardo Gomez, who lives behind Dennis. I'd never met Ricardo before, but Dennis told me he was an easygoing, friendly kind of guy, very mellow, works in aerospace. And Dennis was right about him: Ricardo invited me in with no hesitation and offered me a beer. Here's his story:

Ricardo Gomez: 3037 North Alger Avenue, La Verne, IL

Age 53; widowed, 4 grown children

Occupation: Engineer

Ricardo opened his beer and settled back into his recliner, a luxurious leather model that folded back to an almost horizontal position. I noticed there were three empty beer cans, all 16-ouncers, lined up on the coffee table. Ricardo took a long drink from the fresh one in his hand and sighed slowly and deeply. I thought for a minute he was going to fall asleep, but fortunately he didn't.

RICARDO: It's funny you should ask me about that night. I was watching the news and drinking a beer. Just relaxing. Yessir, I could hear Buzz barking back there. But noises don't normally bother me too much. You see, I spent my childhood around jet engines when my pop was working down at the aircraft plant, and I survived raising my own four kids. They were good kids, all of them, but I tell you, kids sure can get noisy sometimes. These days, I don't know, sometimes life seems a little too quiet for me. My wife, God rest her soul, passed away last year--cancer--so in the evening when I get home from work I welcome the noises in the neighborhood. They keep me company.

ME: I'm sorry about your wife.

RICARDO: Well, thanks to God's grace she didn't suffer long. We had some wonderful years together. And I'll always have my memories.

Ricardo stared off dreamily for a moment or so. Then he took a large noisy slurp of beer.

RICARDO: I remember that night that Buzz was barking so much. I'd had an especially tough day at the office. My assistant had misplaced the latest specs for the U12F6 project, the users were having some sort of computer crisis inside and wanted me to come on out and fix it for them, and the copy machine had broken down. And to top it all off, I'd just bought a new clutch and it ended up costing way more than I expected. And then the car wasn't ready at six o'clock like they'd promised, either. Whooie! So when I finally got home that evening, all I wanted for a change was a little peace and quiet. That's all.

So I was getting kind of irritated. I'm normally pretty calm about things. Everybody says, "Yessir, that Ricardo, he's an easygoing guy." That's me, easygoing. So I was kind of good-natured about it at first.

I said, "Hey, dog, you can bark louder than that!" And I raised my beer like I was toasting him. "Here comes the sports. Come on! Bark all the way through it so I can't hear the basketball scores." I was just having fun to blow off a little steam, you see.

And then that crazy Buzz kept barking and he kept barking and he didn't seem like he was ever going to quit. So I just shook my head and sighed. I was tired, and I really, really wanted that dog to quit barking. I don't know. Maybe I need a vacation, you know, maybe go visit my sister in Phoenix or something. I've been thinking about that. Or get away completely, go on a cruise. I mean, you tell me: how come I'd never noticed this dog barking before? I kept wondering, just how long was the dog going to keep on barking?

I finally put my beer down and stood up. I said, "Okay, dog. Have it your way. You go ahead, bark through the news, and I'll walk down to the mailbox. I'll just be gone a little while, and then you can bark to me some more. How does that sound?" So I put my shoes on and went and got the electric bill. I figured since I had to mail it in the next couple days, I'd just mail it tonight. It'd give me something to do, a reason to take a walk.

When I got outside, the evening air felt cool and crisp, real nice. Yessir, this is what I need, I thought to myself while I was walking. I watch too much TV anyway. I should take a walk every night, get some air in my lungs. Help work some of this gut off, too, and it'd be good for my blood pressure. Do you want every detail I can remember?

ME: Anything you want to tell me about will be helpful.

RICARDO: Okie-dokie! This part's going to be a little silly, though. As I was walking up to the mailbox I reached in my jacket pocket for the electric bill. I can't remember if it was in my left pocket or in my right pocket. Anyway, I pulled out the electric bill and noticed there was another piece of paper in the same pocket. It was an old grocery list that I guess I hadn't gotten around to throwing away yet. So since there was a trash can right next to the mailbox, I threw away the list while I was mailing the electric bill. But at the same exact moment this big plastic bag was blowing across the sidewalk, and I watched it kind of twist and wrap itself around the trash can. And just as I was thinking that it was time to take my jacket to the cleaners, I noticed that a coat hanger was sticking out of the bag, and the bag turned out to be from a dry cleaners! Isn't that the darndest coincidence?

"Well, I'll be darned!" I said to myself. "Maybe this means something. I should go buy a lottery ticket!" And that's exactly what I did: I walked down to the minimart and bought myself a lottery ticket.

ME: Did you win anything?

RICARDO: No, I sure didn't. But do you want to hear what happened after I mailed the electric bill?

ME: Yes, please.

Ricardo took another large gulp of beer and cleared his throat.

RICARDO: Now, this was a month later. I don't know how it happened, but I received a second notice from the electric company. And I figured, Aw, they're just mixed up down there, so I threw it away. Well, two weeks later, on the morning of what turned out to be one heck of a day at work, I woke up to discover that I'd slept two hours late because my alarm clock didn't go off. And the reason my alarm clock didn't go off was because my electricity was turned off! I was pretty ticked!

Ricardo's face turned dark red then.

RICARDO: So I got to work late. At around, oh, 10:10, I think it was--in the IF2-P status meeting--I was informed that the inner gear locks for the F180 and F190 samples were missing. These were important samples! I was scheduled to demo the F180 and F190 for the buyers at 10:30. What the heck was I supposed to do? So the guys down there said, "Well, wait till 10:25 and we'll try to have it ready." Okay. So what am I going to do in the meantime while I bite my fingernails off? I guess I'll go call the electric company and deal with them, see what their problem is.

So I called the electric company. Now, I'm normally an easygoing guy, even with utility companies. But this character who I talked to--Joe Macrina, I think that was his name--he really got me steamed! What excuse does he have for turning off my electricity when I always pay my bills? What does he mean, I didn't pay? Of course I paid. What's he trying to tell me? Oh, my gosh, we argued and argued. It went on and on.

By this time Ricardo didn't seem so easygoing--in fact, he seemed somewhat scary to me. I was starting to realize he was the sort of person I would not want to anger.

RICARDO: Anyway, it turned out the buyers didn't even show up. But that's another story I can tell you another time if you want. Want another beer?

"The next day I called the electric company," said Malcolm, "and asked for Joe Macrina, who turned out to be the lead customer service rep. Joe sounded pretty young and greasy to me, if you know the type. They always end up in sales. Anyway, I wanted to find out why Ricardo's electricity was shut off. I asked Joe if he remembered talking to Ricardo. Here's his interview:

Joe Macrina: 9253 West Fritz Avenue, La Verne, IL

Age 23; married, 1 child

Occupation: Customer Service Representative

JOE: I think I remember that guy. A Mr. Gomez, right? He was really angry. I don't know what the hell he was so angry about. He's the one who didn't pay his bill. We keep extremely close track of our billing at all times, and we seldom make errors. We're professionals. I have to tell you, in my experience it seems like the angrier a customer is, the more likely he or she forgot to pay the bill. It almost always turns out that way. You know, they left it sitting on the desk and the cat knocked it down behind or something. And they never find it until they've paid the bill a second time, and that's when they realize it was their own fault. Believe me, I've been in the business for five years now. I should know!

Anyway, I was taking a half day off that day, I remember now. And this Gomez fellow, he calls me and the guy wouldn't stop! I mean, who is he to--I mean, this jerk railed and railed and railed at me! I was so pissed off when I left work. I jumped into my car and tore out of that parking lot like there was no tomorrow. I was just flooring it, I tell you! My veins must have been popping out of my head. I was boiling over! Ouch! It makes me furious just to think about it!

So I called my wife on the car phone because it was only 10:45 and she told me to give her a call if I left before noon. And she said, "Don't forget to call your sister." You see, my sister was coming up the next morning for a short visit, and I needed to find out what flight she was on. So I called her at home--she lives in Centerville, Ohio--and my brother-in-law Dave answered and told me she's on the day shift now. You see, Lisa--that's her name--she's a technician out at the ToaStar plant in Dayton where they make satellites. She's in charge of the, oh, what is it, the sphincter valves on the assemblies or something like that. So anyway, I called her at work, which turned out to be a big mistake. I'm telling you, I should have waited until I calmed down and cooled off a little, that's what I should have done! She starts off bitching about me calling her on the job, and then she tells me she's taking an afternoon flight instead of a morning flight. Boy, that pissed me off! I mean, here I'd gone through cartwheels arranging to get the morning off. I had to swap some hours with Louie, the other rep, to do it--and now she expects me to take off the afternoon instead? Oh, man, was I pissed! I mean, I'm doing her a favor in the first place by driving all the way out there and picking her up, right? So I launched into her and told her what a lousy bitch she was! And then we got into this huge argument--we were screaming at each other! It got uglier and uglier and it just kept getting worse. She even canceled her trip, which is probably a good thing, and we still aren't speaking! So now there's this monstrous rift in the Macrina family, and it's all thanks to Mr. Gonads or whatever the hell his name was.

Malcolm closed the notebook and picked up the small folder with the newspaper articles again.

"After I talked to Joe Macrina," he said, " I began to wonder what had happened to Ricardo Gomez's electric bill. Did he actually mail it? Maybe he tossed it in the trash and mailed his grocery list by mistake? That was a possibility, depending on how many beers he'd had by then. But right now I want to move ahead a few months. I hope it's not too disorienting."

"Oh, no," said Alex. "This is getting interesting."

"It gets really interesting about six months later. Do you remember that satellite that crashed to earth just before the elections?"

"That rings a bell. Of course, things crash to earth all the time."

"True. There's a lot of garbage floating around out there. I recently read there's over seven thousand pieces of junk in orbit around the earth. But this particular satellite is of interest because of this article I found in the Greater La Verne Business News of May 3rd."

Malcolm handed Alex another newspaper clipping:

SATELLITE FAILS TO ACHIEVE ORBIT

The communication satellite D-Tritus III which was launched last Wednesday failed to separate on schedule from its booster, it was reported today. The failure forced the satellite into an ineffectual low orbit, making a premature return to earth likely. Signals sent by ground stations have been unsuccessful in correcting the craft's errant path. Because of the highly inclined orbital plane the possibility of rescue by space shuttle or other means is unlikely.

Preliminary tests to determine the cause of the Lorenz 3-G booster's failure seem to point to a faulty sphincter valve in the rocket's propulsion system. Since the failure rate on this type of valve is relatively low, technicians are conjecturing that the mishap was caused by a defective sphincter assembly.

Although it's conceivable that most of the D-Tritus III will burn up on re-entry, the fact that the satellite is equipped with heat shields increases the odds that the craft's fragments will find their way through the earth's atmosphere. Where these fragments are likely to land, however, is unknown.

"We'll be able to calculate the time and place after substantial degradation of the satellite's orbital period," said satellite technology expert Anthony La Duke. "For now we're estimating that its descent to earth will take place in 5 or 6 months. As far as where it will fall, however, we can't even guess at this time."

In the meantime, officials have started a full investigation of the ToaStar plant in Dayton, Ohio, where the Lorenz 3-G rocket booster was manufactured.

Chapter 8

"Wait a minute," said Alex. "Are you suggesting that Joe Macrina's sister was responsible for the satellite crashing?"

"Why not? After all, she was in charge of the sphincter valves, and ToaStar was working on the booster for D-Tritus III when Joe called her."

"Yeah, but come on! Just because she had an argument with her brother? Why should that make any difference?"

"Listen, Alex! When you're dealing with something as precise as this kind of work, it's easy to make a mistake when you're angry or upset. I'm simply saying it's a possibility. Just consider it, okay?"

"All right, let's just say there's an extremely vague chance she was indirectly responsible. So then, what about the satellite?"

"I'll get to that in a bit. You have a VCR, don't you?"

Malcolm reached in the side pocket of his portfolio and pulled out a videotape.

"There's a news report on here that's pretty interesting," he said. "It's only a couple of minutes long. I'd like to show it to you before you forget about Ricardo Gomez."

"Okay, sure. Speaking of Ricardo, do you want another beer?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm pretty hungry again."

"Again? It's only--" Alex glanced at his watch, but it wasn't on his wrist. He could have sworn he was wearing it earlier. And he was surprised when he realized he was hungry, too. It didn't seem like that long since they'd last eaten.

"The TV's in the living room," he said. "Let's watch the video first, and then we can talk about eating."

No lights were on when they entered the house. Groping for the lamp switch near the TV, Alex smacked his toes against something hard.

"Ouch!" he cried. "Hey, isn't this April? Aren't the days supposed to be getting longer?"

"I don't know," said Malcolm as he popped the tape into the VCR. "Aren't they always around twenty-four hours?"

"Well, it doesn't seem like this day's been nearly that long."

"It's not over yet--although your VCR appears to have a different opinion."

Alex noticed the flashing "12:00" on the VCR display.

"Ah, shit," he muttered. "The power went out last night, and now I have to reprogram the whole damn thing."

"The power went out? For how long?"

"I have no idea. My alarm clock stopped at 3:14, and that's all I know."

Malcolm pondered the clock for a moment.

"Interesting," he said.

"So what's on the video?" said Alex.

"This newscast took place a year and a half ago, on November 3rd. Do you by chance recall when that postal employee shot up a hot dog shop in Cincinnati?"

"Hmm, that's pretty common nowadays, you know--postal employees going berserk."

"True. But this one took a hostage for a while."

Malcolm pushed the play button and turned up the volume. A male anchorperson with lacquered hair was laughing.

"And that's no bed of roses to step in either, right, Arlene?" he gushed.

"No, it sure isn't, Bob!" chuckled Arlene, who then turned to the camera and furrowed her eyebrows. "And now, here's a report on that hostage situation in Cincinnati from Diane Pickett. Diane?"

"Thanks, Arlene." Diane Pickett was standing in front of a cluster of police cars. "Police have been trying to negotiate with Frank Rogers, the postal carrier currently holding one hostage at gunpoint inside Mary's Hot Dog Shop in this Cincinnati suburb. Still not known is whether any fatalities have occurred. All we know is that a few minutes ago five gunshots were heard. We have received word that the hostage, Debbie Schultz of Forestville, is unharmed. Right now behind me they're trying to negotiate with . . . can you hear that, Arlene?"

Diane's microphone went dead as the police megaphone increased in volume.

"Rogers, if you surrender now, we will not harm you. We do not want to harm the hostage."

The camera zoomed in on a blurry image of a man standing behind a woman in the doorway of the hot dog shop.

"Leave us alone!" he was shouting. "This is my mission! God has given me instructions!"

As the camera focused on the man, his right hand held a gun aimed at the woman's head. His left arm was wrapped around the woman and he was waving his left hand in front of her face. Clutched in his hand was a small scrap of paper.

"These are the instructions!" he shouted, his beady reptilian eyes frozen in their sockets. "Right here! These are God's words, to me!"

"Okay, that's it," Malcolm said as he shut off the tape. "So what's for dinner?"

"Wait a minute!" Alex exclaimed. "You're not going to just leave it like that, are you? So a mailman is holding a hostage. So what?"

"I just thought we could be thinking about what we want to eat."

"Damnit, Malcolm! Don't leave me in suspense. I mean it!"

At that instant Alex's stomach growled noisily, and he realized he was famished.

"All right," he said. "What about a pizza?"

"Is there anything close?"

"There's a McDingle's Pizza Kitchen about four blocks away."

Malcolm brightened considerably.

"Sounds good. So then, just what does Postal Carrier Frank Rogers have to do with Ricardo Gomez? Quite a bit, it turns out. That note he was holding up?"

"Yeah."

"Ricardo Gomez's grocery list."

"What?"

"Do you remember this Frank Rogers story now?"

"I think so. He killed a child or something, didn't he? Assuring his entry into the Psycho Killer Hall of Fame?"

"That's right."

"But didn't he kill himself, too?"

"No, that's what he intended to do, but they arrested him before he succeeded. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic and locked away in a hospital for the criminally insane. He was simply another human time bomb waiting for the right moment to go off. But do you know where Mr. Ex-Postal Carrier Frank Rogers delivered mail before he went completely nuts? Right here in our own sweet town of La Verne, Illinois."

"You're kidding!"

"Would I lie to you? And right here--" Malcolm reached in a small folder and pulled out a newspaper photo. "--is the Personal Note from God that propelled him from La Verne, Illinois to Cincinnati, Ohio."

The photo was of a wrinkled, stained scrap of paper. On it in block letters were scrawled the following words:

LETTUCE

CREAM

OIL

WHIT INT

TRASH BGS

"Ricardo Gomez's grocery list," mused Alex. "So he did mail it!"

"Yes, while throwing away his electric bill. I checked back with Ricardo on this one. I didn't want to upset the man or anything, but this was too good if it was true."

"Okay," said Alex. "Now explain to me why this grocery list would make a postal worker drive all the way down to Cincinnati to shoot up a hot dog stand."

"Of course. I couldn't talk to Frank Rogers, obviously, but I did talk to his hostage."

"And just how the hell did you pull that one off?"

"I have my ways. I considered calling my private-investigator friend again, but since he'd already gotten me the phone numbers of the two truck drivers I didn't want to bother him again. So I managed this particular inquiry on my own. And in the process I discovered that I can be an extremely nosy, aggressive, conniving snoop when I want to be."

"I see. Good qualities to put on your resume."

"Yes, for my career change. If I can't get work in teaching again, I can always become a gossip columnist. Anyway, I found out the phone number of the hostage, Debbie Schultz, so I called her. This was a little risky, because she'd just been in the national news with a gun shoved in her temple, and I figured she'd never agree to talk to a stranger like me. But fortunately she liked the sound of my voice. She said it was warm and calming--unlike, as she put it, the voice of her ex-husband."

"She really said that?"

"You don't think I'd make something like that up, do you?"

"I suppose not. So what did she have to say?"

"Well, not too much. Except that Rogers kept insisting that the Message from God said 'Let us cream all white trash,' which for some reason propelled him to a hot dog shop in Cincinnati where he could shoot a few people."

"'Let us cream all white trash--'"

"'Lettuce, cream, oil, white, trash.'"

Alex shook his head.

"The guy was nuts," he said.

"Of course he was nuts! Why else would he want to shoot a bunch of total strangers?"

"I don't know. Maybe it was his hobby. A stress reliever, like yoga or Tai Chi."

"Yeah, right." Malcolm shoved the videotape back into his portfolio. "Come on, let's go get a pizza. I hope you like anchovies."

Chapter 9

A half-eaten McDingle's Perky Pizza, half pepperoni and mushroom and half pesto and anchovy, sat on the table between the two of them.

"I don't understand how you can eat those things," Alex said as he watched Malcolm bite into another pesto-and-anchovy slice.

"Actually, they're quite tasty," replied Malcolm. "Anchovies add, I don't know, a pizzazz to pizza. Especially with pesto. You should try it some time."

Alex shuddered and then took another slice of pepperoni and mushroom.

"This is what pizza was meant to be," he said, taking a large bite. "Mmm, pepperoni. It's a classic."

"I can see you have a lot to learn about pizza." Malcolm reached for the pitcher and emptied it into his glass. "At least you have good taste in beer. This McDingle's IPA is splendid."

"Why don't we get another pitcher?"

"Well, if you want to hear the rest of my story, I probably shouldn't drink much more."

Alex finished his glass and sighed. His birthday had turned into a somewhat surreal image of a day, a nonlinear day with no easily identifiable parts, and he wondered how much stranger it was going to get before it ended--or if it was even going to end. (And just what did happen to the afternoon, anyway?) At this point it felt like the days might melt into each other: weeks into weeks, birthdays into birthdays. And then he'd never be sure how old he really was. Perhaps this was his life off, rather than his day off. Perhaps he'd misjudged time completely; after all, he was pretty sure he'd put on his watch that morning, and now it was gone. Maybe he'd laid it down somewhere, some time, or maybe not. Maybe it had fallen off . . . but he would have felt that. Perhaps his entire life was like Malcolm's description of a fractal brain, following an infinitely long thread that wound around this way and that while staying within the confines of a day: today. Or perhaps it was only a minute long. Maybe he was dreaming the events of today. Maybe, in some sort of Kafkaesque way, he was dreaming his life. All he really knew was that there was something comforting about the pleasant light buzz of the beer washing through his head as he listened to Malcolm the Storyteller spin his long peculiar story.

"I'll tell you what," said Alex." Let's get another pitcher, and I'll drink while you talk. After all, today--did I tell you today's my birthday?"

"No kidding! Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks."

"How come you didn't mention it earlier?"

"I don't know. I didn't think of it."

"So how old are you?"

"Thirty-three," Alex sighed. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm ancient."

"Alex, I'm thirty-one!"

"Yeah, but thirty-one is still young. Thirty-three is . . . well, I'm well into my mid-thirties now. Hell, before I know it I'll be in my forties."

"Cheer up. At least you're having a birthday. Things could be a lot worse."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I just wish time would slow down a bit."

Malcolm regarded Alex with surprise.

"Is that your birthday wish?" he said.

"No. To tell you the truth, I wish we had another pitcher of beer."

"Well, since it's your birthday, this definitely calls for another pitcher. But I think I'll get a cappuccino so I can stay awake."

"Stay awake? You've got to be kidding!"

"Why? Do you have a problem with me getting a cappuccino?"

"No, of course not. It's just that, I don't know, you seem like you could light up the entire Chicago metropolitan area if they could just tap into you. So how could you possibly be sleepy?"

"I didn't say I was sleepy," Malcolm said cautiously. "I just like to stay alert. You never know what's going to happen--especially on someone's birthday."

He flagged down the waiter and ordered another pitcher of beer and a double cappuccino. The waiter delivered the drinks almost immediately.

"So where was I?" Malcolm said as he stirred the foam on his cappuccino.

"I don't know." Alex poured himself a glass of beer. "Another neighbor, perhaps?"

"That sounds right." Malcolm retrieved his interview notebook from his portfolio.

"This was a couple of weeks after Buzz's night of barking," he began. "This time I talked to Hal Blank, who lived in a duplex on the other side of Jay Gabinski. Hal was a business student at the University of La Verne. He also worked full-time at an investment firm. His head was shaved on the left side and what hair he had on the right side was neon blue, and a large silver ring hung from his left pierced eyebrow. Out of curiosity I asked him about his last name. He explained that his real last name was Blancrzwskuwicj, but since nobody could pronounce it he'd shortened it to Blank. Here's the interview:

Hal Blank: 3041 1/2 North Wesley Avenue, La Verne, IL

Age 22; single

Occupation: Student and mailroom sorter

When Hal answered the door, loud music blared from inside. I had to shout to be heard.

ME: I'm your neighbor's brother--Dennis Peevey's brother. I was wondering if you were home a couple of Tuesdays ago, when his dog barked all night.

HAL: HUH?! WHAT?

ME: I SAID--

I yelled and pointed to my ears. Hal stared at me wild-eyed with horror as if he were witnessing something hideous and grotesque, and he slammed the door shut. I stood there a moment, surprised, and wondered what had offended him. Was it the sweater I was wearing? Perhaps he'd never seen someone with hair on both sides of his head before. As I was about to knock again I heard the music stop. The door opened and Hal appeared quite a bit friendlier than before. He invited me in.

HAL: So you're Peevey's brother, huh? Sorry about the music. I didn't know it was bothering anyone.

ME: Oh, no, that's all right. It wasn't bothering me at all.

HAL: So did you like it, then? That was some friends of mine, the Horse Patoots. It's their second release. It came out last week.

ME: Sure, it was okay.

Hal led me into the living room where he began flailing his arms about as if they were made of rubber.

HAL: Hey, well, sit down, if you can find a place. Sorry for the mess. So yeah, like, why was that dog barking all night?

ME: So you were home?

HAL: Uh-huh.

ME: I'm trying to find out who was around that night and what they did. In other words, I'd like to know what you ended up doing because of the dog barking. I'm doing a story, you see.

HAL: Oh, yeah, hey, cool! Yeah, let me see if I can remember . . . yeah, I remember now. That fucking dog barked all night, it seemed like. Fuck, man! What's the matter with your brother, anyway?

ME: He said he was gone all night.

HAL: Oh yeah? Okay. So, I wanted to work--I had to work on this fucking paper. See, I'm taking night classes to get my MBA. I'm not sure if I still want to get one, though, 'cause I'm getting pretty sick of the assholes at my job. I might check out law school, maybe. I mean, I don't know how I'd make it as a lawyer, because a lot of them are fucking assholes, too, but--hang on a minute.

Hal bounded out of the room for a moment and then ran back in and looked around. He seemed confused.

HAL: What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Okay. So I had this paper to write. And I couldn't fucking hear myself think because of the dog. So I turned on the TV to try to drown out the barking. I turned on one of the music video channels because I figured it'd be like the radio and I could crank it up really, really loud. I would have turned on the radio, but my fucking receiver's busted and I haven't had a chance to get it fixed. I'm borrowing one from a friend, but I have to give it back tomorrow. I don't know. I might just buy a new one, what the fuck. But I have to have one with an equalizer.

I soon discovered that Hal's train of thought was easily diverted, so I took the liberty of interrupting him.

ME: So what about that night?

HAL: Huh? Oh, yeah. Sorry. So I had the TV turned up really loud, and it was doing a pretty good job. I couldn't hear the fucking dog at all. But I figure, hey, I still can't hear myself think, 'cause now the fucking TV's blasting 300 decibels and rattling the walls and shit. I mean, things are falling off the shelves and bouncing on the floor and shit. So I figure I might as well order a pizza and watch TV, what the fuck. So I call the pizza place, and this chick can't even hear me, and I can barely hear her. She keeps saying, "Sam? Sam? Is that you?" Sam? Who the fuck is Sam? I'm trying to order a fucking pizza! So I hung up and dialed again, and I got McDingle's this time. I don't know who the fuck I was talking to before. See, I have this problem with my phone. It's pretty cool-looking--it's shaped like the Invisible Man, so you can see the intestines and kidneys and livers and shit inside--and instead of ringing a woman screams--oh, fuck, where did I put it? It's probably still in the bathroom. Anyway, the dial is all fucked up. It's not in the normal order. Every time I try to hit the nine I end up hitting the zero instead. It happens to me all the time. Hang on a second--I'll be right back--

"At that point Hal ran out of the room again," said Malcolm. "I suppose I should have asked about the rest of the night, but Hal's train of thought was in danger of derailing and I figured we'd never make it through. Besides, my instincts were telling me to check out the wrong number he'd called. All I had to do was dial the number for the McDingle's Pizza Kitchen in Bedford and substitute a zero for the nine. By doing this, I contacted a woman named Barbara Rose. She was a pleasant-sounding woman, although she seemed a bit reserved. At first she was quite suspicious of me and I was afraid she was going to hang up; but when I convinced her that I was doing a study on wrong numbers and what types of problems they cause, she told me her story willingly. Here's the interview:

Barbara Rose: 867 East MacTavish Street, La Verne, IL

Age 37; separated

Occupation: Elementary School Teacher

BARBARA: I remember that conversation well. How could I forget it? I thought it was my husband Sam because of the music blaring in the background. He's always got music on--he has a million records and CD's--and the voice sounded just like his. When we were first going out years ago, every time he called me he would pretend like he was ordering a pizza. It was because he was so shy, you see. I mean, he always had plenty of friends, but I knew deep down he was extremely shy. He'd pretend like he was ordering a pizza because he thought I wouldn't recognize him that way. It was this continuing joke with him. And I always thought it was so cute, so I'd play along. You see, Sam and I have been married for ten years. Well, actually, we're separated now, and he's been living in Mexico, in Puerto Vallarta, for the past three months. He moved in with his brother, but his brother finally moved out and got another place. Sam isn't exactly the tidiest person in the world, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I was so touched by that phone call. I could have sworn it was Sam, and I thought he was being shy with me because, well, maybe he wanted us to get back together but he didn't know how to say it. Maybe he was having second thoughts. Oh, he's so irresistible when he's shy. I just, I don't know--and then he hung up. I was resolved right then. I didn't think twice about it. I called my school--I teach elementary school, you see--and I told them I had a family emergency. Then I called the airline and booked myself a flight to Puerto Vallarta for the next morning. I guess I had visions of--oh, I don't know what I was thinking.

Well, when I got there the next day, Sam seemed surprised to see me, but I think he was genuinely pleased. He kept insisting he hadn't called me, that it must have been a wrong number, but I didn't believe him. I just knew he wouldn't admit to calling me, no matter what I said. I had myself completely convinced.

Thereupon Barbara let out a long vocal sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief, like the way people sigh when they take off their shoes after a long day.

BARBARA: Anyway, things were going good. I felt like maybe we'd reached a point where things could be better between us, where we could deal with our differences like two adults for a change. I got the feeling Sam really wanted things to work out between us. We had a wonderful time together that day, and for several days after that. It was like a second honeymoon. We stayed in this lovely hotel down the coast because Sam said we'd have no privacy at his place. Some friends had been staying with him, and he didn't want me to see the mess. So we went straight to this hotel, and it was gorgeous: one of those European-style boutique hotels, with breakfast and champagne on your pillow. I mean, not breakfast on your pillow! What am I saying? A little basket with a bottle of champagne was left on the pillow, and they served breakfast outside in the garden. And Sam introduced me to these delicious bananas he'd brought along. They're from Suriname and they're extremely rare, so they're quite expensive. You can't get them anywhere except in this one tiny part of Suriname, which is pretty tiny itself. So I suspect some shady friend of Sam's brother must have smuggled them up through Central America or maybe across the Caribbean. But these bananas, well, not only are they tasty but they're so beautiful! They're orange, sort of a salmon-orange, and the flavor is like, well, a flower garden. Do you know what I mean? It's hard to describe it. It's like I'm sitting in a beautiful garden where everything is in bloom. That's the flavor. There must be something in them that stimulates your endorphins, too, like chocolate. I was in pure ecstasy!

But things between Sam and me seemed too perfect, of course. One morning, just the other day--it was after a week and a half of all this--we had a huge fight. It was about something pretty trivial, but our fights always were. And it was then that I realized we'd never be able to live together again. You see, when Sam is angry with me, somehow he can sense the most vulnerable and delicate part of my psyche, whatever I'm feeling the most insecure about, and then he'll tear it to shreds with, I don't know, sarcasm. He can be so cruel with words. His voice sounds pleasant but his words come out so cutting. I don't know if it's his syntax or punctuation or what, but it's like pouring what you think is going to be a cool soothing balm on a fresh wound, only it turns out to be lemon juice. I simply could not take it any more, that kind of psychological torment. I didn't want to live that way again. There was something between us that could never be resolved. Sometimes it's just that way between two people, and you can be so blind and unwilling to admit it sometimes. Do you know what I mean? You think you'll overcome it, but you never do. People never change.

So I caught the next flight home to Chicago, and that was it--I've washed my hands. This was the day before yesterday, on Monday. Oh, but I've just dumped all my problems on you.

ME: That's all right. Sometimes it's good to dump your problems on somebody else, especially an impartial stranger. Besides, this is some good material for my study.

BARBARA: Really? You don't think I sound like I'm, oh, I don't know, looking for a shoulder to cry on?

ME: Not at all. But go ahead, cry on my shoulder if you'd like. If you can through the phone, that is.

BARBARA: Thanks, really, but I'm fine. I've always been a survivor. Oh, but do you want to hear about my dreadful flight home? It's pretty hysterical.

ME: Sure.

BARBARA: It must have been my lucky day. You see, the flight I was on had one stopover, in San Francisco. And this was the day before yesterday, the day of the Berkeley earthquake. Oh, wasn't that terrible? I notice nobody can't seem to agree on how strong it was: 6.1 or 6.5. I'm just glad there wasn't as much damage as that one last year in Palo Alto. Anyway, the flight was rerouted through Sacramento because they closed all the Bay Area airports for a few hours. Well, we were stuck in Sacramento for what seemed like an eternity. All the eastbound flights were delayed because of those snowstorms they were having in the desert. The weather was pretty terrible all over California, apparently, and they were having tornadoes in the Rockies and oh, it was such a mess! So I sat and sat and sat in that damn terminal for hours on end. And as I sat there, I started to seethe.

At this point Barbara laughed.

BARBARA: I started thinking about all the things I couldn't stand about Sam, all the things he did that just infuriated me. I suddenly realized what a neurotic person I'd been to put up with it for all those years. I mean, I'm 37 years old! It's time for me to start living my life on my own terms. So there I am, sitting in this stuffy airport terminal, surrounded by all these people waiting and reading and sleeping, and I'm saying to myself all these things about how I think I honestly hate Sam. I hate him! I think I really do! I was just too weak to admit it to myself. I was a codependent, that's what I was! So it's time for me to grow up and become a human being and live, damnit! That's what my therapist keeps telling me. So, and this is the funny part, in a pure act of defiance I reached in my carry-on bag where I'd carefully stuffed one bunch of those rare Suriname bananas. I'd wrapped them in a couple of cotton dresses so that I could smuggle them through Customs. That's how addicted to these things I was. They are so good! Well, since Sam had given me this bunch as a present, I pulled them out and tossed them in the ashtray angrily, right out in the open. I said to myself, I don't need your stinkin' rare Suriname bananas! It must have looked pretty funny, but it was a very cathartic act. I felt so much better then. I can't begin to tell you how good it felt.

ME: So what happened to the bananas?

Barbara laughed again.

BARBARA: The bananas? You want to know what happened to my cathartic bananas? I haven't the slightest! I imagine a janitor tossed them in the trash, or maybe somebody ate them. Who knows? I've never paid much attention to the types of people who hang out in airport terminals, have you?

Chapter 10

"So let me guess," said Alex. "You found out what happened to the bananas, right?"

"Of course I did," Malcolm replied.

"I figured as much. I guess I'm getting to know you pretty well."

"I don't know how to break this to you, my friend, but we've barely scratched the surface. There's still a lot left."

"Well, don't leave anything out on my account."

"Don't worry, I won't."

"So what happened to the bananas?"

"Well, first I was going to read you another neighbor's interview."

"Oh, so we're jumping around in time again?"

"If you want to look at it that way. At this point, time's pretty much irrelevant."

"I see." Alex poured himself another glass of beer. "So, then, are you implying that we should be having breakfast now?"

"I didn't say anything about breakfast."

"But you will, eventually. It'll be breakfast time in a matter of hours. If time is irrelevant, maybe we should be starting our breakfast right now, before we get hungry."

"I said time's irrelevant. I didn't say it goes in reverse."

"But if it's irrelevant, I would think it could do any damn thing it pleases! After all, it's not like it has a tight schedule to keep."

"Alex--shall I continue or not?"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes."

Malcolm turned his attention back to his notes.

"All right. Directly east of Dennis's house is an eight-unit apartment building. The tenants of three of the units were gone the night Buzz barked. The tenants in two other units refused to talk to me, thinking I was a salesperson, rapist, extraterrestrial, or religious zealot, no doubt. But I did talk to three tenants who were quite helpful.

"The first one, Rob Vickerstrom, was a strange fellow: an artist who took himself extremely seriously. And I'll swear he was about seven feet tall, too, skinny as a rail, and his head seemed way too small for his body. He invited me in, offered me a seat at this ultra-high-tech glass table that seemed to be defying gravity, on this extremely uncomfortable excuse for a stool, and then he excused himself while he went to change his clothes. I don't understand why he had to change clothes to talk to me, but I didn't ask. When he returned he'd changed from his baggy black T-shirt and white pants into a bright purple silk shirt and black pants."

"How odd," mused Alex. "Maybe he didn't consider it to be a black and white occasion."

"Or maybe he did consider it to be a black and purple one. I don't know. Maybe he was trying to impress me in some odd way. It's hard to tell with these pretentious artist types. At any rate, he had a lot to say about the night in question. Here's the interview:

Rob Vickerstrom: 3042 North Wesley Avenue, Apartment 6, La Verne, IL

Age 29; single

Occupation: Art Gallery Assistant

Rob spoke to me with a somewhat self-important air. As he talked his head drifted high above the rest of his body as if it were trying to float away on its own.

ROB: I was painting. I was working on my Gothic Nihilism series. I prefer never to work at night because the lighting is wrong, but I positively have no choice these days. My job at the Up-Scale Gallery downtown--they just opened their third gallery in Beverly Hills, by the way--has been keeping me so-o-o-o busy that, well, I simply must make some sacrifices.

Well, that dog's barking was practically making me hysterical. I simply could not concentrate on my hues! I need to be extremely meditative and serious when I paint--I dress simply in gray cotton and I refrain from answering the door or the telephone--and that creature was making it nearly impossible!

At this point beads of sweat began to appear on his face, as if talking was a tremendous strain. When he spoke again after a dramatic pause, he was breathless.

ROB: Finally, I called Dennis, but he wasn't at home. I do wish he would muzzle that animal if he's going to be away all night! It gets me so tensed up that there's no way I can relax and let the flow of my work direct me. My chi becomes stifled. And then I'm, well, simply useless!

Rob flung his head to one side indignantly, and I could detect a spray of sweat flying off his forehead.

ROB: Anyway, I was attempting to commingle with my magentas in order to become Desire myself--the piece I was working on is called The Passion of Death--but all I could become was Rage. And Rage is simply not colored magenta! My entire sense of balance was destroyed. And I simply cannot work if I am not balanced!

Rob sighed deeply again and his head drooped forward. He looked as if he were completely drained. I waited uncomfortably as he rolled his head back and forth slowly across his chest, his shoulders rocking up and down in unison. After a moment or two he lifted his head with great effort, his eyes rolling skyward.

ROB: So I went into the kitchen finally--I realized that I was utterly famished--and prepared a stalk of celery. You see, I prefer not to encumber my stomach with complex food when I am working with light and color. As I walked back to my easel, I bit down on the celery stalk just as that beast next door began raging again! And do you know what happened? Why, I was so perturbed that I lodged a celery string between the two lower left rear molars. Oh, I positively hate it when that happens! Here I am trying to meld with my painting, and all I can think about is that there's something stuck between my teeth! It was dreadful. And to make matters worse, I went trotting into the bathroom to find some dental floss, and there were only two inches remaining on the roll! Not even enough to wrap around my little finger! The entire evening was a complete disaster!

On that note Rob stood up and began gliding around the room from corner to corner with large but graceful steps as if he were ice skating. And he started to talk rapidly.

ROB: The following morning--I never got to sleep, you see, on top of everything--I drove over to the supermarket to purchase some dental floss. Now here I am, exhausted and nearly in tears, with a decomposing celery string permanently lodged between my teeth, and what happens? My Triumph stalls in the intersection! Oh, that little car will be the death of me! It's impossible to find a good British-car mechanic these days, and if you do manage to find one, they say they're unable to find the parts for the older models. And, of course, I've been having nothing but problems with the carburetor lately. Normally, if I just pump the gas and pray, I can get it started again. But this morning? Not a chance in Hades! I was trapped there, blocking the intersection. And just then this maniac in a midnight-blue Mercedes MNX started honking and screaming at me! Well, what was I to do? Disappear into thin air so His Highness could get through? As if I didn't have enough problems--I still didn't have any dental floss. Well, as I sat there contemplating my own possible suicide, I happened to notice in my rearview mirror that Mr. Mercedes' license plate said IMPRESS. Well, how egotistical can you get? Oh, I'm so impressed by you, Mr. Mercedes, because you honestly know how to act like a complete ass. Please teach me, a lowly Triumph driver, how to be impressive like you!

Rob stopped skating for a moment and threw his hands up in the air dramatically.

ROB: Oh, I simply despise those vanity plates!

ME: They can be pretty vain.

I realized then that Rob hadn't expected me to interrupt his monologue. He stared at me, dumbfounded and motionless, for a few moments. Then he began to skate around the room again.

ROB: Anyway, I finally got my car started after a series of about three signal changes, and I managed to get out of the intersection. And do you know what? I was so embarrassed and distressed sitting there blocking all those cars all that time that I managed to suck the celery string right out of my teeth! The same celery string that got me into this horrid mess! I didn't even realize it was gone until I got to the drugstore, and then I felt silly running in just to buy dental floss which I didn't even need now. So I bought myself a candy bar, too. That makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?

At this point Rob broke into loud laughter.

ROB: Oh, sometimes I am so daft!

"I was glad to leave Rob alone with his painting and his skating," said Malcolm. "While I felt like he was distinctly irritated by my presence, I also felt like he didn't want me to leave. Perhaps he simply didn't want to be left alone with his angst or something. I don't know. It was a claustrophobic feeling. At any rate, I managed to find out who the driver of the Mercedes was."

"Why the hell would you want to find out who was driving the Mercedes?"

"Well, because he was obviously in a big hurry to get somewhere."

"Yeah, but lots of people are in a hurry when they drive, and some people happen to enjoy driving like maniacs. It relaxes them. Or something." Alex was starting to feel somewhat blurry.

"But the Mercedes driver might have been trying to get somewhere by a certain time. When Rob's car blocked the intersection, it may have caused this person to be late to an engagement. It was just another possible path. It seemed logical at the time for me to follow it."

"So you did."

Malcolm shrugged.

"Hey, the celery didn't exactly lead anywhere," he said. "Or the dental floss."

Alex leaned back and placed his hands on the table. His fingers looked disproportionately long, as if he were viewing them through a fisheye lens. The table felt huge suddenly, or was Alex feeling small? Things seemed pretty surreal at the moment. Alex in Wonderland, he thought to himself. And Malcolm's the Mad Hatter--the Malcolm Hatter! And to my right, the White Piece of Dental Floss, and to my left the Stalk of Celery falling asleep in its teacup. . . .

"I'm sorry," he said as the room began to rotate slightly. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure."

"What size hat do you wear?"

Thereupon Alex exploded into giddy laughter. Malcolm watched him with amusement. After a few moments he stood.

"Alex, my friend," he said, "I think you need some fresh air."

****

Alex and Malcolm were riding in the back of a Mercedes MNX limousine. The driver was speeding through the city, screeching around corners like a maniac. Malcolm, sporting a top hat, was flossing his teeth intently.

"Why do we have to go so fast?" Alex whispered.

"Alex, my friend," Malcolm said through his dental floss. "We need to get to Suriname before the bananas run out. And besides, we have to get away from the bees." Alex saw then that the limousine was surrounded by a huge swarm of angry bees pecking at the windows with their giant stingers. The windows started to crack apart--

Alex awoke. He'd been sleeping on his own couch. And he could still hear the bees.

Startled, he sat up. The buzzing faded out instantly; the bees were gone. He was in his living room and Malcolm was sleeping in one of the easy chairs.

Alex looked over at the clock on the TV. It said 1:04. Is it morning or afternoon? he thought. It's dark. It must be one in the morning. I feel like I've been sleeping for days!

"Malcolm!" he said quietly. "Wake up!"

Malcolm rolled his head slightly and opened his eyes.

"Alex," he said sleepily. "Good morning. How do you feel?"

"I feel fine." Alex reached over and turned on the table lamp. "And it's not morning yet! How long have we been here?"

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. What time is it?"

"It's a little after one."

"Hmm, I guess I dozed off. So you're really feeling okay?"

"I said I feel fine! I'm wide awake. Why?"

"Oh, I figured the beer was affecting you."

"The beer? Was there something wrong with it?"

"No. I merely assumed you were getting drunk."

Alex remembered drinking most of two of pitchers of beer. And yet he felt like he'd just had two triple grande lattes instead.

"I feel great," he said. "I don't know why, but I feel great! Did you hear that noise?"

"What noise?"

"It was a loud--well, I guess it doesn't matter. But now you have to tell me about the Mercedes driver--where he was trying to get to."

"Now? In the middle of the night?"

"Yes, now! You were the one who said time is irrelevant."

Malcolm stretched languidly.

"You said it's . . . one o'clock?" he yawned.

"He was late to something, wasn't he?" Alex jumped up and began pacing nervously around the room. "And the license plate. I bet that meant something, too. IMPRESS. Impress--"

"Slow down, Alex! Do you have any coffee?"

Alex whirled around impatiently.

"Why are you always thinking about your stomach?" he snapped.

"I wasn't thinking about my stomach. I was thinking more about my brain."

"All right, I'll go make coffee. But you've got to tell me everything! You've got to tell me where this guy was going and what IMPRESS means and what happened to the bananas, and you've got to tell me everything now!"

"Why?" Malcolm said bewilderedly.

Alex thought for a moment.

"I don't know, really. But it has something to do . . . I don't know. Let me start the coffee."

He retreated to the kitchen, confused. Why am I feeling so agitated? he thought. It's the middle of the night! Why can't I just go to bed like a regular person, get a good night's sleep, and we could start fresh in the morning? Why do I have such an urgent feeling, as if I were running out of time? What kind of coffee should I make anyway, French Roast or Kenya?

"French Roast sounds good." He spun around. Malcolm was standing in the doorway watching him ponder the coffee bags. "And make it strong," he added.

Alex numbly measured the coffee into the coffee grinder. He turned on the grinder: bees! Millions of angry bees!

"Say, you weren't using the coffee grinder earlier, were you?" he said.

"Of course not. I was sleeping. Why?"

Alex shook his head.

"Something strange is happening."

"Like what?"

"Well, it's hard to put my finger on it. I was hearing this . . . hmm, I was probably just dreaming it."

Malcolm eyes widened.

"Hearing what?" he demanded.

"Well, this buzzing sound. And I don't mean like the coffee grinder."

Malcolm took a step closer.

"Like . . . bees, maybe?"

"Yes! Bees! That's exactly it! I mean--I don't hear it right this minute. I guess--maybe it's just--I'm just--"

"Alex, this is great news! I mean, I'm sorry for dragging you into this, but--you don't realize what this means!"

"What are you talking about?"

Malcolm paced back and forth in front of the coffee machine.

"You see, Alex, after I started this experiment, after it had progressed pretty far, things started becoming--damn! How do I describe it?"

He stopped and watched the coffee drip slowly through as he drummed his fingers loudly on the countertop. Alex wasn't sure he liked this particular habit of Malcolm's.

"How should I put it?" Malcolm continued. "It was becoming obvious that time wasn't--that time was--misbehaving somewhat. It wasn't acting chronological enough. The days were becoming . . . strange. They became very strange toward the end, whenever that was, if it was the end. It's hard to put my finger on exactly what time is doing, if it's doing anything at all. But something is extremely odd. Either that or I've completely lost my mind."

"So how come you're so happy I'm hearing bees?" Alex said suspiciously.

"Because you're proof that I haven't lost my mind, that's all! It's finished."

Malcolm stopped drumming and stepped back.

"What?" Alex gasped. "What's finished? What do you mean?"

"The coffee." Malcolm took two large mugs decorated with cows from the dish drainer. "Do you want some of this?"

"Yeah, sure."

Malcolm filled the cups and handed one to Alex.

"Do you have any cream or half and half?" he said.

"No. There's milk in the fridge." Alex was getting impatient. "So who was driving the Mercedes?"

"The Mercedes?" Malcolm took a long slow sip of coffee. "Mmm, this is perfect," he said.

"Come on! Who was driving it?" Alex was so tensed up he thought he was going to explode.

"Sit down. Let me go get my notes."

As Malcolm went to find his portfolio, Alex sat nervously at the table. Relax, he told himself. It's one o'clock in the morning, for Chrissake! Why am I so fucking nervous? I don't need to be anywhere. We don't need to be doing anything right now. His stomach tightened. Or do we? Malcolm returned, took several interminable sips of coffee, and started leafing through his notebook. Alex felt like a hungry dog waiting minute after agonizing minute for some juicy tidbit to be offered.

"It just so happens," Malcolm finally said, "that I have a friend who processes car registrations. That's how I found out who Mr. IMPRESS was. Have you heard of Devin Zalewski?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"He was a principal stockholder of Impressive Foods, Inc."

"That sounds vaguely familiar."

"They were bought out by McDingle's, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, of course: Impressive Foods! They made all those flavored coffees and ice cream and frozen pizzas. As a matter of fact, I wrote an article--it was three or four years ago--about this performance artist who ate nothing for an entire year but frozen foods. Her refrigerator was empty, but her freezer was packed with Impressive pizzas, egg rolls, spanakopetas, all that kind of stuff. But then they went under, didn't they? Isn't that why McDingle's took over?"

"Yes, and that was because of Devin Zalewski."

"Wait a minute--not because he was late getting somewhere? Just because some weird guy's car was stalled in the intersection?"

"I'm getting to that. Just relax, okay? You seem tense."

Alex realized he was shaking. He sat back and took a deep breath.

"Okay," he exhaled. "Go on."

"So this Zalewski is an extremely busy man. I tried to make an appointment with him at his office because he's impossible to reach at home. His secretary, who wasn't very friendly, claimed he was booked solid for a month. I managed to find out that he jogged every morning by the river, so I was able to talk to him then."

"You mean you went jogging with him? You?" Alex laughed.

"Why, do you have a problem with that?"

"Well, you just don't seem like the jogging type."

"Why not? I can run pretty fast."

"Yeah, but running is productive. Jogging, on the other hand, doesn't get you anywhere."

"Yes, you do have a point. And you're right: I'm not a jogger. I don't believe in it. It's bad for your feet. Besides, you have to run around in public wearing silly pants, and I just don't feel any crimes are heinous enough to warrant such humiliating punishment."

"So if he was jogging and you weren't, how were you able to talk to him?"

"I waited until he was walking. I can walk pretty fast, too. I told him I was doing research for a group that was lobbying to change the rules for issuing drivers' licenses. I told him we felt that licenses should be granted only to drivers who could successfully maneuver their cars through a high-speed obstacle course."

"Very creative! I'm sure he loved that."

"He did. At first he wanted to write me a check--you know, as a donation. But then I told him I was gathering information from good drivers who had been inconvenienced or otherwise harassed by bad drivers who often failed to maintain their cars. I asked him point blank if he'd been recently bothered by, say, a driver who'd cut him off, or perhaps a stalled car that was blocking traffic. When he said, 'Funny you should mention that,' I knew I'd hit the right chord. Here's the interview:

Devin Zalewski: 21002 Northwest Bonnie Brae View, La Verne, IL

Age 45; divorced, 1 child.

Occupation: Food Industry Executive

DEVIN: A couple of weeks ago I was in a hurry to get to the airport. I had just enough time to catch my flight to New York and make it to the Impressive Foods stockholders' meeting. This was an extremely important meeting I could not afford to miss, no matter what. I was driving as fast as I possibly could considering the traffic. But then what do you think happens? This clown stalls his heap in the intersection! Smack dab in the middle so nobody could get around him. I was sitting there for fifteen minutes waiting for him to move his goddamn butt out of my way. Fifteen minutes! And the whole time he's spewing God-knows-what into the air! They shouldn't allow people to own pieces of junk like that! Hell, I knew then I should have taken 35th Street through the city. Usually I do, but they're doing that utility work out there, so I figured if I took Moon Drive it would save me a couple of minutes. Boy, was I wrong!

Devin's face had turned red and he was panting so hard his glasses were fogging up. He looked as if he might keel over and have a heart attack right there. Fortunately he didn't.

DEVIN: So by the time this joker finally moves his smoking pile of trash, I know I'm going to have to floor it all the way to the airport. So what do you think happens? I get held up by a train. A goddamn train! And naturally it's pulling five hundred cars behind it. Oh, please, God, I beg. Please, just let me get on the other side of this goddamn train! If you do me this one little favor, I'll be sure to donate to the local church. I promise! First thing next week I'll send off a nice fat check!

Devin shook his head and whinnied through his mouth like a horse. He panted as he spoke.

DEVIN: I missed my flight by ten minutes. Thanks, God, I said to myself. Thanks for nothing! So I get a seat on the next flight which leaves in twenty minutes. Okay, I figure I have a little time to try to relax, compose my thoughts, and go through my notes so I can really be on my toes. I take a few deep power breaths and feel like okay, I'm only a half hour late. Maybe they haven't reached the mergers yet. So I board the flight. We taxi out to the runway, sit there for thirty goddamn minutes, and then return to the gate because of technical difficulties. Technical difficulties? What kind of bullcrap is that? I have this extremely urgent meeting I must get to--I don't have time for any goddamn technical difficulties! If the damn airline can't supply flights that take off on time, they shouldn't be in the business!

Just then Devin broke out in a jog. He wasn't moving much faster than when he was walking, but he was bouncing around a lot more, so it was harder to understand him. To make matters worse, he was wheezing heavily.

DEVIN: Needless to say, I arrived at JFK sixty minutes late--one hour after the meeting was scheduled to begin. So do I grab a taxi and see if there's anything left to salvage? Or do I save myself some time and simply blow my brains out right there? Since I didn't happen to have a gun handy I was forced to grab a taxi. So here I am, at JFK in NYC, on a Wednesday afternoon. Where are the goddamn taxis? I called one company and was told there was a citywide cab drivers' meeting that afternoon. Have you ever heard such a load of crap? Anyway, I managed to arrange a limo, but unfortunately they sent one that reeked of cigarettes. Oh well, I said to myself. I'll deal with the limo company later. I hope the smoke doesn't get my asthma going. By some miracle I made it to the meeting, which was still in session.

Unfortunately, however, I was too late. First of all, the takeover of the McDingle's Corporation had already been put to a vote, and it was voted down. I don't think my vote would have made any difference there. But the next piece of business, the reason I was having a major coronary trying to get to New York--

By that point it seemed like Devin was having trouble breathing. I sincerely hoped he wouldn't have a coronary right then. Fortunately he managed to get out a few more sentences.

DEVIN: The reason was the takeover of the J.R. Innolds Tobacco Company. You see, I would have had the deciding vote against the takeover. Since I was too late to cast my vote, the measure passed. And this, I felt, was the worst thing that could have happened to Impressive Foods.

By now Devin was gasping, puffing, and rasping.

DEVIN: When I got back to Chicago--I filed a formal complaint--(puff, puff)--with the limo company--(puff, puff)--I also sold my Impressive Foods shares--(wheeze)--and rolled them all over--(gasp)--into McDingle's stock--

Thereupon Devin picked up speed and tore off down the river. I, however, decided I'd had enough exercise.

"So much for Devin Zalewski," said Alex.

"Well, not so fast," said Malcolm. "As everybody knows, the McDingle's Corporation became hugely successful after Devin's investment, and the price of its shares soared. By the following spring, probably most people in the world had tasted a McDingle's hamburger--or, I suppose, 'eaten' is a more appropriate word."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, 'taste' implies a certain level of gastronomic quality."

"Oh, come on! You have to admit their French fries are pretty good."

"Sure, if you enjoy deep-fried sawdust. Anyway, after the news came out about Zalewski's liquidation, Impressive Foods stock plunged drastically, almost ruining the company. The next few months were pretty rough for Impressive Foods as they tried to get back in the black. In the fall they managed to purchase Poppeecock, a tiny popcorn company in Nebraska that was about to file for bankruptcy. Impressive Foods, with its expertise in marketing snack foods, was able to package and sell all the warehoused barrels of popcorn almost immediately. Their Snack Foods Division was on the rise again."

"But McDingle's did buy them out, right?"

"Yes, a few months later. They knew a good deal when they saw one. By that summer, McDingle's had become the world's largest corporation. And by the end of last year they had completely taken over 97 percent of the restaurant business in the United States."

"The end of last year?" Alex's eyes widened.

"Yes." Malcolm thought a moment. "Last year. Wasn't it?"

Alex's head felt like it was spinning.

"I'm not sure," he gasped. "What year is this, anyway?"

Chapter 11

The buzzing was back. Alex could hear hundreds, perhaps thousands, of invisible bees.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

"What?"

"The bees."

"You're hearing them now?" Malcolm closed his notebook slowly.

"Yeah. It sounds like a whole hive. Can't you hear them?"

Malcolm leaned forward slowly.

"No, not from here."

"It's really loud! Maybe it isn't bees--it's more, I don't know, complex-sounding. It's sort of a harmonious buzzing, like bees chanting, maybe."

Malcolm stared intently at Alex.

"Turn your head slowly to the left," he said.

Alex turned his head.

"The buzzing stopped!"

"Now keep it there." Malcolm walked slowly over to Alex's left side.

"There it is again! What did you--?"

"Just tell me what it sounds like, and when it disappears." Malcolm circled slowly around Alex.

"Well, it's gone again--it's loud now, almost--it's gone again."

"This is fascinating!"

"What is it--what are you doing?" Alex cupped his hands over his ears nervously. "Explain this, damnit!"

Malcolm sat down again.

"I'm sorry, I can't. I don't know what it is."

"Well, you sure seem excited about it!"

"But Alex, this has been happening to me, too! Although not since I landed in your back yard. But every time I've heard the buzzing, I've, well--all I can say is, I don't know what it is yet, but I'm working on an idea. I'm just glad you're still here."

"What do you mean, still here?" Alex said nervously.

"It's not getting louder, is it?"

"No! But it's getting damn irritating, whatever the hell it is."

"Well, go sit over there." Malcolm motioned to another chair.

"Why?"

"Just try it."

Alex moved to the other chair. The intermittent buzzing faded entirely. He shook his head slightly to make sure.

"So what's your idea?" he said.

"I'd rather not say right now. I have to think it through."

"Oh." Alex felt numb and pliable, like a piece of warm clay. He's not going to tell me, he thought. Something very strange is happening--a hive of bees from another dimension is flying around my couch--and I have to wait for him to think it through. I have to wait for this person I didn't even know twenty-four hours ago, back when no bees were flying around my couch, to think it through. So what do I do now? Nothing? Am I a prisoner in my own waiting room?

He took a couple of deep breaths.

"Then tell me what happened to the bananas," he demanded.

"The bananas?"

"Yes, the bananas, goddamnit! You haven't told me yet! I'll bet you flew out to the airport--where was it? In Sacramento--and talked to everybody who worked there. I just have this feeling."

"Why, Alex, how perceptive you're getting!"

"So am I right?"

"As a matter of fact you are."

Alex took a gulp of coffee and sat forward. He felt a bit more in control now. The bees seemed to be gone for the moment.

"So," he prompted. "You went to the Sacramento airport."

"And I talked to the janitorial staff on duty. Luckily I found the right person."

"Of course you did. You're a lucky guy, aren't you?"

"It seems that way sometimes, doesn't it?"

Malcolm paused for a moment, perplexed. Then he spoke as if he'd had a revelation.

"Yes. I do seem to be a lucky guy, Alex. I do seem . . . lucky. Considering everything that's happened."

His face darkened. Alex regretted having distracted him.

"And so you talked to the right guy," he prompted again.

"Yes, Manuel Mendez. He was cleaning up the terminal that afternoon and saw the bananas in the ashtray. So he took them home with him that night. The next morning he and his family had some bananas with their breakfast, and everyone thought they were delicious. So they gave the rest of the bunch to Manuel's brother-in-law who owned a farm near--let me see, where was that?"

Malcolm leafed through his notebook again. Alex felt frozen in space--or was it in time? Perhaps he was frozen in both time and space.

"Visalia," Malcolm continued. "Federico Garcia, who was Manuel's wife Luisa's brother, owned a small failing farm near Visalia. Garcia was quite knowledgeable about cultivation techniques, having recently completed a correspondence course in Creative Botany in an attempt to improve his production. Through a small bit of research, along with the fact that a 'Grown in Suriname' sticker was affixed to the skin of one of the bananas, he decided they were of the species Musa surinamis. He wrote to the U.S. Embassy in Paramaribo and requested some samples of Musa surinamis rhizomes, claiming he and his associates were trying to improve the nutritional value and economic output of New World banana crops. Since Suriname isn't exactly a wealthy nation, they were happy to oblige and shipped him several cases.

"It turned out that the now-semitropical climate of central California was well-suited to Musa surinamis, and the plants required little attention and grew rapidly. In little more than six months Garcia had a flourishing crop of a new variety of Suriname bananas, gros californica--or what we now know as Garcia bananas. Which, by the way, are delicious sliced on cereal."

"I like to throw them in the blender with a little orange juice," said Alex.

"I could see that--with a shot of Jamaican rum."

"For breakfast?"

"Who's talking about breakfast? Anyway, I called Federico Garcia the following spring to talk to him about his bananas. I told him I was a food writer for the La Verne Enquirer. He responded enthusiastically and offered to send me some samples, along with some of his wife's recipes. By this time his farm was overflowing with bananas, and he was selling them locally and shipping them to markets all over California. He was even thinking about sending some to the President of the United States. There was an article in Agricultural Trends last summer about Garcia and his bananas. Everybody had gone crazy over the things, so all the farmers were growing them. The bananas spread like kudzu, overrunning many other crops. There was no need to continue importing bananas from South America. In fact, by this time most of Europe was getting its bananas from California. Needless to say, Federico Garcia became a wealthy man."

"This was back when California was still part of the United States, right?"

"Yes, when they experienced a huge influx of banana workers--all those Central and South Americans who immigrated for better jobs and pay. And California soon became what it's most famous for today: the world's foremost banana supplier."

Chapter 12

There was a loud vigorous knocking at the back door.

"Who the hell is that?" Alex gasped.

"Are you expecting anyone?" whispered Malcolm.

"Are you kidding? At my back door?"

"Maybe it's a neighbor."

"In the middle of the night? You're not expecting anyone, are you?"

Malcolm turned strangely pale.

"I certainly hope not," he muttered.

Alex crept into the kitchen and peeked cautiously through the blinds on the back door. An unusually tall, thin man with a tiny head was standing on the porch holding a large flat box. Alex opened the door slowly.

"Well?" snapped the man, tossing his head to one side as a shower of sweat droplets flew off his forehead. "Did you order a pizza or not?"

"What? No!"

The man sighed through his teeth dramatically.

"Well, this is the right address!" he spat out. Alex tried hard to stay calm.

"Hey, nobody at this address ordered a pizza," he said. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" shrieked the man. "What about me? All I was doing was working on my opus, and now I'm delivering a pizza that nobody wants!"

"Hey, I--" Alex sputtered, and then slammed the door. He stared at the door for a moment, latched the extra lock, returned to the living room, and plopped down on the couch. Malcolm, who had ducked into the hallway, stepped back into the room cautiously.

"So who was it?" he whispered.

"Oh, just--I don't know. Some lunatic, I guess. Wanted to sell me a pizza."

Malcolm's entire demeanor eased up, as if every muscle in his body had simultaneously heaved a sigh of relief.

"It's too bad we just had pizza," he said with the faint glimmer of a smile.

"For Chrissake, Malcolm! There's some psycho loose on my back porch, possibly armed and dangerous, and you're thinking about your stomach again?"

"No. I'm not hungry."

"Well, good, damnit!"

"I could use another cup of coffee, though. I'll be right back."

As Malcolm headed for the kitchen Alex moved back to the chair where he'd heard the bees. He couldn't hear them now. He turned his head slowly to the left and then to the right. Still no bees. He rocked his head back and forth from one shoulder to the other. Still nothing.

"You'll probably have to wait awhile before you hear them again." Malcolm had returned.

"Why?"

"Because it's later now. Or maybe earlier. It's different, anyway."

Alex closed his eyes and sighed slowly.

"Is there more coffee?" he said listlessly.

"Sure. I'll get you some."

"Some sugar, too. Plenty of sugar. Lots of sugar, what the hell."

Malcolm returned with another mug.

"I put a cup of sugar in," he said. "Does that sound about right?"

"Yeah, thanks. So tell me something, Malcolm."

"Sure."

"Do you ever sleep?"

"Of course."

"And I don't mean dozing. I mean sleep."

"Of course I do!"

"Okay. I just wondered."

"Listen, if you want to get some sleep--"

"No, I want you to continue."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"It's going to get weirder, you know."

"In what way?"

Malcolm thought for a moment.

"The story," he replied. "The story will get weirder."

Alex took a sip of coffee.

"Whatever," he said. "So we were growing bananas in the former state of California, right?"

"Actually, I should probably tie up this end of the story. Remember the truck accident on I-40?"

"Refrigerators and kitty litter?"

"That's the one. The road crews cleared away all the refrigerators and kitty litter, but for some reason they left the refrigerator boxes. Within a week some homeless people from Oklahoma City got their hands on the boxes and converted them into shelters. Refrigerator boxes are pretty sturdy, you know. And they set up camp right there by the highway. So over the course of the next year, more and more homeless people from other parts of the country kept showing up at this site, this refrigerator box camp next to I-40. And then it became a real political issue, with homeless advocates making speeches and trying to organize the campers."

"Hey, this wasn't Box City, was it?"

"It sure was: Box City. Or, as they officially christened it, Metropolis of the House-Challenged."

"Well, I'll be damned! Whatever happened to that place?"

"I think it's still there. The last I knew the cardboard boxes were being replaced with cheap housing materials. Do you remember the homeless activist, Rod Burton, who led the big march on Washington?"

"Sure."

"He was trying to raise funds so that the homeless could build their own houses and establish a permanent city there. Homes for Humanity got involved, too."

"I remember that. Not to change the subject or anything, but what does this have to do with the price of bananas in California?"

"Well, quite a bit. Because of Mr. Rod Burton and his efforts, the government finally woke up and came to the conclusion that the homeless situation had gotten out of control. Far too few jobs existed for far too many people, and it was time to do something drastic. So naturally, since this is the United States Government I'm talking about, they didn't try to do anything that would create more jobs. They decided simply to close the borders to all future immigrants. By this time, of course, California was already 90% Mexican."

"And that's when it seceded from the Union and became Nortemexico, right?"

"Sounds like you read your newspapers." Malcolm nodded toward the stack of newspapers by the fireplace.

"What else would I'd do with them?" Alex replied with mock indignity.

"Oh, I don't know. Make something out of papier-mâché, possibly. Or house-train a puppy."

"But I don't have a puppy."

"True," said Malcolm, smirking slightly. "Not yet, at least."

Chapter 13

"So what's next?" Alex said wearily.

Malcolm closed his notebook and took a sip of coffee.

"Are you sure you want to hear more?" he said.

"Of course I do!"

"I thought you might be losing interest."

"No, not at all. I'm intrigued."

"You seem somewhat edgy."

"Well, I'm just wondering how any of this ultimately ties in with you sleeping in my yard. Or have you forgotten about that already?"

Malcolm frowned.

"No, I haven't," he said. "But there's a lot left."

Alex nodded toward the kitchen.

"Is that guy delivering the pizza part of the story, by any chance?"

"It's possible, I suppose. Anything's possible."

They sat quietly for a few moments. I could be dreaming, Alex thought. This could all be a long dream, except that I normally don't eat in my dreams. So why would I suddenly be dreaming about eating? Could I be insatiably hungry, like some sort of insect? Perhaps I've metamorphosed into a cockroach who's dreaming he's human. No, I suppose Kafka already did that. Maybe I'm Franz Kafka dreaming that I'm Alex Martell. Or perhaps I'm simply dreaming I'm reading a story about a cockroach who's dreaming he's human. Or maybe I'm dreaming about a cockroach who's just ordered a pizza. Or maybe--

Alex broke the silence with a loud laugh.

"Jesus Christ!" he roared. "I can't believe how tall that guy was!"

"What guy?"

"The guy with the pizza! He was at least seven feet!"

"Are you serious?" Malcolm was intrigued.

"Yes, I'm serious! I mean, how in the hell can a guy like that fit himself in one of those little pizza trucks?"

"Maybe he does it with mirrors."

"Then how does he get the mirrors to fit, too?"

"Haven't you noticed that mirrors tend to make a small room look larger? So he ends up with plenty of room--at least twice the leg room, depending on how many mirrors he's got."

"Of course! How stupid of me!" Alex rocked with laughter.

"Then again," said Malcolm, "if you consider all his own reflections in there with him, it starts getting pretty crowded. I suppose a lot depends on the angles of the mirrors in relation to each other."

"Oh no! You could end up with an infinite number of pizza delivery drivers!"

"Well, let's hope they'd each have their own territory so they wouldn't be bumping into each other."

"Okay, now that we've settled that problem, let's move on. What's next?"

"Well, there were two more neighbors. They lived in Rob Vickerstrom's building." Malcolm leafed through his notebook, paused, read a page to himself, and reflected on it for a moment before he spoke.

"First I'll tell you about Char Solomon, who lived next door to Rob. She was a very friendly, very nice, very intelligent woman. Very attractive, too, but that's another story."

"Are you going to tell me that story, too?"

Malcolm smiled as if he'd just swallowed an elegant canary.

"Maybe later," he said. "Anyway, Char was a part-time waitress who was working on her Masters in Industrial Ethnomusicology. She seemed a bit distracted this particular evening, and somewhat scattered, as if she had way too many things on her mind. She kept apologizing and said she hadn't had a decent night's sleep all week. Here's the interview:

Char Solomon: 3042 North Wesley Avenue, Apartment 7, La Verne, IL

Age 27; single

Occupation: Student, Part-Time Waitress

CHAR: I have this problem with sleeping. I don't have it all the time, fortunately; just half the time. No matter what I do, I can't get to sleep at night. I lie there in bed and my mind starts filling up with the details of my life--my job, my studies, my mother who's been ill, my best friend I haven't talked to all week, the war in Bhutan, my laundry, the fact that my cat's late for his booster shots, the fact that I haven't seen a dentist in over a year--and then my body turns stiff and I become aware of every single little itch and sensation. And I lie in bed like that all night long, hour after hour, and the next thing I know my alarm goes off. And it's time to go to work.

Fortunately after several sleepless nights I'm so exhausted that I finally can sleep for a few nights. That's when my body gets its rest and refuels in preparation for the next set of sleepless nights. I'm surprised I don't get sick more often, to tell you the truth. But I guess my body's become used to this schedule.

Char shook her head, rubbed her forehead, and laughed. She was obviously suffering from fatigue.

CHAR: No, strike that! I never become used to not being able to sleep. I've been thinking about going to one of those sleep clinics to see if they've come up with any new ideas in the past couple of years. I've tried everything: massage, hot baths, warm milk, visualization, wine, drugs, sex, long walks. And nothing seems to work.

ME: Have you considered general anesthesia? Or perhaps a frontal lobotomy?

Char flashed me a charming smile.

CHAR: No, and I haven't tried a bottle in front of me, either!

ME: So I'm guessing that Dennis's dog kept you awake.

She rolled her eyes up just then, as if reliving a horrible memory.

CHAR: That Tuesday night I was looking forward to being able to sleep. You see, I hadn't slept for four nights, since the Friday night before when I'd gone to this strange party with a friend. Everybody was supposed to bring their favorite power tool, so I took my variable speed power drill. But, I don't know, the party started getting a little too weird, if you know what I mean--especially after this group showed up with chain saws and completely trashed the coffee table. I wanted to leave so badly then. But I didn't get home until after one, because my friend took off with this guy to go for a ride in his forklift and I couldn't find another ride. So that started the whole cycle: I couldn't sleep that night or Saturday night or Sunday or Monday. By the time I got home from work on Tuesday I was so exhausted I didn't even have the strength to eat dinner. It's an exquisite feeling, really, this complete state of exhaustion I reach. It's absolute torture trying to make it through the day. But when I finally lie down at night in that bed and actually fall asleep, it's pure heaven.

At this point she closed her eyes and looked as if she were going to faint. Just as I was anticipating catching her fall she opened her eyes and looked at me.

CHAR: Do you want something to drink? Some water, juice, wine? I'm sorry, I'm not being a very good host.

ME: That's okay. I'm glad you were willing to talk to me. I wasn't expecting to be entertained as well.

CHAR: You weren't? But I was just about to do my tap-dancing juggling act for you!

ME: Well, go ahead, if it'll make you feel better. I'll watch.

She flashed me another charming smile.

CHAR: I was going to get myself some papaya juice. Would you like some?

ME: Sure.

CHAR: You know, it's funny. I'd never heard Buzz barking at night before. Through all the sleepless nights I've endured--hearing every car engine, slamming door, and cricket in the neighborhood--I'd never heard a dog. Isn't that strange?

ME: Depends on how many dogs there are in the neighborhood.

CHAR: I suppose that's true. If there weren't any dogs, I'd never hear a dog. I guess Buzz must not bark very often.

Char poured us some juice and we sat down at the kitchen table. Just as we were seated a big fluffy black cat appeared out of nowhere, jumped into Char's lap, and then leaped onto the table, landing in the middle of what looked like a half-eaten turkey sandwich. With one smooth move the cat seized the turkey slice in its teeth and bounded off the table, scattering lettuce and bread fragments in the process. Char shrieked at the cat (whose name was Timothy) and then shook her head, smiled, and began plucking pieces of food out of her lap. I peeled a soggy bit of bread from my shoulder.

CHAR: I apologize for my cat's behavior. This is a new stunt of his. He's usually a lot more graceful about it, though.

ME: Do you use him in your tap-dancing juggling routine?

CHAR: Oh, of course. He juggles the four basic food groups while I dance. You should see it some time. Here, let me get this out of the way.

She dumped the plate with the mangled food scraps into the sink and sat back down, smiling.

CHAR: So where was I?

ME: Listening to Buzz bark.

CHAR: Oh, yeah. I remember hearing him bark that night. Even in my total exhaustion, as I closed my eyes and fell into that wonderful abyss of unconsciousness, I could still hear him bark. And if he'd barked only a little while, it wouldn't have mattered. But he barked and barked and barked and barked--but not that rhythmically, of course. He barked like dogs bark: randomly. Regular rhythms I can deal with; it's the random stuff that kills me. As I was falling deeply into my sleep, down into that bottomless cavern, it was as if his barks were boulders jutting out that I kept hitting my shoulders and hips on as I fell. It didn't matter how well I tried to prepare myself for them. They'd hit me when I was least expecting it. Oh, it was so disappointing.

Char rubbed her forehead again tiredly, and then her voice became more animated.

CHAR: After a while I was wide awake, lying there trying to predict when the next bark would occur. I kept thinking about this high school math class I had where we'd chart numbers on a graph. I could picture myself charting the barks as points on the graph and then drawing lines to connect them to see what shape I'd end up with. I figured I'd probably end up with the shape of some kind of dog. This was exhaustion speaking, you see. My mind does strange things when it gets to this point.

So finally the alarm went off. You see, I'm working part-time as a waitress at this pie shop in Madison called Pie R Squared. I know, it's a stupid name! But the restaurant is round and they bake all their pies in square pans. Have you ever been there?

ME: I don't think so.

CHAR: You probably haven't--at least for breakfast. I would have remembered you. Anyway, I have to be there bright and early for the breakfast shift, so my alarm goes off at 4:30. If I hadn't taken a few days off the week before, I would have called in sick. I felt so terrible, just wretched. But I pulled myself up out of my pillow and literally threw myself out of bed onto the floor. It was pathetic. I was lying there on the floor, groping in the dark for my clothes. I felt too horrible to have breakfast, so I just made myself some coffee. But, and this is simply the way I am--

Char laughed abruptly, her face reddening.

CHAR: Even in my thoroughly exhausted state I couldn't stand seeing the dirty dishes in the sink. I hadn't had a chance to wash dishes for several days. So I decided I'd wash at least half of them. But then, of course, since I was a complete zombie and I was practically hallucinating from fatigue, I dropped a glass and it broke and I went to grab it and sliced my finger right below the cuticle. It was bleeding quite a bit, but I just bandaged it up and went to work and forgot about it. I honestly didn't think it was a very bad cut.

The next day my finger was swollen to twice its normal size--it looked like an alien form of life--and it hurt like hell. So I went to my doctor who told me I had a paronychia. Have you ever heard of that? It's a nail infection. You see, the tissue under the nail got infected from the cut and it filled up with pus. So she told me to keep an eye on it and drain it, and she gave me some antibiotics. This was on Thursday afternoon. I started taking the antibiotics right away, but I ended up having a nasty reaction to them. When I woke up Friday morning, my entire face was swollen up like a blimp. It was truly horrifying, not to mention pretty ugly. So I had to call in sick, which I felt horribly guilty about. This Friday was the day that Denise and I would be the only ones there, and it was going to be a madhouse. It is every Friday. You see, the Friday breakfast special is this dish called Breakfast Pie, and for some reason it's the most popular thing we sell. (I won't tell you what's in the pie. It's pretty disgusting.) Anyway, there was no way I could make it in to work. I felt bad for Denise. I felt so guilty leaving her with that insanity, but there was nothing I could do about it. I'm telling you, my face looked like a weather balloon made out of bubble-pack! And bubble-pack weather balloons don't look or feel much like waitresses.

ME: I'm afraid I just can't imagine you looking like a bubble-pack weather balloon. Of course, I have to admit I've never seen a bubble-pack weather balloon to begin with.

CHAR: Well, I guess I looked like what a bubble-pack weather balloon would look like, if there were such a thing. Fortunately my face was back to normal in a couple of days, so I didn't have to quit my job and move to some remote island colony reserved for people with grotesquely-swollen faces. That would have been pretty depressing.

". . . and that's it?" said Alex, disappointed that Malcolm was paging through his notebook again. "So what about you and Char Solomon? Did you guys, I mean--?"

"I told you that's a different story," Malcolm said acidly. "Now, would you like to hear the rest of this one?"

"Come on! You're not even going to give me a hint?"

Malcolm smiled reluctantly.

"Shall we move on?" he said coolly.

"All right. But later, okay? You have to tell me about her later."

"Okay, later. Next I visited Pie R Squared. Do you know the place?"

"I think I was there once, but I don't remember what I had."

"I've been told their apple pie's pretty good. Anyway, I asked Char's coworker, Denise Woolfe, if she could talk to me on her break. Denise was quite helpful, very outgoing and frank. We talked out in the parking lot so she could smoke a cigarette. Here's how it went:

Denise Woolfe: 1263 Northeast Prudence Way #211, La Verne, IL

Age 24; married

Occupation: Waitress

As we stepped outside, Denise lit a thin brown cigarette with a neon orange lighter. I noticed her lipstick matched the lighter. I asked her about the morning she covered for Char.

DENISE: That was a pretty intense morning. My stomach did a big lurch to one side when I heard Char wasn't coming in. It was just me and twenty-six tables. You see, on a normal Friday I have to serve Breakfast Pie to maybe ten people. Seeing as how I now had three times as many tables--because Jan was on vacation, too--I figured I'd be serving it to probably 30 people. And I sure wasn't looking forward to this.

I guess I should explain what Breakfast Pie is, so that you never make the fatal mistake of coming in and ordering it. It's like a huge pot pie--big enough to feed a lumberjack--and it's filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, olives, onions, and spinach. Have I left anything out? I don't think so. Anyway, this is all mixed in a gooey cheese sauce and baked in a pie crust. To serve it, we have to dump the pie out onto a plate and then pour this black bean goop all over it. And then it's served with ketchup and salsa on the side. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen or smelled in my life! I'm sorry I can't tell you how it tastes, because I wouldn't taste that repulsive slop in a million years, even if I was starving to death. I'd rather eat my own foot! This so-called 'pie' was created by some pervert named Andy. Nobody seems to know who Andy is or was--not even Mr. Phongbat, the owner--but I can tell you if this Andy ever invited me to dinner, I'd tell him I had malaria or something.

At this point Denise stuck her tongue way out and gagged. Then she made several retching sounds and shuddered. This little demonstration of disgust was quite convincing.

DENISE: So I'm rushing around from table to table, trying to spread myself as thin as I can. The orders are coming up, half the customers want more coffee, some jerk isn't happy with the way his little eggies are cooked, and I'm about to lose it completely! Why is it on days like this the restaurant is always full of lousy tippers?

And I swear I didn't see this guy at all. You can ask anybody who was here. I was rushing over to Table Number 14 with four Breakfast Pies, one mushroom omelet, one plate of pancakes, and three hot coffees. As I passed Table Number 5 this woman called out to me angrily that she needed her check. So I was looking back and forth between Table Number 5 and my destination, Table Number 14, and suddenly this cart of dirty dishes materialized out of nowhere and caught my left shin at just the wrong angle. The next thing I knew I was hurtling through the air toward Table Number 9, where this Schwartz guy was sitting.

The truly amazing thing is that I managed to dump only one of the four Breakfast Pies into Mr. Schwartz's lap. This was undoubtedly because of my excellent sense of balance and my sharply-honed skills as a waitress. The Breakfast Pie I did dump in his lap, however, had just come out of the oven and you could still hear the cheese sauce bubbling inside like boiling oil. Suddenly everything was moving in slow motion. As I watched the other five plates of food fly out of my hands and down the aisle, I could see Mr. Schwartz out of the corner of my eye leaping into the air with this look of sheer agony on his face. And as he tried to shovel the steaming pie crud off his lap he jumped backwards into this other dirty-dish cart, and I saw one of his hands go right through the back of a chair. As I hit the floor, bracing my chest with my hands, that's when I noticed the chair flying through the air. I couldn't believe it! I thought, what the hell is it doing up there? I felt like I was watching a slow-motion replay of a sports maneuver: Now take a close look at the move that Schwartz, Number 9, just pulled off! See how he hooks into that chair and pitches it with a slight twisting action in his wrist! And he SCORES! So I rolled over to avoid the flying chair, and that's when I saw Mr. Schwartz land smack dab in the middle of Table Number 8 after tumbling over the dish cart. It was like a chain reaction: I kept hearing more dishes breaking and seeing more people jump up from their seats. The whole place was a mess: Breakfast Pie was splattered everywhere, the floor was covered with broken dishes and chair parts, and panicking customers were making a beeline for the exit. It was utter chaos! I still wonder how many people got away without paying their bills. I would say that this was definitely the worst day I've ever had as a waitress.

Denise paused and tossed her cigarette on the ground, crushing it thoroughly with her shoe as she watched the traffic go by.

DENISE: Mr. Phongbat didn't fire me, fortunately, thanks to the intervention of my cousin who just happens to be the head cook on the breakfast shift. But I did end up twisting my right wrist pretty bad. It took a couple of weeks to heal, and it's still a little sore. Mr. Schwartz apparently suffered third-degree burns on his thighs, and he broke both hands. Needless to say, he didn't leave me a tip.

At that point Denise broke into a loud, raucous laugh.

DENISE: Oops! I see my supervisor. I'd better get back in there. Can I get you a piece of pie or something?

"So did you have a piece of pie?" said Alex.

"No. It would have been nice, but I was eager to get hold of the injured party, Mr. Schwartz. It's not every day somebody breaks both hands."

"I guess he wouldn't be juggling turkey sandwiches for a while."

"Nope. He wouldn't be doing much of anything. I felt sorry for the guy at the time, but I sure don't anymore."

"Why not?"

"You've got a computer, don't you?"

"Of course I have a computer! I'm a writer, for Chrissake!"

"Do you use any MicroBark software?"

"Funny you should mention that! I just got finished writing a feature article about MicroBark."

"So you know all about Howard J. Schwartz, then?"

"Yeah, the guy who originally started the company. He's worth millions now, you know. I--"

Alex's jaw dropped open.

"Wait a minute," he gasped. "You don't mean--this can't be the same--?"

Malcolm smiled. Alex stared at him open-mouthed for a moment and then shrugged.

"Okay," he said. "Go on."

"I wasn't able to contact Howard J. Schwartz right away. It turned out he was suing Pie R Squared for damages and nobody at the restaurant would give me his phone number. I suppose I could have done a little detective work to obtain it, but I decided to wait and see what happened with the lawsuit. Six months later the case was settled out of court. When I finally called him he invited me over to his house. He said he didn't want to talk on the telephone because he was forced to use a speakerphone and he'd grown to hate the thing. So I went over and talked to him in person. Here's the interview:

Howard J. Schwartz: 5668 West Samantha Road, La Verne, IL

Age 38; single

Occupation: Computer Programmer

When I got to Howard's house I rang the doorbell. The door opened and a dog came bounding out. I waited a moment and peeked inside, expecting to see Howard J. Schwartz, but nobody was there. Then I felt a hot moist sensation on my right hand. I looked down to discover the dog, a rather handsome Weimaraner, had her nose pressed against my palm. I patted her and asked her where her owner was. Thereupon she grasped my sleeve gently in her teeth and pulled me toward the door as if she were trying to lead me. So I let her guide me into the house, through several rooms, down a long hall, and into a study of sorts. There, sitting on what looked like a recliner that had an argument with a wheelchair, was Howard J. Schwartz.

HOWARD: Good girl, Zelda!

The dog ran up to Howard's side, wagged her tail briefly as Howard whispered something in her ear, and then she trotted over to a computer terminal that was sitting in the corner on the floor. She lay down and proceeded to watch the computer screen.

HOWARD: I'm assuming you're Malcolm Peevey. Forgive me for not shaking hands, but as you can see. . . .

He lifted his hands which were restrained in leather splints.

ME: It looks painful.

HOWARD: Oh, they're a hell of a lot better than they were. The fractures are healed. I just have to wear these things for two or three hours a day. The skin on my thighs is the real killer now. I'm still growing scar tissue.

The dog let out a whimper suddenly and thumped her tail a couple of times on the carpet. Howard craned his neck toward her.

HOWARD: Whatcha got there, Zelda? Did you figure out the bug?

The dog stood up then, circled the room once, and lay down again in front of the computer. She looked dejected.

HOWARD: Poor Zelda! Why don't you take a break, girl? You want to go out in the yard and play?

Zelda's tail began to wag as she watched Howard.

HOWARD: Go on, girl! It's okay!

On that note Zelda bounced gleefully out of the room. I could hear the back door slam.

ME: What's she doing with the computer?

HOWARD: Programming it.

ME: But she's a dog.

HOWARD: Yes, she's a dog, all right! A fine dog!

I stared at Howard and tried to think of something to say. I found myself wondering if the accident had affected his mind. He rolled his recliner/wheelchair closer to me.

HOWARD: Forgive me, Malcolm. I guess I'd better explain a few things. It's just that I've become so used to it all by now that it seems perfectly normal. You see, when I first came home from the hospital I was pretty helpless. I couldn't do anything for myself, and I dreaded having to hire a nurse. So Zelda ended up helping me quite a bit. She'd fetch things for me, she'd assist me in moving throughout the house--all the things you'd expect a well-trained intelligent dog to do for you. She was a lifesaver. The only thing she couldn't do was to think for me. You see, I'm a software engineer. I began consulting a couple of years ago when I grew tired of those hour-long commutes. Now I do most of my work at home, which is really convenient. But, as you can see, it's become physically impossible for me to work at my computer. I tried typing with my toes at first. I figured if the novelist Christy Brown could type entire books with his left foot, I should be able to do okay with two feet. But it just didn't work. And there wasn't any other part of my body I could use, either, because I was stiff and somewhat paralyzed with the burns.

So I became extremely depressed. My mind was going ninety miles a minute--I was programming in my head--but I couldn't make the computer respond. I thought about installing some voice recognition software, but since I couldn't physically touch the computer I would have had no way of setting it up in the first place. The whole situation was a nightmare. I mean, now I've got a nice settlement from the lawsuit. But this was earlier, months earlier, when I still had to work for a living. For the first month I sat around and stared, felt sorry for myself, and took as many of my pain drugs as I could tolerate. I felt as if my life was over.

And then one day I came out here and noticed the computer was on. I figured Zelda must have accidentally hit the On switch with her tail or nose or something. I managed to roll myself over so I could see the screen. I sat there for probably an hour, gazing at the screen and feeling sorry for myself. And then I got this wild idea: since Zelda was such a smart dog and could perform all sorts of simple tasks for me, why couldn't I train her to hit the right keys on the keyboard? She could be my interface! I figured it was worth a try. I certainly had plenty of time on my hands, no pun intended.

So I worked with her, lavishing affection on her each time she pressed a key with her nose. After awhile she was able to press any key that I dictated to her. I could just say, for example, Zelda, enter E-X-E-C-U-T-E-space-S-C-R-I-P-T. And those are the keys she would press with her nose. Eventually I realized that she was actually learning the words I was saying. So finally I could just say "Zelda, enter 'Execute Script,'" and that's what she'd enter.

ME: And this was with her nose?

HOWARD: Yes. Dogs have extremely sensitive noses, you know.

ME: So I've heard. But personally, I wouldn't want to be hitting computer keys all day with any sensitive organs I can think of.

HOWARD: Well, certainly, but it doesn't seem to bother her. The keys get pretty wet, I have to say, but they'll survive. When I'm fully recovered I'll get the keyboard professionally cleaned.

So one day I was having difficulty trying to figure out this one bug. It was a ridiculously simple subroutine that was supposed to open a file, copy some fields, and then rename the file and close it. My subroutine would open the file and then the system would crash. When I rebooted, the file name would be corrupted. I tried several debuggers and debugging methods, but I was getting nowhere. It was one of those ridiculously simple problems that can drive you completely nuts.

I finally threw in the towel and decided I should do something else for a while, so I went into the living room to watch a little TV. About an hour or two later Zelda came bounding in, wagging her tail, and obviously wanted me to follow her into the study. So I rolled back in there with her. And Zelda ran up to the computer, executed the program, and it worked! I was flabbergasted. I said, Good girl, Zelda! Now show me what you did! So she opened the subroutine and the output file in Edit mode; and basically, so I won't burden you with programming details, what I discovered was that the subroutine was trying to copy a text string that didn't exist, and it didn't know where to go next. It's a common cause of system crashes: a flow of logic suddenly left floating in the void with no directions home.

After that, Zelda really got the bug. And I don't mean software bug--I mean the programming bug! She started writing the subroutines herself, after I'd tell her what they needed to do. She's a quick learner and grasped the concept of object-oriented programming easily. Finally she got so she could write entire programs and systems by herself. So now I simply solicit the work and handle all the administrative details, and she does all the programming work.

Just then Zelda came bouncing back into the room, her tail merrily wagging. She ran up to me and gave my legs a quick sniff, and before I had a chance to respond she was over licking Howard's face eagerly as he rubbed her ears affectionately with his arms.

HOWARD: Whoa, Zelda, my good girl! Hey, guess what, Zelda? You might be working on a new multiplatform multimedia-friendly relational database system! Does that sound good? Yeah, does that sound good, my sweet puppy?

"And the rest is history," said Malcolm. "A few months later Howard opened the Schwartz Canine Obedience and Computer School."

"And Zelda was still typing with her nose?"

"No, by that time she'd figured out how to type with her toenails, like dogs are taught today."

"That's a relief. Somehow the thought of using a keyboard that's been dog-nosed to soggy oblivion doesn't appeal much to me."

"So I guess you know the rest of the Howard J. Schwartz story, then."

"Yes, it's all pretty fresh in my mind. I even have a collection of those old matchbooks around somewhere--you know, the ones that say, 'Teach your dog to program computers in your spare time! You don't even have to be a programmer yourself!'"

"Yes, right! 'Make big bucks and get rich the easy way! Sit back like a lazy slob and let your dog do all the work!' Or something on that order."

"You know, at one point I seriously considered getting a dog, simply so I could enroll it in the course."

"Well, many people got dogs for just that reason. I read recently that dogs make up a majority of the computer work force today."

"I can believe it," said Alex. "One of the reasons MicroBark is so huge now is that it's entirely staffed by dogs. And your friend Howard J. Schwartz, who started it at just the right time, has become an extremely wealthy man."

Chapter 14

Alex glanced at the clock on the TV. It still said 1:04.

"Well," he said, yawning, "I need to get some sleep."

"What time is it, anyway?" said Malcolm.

"I have no idea. That clock must have stopped, and--" He glanced at his bare wrist. "--I'm usually wearing a watch, but I seem to have misplaced it."

"Is there a clock in the kitchen?"

"Yeah, on the stove."

"I'll go check." Malcolm gathered up the coffee cups and took them to the kitchen.

"There's no clock on the stove, Alex!" he hollered back.

"Yes, there is!"

"No, there isn't!"

"Over on the right, next to the oven dial!"

"Sorry, no clock!"

Alex marched into the kitchen and pointed to the stove.

"See? It's right--"

But no clock was on the control panel of the stove like Alex had remembered. And it wasn't as if the clock had been removed; the stove simply had no place for a clock in its design. Alex stared dumbfounded at the stove. Malcolm examined the control panel closely.

"So there was a clock there," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Alex. I guess I've really screwed things up."

"You screwed things up? What are you talking about?"

"Unfortunately I don't exactly know yet."

Alex considered debating the issue but decided he was too tired. So he turned and walked out of the room.

"Do you mind if I stay here?" Malcolm called after him. "I can sleep on your couch."

"Sure, whatever."

Alex retired numbly to his bedroom. What a strange day, he thought as he pulled down the covers. I just need some sleep, that's all. Too much fatigue. As he turned off the bedside lamp and nestled down into his pillow, he noticed the clock on the dresser said 8:46. Strange, Alex thought. The sun's not even up yet. And then he noticed the indicator was glowing: it was 8:46 PM.

Alex attempted to ponder the clock problem, but he was too tired and fell asleep instead. He dreamed he was back in college. He was trying to make it to his class on time, but he couldn't figure out what time it was because all the clocks in the school had blank faces. He walked into a room where a class was in session. Malcolm, who was the professor, was teaching the class how to juggle. This'll be fun, he said to himself. And then he noticed he was the only student in the classroom who wasn't a dog.

When Alex awoke the sun was shining brightly through the window. The clock on the dresser still said 8:46 PM, but it was flashing now. Must have been another power failure, he thought. At least it was daytime. He had no idea what time of day it was, but he felt as if he'd slept awhile, so he wasn't going to worry about it for now.

As he walked down the hall he swore he could smell a hot waffle iron. Nearing the kitchen he heard conversation.

"Don't worry," a hearty voice was saying. "I can work wonders without buttermilk!"

As Alex entered the kitchen Malcolm was talking to an older man who was mixing up some sort of batter in the blender. The man, who had a pronounced beer belly, greeted Alex cheerfully.

"Good morning!" he bellowed. "How many pancakes can you eat this morning? Or would you prefer waffles?"

"Ricardo's whipping up his special pancakes," said Malcolm, pouring a cup of coffee and offering it to Alex. "He makes them with regular milk. He says they're lighter and fluffier than buttermilk pancakes."

Alex stood frozen in the doorway.

"Wh--?" he croaked.

"Forgive me, Alex," said Malcolm, smiling nervously. "This is Ricardo Gomez. I told you about him earlier."

"Pleased to meet you!" Ricardo replied. "Where do you keep your maple syrup?"

Alex spun around and stumbled out of the kitchen.

"I--need to--shave--" he sputtered, and dashed for the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, clutched the sink firmly, and took a deep breath as he studied his image in the mirror. I'm still dreaming, he told himself. This is just another weird dream. I'm dreaming I'm awake but I'm not really awake. That's got to be it: I'm sleepwalking. I just have to wake myself up. Everything will be perfectly normal when I wake up. He splashed cold water on his face, rinsed his mouth, and urinated. See, everything is normal, he told himself as he flushed the toilet. I'm obviously awake. If I were still dreaming I'd still have to take a piss. But I don't, so I'm not. I'm awake and everything's just fine.

Alex walked out into the hall. The waffle-iron smell wafted by. He rushed into the living room. The smell was gone. Malcolm was standing by the fireplace combing his hair.

"Good morning," he said. "How'd you sleep?"

"Okay, good," Alex mumbled, distracted. "Yourself?"

"The best sleep I've had in days! Your couch is surprisingly comfortable. I turned on the coffee machine a few minutes ago."

Alex stepped gingerly toward the kitchen.

"Okay," he said, trying to sound casual. "Is anybody else here?"

"Not that I know of. Are you expecting someone?"

"No, no . . ." Alex made his way slowly around the kitchen, cautiously surveying the contents. Everything seemed normal. The clock on the stove said 9:23.

"Say, Alex, I've got a great idea. Why don't you let me buy you breakfast?"

"Breakfast?"

"Yes! I'm suddenly in the mood for some pancakes."

Alex froze for a moment.

"Was Ricardo Gomez here?" he demanded. Malcolm winced.

"Sorry," he said. "That must have been pretty confusing."

"So it did happen."

"Yes, in a manner of speaking."

Alex sat numbly at the table and steadied his hands on the tabletop. "What about the clocks?" he said.

Malcolm glanced at the clock on the stove.

"Well, they seem to be working now," he said.

"So--this is happening to you, too?" Alex stuttered.

"Of course it is."

"Then why aren't you--I mean, why are you so damn calm about it?"

"Why shouldn't I be? We're still here."

"Because it's damn scary, that's why!" exploded Alex. "And what do you mean, 'we're still here?'"

"Alex," Malcolm said coolly. "Don't worry about it so much, okay? I can't tell you what's happening yet, but I'm working on some theories."

"Everything was normal until you showed up, you know."

"I know. It's all related somehow. Have some coffee."

They sat and drank their coffee in silence for several minutes. Then Alex put his cup down and stood up.

"Okay," he said. "Buy me breakfast, then. I'll get my car keys. Is McDingle's House of Pancakes okay?"

"Is it close?"

"About six blocks."

"Sounds good."

They were seated at a booth in the corner. Malcolm's portfolio was on the seat next to him.

"Say," Alex said, picking up his menu slowly. "I . . . ah . . . I don't remember getting here."

"Don't worry about it," Malcolm said discreetly. "Your car's probably in the parking lot. Do you have your keys?"

Alex felt his pockets.

"Yeah," he said numbly.

"Then let's order quickly," said Malcolm, signaling the waiter. "Before we miss our own breakfast."

Malcolm ordered Perky Breakfast #3, which consisted of eggs, hash browns, pancakes, and orange juice. Feeling a bit queasy, Alex ordered a scone.

"You're certainly eating light this morning," said Malcolm.

"Well," Alex grumbled, "if we're going to be traveling through time, I'd rather not do it on too full a stomach."

"I wouldn't exactly call this traveling through time. It's not as if we've gone back to the past or ahead to the future."

"Then what have we been doing? What in the hell just happened?"

"Like I said, I'm not sure."

"Well, don't you have any ideas you can share with me? Any wild theories or inklings?"

"Nope."

"Let me put it another way. Can you just set aside your scientific knowledge for a minute and tell me what it seems like is happening to us? Just from a lay position, off the record, idle chatwise?"

Malcolm regarded Alex with amusement.

"Okay," he said. "To me it seems like time is traveling through us. Or perhaps simply nudging us."

"Wait a minute--I thought time was like a dimension. How can you be nudged by a dimension?"

"Well, perhaps nudge isn't the right word. But just think of time as a long straight road--a boulevard through a city--and you're racing down it at top speed. Suddenly there's a hairpin turn in the road, and right at the turn there's a house. If you don't slow down, what happens?"

"You crash and burn, probably. And end up in the hospital with only a few broken bones and mangled organs, if you're lucky."

"Okay, maybe literally. But figuratively, you're going to bump into that corner, the hairpin turn, right? You may merely graze the front of the house a bit as you're making your sudden turn, or if you're going too fast you may crash through the house and end up in the next street behind it."

"All right," Alex concurred. "And then whoever owns the house will sue you for property damage and you'll be arrested for reckless driving and perhaps lose your license."

"Which means you should always have a good lawyer with you as you travel through life," added Malcolm.

The waiter arrived with their breakfast. As Malcolm dug hungrily into his eggs and pancakes, Alex stared at his scone with a feeling of uncertainty, then ripped it in half.

"So you're saying that time has some hairpin curves?" he continued.

"Well, I'm speaking metaphorically."

"So speak literally, then."

"It's hard to speak literally about things I'm merely conjecturing."

"Then speak literally about your own ideas. I just want something I can sink my teeth into."

"There really isn't anything I can say at this point," snapped Malcolm, putting his fork down. "I don't know the answer. If you need something to sink your teeth into, order an omelet!"

Alex looked at the severed scone on his plate.

"I'm sorry," he said, idly poking at a currant which protruded from the scone. "Go ahead and eat."

"Thank you."

"So are those pancakes as good as Ricardo's?"

Malcolm looked up, surprised.

"You know, I never got a chance to taste his."

"Well, maybe he'll show up in my kitchen again soon," said Alex sarcastically. "Maybe next time he can prepare us a nice dinner. He could bring his wife along, too."

"His wife is dead, Alex."

"Well, that's no problem, is it? He could just nudge his way back through time and pick her up. Maybe he could even call ahead."

"I suppose anything's possible these days with fiber optics." Malcolm flagged down the waiter. "Excuse me, could I get a cappuccino?"

"Of course," said the waiter. "Single or double?"

"Better make it a double."

"You have an amazing capacity for caffeine," remarked Alex. "How fast does your heart normally beat, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing unusual: maybe three or four hundred beats per minute when I'm in idle."

"So what happens when you start shifting gears?"

Malcolm thought for a moment and shrugged.

"The sky's the limit, I suppose," he said as he dug into his pancakes.

Chapter 15

The waiter cleared their plates away. Alex took a sip of his tepid coffee.

"Why don't you continue with the story?" he said. "Wasn't there one more neighbor?"

"Yes, of course," said Malcolm, and he reached for his portfolio. "The other apartment tenant. Let's see--here it is. Yasmina Borrego."

"Yasmina," mused Alex. "Yasmina . . . that name sounds familiar. . . ."

"This Yasmina was in college, first or second year. She said she was nineteen but she looked about fourteen."

"I guess it's nobody I've been out with recently, then," Alex concluded. "But that name is so familiar. . . ."

"Déjà-vu, perhaps?"

"Maybe. Or time travel. One of those hairpin turns of yours."

"Anything's possible," said Malcolm, staring at Alex as if he were reading the contents of his soul. Alex looked away nervously.

"So how's that cappuccino?" he said.

"It's more like a latte, to tell you the truth," replied Malcolm, breaking his stare. "Too much steamed milk and not enough foam. But at least the shots are strong."

"Excuse me," Alex called to the waiter. "Could I get a double cappuccino?" Turning back to Malcolm, he shrugged.

"What the hell," he said. "So tell me about Yasmina."

"She lived on the first floor, below Rob Vickerstrom and Char Solomon. I talked to her right after I spoke with Rob. After thoroughly embarrassing myself by asking if her parents were home, I apologized profusely and told her I was doing a study on dogs as neighborhood disturbances."

"Did you make up a different story for each person?"

"Sure, why not? It made it more interesting. Besides, Yasmina was very enthusiastic when I told her about this dog study. She was practically jumping up and down. Here's the interview:

Yasmina Borrego: 3042 North Wesley Avenue, Apartment 4, La Verne, IL

Age 19; single

Occupation: Student, Part-Time Frozen Yogurt Clerk

Yasmina invited me in and offered me a Coke. I was a bit concerned when she mentioned she was a full-time student at the University of La Verne, because I preferred to keep my anonymity; but she never registered even the slightest hint of recognition.

YASMINA: I was a Speech Therapy major, but I switched over to Sociology at the beginning of this semester. I'm just fascinated by the whole subject of community in neighborhoods. That's what I'm doing one of my term papers on at the moment.

At that point Jasmine's roommate, a young woman from Russia who spoke almost no English, joined us.

YASMINA: This is Zhenya. She's an English major.

ZHENYA: I am to be . . . teaching?

YASMINA: She wants to be an English teacher.

ME: Excellent. The world can always use more English teachers.

I smiled at Zhenya and she smiled back at me, nodding vigorously. We went on this way for a while until I finally spoke again.

ME: So, Yasmina, tell me about the night Buzz barked.

YASMINA: Well, actually, I ended up going out that night. I was planning on staying home and washing my hair. You see, my hair's so thick and long it's always a major project to wash it. The whole process takes a couple of hours, from washing to drying, because if I go outside with it still wet it turns instantly to frizz. And I can't use a blow dryer on it for the same reason.

At this point Yasmina shook her head vigorously, causing her thick red mane of hair to fly about.

YASMINA: Anyway, it was really dirty that night--itchy, you know the way your scalp gets--and all day I was looking so forward to when I could finally wash my hair. I had a lot of studying to do, too, which I started working on as soon as I got home. That was about 6:30. You see, I wanted to get my French and my History of Modern Art out of the way first, and then I'd wash my hair and then plow into my Social Systems and my Cultural Anthropology. That was my plan. However, it was simply not meant to be.

Thereupon Yasmina gritted her teeth and wiggled her eyebrows up and down. This caused Zhenya to start giggling.

YASMINA: What? Shtoh u tebya?

ZHENYA: Nichevo, nichevo! Izvini! I am sorry much!

Zhenya grabbed Yasmina's arm then, and the two of them exploded into laughter. Finally Yasmina took Zhenya's hand and smiled at her.

YASMINA: Are you going to let me continue now?

ZHENYA: Yes! Continue now! I will hear you.

Yasmina looked at me, smiled, and blushed. Then she tossed her hair to one side dramatically.

YASMINA: Anyway, I was trying to get through my History of Modern Art chapters when I started noticing how much the dog was barking. It didn't bother me with the French because I was speaking the phrases out loud to myself. But when I was trying to read about Kandinsky and his point-line-plane concepts, it became really hard to concentrate. And I'm like, boy, I sure hope that dog quits soon! And I hadn't even gotten to the heavy studying yet! Anyway, I finally went next-door to the dog's house, but nobody was home and the porch light was on. And I'm like, oh, great! They're probably out for the night!

That's when, I don't know, I started freaking out. It's like if I wash my hair and get it all wet and then I can't study because that dog is barking, I'm going to be really mad! It was getting on my nerves, you know? It was really upsetting me! And I finally got totally angry and slammed my book shut like that, and I headed over to see what bands were playing at Strange Attractors--that's this club on campus. Well, to be honest, I ended up having a blast that night, and I have that dog to thank for that. You see, I discovered this really great band, the Horse Patoots. Have you ever heard them? They're way cool! I've got to get their CD.

Needless to say, I didn't have time to wash my hair, so it was really gross the next day. You see, I have this part-time job at Spike 'N' Jack's Frozen Yogurt over by the campus, and I had to be there at ten o'clock in the morning. I thought about getting up early and washing my hair, but then I figured I'd be way too tired at work. So I slept in as late as I could--I kept hitting the snooze button--and before I knew it I'd made myself late! So I ran out of the house and grabbed a bran muffin and hazelnut latte at Express Lane Espresso--that's this drive-through place on the way. I mean, somehow I miraculously made it to work on time! But my scalp was itching so badly all day--I worked six hours straight--and I kept wanting to scratch it and scratch it and scratch it! All day long! It was all I could think about! We have to wear these baseball caps to keep our hair out of the yogurt, and I kept trying to scratch my head through the cap, but you really don't get any satisfaction that way, you know? It was like I was making it itch even more. So there was this one time just before lunch--I was in the back room opening a new carton of Chocoinsanity, and Steve was out front with the customers, so nobody could see me--and it was so irritating it was driving me crazy! I didn't think I could handle it anymore! So I ripped off the lid of the carton and threw it aside and then I tore off my cap and I just stood there and scratched and scratched and scratched . . . oh my God, it felt so good! I'd been wanting to do that for two hours! And then I shook my head like this--just shook out my hair really good--and then I quickly stuffed it all back under my cap. I felt so much better--it was such a relief!

But--and this is the gross part--the reason I'm telling you about this is because I didn't even realize what I was doing. When I looked down at the Chocoinsanity after I put my cap back on, it was like, I don't know, like maybe stuff from scratching my head had fallen into the carton! I mean, I looked really close and I didn't see any actual hairs or anything--nothing obviously gross--but still, it was like this fine hair dust or something had fallen into the yogurt! And I'm like, Oh, God! There's a ton of it in there! because I was shaking my head so hard. And before I had a chance to get a scoop and scrape off the top layer of yogurt, Steve came barging in suddenly and grabbed the carton because he'd just run out and a customer was waiting! And before I had a chance to warn him, he'd already put some in this shake he was making for this girl! Oh my God, it was so gross! But I decided since the damage was already done it was no use telling him about it--it wouldn't do any good. So I just played dumb! I mean, isn't that completely and totally gross? Will you ever go to a Spike 'N' Jack's again?

ME: Well, you might be onto a new frozen yogurt topping.

YASMINA: Ew, no!

Yasmina began laughing again, which started Zhenya laughing as well. Fortunately this didn't last as long as the earlier outbreak.

YASMINA: Actually, well, I don't know how to say this exactly. But I think there was something really, like, totally disgusting about my hair, because the next day we had to throw out that tub of Chocoinsanity. And you know why? Because the yogurt had turned this kind of violet-blue color! I mean, Chocoinsanity is chocolate-colored! It's not like it's particularly easy to turn it violet-blue. And then--you want to know what's really weird?

Yasmina stopped and looked around, as if to make sure no one else was in the room except for the three of us. Then she leaned toward me and whispered.

YASMINA: It glowed in the dark!

ME: The yogurt?

YASMINA: Yes! The Chocoinsanity yogurt! The next morning when I came to work it was glowing! I couldn't believe it! It was scary, you know? So we threw it out right away.

ME: Do you use any unusual hair products?

YASMINA: No, not really. I use Suribana Botanicals Shampoo, and I recently started using their Leave-on Conditioner. They contain some special ingredient that does wonderful things for your hair and makes it shiny. At least that's what it says on the bottle. But I really like the stuff. It makes my hair softer and easier to manage.

I felt I was clutching at straws here, but I thought I'd ask anyway.

ME: You don't have any way of knowing who might have eaten any of that particular carton of Chocoinsanity before you threw it out, do you?

YASMINA: You mean like the girl Steve made the shake for?

ME: Yes. I know there's probably no way, unless she was a regular customer or something.

YASMINA: Oh, yes, there is. The Birthday Club!

ME: What's the Birthday Club?

YASMINA: You see, we have people sign up for our Birthday Club whenever they order Chocoinsanity yogurt. And then on their birthday we send them a free coupon that's good for one free Chocoinsanity cone or scoop, and it's good at any Spike 'N' Jack's anywhere.

ME: So you're telling me you might have a list of people who bought Chocoinsanity on that day, and their addresses?

YASMINA: Sure, and their phone numbers, too! I can get it for you if you want. No problem!

"The following week," Malcolm continued, "I went to see Yasmina at the University Spike 'N' Jack's, and she gave me the names and phone numbers of two customers. As far as she knew, these were the only people who'd eaten Chocoinsanity frozen yogurt between the time she opened the tub and scratched her head over it and the time it was thrown out the next morning."

"And so you were able to call these people and tell them they'd eaten some strange person's dandruff. How thoughtful."

"But don't you see? If the yogurt was glowing in the dark, it could have been genuinely toxic. I wanted to see if anybody became ill from it."

"Well, if you called me up and told me I'd eaten somebody's scalp crud, I'm pretty sure I'd get sick."

Malcolm smiled.

"I think we need to get out of here," he said. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting pretty tired of staring at this pancake wallpaper."

"Wait a minute," Alex said uneasily. "How long have we been here?"

"Long enough to have breakfast and a large caffeine transfusion. Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters! I want to know what time it is."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Do you have some place you need to be?"

Alex thought for a moment.

"No," he said. "I don't. I don't have to be anywhere. But I would like to, you know . . . find out what time it is."

"It's 10:42. It's time to go."

"It can't be! It's got to be later than that!"

"I'm merely relaying what the clock on the wall says. Maybe it's wrong. Now, shall we go?"

Alex looked at the clock, and then glanced absentmindedly at his watchless wrist.

"Okay," he said, shaking his head in confusion.

When they got outside the restaurant Alex stopped.

"So where'd we park the car?" he said. "I missed that part."

"What kind of car is it?"

"You mean you don't remember driving here, either?"

"Nope. But it's your car. I assume you know what kind of car you have."

"Of course I know! It's a Toyota Nebula."

"Nebula? You're kidding!"

"No, I'm not."

"Didn't they quit making those thing about twenty years ago?"

"So it's old."

"But how come you have such an old car?"

"What difference does it make, for Chrissake? It runs."

"All right, so it's a Nebula. What color?"

Alex blinked.

"Yellow," he muttered.

"Okay, that's a good start. Let's check the lot first." They worked their way back and forth through the restaurant parking lot. In the last row Malcolm stopped.

"Alex, is this your car?" He was standing next to Alex's faded yellow Toyota with the rusted front fender. The car had been parked sideways across two parking spaces, exactly perpendicular to the lines.

"How strange!" Alex gasped, fumbling for his keys.

"No, this isn't strange," Malcolm said with a puzzled expression. "This is a normal thing, what we expected--except for perhaps the lousy parking job, of course, unless you normally park that way. But the fact that your car being here isn't strange is . . . strange." He circled slowly around the car, studying it. Then he stopped.

"Do you have a clock in your car?" he said excitedly.

"Yeah."

"Does it work?"

"Of course not! What kind of Toyota Nebula do you think I have?" Alex unlocked the door and they climbed in.

"It's an analog clock." Malcolm seemed disappointed.

"That's why it doesn't work. If it was digital there'd be some hope."

"Does it always say 9:38?"

"I don't know. I never look at it anymore."

"Okay, start the engine."

Alex fastened his seat belt and turned the key. The car started noisily, as if everything under the hood were being puréed.

"For Chrissake," he muttered. "What the hell's the matter with my car now?"

"There, see?" Malcolm exclaimed.

"What?"

"It's running!"

"Yeah, but barely."

"No--look at the clock!"

Alex looked. The second hand was sweeping around the clock's face.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "After all these years!"

"I wouldn't depend on that if I were you. Not at this point."

"Depend on what?"

"That it's been years."

"Since I bought my car?"

"Right."

"What are you trying to say?"

Malcolm shrugged.

"I'm not sure."

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of Alex's house. Alex turned off the engine and the tumultuous clatter under the hood rattled to a stop.

"I'll have to check that out later," he said, and he started to get out of the car.

"Wait!" said Malcolm. "Look at the clock now."

"It still says 9:38. So only the second hand works, then. Real useful."

"You weren't watching the clock, were you?"

"No, why should I? I should be watching the road instead, don't you think? Especially when my engine is threatening to fall apart any minute." He turned and started up the walkway toward the house.

"But Alex," said Malcolm, charging after him. "Listen to me! The clock does work--just not the way you'd expect."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you probably aren't going to believe this, but the second hand was moving clockwise until we turned onto your street. And then it started going counterclockwise. And then it moved clockwise again a bit, and then counterclockwise. It went all the way up to 9:45, and then it worked its way back to 9:38."

Alex stopped for a moment.

"You're joking," he said quietly.

"Honest!" said Malcolm. "Would I lie to you?"

They proceeded to the front door and Alex unlocked it.

"Do you think we should go in?" he said, hesitating.

"Is there a reason why we shouldn't?"

"I don't know. I'm asking you."

"How should I know? It's your house."

"As if that means anything," Alex muttered, and he opened the door. Cautiously they entered. Alex threaded his way through the house room by room, checking every niche and corner for unexpected surprises. Satisfied that everything seemed normal, he joined Malcolm in the living room.

"All right," he sighed, sinking into the couch.

"Interesting," said Malcolm, who was staring at the clock on the television. It said 9:49.

Their momentary reverie was interrupted by a loud banging coming from the kitchen.

"What the hell is that?" said Alex.

Malcolm turned ghostly pale.

"Sounds like it's on your back porch," he whispered. They listened as the banging got louder, and then Malcolm made his way stealthily toward the kitchen. Alex followed apprehensively; his head was starting to throb.

"It looks like somebody's attacking your back door," said Malcolm. Sure enough, against the closed blinds they could see the shadow of someone hammering on the kitchen door.

"I'll go call the police," said Alex. The hairs on the back of his neck felt like needles.

"No, don't! Wait!" Malcolm crept up to the window, cranked the blinds open slightly, and peeked out.

"It's okay," he said, relaxing. "Don't call anybody." He pulled up the blinds, opened the window, and leaned out.

"Hey, Gabinski!" he hollered. "What are you doing out there?"

"I'm fixing the goddamn door!" a voice yelled back.

"Well, can you let us out?" Three or four more bangs were heard, and then some crunching and wrenching and a bit of cussing, and finally the door opened, unleashing a small flurry of sawdust. The man wielding the hammer greeted them. His faded Levi's and weathered sweater were stained with several pastel shades of paint that contrasted sharply with his reddish tan. He was in his late forties and possessed a somewhat presumptuous demeanor.

"I've been meaning to fix this thing for weeks," he said.

"But, Jay," said Malcolm, eyeing the mess of wood scraps and tools. "This isn't even your house!"

"Aw, that doesn't matter. I mean, the goddamn thing was never hung right! That's why it was so hard to close. I sanded it along this edge and underneath here, so now the weatherproofing'll work a hell of lot better. I just have to tack these molding strips back on, and we're in business."

Jay reached in his back pocket and pulled out a crushed cigarette.

"Yeah, I'll bet your house has been pretty goddamn drafty, hasn't it?" he said as he smoothed out the cigarette. "Well, it shouldn't be anymore. And your heating bills should get a lot lower, too!"

"I--I--" Alex stuttered.

"Alex, this is Jay Gabinski," said Malcolm, studying the door. He took a few steps back into the yard so he could get a better view.

"It's looking pretty good, Jay! I see you put a new handle on, too."

"Yeah, that old one was stripped pretty bad. But don't worry: I keyed the lock the same way, so you shouldn't notice any difference. It'll just be a little stiffer at first."

Alex finally managed to speak.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Why are you in my back yard? Just what is going on here?"

"Alex," said Malcolm. "Let's go back inside while Jay finishes."

"While he finishes?" shrieked Alex. "Just what else does he intend to do, for Chrissake? Re-landscape the yard, perhaps? Maybe chop down some trees?" Alex was shaking.

"Come inside. I need to talk to you for a minute. Please!"

Alex glared at Malcolm and then at Jay, who was watching him curiously.

"Well, okay!" he spit out. "But only for a minute!"

"Listen," Malcolm whispered as soon as they were in the living room. "Sit down, okay? This is important!"

Alex plopped onto the couch resentfully.

"I don't trust that guy," he growled.

"Just forget about Jay Gabinski, okay? It's not important!"

"What do you mean it's not important? He's defacing my property, not to mention trespassing!"

"But it really doesn't matter at the moment!" Malcolm leaned toward Alex.

"Let me ask you one thing," he said. "The guy trying to deliver the pizza the other night: what did he look like? You said he was about seven feet tall?"

"Yeah, or pretty close. And gangly, with a weird head. It kind of floated, like it wasn't completely attached to his body."

"Anything else you remember?"

"Well, he was all sweaty."

"He wasn't wearing a purple shirt and black pants, was he?"

"I don't think I--"

"It's okay, never mind. I have a feeling it was Rob Vickerstrom, the artist."

"What? Why would he be on my back porch delivering pizza?"

"You see? He was on your back porch!" Malcolm began tapping his knees restlessly.

"Just assume for now that Rob Vickerstrom was delivering pizza on your back porch," he said. "Jay Gabinski is now hammering away on your back porch. Ricardo Gomez was making pancakes inches away from your back door. And where did I come into the picture? In the bushes right next to your back door!"

"You know, you're right. But what's with my back door? I mean, it's just a door."

"And a drafty one at that, according to Jay. Say, you haven't by any chance misplaced anything in the past twenty-four hours, have you?"

"It's hard to say," Alex grumbled, "considering I have no idea how to measure what constitutes the past twenty-four hours." He glanced again at his naked wrist.

"Your watch!" said Malcolm. "You said you normally wear a watch, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And you've lost it, right? Since yesterday or whenever, when we first met in your back yard?"

Alex thought for a moment.

"Yeah," he finally said. "Why?"

"Well, it probably disappeared somewhere near your back door."

Alex stared hard at Malcolm and blinked.

"And that's all I can tell you right now," Malcolm added, staring back.

They sat quietly for a few minutes contemplating the back door, Alex's watch, and time in general. Alex contemplated the hairs on his right wrist as well, along with a few other unrelated issues such as some dry-cleaning he'd forgotten to pick up, a couple of phone calls he hadn't returned, the fact that his car was probably going to need at least a lube job and God knows what else, and the fact that his shoulders were feeling stiff and sore. Finally he stood and walked resolutely into the kitchen. Everything was quiet; obviously Jay Gabinski had left. Alex scanned the kitchen counters on the offhand chance he might spot his lost watch. He searched quickly through a couple of drawers he thought he might have opened when he was making breakfast. He could have sworn he saw a watch or something like a watch glinting from inside the blender, but when he removed the lid and looked it was empty. He replaced the lid and, on an impulse, switched on the blender. It grumbled loudly, making the walls vibrate. He switched it off immediately, stepped back, and stood quietly in the middle of the kitchen for a few moments, trying to take in every detail in case he might see something that wasn't normally there. Finally he opened the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer, walked back into the living room, set the beers on the coffee table, and sat down.

"The two people," he said. Malcolm looked at the beers.

"It looks like two beers to me."

"It is." Alex took one beer and opened it. "Now tell me about the two people who ate Chocoinsanity Frozen Yogurt."

"Oh," said Malcolm, and he opened the other beer. "Good idea."

Chapter 16

Malcolm took a couple swallows of beer and opened his notebook.

"Before I contacted the two customers," he said, "I needed to see if I could reproduce the glow-in-the-dark frozen yogurt. Naturally I didn't want to track down people who'd eaten tainted Chocoinsanity unless I had a good reason. So I stopped at Spike 'N' Jack's and bought a pint of Chocoinsanity. I also picked up some Suribana Botanicals products: one bottle of Shimmera Shampoo and one of Lumina Leave-on Conditioner, the same two products Yasmina was using on her hair. I mixed a little of each into the yogurt to see if I could produce any kind of luminous effect. I figured if nothing happened, I could somehow get Yasmina to shake her head over some yogurt again, but I wasn't looking forward to asking that particular favor of her. Fortunately by that evening the yogurt was glowing--quite intensely, I might add. It was impressive."

"And that's when you got your idea for making millions in the glow-in-the-dark frozen yogurt business, right?" said Alex. "With your new flavor, Chocoplutonium!"

"You know, that's not a bad idea. Unfortunately the supply wouldn't have lasted long, as I'll explain shortly. Next I took some samples of the yogurt and the hair products to my friend Stephanie who works at the chemistry lab at University Hospital. She ran a few tests and requested more flavors from Spike 'N' Jack's. So I picked up a pint each of Helluva Vanilla, Bend Over And Coffee, Berry Funny, and Cookie Cacophony.

"The results Stephanie obtained were most intriguing. She successfully generated a luminescent glow with the Chocoinsanity and the Cookie Cacophony, but she couldn't reproduce the effect with the other flavors. She then narrowed the test down to cocoa, the only common ingredient between Chocoinsanity and Cookie Cacophony which the other flavors didn't share. She discovered a glow could be produced by mixing cocoa with the leave-on conditioner. Since the chemical properties of cocoa are not known to trigger luminescence, this led her to suspect something unique in the conditioner that was acting as some sort of catalyst. So she broke down the conditioner's components. What she ultimately discovered was that the conditioner contained traces of a luminiscent plant fungus, lumina dormatica, along with traces of luciferin, an enzyme which would activate the luminosity of the fungus. These two substances--which, incidentally, weren't mentioned in the conditioner's list of ingredients--would account for the product's claim of making one's hair 'glow like the full moon.' This effect was enhanced by the presence of a rare enzyme, plutonase, traces of which Stephanie discovered in the chocolate yogurt samples. How the plutonase found its way into the yogurt is a mystery I imagine only Spike and Jack could explain."

"So now you had a good reason to contact the two customers."

"Yes, I sure did."

"And instead of calling them and telling them they'd snacked on somebody's dandruff flakes, you only had to tell them they'd eaten a rare fungus that glows in the dark. What a relief!"

"True. But I didn't contact them right away. I decided it would be better to wait a few months. And just before I called them I checked into the Suribana Botanicals Company. Have you ever used their hair products?"

"I doubt it. I've never even heard of them."

"And you probably never will, because they went out of business last fall. But it turns out the main ingredient in their conditioner was the sap of a rare Suriname banana plant, the 'gros tropica' variety of Musa surinamis."

"You're kidding!"

"Would I lie to you? Anyway, the reason they went out of business was because they were buying all their bananas from Suriname, where they were grown on a small number of plantations clustered in one small area. A little over two years ago--as a precursor to the extreme weather conditions in North America that led to the tropicalization of California--the Suriname plantations were ravaged by a series of unseasonably wet storms followed by pest infestations, during which time the crops became infected with a rare plant virus called purple-fizz. This virus would slowly break down the banana plant's sap, causing it to turn purple and effervescent, and the plant would wither and die. Gradually, over the course of a year, purple-fizz wiped out one third of Suriname's banana crop. Suribana Botanicals continued to purchase the bananas, but by August they had become so expensive the company had to jack up the prices of their hair products to compensate. As a result, people quit buying their products because they were overpriced and the company went bankrupt."

"Why didn't they buy their bananas from Nortemexico instead?" said Alex.

"Because Nortemexico didn't exist yet, and neither did Garcia bananas. In November, seven months after obtaining their names, I finally called the two customers. The first one, Delthia Weeks, was in her teens. She'd had a Chocoinsanity Shake. Since I didn't want to alarm her, I needed to come up with a benign story for why I wanted to talk to her. So I told her I was a Spike 'N' Jack's marketing representative, and I was calling people to find out if Spike 'N' Jack's Chocoinsanity frozen yogurt had changed their lives in any way. It was a long shot, but it worked. Here's the interview:

Delthia Weeks: 1505 North Fiona Blvd., Apartment 19, La Verne, IL

Age 15; single

Occupation: High School Student

DELTHIA: Can I be, like, you know, totally honest?

ME: Sure. Anything you want to say, positive or negative.

DELTHIA: Okay. To tell you the truth, that was, like, the very last time I ordered Chocoinsanity. It did something really weird, if you know what I'm saying.

ME: No, I don't know. Explain what you mean by weird.

DELTHIA: Well, like a couple of hours later my tongue and mouth were tingling, kind of like I'd eaten something real spicy, if you know what I'm saying. I mean, I did eat some sausage pizza for lunch, but the sausage wasn't, like, spicy-spicy, if you know what I mean. See, what I'm saying is, I don't like spicy-spicy. In fact, I hate spicy food! So I know the tingly feeling wasn't from the sausage. I can't describe the feeling, but I sure didn't like it, if you know what I'm saying. And so I sent this letter to my boyfriend Charles--he lives in Baltimore with his mom--and, like, I guess I licked the stamp and envelope when my tongue was weird and tingly. I mean, I didn't pay attention to this at the time but, like, I remembered I did it after he wrote and told me what happened.

A long pause followed which I finally broke.

ME: So what happened?

DELTHIA: Well, see, what I'm saying is--well, Charles was like, when he got my letter the stamp was sort of, like, bubbling! And it was all, like, purple, if you know what I mean, purple and bubbling. It sounded really gross--really really gross, if you know what I'm saying. I almost puked when he told me! And I'm like, I licked that thing? I actually put my tongue on it? God, I almost puked my guts out!

So, like, Charles' mom is a scientist for the government. She does scientific research or something like that. So she took the stamp to work so she could, like, study it or something. Research it, I guess. And so, like, she discovered this stuff--this, like, disease on the stamp! I think it was a virus or something. You know what I'm saying? It was gross! It was really gross--really really gross! I'm like, I just want to puke my guts out! So that's why I don't, like, eat Chocoinsanity shakes anymore. You know what I'm saying?

"To sum up this part of the story, I found out that Delthia's boyfriend's mother was Dr. Elvira Smith, the microbiologist who discovered the rare plant virus that led to the development of a cure for liver and pancreatic cancer in rats. It turns out the virus she discovered was on the stamp Delthia Weeks had licked with her post-Chocoinsanity tongue."

"Wait a minute," said Alex. "You're not going to tell me this glow-in-the-dark yogurt led to the cure for cancer?"

"That's exactly what I was going to do."

Malcolm pulled a magazine out of his portfolio.

"In this issue of American Scientist," he said, "Dr. Smith explains how she broke down the substances on the back of the stamp. What she detected, besides the purple-fizz plant virus, were traces of glue, fennel seeds, the lumina dormatica fungus, and banana sap. She believes the organic matter fueled both the fungus and the virus, causing the stamp to turn purple and effervesce. Now, obviously the glue was the stamp's own glue. But Delthia's tongue, which licked the stamp, probably had traces of fennel seeds from her sausage pizza and traces of lumina dormatica, purple-fizz virus, and banana sap from her Chocoinsanity shake."

"Hmm. So what's the other customer's story? It's probably anticlimactic after this one."

"Not at all, actually. Malvina Butts, who was on vacation from Los Angeles, ordered a Chocoinsanity triple cone. When I called her and gave her the marketing-representative spiel, she said that she'd developed a bad stomach ache from eating the yogurt cone, and she'd been having chronic stomach problems ever since. It was obvious she didn't want to talk to me, so I didn't push it.

"But this is where the Chocoinsanity story gets good! You see, when Dr. Smith managed to cure the cancers in the rats, she sent her findings to an associate in California, Dr. Sidney Butts. Butts had obtained a grant for cancer research and, using Dr. Smith's findings, he managed to develop a cure for human stomach cancer. Since his wife, Malvina, had developed stomach cancer by this time, he used her for his first test subject. And the rest is history."

"But how do you know Malvina Butts's stomach cancer was caused by the Chocoinsanity yogurt?"

"Well, it's impossible to say, of course. But since she started having stomach problems shortly after she ate the stuff, it could have either caused it or acted as a catalyst."

"So we have Spike and Jack to thank for wiping cancer off the face of the earth," Alex said, raising his beer. "Here's to you, Spike 'N' Jack, whoever the hell you are!" He downed the rest of the beer and glanced at the clock on the television. Unfortunately the clock on the television had vanished.

Chapter 17

"Say," Alex said nervously. "Do you remember seeing a clock on the TV?"

Malcolm looked at the TV and studied it for a moment.

"When was the last time you saw a clock on the TV?" he said.

"When we first sat down, I think--whenever that was."

Malcolm kept staring at the TV, and as he did his index fingers began to beat a slow steady rhythm in unison.

"But there was a clock there, right?" Alex said anxiously. "You saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes. There was a clock there."

"Excuse me," said a voice. The two of them jumped up, startled. A tall woman in a white dress and bright red shoes was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"I--I'm sorry if I interrupted," she said.

"Oh, no," said Malcolm, relaxing a bit. "Not at all."

"What do you mean, not at all?" Alex snapped in disbelief. "Just who the hell is--?"

"Alex, sit down!" Malcolm whispered.

"I can come back in a minute," said the woman. "If this is a bad time--"

"No, no," said Malcolm. "Come join us. You aren't disturbing anything." He offered the woman a chair as Alex plopped back onto the couch begrudgingly.

"You'll have to forgive Alex," said Malcolm. "He's not used to having so many visitors."

"Oh, really? I didn't mean to barge in like this."

"No, it's quite all right. I'm Malcolm, by the way, Malcolm Peevey."

The woman brightened.

"What a coincidence!" she said. "I believe we talked on the telephone once. I'm Barbara Rose!"

"Excuse me," Alex muttered, glaring back and forth between Malcolm and Barbara. "Can I ask one question?"

"Of course," said Barbara.

"Where did you come from just now?"

"The kitchen. I was having some frozen yogurt. I hope you don't mind, but the freezer's full of the stuff."

"What kind?" said Malcolm. Disgusted, Alex shook his head and stared at the floor.

"Spike 'N' Jack's. There's several flavors. I just tried the Bend Over And Coffee, and it's pretty good. Would you like some?"

"Maybe a little later, thanks."

"What I really want to ask," said Barbara, "is if either of you might have some--well, this is sort of embarrassing, but I could use a piece of dental floss."

"Dental floss," Alex echoed quietly, still staring at the floor.

"You see," said Barbara, "the Bend Over And Coffee is full of almonds, and for some reason I've always had trouble with nuts getting stuck between my teeth." She smiled and blushed slightly.

"Gee, Alex," Malcolm said, smirking. "It's too bad Rob Vickerstrom isn't still on your back porch. He'd probably have some dental floss."

Alex looked blankly at Malcolm as if he didn't see him; then he stood and headed for the bathroom, muttering the words "dental floss" under his breath. Safely inside the bathroom, he locked the door and leaned against the sink. He was starting to feel disoriented again, as if he were somewhere that wasn't where he thought he was. This wouldn't be so strange if this wasn't my house, he rationalized. If I were somewhere else--anywhere else--I could assume that I'd walked into a virtual reality program, or perhaps somebody else's dream. And then I could simply say goodbye, get in my car and drive home, walk through my front door, and everything would be normal . Just like coming home from watching a 3-D movie. No, that probably didn't make any sense. But nothing was making much sense right now. Why should my kitchen be attracting all these total strangers? he wondered. And how come they all happen to know Malcolm? Wasn't it practically my kitchen that produced Malcolm, a total stranger, in the first place? Maybe if I wall off the kitchen from the rest of the house--brick it in like a tomb, like in The Cask of Amontillado--everything will return to normal. But would I have to entomb Malcolm as well? And how normal could life be without a kitchen? I suppose I'd have to start eating out a lot. Maybe I could get one of those compact refrigerators for the living room in which I could keep some beer and a few snacks. That might work. Or maybe. . . .

"Jesus!" he grumbled aloud. "This is getting me nowhere!" He opened the medicine cabinet and was about to grab the dental floss when he noticed it seemed unusually dark in the bathroom for the middle of the day. He cranked open the blinds on the window and peeked out, and was shocked to discover it was pitch dark outside.

"I am dreaming!" he gasped, and he turned on the light. This was obviously one of those solar-eclipse-in-the-middle-of-the-day dreams he had now and then. He figured they were brought on by his fear of going blind. Every time he worked on an article he had to do a lot of reading for, his eyes would get tired and red. And then, concerned that he was suffering irreversible eye strain, he'd inevitably dream that he was groping his way through the darkness of a total eclipse. So this was only a minor nightmare, and he'd prove it! He slapped himself a few times in an attempt to wake himself up. When that didn't work he pinched himself hard several times, leaving red welts on his skin. Still no change. Well, this'll wake me up, he thought as he grabbed the scissors off the shelf, pushed back his sleeve, and poked at the skin with the sharp point a few times, leaving white indentations up and down the vein. And then on an impulse he pulled the scissors back and rammed them forward, stabbing himself in the arm.

"Ouch!" he yelled. Blood gushed from the gash in his arm into the sink. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the wound. The towel quickly turned red.

"Shit!" he yelled again. This was not dream blood. He was definitely not dreaming he was bleeding to death all over his bathroom. As he reached for the medicine cabinet to find a bandage, the bloody towel dropped into the sink, smearing and splattering bright red blood here and there on the white enamel; for some reason Alex was reminded of strawberry margaritas. The blood streaming from his arm was vinaceous and syrupy and seemed to be siphoning the blood from his head.

"Fuck!" he finally yelled, collapsing against the door as he groped for the handle noisily.

"Alex!" yelled Malcolm from the other side of the door. "Are you all right in there?" Alex managed to get the door open, and he stumbled out into the hall.

"I'm fucking great!" he shrieked in Malcolm's face. "Never felt better!" And then everything went black.

****

When Alex awoke he was lying on the hall floor. His arm was wrapped in a bandage and Barbara was daubing his forehead gently with a wet towel. Malcolm was leaning over him, staring at him intently.

"Shit," Alex mumbled.

"Everything's okay," said Malcolm. "You fainted, that's all."

Alex glanced at the bandage on his arm and groaned.

"How did you manage to cut yourself, anyway?" said Malcolm.

"I'm a jerk. That's how I did it: I'm a fucking jerk."

Alex looked up at Barbara who smiled sadly at him.

"I found the dental floss," he said. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Alex, honestly," said Malcolm. "You have such an obsession with the time."

"But it's dark outside!"

"Of course it is! It's nighttime."

"Jesus Christ!" Alex tried to sit up. "How long was I out?"

"A couple of minutes, maybe."

Alex felt his mind blur slightly.

"You were in the bathroom for a long time," Malcolm added. "We were getting a little concerned."

"Oh, and I found some dental floss in my purse," said Barbara. "I'm sorry I put you through all this trouble."

Alex noticed a smearing of blood trickling down the bathroom door onto the carpeting. As he watched two tiny drops work their way to the bottom of the door, he felt suddenly queasy.

"Let's go outside," said Malcolm. "You look like you could use some fresh air."

Out in the back yard the air was warm but pleasant. Alex sank numbly into a lawn chair next to Malcolm and languidly stared at the night sky.

"What happened to Barbara?" he said after a moment.

"She's in the kitchen," said Malcolm. "She's making some margaritas."

"Margaritas."

"Yes. While you were in the bathroom we found your tequila, but we couldn't find any Triple Sec. Barbara brought some fresh limes with her."

"But I don't have any tequila."

"Sure you do. Anyway, she says Cointreau works just as good as Triple Sec. And we did manage to find your Cointreau."

"I have Cointreau?"

"Yes, an entire bottle. It was unopened."

"Hmm," Alex sighed. For some reason he couldn't recall ever having bought a bottle of Cointreau, much less a bottle of tequila.

"Seriously, Alex," said Malcolm. "How did you cut yourself? That's a pretty deep wound."

"How do you think?" he grumbled. "I was shaving."

"Maybe you ought to grow a beard before you end up killing yourself."

"Hmm." Alex closed his eyes. A tepid yet invigorating breeze blew gently against his face and neck, and for some strange reason it made him shiver slightly. As he and Malcolm sat silently soaking in the evening air, they could hear the blender in the kitchen barely audible above the chirping of the crickets. For three or four minutes they listened to the blender. A few more minutes passed by.

"I'll bet those margaritas are pretty liquefied by now," said Malcolm.

"You know, you're probably right." They listened to the blender for another minute or two; then they jumped up simultaneously and tore into the house. The blender was running on high, but Barbara was nowhere to be found. Malcolm studied the vibrating blender closely for a moment, and then switched it off.

"Well," he said. "I guess that's that. So would you care for one of these watered-down margaritas?"

"Sure," said Alex. "What the hell."

Chapter 18

They sat silently in the back yard under the trees. The sky was clear and dark and stippled with stars.

"The Cointreau's good," Malcolm said as he sipped his margarita. "But I think I prefer Triple Sec. It's not quite so sweet."

"Yeah," concurred Alex as he mindlessly sipped his drink. He watched the objects in the night sky, trying to tell if they were moving across the sky as fast as the days and nights seemed to be moving. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear what sounded like a small dog barking.

"Malcolm," he said.

"Yes?"

"Why don't you finish your story? You know, before we get old and die."

"I don't think that's going to happen very soon."

"What makes you so sure? I mean, if the days are lasting only a couple of hours--if time is speeding up like it appears to be--"

"I don't think time is speeding up."

"Then what the hell is it doing? Why is my life passing in front of my eyes, for Chrissake?"

Malcolm watched the sky for a moment.

"It only seems that way," he said quietly. "And then there's the blender."

"Blender? What about the blender?"

"For one thing, it's a perfect example of applied chaotic dynamics."

"My blender?"

"Yes. Let's say you put a jigger of tequila, a half jigger of Cointreau, a half jigger of lime juice, and several ice cubes in the blender. And then you turn it on. What happens?"

"You end up with a margarita."

"True. But what does the blender do to the ingredients themselves? It effectively randomizes them. And then what do you have?"

"I'd say you still have a margarita."

"Yes, a turbulent margarita."

Alex held up his glass and examined it.

"Mine looks pretty calm to me," he said.

"Well, sure, it's calm and orderly now. But as long as the blender's turned on. . . ."

Malcolm fell deep in thought for several minutes, taking a sip now and then.

"What about your story?" Alex pressed again.

"Oh, right, the story." Malcolm sighed sadly and stared at the sky. This time Alex waited patiently for him to speak.

"Remember Frank Rogers?" he finally said. "The homicidal postal carrier?"

"Sure."

"The person he shot who died later was a seventeen-year-old boy, Eric Cook. Eric was in the hot dog shop with a friend, and he was shot in the head and went into a coma. Now, remember the satellite that fell to earth, D-Tritus III?"

"Yes, I remember the story. It landed somewhere in Kansas, didn't it?"

"The largest intact piece did. It crashed in the backyard of a Mrs. Carlson who lived just outside Salina, Kansas. This happened on the same day Eric was shot in Cincinnati. It was a Monday and Mrs. Carlson had planned on playing her regular bridge game that night with three other women. And one of the women, a Mrs. Foster, turned out to be Eric Cook's aunt."

"Now how the hell did you figure that one out?"

"It was easy: I merely spent hours upon hours wading my way through volumes and volumes of articles and notes while under the influence of a tremendous amount of caffeine."

"I should have guessed. Go on."

"Anyway, since Mrs. Foster was obviously upset about her nephew and needed to go to Cincinnati to be with her sister, the bridge game was canceled and Mrs. Carlson stayed home instead. This particular Monday night happened to be the night before Election Day. Not only that, but it was also the night most of the American public would be watching TV."

"Wait a minute! You're talking about the last presidential election, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I have a feeling this is going to be good."

"Certain elements of this story were disclosed to the public after the investigation," Malcolm continued, "so some of this will be familiar. On this particular Monday night a majority of the American public was watching a live broadcast of the First National 3-D Interactive Heavyweight Championships. As you may recall, this was a huge media event sponsored by Poppeecock Popcorn. In order to watch the fights in 3-D, it was necessary to purchase a regular-sized box of Poppeecock Popcorn, in which a pair of disposable 3-D glasses was enclosed. To get two pairs of glasses you needed to buy the large-sized box. And in order to actually participate in the fights yourself, you had to buy the family-sized box that contained four pairs of glasses as well as a disposable joystick and specially-encoded control box that you plugged directly into your TV. It turned out the sales on that particular Monday for Poppeecock Popcorn were the highest sales ever recorded for a packaged food item in a single day.

"But while millions of viewers across the nation were watching the practice rounds, familiarizing themselves with their joysticks, and popping up bowls of popcorn, Mrs. Carlson was searching through her TV guide for something else to watch. You see, she hadn't planned on watching TV at all that night. When her bridge game was canceled, however, she thought she'd see if she could find something more interesting to watch than the First National 3-D Interactive Heavyweight Championships. What she finally settled on was the movie Goodnight, Bongo, starring Bongo the Chimp and costarring, coincidentally, a former President of the United States.

"So while everyone else was watching and interactively helping two grown men slug each other in Round Two of the championships, Mrs. Carlson turned on her TV and proceeded to watch her favorite President fraternize with a chimpanzee. Unfortunately, the substantial chunk of satellite that sat in Mrs. Carlson's yard--with antennas still attached and functioning--screwed up TV reception all over the country, causing Goodnight, Bongo to be broadcast on every channel. Even the cable carriers were affected."

"I remember that night well. It was pretty depressing."

"Then you were undoubtedly one of the lucky ones who didn't eat any Poppeecock popcorn. As you may recall, Poppeecock was bought out by Impressive Foods because the company had gone bankrupt, leaving behind a warehouse full of popcorn. The reason the company went bankrupt is that the employees were allowed to eat as much popcorn on the job as they desired. This was before anyone knew the entire crop of Poppeecock popcorn for that year had been contaminated by the invasion of the armadillo wasp and its highly hallucinogenic byproducts as a result of the strange weather patterns."

"Caused by Jay Gabinski belching while he blew up his aunt's kitchen?" Alex guessed.

"Exactly! You're getting good at this, Alex. Anyway, work at the Poppeecock factory came to a virtual standstill as popcorn-munching employees spent their shifts in varying degrees of hallucination. As a result, productivity was negatively affected: the packaging equipment operators couldn't operate the equipment correctly, quality control was sporadic at best, and many employees simply weren't doing anything but sitting around contemplating their navels. To make matters worse, nobody in charge at Poppeecock thought to warn Impressive Foods about the problem with the warehoused popcorn, so the company ended up with some nasty lawsuits, most which are still pending.

"Getting back to the election, what we had was a situation where millions of TV viewers spent their Election Eve hallucinating wildly while they watched a Republican ex-President romp around with a chimp. The next day, in the throes of popcorn hallucinations, a record number of people wrote in 'Bongo' for President. And by the end of the next day the election officials, also experiencing severe hallucinations, declared officially that Bongo the Chimpanzee had been elected President of the United States of America. Coincidentally the National Zoo in Washington was the home of a rather popular chimpanzee named Bongo. And since that Bongo was thirty-six years old, which is old enough to be President, and he was born in the United States, and there isn't anything in writing that specifically states an individual of a different species can't be President, the decision was never challenged."

"So let me see if I have this straight," Alex broke in excitedly. "You're saying Jay Gabinski's belch, which caused the weather changes, combined with Ricardo Gomez's grocery list, which caused the cancellation of Mrs. Carlson's bridge game, ultimately gave us President Bongo, God rest his little simian soul."

"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?"

Alex laughed.

"Wow!" he said. "I have to give you credit, Malcolm. You're an amazing storyteller!"

"Thanks," Malcolm said morosely. "But I'm not finished yet."

"Well, obviously. You still haven't told me why you threw yourself off the bridge. Although I suppose feeling somewhat responsible for putting a chimpanzee in the White House would be a good enough reason for most people. But still--"

Alex stopped abruptly when he noticed the eastern horizon was turning a brilliant orange.

"What the hell is that?" he said.

"It's probably the sunrise. But do you hear what I hear?"

A familiar hum was emanating from Alex's kitchen.

"What's that?" he said.

"I think it's your blender."

Chapter 19

Alex dashed through the door and into the kitchen, followed closely by Malcolm. The blender was on high, puréeing some sort of thick concoction, while a man in blue velour jogging sweats performed deep-knee bends in front of the sink. Glancing at Alex and Malcolm from behind his gold-framed glasses he seemed surprised to see them but didn't stop.

"What the hell are you doing?" Alex yelled angrily.

"What does it look like I'm doing, for Pete's sake?" the man panted. "I'm making my breakfast!"

Malcolm turned off the blender and examined the contents.

"My God, Zalewski!" he groaned. "What the hell is this glop?"

"It's not glop," protested the man, who was now performing vigorous trunk twists. "It's a healthy breakfast! Banana, wheat germ, brewer's yeast, soy milk, and rice bran. It's got everything you need to start your day off right. I call it fuel for success."

"Phew!" Malcolm took a whiff of the viscous muck. "If this is what success smells like, I'll take failure any day."

"While you two are talking about breakfast," Alex broke in, "will someone mind telling me who you are and what you're doing in my kitchen, using my blender?"

"This is Devin Zalewski," said Malcolm. "Of Impressive Foods."

"Am I supposed to know you?" Devin said blankly.

"I talked to you once. I'm Malcolm Peevey."

"Peevey, hmm, yes." Devin reflected a moment, and then nodded. "I remember now! You're VP of sales at McDingle's, right? The Chez-Perquée French Café Division! Fine job your people are doing over there!"

Malcolm smiled indulgently.

"Thanks," he said. "This is Alex Martell. He lives here."

"This is my house," Alex emphasized.

"Nice back yard," said Devin as he poured himself a glass of viscous muck. "Where the hell is that dog, anyway? Zelda!" He hastily downed the contents of the glass and then barged out of the kitchen into the living room. "Zelda! Are you on the phone again?"

In the corner next to the telephone a large Weimaraner was clawing anxiously at the pages of the phone book, ripping them to shreds in the process. She looked up guiltily at Devin and whimpered. He crossed his arms and peered down at the dog.

"If you were trying to order a pizza again, Zelda--!" he threatened. The dog whimpered again, her tail dropping between her legs.

"Oh, don't be so hard on her," said a young woman who had just entered the room. "She's only a dog, after all. Dogs are always hungry." She knelt down next to Zelda and scratched her on the ears affectionately.

"Yeah, that's my good little software genius," she cooed to the dog.

"Well, somebody should teach her that breakfast is not an appropriate time for pizza," said Devin. "It's disgusting to even consider it!"

Alex stepped forward as the woman turned toward him. She was attractive, in her late twenties with wavy blonde hair, doe-brown eyes, and the most sensuous lips Alex had ever seen.

"Hello," he said, ignoring Devin for the time being. "I'm Alex Martell. Welcome to my house."

The woman smiled.

"Hi, I'm--" she started, and then she spotted Malcolm.

"Malcolm!" she gasped. "Where were you? I kept calling your house, and then your phone was disconnected. And nobody in the Chaology Department had any idea what had happened to you."

"It's . . . a long story," Malcolm replied. He seemed excited to see the woman but hesitant to show it. The woman approached him and took his hands in hers.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she said. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen off the face of the earth."

"Well, I did, sort of. Only it was more like the face of a clock."

"It must have been an awfully big clock," the woman said, studying his face. "You could have at least sent me a postcard."

Malcolm smiled, a hint of confusion crossing his features.

"As I said, it's a long story," he said. "I can explain everything."

"You seem to have a lot of things to explain, don't you?" Alex interjected.

"Forgive me. Alex, this is Char Solomon."

Char flashed Alex a heavenly smile and then turned back to Malcolm. Alex felt lightheaded for a moment, as if he'd just changed altitudes.

"Excuse me for interrupting your little reunion," Devin broke in. "But do you mind if I take a shower? I have an extremely important meeting this morning and I'm running late."

Alex felt his senses return sharply like a rubber band being snapped.

"Why don't you go take a shower at your own place?" he snarled.

"Just what the hell are you implying?" Devin fumed.

"Go ahead and take a shower," said Malcolm. "He didn't mean anything."

"What do you mean--" Alex gasped. Malcolm put his hand on Alex's shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "It's not important! Please, Alex, just trust me on this, okay?"

"Trust you? There's a total stranger in my shower, a large dog is eating my phone book, everyone in the world is using my kitchen appliances, and I'm supposed to sit back and trust you?"

"Yes," Malcolm replied calmly, staring intently at Alex. Alex stared back, dumfounded.

"Malcolm's a real mystery guy, isn't he?" said Char. "Has he been doing his disappearing tricks for you, too?"

"Disappearing?" Alex scoffed. "I wish! I can't seem to make him disappear."

"I've been telling Alex about my experiment," said Malcolm.

"So is he one of your subjects?"

"I'd say he's more of a victim."

"Well, at least we agree on one thing," Alex grumbled.

"Poor Alex," said Char. "You look like you haven't had your coffee yet."

"Shall we make some?" suggested Malcolm.

"Sounds good," said Char, and the two of them started for the kitchen.

"But wait a minute!" said Alex. "It's not even--I mean--what time is it?"

"It's morning," said Malcolm.

"But what time?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Well, I--I guess not."

"Then let's make some coffee. Come on!"

Alex glanced at the TV. The clock was back on top. It was flashing 7:17.

"What do you feed the dog?" Char hollered from the kitchen. "I can't find her dishes anywhere."

"I don't have a dog!" Alex yelled as he charged into the kitchen, the Weimaraner close on his tail. "I don't know who this is!"

"Her name's Zelda," said Malcolm. "Where did you put your filter papers?"

"Is there an open can of dog food in here?" said Char. As she opened the refrigerator an avalanche of fine gravel poured out, knocking her to the floor.

"Char!" Malcolm cried as he crunched across the sea of green-specked gravel. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so." She stood, brushed the dust off her legs, and gave Alex a puzzled look.

"You keep your kitty litter in the refrigerator?" she said.

"Kitty litter? I don't even have a cat!"

At the word "cat" Zelda wagged her tail and barked excitedly.

"And I don't have a dog, either," Alex said, glaring at Zelda.

"But you do have a broom, don't you?" said Malcolm.

"There might be one in the closet."

"What closet?"

"The one here, by the back door." Alex pushed a large wooden chair back away from a floor-length tapestry that hung on the wall next to the back door. Then he carefully removed the tapestry to reveal a small door about five feet tall.

"See?" he said, opening the little door. "This is a closet." He leaned in and rummaged around for a minute, attempting to dislodge the vacuum cleaner which had somehow fallen and become tightly wedged between a folding chair and a large box fan.

"Do you need some help?" Malcolm offered.

"No, I've got it--" Alex managed to ease the canister of the vacuum cleaner out of its tight crevice, but the hose was caught up on something. He gave it a yank as he backed out of the closet, bringing the vacuum cleaner, folding chair, fan, and a large suitcase along with him in a loud clatter.

"Are you okay?" said Char.

"Yes!" snapped Alex, shoving the chair, fan, and suitcase back into the closet angrily. After several tries he managed to get the door slammed shut.

"That's some closet," said Malcolm as Alex pushed the chair back in place and rehung the tapestry. "How come you hide it like that?"

"I'm not hiding it. What makes you think I'm hiding it?"

"Well, you've got that rug covering it."

"I beg your pardon! This 'rug' happens to be a Turkish tapestry my grandmother gave me. The truth is, the thing's so big there's no other place to hang it. And I hardly ever use anything in here, anyway."

"You don't vacuum very often, then?"

"No, I don't!" Alex snarled. "What the hell difference does it make?"

"Oh, none. So you don't have a broom?"

"Yeah, somewhere, but we can use this vacuum cleaner."

"But won't the kitty litter wreck it?" said Char.

"No, it's got a lot of power--industrial strength, almost. And I just put in a brand new bag. It should work fine."

"So where do we plug it in?"

"Over here."

They moved the vacuum cleaner into position in the middle of the floor. Alex plugged it in the wall and then Char turned it on. The kitchen was transformed into an opaque white dust storm spinning madly to the painful clamor of the vacuum cleaner as it sucked up gravel.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea!" Alex coughed, straining to see through the haze. Tiny particles filled his nostrils and his eyes felt as though they were being sandblasted.

"What?" shouted Char over the din. Alex could barely make her out. She looked like a white angel in a gravelly tornado.

"Maybe you should turn it off!"

"What's he saying?" Char was squinting through the dust at Malcolm, who was yelling something excitedly.

"What?" yelled Alex. "What?" echoed Char.

Alex strained to hear Malcolm, but the noise was deafening.

"It sounds like he's saying 'Mendel was wrong,'" Alex shouted to Char, who had faded from sight.

The vacuum cleaner noise ended abruptly. Too abruptly. The kitty litter dust vanished.

"Boy, that was intense!" Alex gasped. Malcolm was leaning against the counter, dazed. The silence was deafening.

"What happened to Char?" Alex whispered.

"Maybe she's still in your kitchen," said Malcolm.

"But this is my kitchen."

Malcolm looked at Alex uncertainly.

"No, it isn't," he said.

Alex looked down. The linoleum appeared vaguely different, as if there were an extra set of dots or an extra square in the pattern. He glanced around the kitchen. It was exactly the same as his: same table, same refrigerator, same stove. But the handles on the cupboards were curved rather than squared. The ceiling light was pink and textured rather than pearl and smooth. And no Turkish tapestry hung over the closet door because there was no closet.

"You're right," he murmured, and he took a deep breath. He could feel the muscles in his neck tightening like cello strings being tuned too high.

"Maybe we should check out the living room," whispered Malcolm.

"Okay." Alex watched him, waiting for him to make the first move. Malcolm watched Alex for a moment or two, and then inched toward the living room. Alex followed close behind. Reaching the doorway they stopped. The TV was on, barely audible, and someone was sitting in Alex's favorite chair--except Alex's favorite chair, which had always been forest green, was now burgundy.

Slowly Malcolm ventured into the room.

"Excuse me," he said. The chair spun around toward them, revealing a small elderly woman. When she saw them she clicked the TV off with the remote and nearly vaulted out of the chair.

"Well, hello, boys!" she sang out merrily. "Come on in! Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything?"

Malcolm stared at the woman, unable to utter a word. This impressed Alex; he never dreamed he'd see Malcolm speechless.

"You must be the Wilcox boys," the woman said.

Alex approached her, the strings in his neck loosening somewhat.

"I'm Alex and this is Malcolm," he said.

The woman shook her head excitedly and wiggled her fingers in the air.

"I can never tell you boys apart," she said, speaking quickly in concise, melodic syllables as she made tiny pointing gestures with her tiny hands. "Now, I've met Jeff and Greg. Jeff's the one who's a Sikh now, and he wears that turban. So you must be the younger two I've heard so much about. Well, I'm Mavis, and I'm just tickled to finally meet you boys. I put some coffee on just a little while ago. Would you boys like some? I'm going to have myself a cup. Why don't you sit down and make yourselves at home? I'll just go check on the coffee and I'll be back in a jiffy!"

As she bustled out of the room, Alex took a seat on the couch which looked like his couch but differed subtly: it was something about the weave of the fabric. Malcolm, still stunned, sat next to him and looked around the room apprehensively.

"What's up?" whispered Alex.

"This is wrong," Malcolm whispered back. "This is totally wrong."

"Well, of course it's wrong! Welcome to the party!"

Aunt Mavis returned with a full tray which she set on the coffee table.

"Now, help yourselves to the cream and sugar," she said, pouring three cups of what looked like weak tea. "And there's some cookies--I just baked those sugar cookies yesterday--and there's a little bit of banana nut bread, too. I'm sure you boys are hungry, because it's such a long trip, you know. I always just--"

"A long trip?" Malcolm interrupted.

"Well, of course, and you know how those long drives go. They always seem so--"

"From where?"

"Well, from your folks' place to out here. It's about a hundred miles or so, wouldn't you say? Give or take a farmhouse or two." She giggled with little hiccoughs that seemed to be synchronized with her little wiggling fingers.

"So what's the closest big city to you, Aunt Mavis?" said Malcolm, a bit more composed now.

"Oh, well, Salina, naturally. It's just a hop, skip, and a jump. Of course, you sophisticated Wichita folks wouldn't even consider it a city, much less a big city! But it sure is big to us country folks! Why, just the other day I was talking to Elsa--that's my neighbor to the east--or I guess she's more to the southeast, or east-south-east, you'd have to say--and she was telling me they're talking about building one of those Dog-Marts just outside Salina. You know, those giant stores where they sell all kinds of dog products: leashes, bowls, chew toys, computers, software, all that stuff. Well, I've heard those places are just so convenient, fancy and spacious and with so much variety, but I read somewhere, or maybe I heard it on one of my shows, that they just drive the little places out of business. All the Mom and Pop dog stores just can't attract the same customers anymore. It's such a shame, you know, because they're just--"

"You baked these cookies?" Malcolm broke in, attempting to steer Aunt Mavis back to the present location.

"Yes, I sure did." Aunt Mavis beamed, her cheeks turning pink. "Do you like them? I have another jar of them I can bring out--"

"Oh, no, that's okay." Malcolm took one bite out of his slightly burnt cookie and set it down.

"I wasn't sure if I baked them long enough this time," continued Aunt Mavis. "I like them crisp, you know, but not too overdone or they dry out. You know, crisp but moist. That's the way they're supposed to be, I think. After all, cookies are meant to be one of life's little pleasures, so they should be as tasty and scrumptious as you can make them. That's my philosophy, my baking philosophy. None of this horsing around with honey or fruit sugar or whole wheat flour or any of that nonsense. Why, that's just silly, trying to bake a cookie that's going to keep you going all day. That's just not what they're for, now, is it? Why, I was talking to Phyllis yesterday morning. She's my sister-in-law. My brother Lynn passed away five years ago, heart attack--he had a weight problem--but Phyllis and I still keep in touch, even though she's way out there in Oregon now and my phone bill almost gives me a heart attack sometimes! But, you know, I just subscribed to that new long-distance club, and--"

The phone rang.

"Why, listen to that!" Mavis giggled. "Here I am going on about the telephone, and somebody's decided to call me! Isn't that something! Well, boys, you just help yourselves to anything you like. I'm afraid I have only one phone and it's in the kitchen, so I'll try to make it snappy!"

As soon as Mavis had flittered out of the room, Malcolm put down his coffee cup.

"Let's get out of here!" he said. "Quick!"

Alex followed him out the front door onto the porch. The house stood virtually in the middle of nowhere. In the side yard lay the rusted wreckage of a small airplane. The land all around the house was flat and brown, marked with a dirt road that started a few yards away and extended off toward the horizon where it disappeared. Otherwise there was nothing but dirt, flat dirt, as far as the eye could see.

"Shit!" Malcolm muttered, staring at the vast expanse of sameness.

"Where are we?" Alex gasped.

"Good question." Malcolm stepped off the porch and headed for the road.

"You coming?" he yelled back.

"Where're we going?"

"I don't know. For a nice long walk, I guess."

Chapter 20

"So what happened in there?" said Alex as they took off down the road.

"Absolutely nothing," Malcolm grumbled. "Or didn't you notice?"

"But why were you in such a hurry to leave?"

"Are you kidding? Because she was driving me crazy!"

"What, that sweet old lady?"

"Listen," Malcolm huffed. "You can go back and gnaw on burnt cookies if you want. Don't let me stop you."

"Oh, no, that's quite all right," Alex said with a chuckle. "I'm just surprised to see you this uncongenial."

"So now you know my weakness."

"What's that, lonely old ladies or burnt cookies?"

Malcolm shook his head with exasperation.

"That was the most heinous excuse for coffee I've ever tasted in my life," he muttered.

"Oh, come on! It wasn't that bad."

"You don't think so?"

"No. It just tasted like, I don't know, tea or something."

Malcolm shuddered.

"What?" Alex chuckled. "You've got something against tea?"

"Listen!" Malcolm replied ardently. "One of the most important lessons I've learned in life is to never take good coffee for granted. There's a hell of a lot of mediocre coffee served and consumed every day in this country, and there's no excuse for it! Those blessed souls who know enough to use a generous measure of freshly-ground beans that have been stored correctly are few and far between, not to mention those precious baristas who tamp their espresso shots firmly enough."

"For Chrissake, Malcolm! I've never known anybody so obsessed with food!"

"It's not an obsession. It's a passion. And let's stop talking about it, okay? I'm getting hungry."

"Hmm." Alex scanned the flat featureless horizon. "And it doesn't look like we'll be passing a McDingle's very soon, either."

"Nope."

They continued on for a mile or two. As they walked the sky clouded over with a dull gray sameness that matched the terrain. It was as if they were walking through nothingness with a horizon scratched across it.

"So where do you think we are, anyway?" said Alex.

"On some dirt road."

"Obviously. But where?"

"That's a very good question. Let's hope this road actually goes somewhere."

"Well, it has to go somewhere."

"Not necessarily."

As they kept on walking, it did seem to Alex as if they were getting nowhere.

"All right," he said. "Let me see if I'm understanding everything so far. That house was not my house."

"It seems that way."

"And Mavis. Wasn't Jay Gabinski's aunt named Mavis?"

"Yes. I think we can assume that was Jay's aunt."

"So why did she think we were from Wichita?"

"Because supposedly we're in Kansas."

"Hmm," sighed Alex as he surveyed the landscape. "It certainly is flat."

"But, you know, Toto," said Malcolm. "I don't think we really are in Kansas."

"Well, then, where the hell are we, Dorothy?"

"All I know is we're nowhere near La Verne."

Malcolm turned and looked back in the direction from which they'd come.

"Damn!" he said, shaking his head. "This is all wrong!"

"You've got a point. As I recall, Kansas is supposed to be covered with corn fields or something, isn't it?"

"It's not just the terrain. We're supposedly near Salina, Kansas, and Aunt Mavis has a crashed airplane in her yard."

Alex stared blankly at Malcolm.

"I'm a little confused," he said.

"You should be. You see, Aunt Mavis lives in Chicago. Mrs. Carlson lives in Kansas."

"Who's Mrs. Carlson?"

"The woman who was watching Goodnight, Bongo--and a wreckage of a communications satellite was in her yard. What the hell is Aunt Mavis doing in Mrs. Carlson's house? And why is Mrs. Carlson's house just like yours, Alex? And why is there a wreckage of a plane there instead of a satellite?"

"You got me. Maybe we're dreaming."

"No," Malcolm said in frustration. "We're not dreaming. I'm sure of that."

They trudged on for another couple of miles as a fog slowly crept in, erasing their shadows and the horizon.

"So what did you mean about Mendel?" Alex said after a while.

"Mendel?"

"Yeah. In the kitchen--my kitchen--you were yelling something about Mendel. I assume you meant Joseph Mendel, the botanist."

"Joseph Mendel? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about when you were yelling! It was something about Mendel."

"When?"

"After we turned the vacuum cleaner on, when all the dust was flying. You yelled 'Mendel was wrong' or something."

"No, I didn't. Why the hell would I say that?"

"Well, I don't know. You say some pretty strange things sometimes."

"Oh, wait--" said Malcolm, and he let out a laugh. "What I said was, 'the blender is on!'"

"'The blender is on?' You're kidding!" Alex laughed, too, but stopped abruptly when he realized what Malcolm had said.

"The blender was on? Really?"

"Yes! It went on by itself, right when Char turned on the vacuum cleaner."

"How strange."

"Yes. Very strange."

"Maybe my circuit's screwed up," said Alex. "But wait a minute--the blender and vacuum cleaner were plugged into different circuits. And I just had the electricity upgraded last year."

"I doubt it's an electrical problem."

"Do you think it might have anything to do with why we're here?"

"You mean 'here' as in 'the middle of nowhere?' It's possible. Anything's possible."

They walked on for another minute or two.

"Now that I think about it," Malcolm said, "I didn't see a blender in Aunt Mavis's kitchen. And no kitchen closet, either. And--just out of curiosity, Alex, take a look at your left arm!"

Alex pushed back his sleeve. The bandage was gone and his arm showed no sign of a wound.

"Oh, fuck," he whimpered as he felt the blood rush from his head. "I'm getting seasick."

"No, you're not. We're on dry ground. Extremely dry ground."

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Okay, I think I've got it figured out now," he said. "Back at the coffeehouse--when I wasn't looking--you slipped some sort of drug into my coffee, didn't you?"

"No, Alex," said Malcolm. "Sorry."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"No LSD? Ecstasy, maybe?"

"No."

"Morphine? Wormwood? Drano?"

"Nope."

"Oh." Glumly Alex looked down at his feet. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

"Come on!" Malcolm said, trying to pick up the pace. "Let's walk a little faster or we'll never get there."

"And just where are we trying to get to?"

"Well, that's the sixty-four billion dollar question, isn't it?"

"Sixty-four billion? Don't you mean the 'sixty-four thousand dollar question?'"

"Well, I'm allowing for inflation."

The monotonous panorama loomed ahead. Alex scowled.

"You know," he grumbled. "It would help a lot if there was at least one hill somewhere. Even an anthill, for Chrissake."

"Maybe there is. Just over the horizon, wherever it is."

"Are you trying to cheer me up?"

"No. Why would I want to do that? I'm simply trying to get you moving. You keep slowing down."

"Okay, I'm moving."

As they walked Alex peered through the fog at the road in front of them. It never seemed to change. No matter how far they walked it didn't curve or vary in the slightest. He had no idea where the sun was, what direction they could be walking in or what time of day it was. All he knew for sure was it was daytime and they were walking.

"Listen," he said. "It looks like we have some time on our hands. Maybe this is a good time for you to finish your story."

"I suppose so," said Malcolm, staring blankly into the fog. "I owe you that much. So where did I leave off?"

"I believe Bongo had just been elected President."

"Let's see, did I mention earlier that Federico Garcia sent some of his bananas to President Bongo?"

"I think you might have, yes."

"Well, what I'm about to tell you happened last November, a year after Bongo was elected. Do you remember when President Bongo went on a secret fact-finding trip for a month, leaving his new simian bride Julie in charge of White House affairs?"

"You mean the fact-finding trip?" Alex said, intrigued.

"Yes. Well, that was the official story released to the public. You see, through quite illegal channels I learned the true story. In the wild, chimpanzees don't eat Suriname bananas. And the reason for this is geographic: chimpanzees live in Africa and Suriname is in South America. Apparently Mother Nature had a good reason to separate chimpanzees and Suriname bananas, and that's because there's an enzyme unique to Suriname bananas that's been found to have such a traumatic effect on the nervous system of chimpanzees that it literally drives them crazy. Psychotic, to put it bluntly.

"So when President Bongo ate the Garcia bananas that were sent to him, he went completely nuts and wreaked havoc in the White House. When he started in on the Presidential portraits--shredding them with his teeth--the staff called in his doctor, who shot Bongo with a tranquilizer gun and put him to bed. When he awoke later that night, however, Bongo took his wife's handgun out of her nightstand and fled the White House. He even eluded the Secret Service agents; nobody realized he was gone until the next morning. He was missing for an entire month."

"Wow! And this was his 'fact-finding' trip?"

"Yes, but I doubt he was doing much fact-finding. Vision-finding, perhaps. Experiencing psychotic ape delusions, most definitely."

"Well, they're probably not that different from the visions and delusions of the average politician."

"True. So this next part. . . ."

Malcolm's voice trailed off as if he were searching for something lost in the fog.

"This was in late December," he started again, somewhat hesitantly. "It was the Friday night after Christmas. I was at my brother Dennis's house. We'd just come home from having dinner at McDingle's By The River. As I recall, he'd had the Perky 'n' Sassy Steak 'n' Lobster Meal and I'd had the Perky Tail O' Lobster Meal, accompanied by a delightful bottle of Saskatchewan River Merlot. Buzz was putting in a late night at MicroBark because the Terrier Division was getting ready to release Arf 6.5, so it was pretty quiet at Dennis's place that night.

"I remember Dennis was telling me about his vacation plans. He planned to take a cruise on the Australotasman Sea in the spring--as I recall, it would have been about now. He'd be flying into Queenstown, and then the cruise would take him to several Australian Island ports such as Canberra, Alice Springs, and Toowoomba. He was particularly excited about visiting Bismarck Island, because he'd read that over fifty different languages are spoken on an island the size of Manhattan. You see, as an undergraduate Dennis had minored in linguistics.

"We were sitting in his study drinking some remarkable Icelandic brandy, and Dennis was unfolding this map of the South Pacific to show me his route. Suddenly we heard this terrible shrieking outside, like an animal or a small child was being tortured, and then we heard what sounded like some sort of struggle going on in the bushes. Dennis ran to the door, which opened onto the side yard, and unlatched it and pushed it open a crack to look out. And out of nowhere this hairy creature burst in through the door, landed on Dennis's chest, and knocked him to the floor. When I saw them struggling I ran over and tried to get the beast off Dennis. That's when I saw the gun, and that's when I realized the creature was a chimpanzee: an extremely angry chimpanzee. It was waving a gun in one of its feet while it pounded on Dennis with its hands. Suddenly the gun went off, knocking out a window behind me. The breaking glass must have startled the chimp, because it jumped away from Dennis, grabbed the gun with its hands, and pointed it right at me. It was a very strange, ridiculous moment. I expected to see my life flash in front of my eyes; but instead, all that came to mind was a library book I hadn't returned."

Malcolm started to laugh but stopped abruptly, and continued:

"Just as the gun went off Dennis wrested it away from the chimp, so the bullet ended up in the wall rather than in me. I grabbed onto the chimp's legs so Dennis could free the gun and the beast attacked me, shrieking this bloodcurdling scream the whole time. All I could distinguish were hairy limbs flailing everywhere, beating and pounding with a fury I've never witnessed in any nature film. I felt like I was being attacked by a giant spider. By then I was struggling for air, simply trying to get away from the thing before it tore me apart. And then I heard another shot and felt this lifeless form collapse on me.

"For a while Dennis and I stared at the thing, I suppose to make sure it wasn't going to come to life again. I mean, this creature seemed supernatural. We thought it must have escaped from a zoo or laboratory and something had driven it completely mad. Perhaps the weather had. It was the middle of winter, after all, and even though the climate had warmed up considerably by then I can't imagine how a chimpanzee could possibly have survived the near-freezing temperatures. Finally Dennis called the Humane Society to see if they could come out and take care of the body, and to find out if anyone had reported a missing chimpanzee. While we were waiting for the animal control truck to show up, that's when we noticed the chimp had on what was left of a tattered pair of burgundy silk pajamas. And that's when Dennis noticed the message engraved on the butt of the gun. It said, 'To my first lady Julie, all my love, Bongo.'

"And Alex, do you recall that buzzing sound you were hearing in your living room? Well, I could hear the same buzzing! I was sprawled out on the futon, staring at the dead President of the United States who was bleeding all over Dennis's floor, when I heard this intense buzzing, like a giant swarm of bees. I sat up abruptly and the buzzing went away. I soon discovered I could only hear the buzzing when I sat at a certain angle in a certain location. It was like radio reception, and I was the antenna. And Dennis couldn't hear it at all.

"So we were sitting there, waiting numbly, when suddenly we heard the horrible pounding and wrenching of the doors literally being kicked in. In a matter of seconds we were surrounded by this army of uniformed commandos with semi-automatics pointed at us. And it's funny; I didn't think about my library book this time. All I could think about was how thoroughly terrified I was. And then I heard the buzzing again, much more intense this time. And then I heard a guitar, and somebody singing out of tune. . . ."

Malcolm fell silent, staring into the fog bleakly as they walked. After a few minutes, bursting with curiosity, Alex broke the silence.

"So it was your brother."

"That's right," Malcolm said quietly. "My brother killed President Bongo. Dennis shot the President."

"But what about Hussein Al-Matar? He was the one they convicted!"

Malcolm nodded.

"There's no such thing as shooting the President of the United States in self-defense," he said. "It doesn't matter that Dennis was trying to protect himself or save his brother's life. After all, the President of the United States would never go berserk and try to hurt anybody. Have you ever been physically attacked by a President of the United States, or by any national leader, for that matter?"

"Can't say as I have."

"So you see? Dennis 'assassinated' the President. But shortly after they charged Dennis with the assassination the government discovered they had a sticky publicity problem on their hands. You see, I never told you who Buzz really is."

"You mean Dennis's dog?"

"Yes. Dennis has always called him Buzz. Pet name, you see, no pun intended. But when he adopted him as a puppy the name he registered with the AKC was Rex Spot Bates."

Alex's jaw dropped.

"You mean--!"

"President of MicroBark."

"Wow! I met him recently. Nice dog!"

"Yes, he is. A good dog. Exceptionally smart, too, especially for a purebred."

"But I understood his owner's name was--"

"Yes, I know: Bill Allen, who's in charge of Personnel at MicroBark. But I'm getting to that. Apparently, from what I learned later, the federal government along with the board of directors at MicroBark felt it would be an extremely unfortunate situation if the public was to learn that the owner of the president of MicroBark--the owner of the richest dog in the world--had killed the President of the United States. Also, since the MicroBark Corporation now entirely controls the world's software, communications, and entertainment market, it was feared that this little piece of information would strain customer confidence to a breaking point--possibly to the point of anarchy. It was viewed as a problem with potentially disastrous global consequences. So this story was fabricated of how Bongo was fact-finding in upstate New York and was assassinated by some Iraqi named Hussein Al-Matar. Somebody even manufactured video footage and photographs of this fictional Hussein Al-Matar, along with a life history of involvement in international terrorism, so the public would never question the story. In accordance with this whole scenario they had to make Dennis invisible; and so it was decided that Buzz would be adopted by Bill Allen, and his history with Dennis would be completely erased."

"So what did they do with you?" said Alex.

"Hmm, interesting question," Malcolm replied, somewhat puzzled. "You see, that was the first time I, well. . . ."

"Well, what?"

Malcolm bit his lip and thought for a moment.

"The first time I crashed through the house on the corner and ended up in the next street."

"Wait a minute--what house?"

"Remember when you asked me what I thought was happening with time?"

"Just what are you trying to say?" Alex said suspiciously.

"Do you know much about fractals?" Malcolm said, his eyes lighting up.

"Well, a little bit. I wrote an article once about this clinical zoological psychologist who was studying the effects of computer-generated fractal graphics on the feline nervous system. I guess all I really learned was that you can generate fractals with a computer, and they don't excite cats very much."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me. So as you discovered, you can create fractals on a computer. But you also find them everywhere in nature--even in a cat's intestines, if you happen to find yourself looking in such a place. Or in a dog's lungs, for that matter.

"You see, many things we see as solid shapes in nature, such as mountains or clouds or ferns, in reality are made up of fractal geometry. If you look closely at the curve that defines a mountain's outline, for example, it isn't smooth at all; it's twisted and pitted and extremely complex in shape. If you think about the curve that defines the outline of the Pacific coastline, for example, you'll find it to be infinitely long, even though the total area that contains the coastline is finite."

"Infinitely long?" Alex broke in.

"Okay," said Malcolm, trying to contain his enthusiasm. "A better way to explain what I'm talking about is to describe a Koch snowflake to you. Or better yet, I can draw you one in the dirt!"

He glanced around, expecting to see something on the ground that he could use to trace a diagram in the dirt. Unfortunately there was nothing on the ground but dirt.

"Here," Alex said, reaching in his pants pocket. "I've got a toothpick on my Swiss Army knife."

"You've got a Swiss Army knife?"

"Of course. You never know when you're going to need to draw pictures of snowflakes."

"True. Or open a bottle of wine or trim your toenails."

Malcolm stooped down and traced a large triangle in the smooth dirt.

"Now, here we have a triangle," he explained. "Let's say each side of the triangle is two feet long. Now, on the middle third of each side, we draw a new triangle one-third the size of the original triangle, and this becomes the new outline. What we have now looks like the Star of David, with six points. At the middle of each of the twelve new sides, we then add a new triangle one-third the size again. Now we have a Star of David with a bunch of little spikes on it, for what it's worth. And if we were to keep going through this progression, adding more and more smaller and smaller triangles like this, we'll eventually end up with something that looks like a snowflake. And then if we go even further, eventually the triangles are so small that I can't draw them, not even with a Swiss Army knife toothpick, and then I've just got a very messy-looking shape in the dirt here. But the fact is you can keep adding these triangles infinitely, and as you do, the length of the curve that constitutes the outline of the triangle-cum-snowflake keeps increasing. Yet if you draw a circle like this--"

Malcolm sketched a circle around the figure that touched the original three points.

"--you can see the area of our now complicated snowflake, which has an infinite boundary, is still less than the area of a circle drawn around the original triangle. What this means is that a curve of infinite length can be contained in a finite area. So here I've drawn a nice regular symmetrical fractal. Most fractals are irregular, but they still have the same properties."

"This is all very interesting," said Alex as Malcolm handed back the knife. "But just what the hell do fractals have to do with you and the dead President?"

"I'm getting to that, Alex! Be patient, okay?"

"All right," Alex sighed, surveying the dreary landscape. "I guess we've got all day, whatever that means."

Chapter 21

They continued down the featureless road. Too featureless, Alex thought. He glanced back at the road behind them, expecting to catch a glimpse of their footprints as they faded away into the distance. To his dismay their shoes were leaving no impression in the dirt.

"It's so monotonous," he said. Malcolm nodded, distracted.

"Perhaps a snowflake isn't the best example," he murmured, and then his face lit up. "But what about . . . French pastry?"

"What?"

"Don't you see, Alex? French pastry is an excellent example of fractals!"

"For Chrissake, Malcolm! You're obsessed with food!"

"Oh, come on. Aren't you hungry?"

"Sure I am! But I'm trying not to think about it."

Malcolm smiled wistfully.

"Forgive me for bringing up the subject," he said. "But try not to think of French pastry as food. Think of it as an art form. Have you ever seen the way French pastry chefs roll the dough out, fold it over and then roll it out again, and they repeat the process over and over again?"

"Yeah, like croissants. I used to buy these great croissants from Les Cent Couches, this French bakery on West Orville. They claim each croissant has a hundred layers."

"That's what makes them flaky, and that's what makes them taste so good! If you can imagine a French chef--let's say Julia Child, for example--and she's rolling out a croissant-sized piece of pastry dough until it's paper-thin, and then she folds it over and rolls it out again, and she does this an infinite number of times, what she ends up with is the same croissant-sized piece of dough which has been stretched into an infinite number of layers and folds, which is all simply one surface of infinite proportions. And if she were to brush it with a little egg yolk, let it rise, and then bake it, we could be eating it right now."

"Stop it!" groaned Alex. "That's not funny!"

"Sorry. Let's forget about Julia Child, then."

"Fine. So answer my question: just what do fractals and French pastry have to do with you and the assassination of the President?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Malcolm replied slowly. "But I'm beginning to suspect time is fractal."

"Time?"

"Yes. Time is often thought of as a fourth dimension, right? If you want to plot an object that moves through space and time, you can plot it along four axes: your x, y, and z axes, representing three-dimensional space, and your time axis. Therefore time can be represented as a curve. And as time is infinitely long, then perhaps the curve that defines time is fractal.

"So if you think of time, rather than following a straight line, as being bunched up in folds like a French pastry, then this would mean you and I right now--even though we're walking in an annoyingly straight line--may in reality be bumping and twisting around through time as if we were on an out-of-control roller coaster."

"Funny you should say that," Alex said. "That's exactly what it's felt like the last couple of days. Or however long it's been."

"You see," Malcolm went on, "one moment I was surrounded by some very scary-looking individuals with extremely nasty-looking guns pointed at me, and the next moment I was on a patio where some tone-deaf surfer was playing his guitar and attempting to sing. It was as if I'd crashed through one of the pastry folds. But I still can't figure out the buzzing of the bees."

"Do you mind if we sit down for a few minutes? I need to rest."

"Sure." They sank down through the thickened fog until they reached solid ground. Alex was feeling cold and tired as well as hungry.

"Now," he said impatiently. "What tone-deaf surfer?"

Malcolm looked up into the fog and smiled.

"My apologies," he said. "I guess I've been talking in a lot of riddles, and you've been very patient with me. But I'm finding it difficult to recount nonlinear events in a linear manner."

"Well, why don't you forget about linearity, then? Just tell me what happened! As you remember it."

"I'll try. So there I was, sitting in this weather-beaten chair on this large screened porch. Sitting next to me on a milk crate was this weather-beaten surfer who was strumming on a weather-beaten guitar and singing 'La Bamba'. It was the most painful rendition of the song I've ever heard--he was extremely flat and had a very misguided concept of rhythm. He didn't seem surprised at all to see me, although I don't think he was nearly as happy to see me as I was to see him. After all, he hadn't just faced the possibility of having his head blown off.

"At any rate, there I was and I didn't know why or how, so I figured I'd better introduce myself. This weather-beaten surfer turned out to be Sam Rose, Barbara Rose's estranged husband. And we were sitting on his porch in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico."

"Wait a minute," Alex interrupted. "How would fractal time explain how you could be in Illinois and then instantly be in Mexico?"

"Well, that's just the thing: there's no way of proving it was instantly. It could have taken years, for all I know."

Alex squinted.

"Now you've got me totally confused," he said.

"Well, hold on, Alex! I haven't even got to the confusing part yet. After Sam introduced himself he said, 'I suppose you want a beer.' He walked into the house and I followed. As he opened his refrigerator he turned to me and said, 'So, have you been dating my ex-wife?'

"This, of course, caught me completely off guard. I said, 'Dating? Why would you think I'd be dating your ex-wife? I've only talked to her once on the telephone!'

"He handed me a Corona, sneered, and said, 'Well, isn't that enough? What about those telephone dating services?' And then he laughed, popped open his beer, and said, 'Don't worry, I can fix you up with lots of women. They're real partyers around here!'

"Needless to say, my stay with Sam had its ups and downs. He threw parties all the time. I can't recall even one hour going by when a party wasn't in progress. They all seemed to run into each other. As the hangover casualties from the preceding night's party would start to fall out the door, a fresh group of revelers would arrive for a new night of gringo surfer-style festivities. New bottles of tequila and Triple Sec and cases of Corona would appear like magic, freshly-rolled joints would make their rounds, and new packages of bean dip would be opened. And at any given moment an inordinate number of bikini-clad women could be found hanging around, too."

"Sounds like a virtual hell," Alex said facetiously.

"Well, it was," Malcolm insisted. "You see, I was stuck in that house for what seemed an eternity. It was probably a year before I was able to get back to the United States and find out what had happened to Dennis."

"A year? I thought this was only a couple of months ago!"

Malcolm smiled slightly.

"Remember that French pastry I was talking about?"

"Yeah."

"I think I was living in it."

"What?"

"You see, I don't think I actually was in Puerto Vallarta or Mexico--or any other place, for that matter--because no matter how hard I tried I couldn't leave. Sam's house was the only reality. Every time I tried to walk away from it, everything would eventually become blurred and featureless and I would end up in a bowl of pea soup. Just like this!"

Malcolm held his hands out as if he were embracing the fog.

"Shit!" he yelled, and stood up.

"Alex, we have to go back!"

"Why?"

"Because this is nowhere! We aren't getting anywhere by walking because we can't! I've already tried this! We're in the same damn situation. There has to be another way!" He tore off back down the road in the direction of Aunt Mavis's house. Alex ran to catch up.

"Okay," he panted. "So explain, damnit! You were at Sam's house for a year?"

"It seemed about that long. I couldn't tell exactly. Sam didn't own a TV, phone, or computer, and I found no evidence of newspapers or magazines. The man didn't even own a radio. He had one clock, but naturally it didn't work. I could go only by what seemed to be the days and nights. I tried to keep track of each twenty-four-hour period by making marks on a wall; but in a day or two the marks I drew would be gone, as if they'd never existed. I couldn't figure out any way to measure time. I couldn't even go by the length of my hair or my beard, because the entire time I was there they grew maybe an inch. It was extremely disconcerting."

"So was there a big enough supply of Coronas and women to last the year?"

"Alex," Malcolm said with exasperation. "Can you imagine having absolutely nothing to do but drink beer and margaritas and talk to scantily-clad men and women who want to do nothing but sit around and drink beer and margaritas and talk to other scantily-clad men and women who want to do nothing but sit around ad infinitum? Can you imagine nothing but that for an entire year? I never had time to myself where I could think. Even at night, when I wanted to go to sleep, somebody would be sleeping in my bed. There was no privacy, there was no intellectual stimulation, there was no decent food!"

"No decent food!" mocked Alex. "Malcolm's private hell. . . ."

Malcolm ignored Alex's comment and continued:

"One day I was cleaning house. It was after one of Sam's particularly disgusting parties. His place was normally a real pigsty; but this time smoked oysters and garlic dip were smeared all over the carpet, ground-up tortilla chip crumbs were everywhere, cigarette butts were sticking out of anything the least bit edible in the refrigerator, sticky puddles of tequila and lime juice were encrusted on the kitchen floor, and--to cap it all off--somebody had thrown up on the couch. It was the most revolting mess I'd ever seen. And there I was, attempting to vacuum my way through rooms strewn with hungover bodies and underwear. I was a madman. I think I'd had all I could take and was about to go insane. The last thing I remember was the vacuum cleaner snarling as it tried to suck up a pair of somebody's boxer shorts. They were orange with blue sharks, as I recall. The vacuum cleaner groaned and rattled as though it were sucking up a giant swarm of bees. I thought it was the sound of the blood gushing through my head. I was afraid my head was going to explode. The next thing I knew, this stewardess was trying to calm me down. She told me I'd been having a bad dream. And there I was, in Business Class."

"What--on an airplane?"

"Yes, on an airplane."

"Back to the United States?"

"Well, yes and no. It turned out to be a domestic flight from Chicago to New York. The in-flight movie must have just ended, because many passengers were removing their headphones and stretching. Being extremely disoriented I made a quick dash for the bathroom where I could survey the situation in private. I looked at myself in the mirror: I was still wearing the black and yellow Hawaiian shirt Sam had loaned me, but over it I was wearing a nice charcoal gray Italian suit. My hair was neatly trimmed and combed and my inch-long beard was gone. My eyes, however, scared the living daylights out of me. They were red and glassy like the eyes of a doomed man.

"After a while I returned to my seat. As we landed at JFK, I felt in my pockets to see if I had a wallet, which I did. I was surprised to discover it was my own wallet, the same one I'd kept hidden in a crevice under Sam's back porch for a year. And it contained a baggage claim ticket and plenty of cash.

"The first thing I did in New York was to buy a couple of newspapers. I was shocked, of course, to learn it was late February, only two months after Dennis and I were attacked by President Bongo. I booked myself a hotel room--I registered under a false name, which turned out to be a wise move--and as soon as I was in the room alone, I turned on the TV. I was media-starved, if you can imagine such a state. I was also extremely anxious to find out what had happened to my brother. As I was devouring the newspapers and wolfing down the TV news, I turned on the computer terminal in the corner. To my relief it had a WooferNet hookup. So I called room service, ordered the coquilles St. Jacques Limousine with a Caesar salad and a bottle of fine Norwegian champagne, thoroughly enjoyed my first decent meal in a year or two months or however long it had been, and settled down to work.

"You see, I have this acquaintance who just happens to works for the CIA. For the sake of anonymity I'll call him 'Ted'. A couple of years ago Ted was a student at the University of La Verne. He was a finance major, but he'd taken one of my lower-division classes, Applied Chaos IA. The guy was a computer genius but he was a lousy student, and he ended up flunking out of school. In the process of flunking him, the administration divested him of all computer privileges. This was equivalent to castration for a hacker like him. Somehow or another, in a weak moment after hours at the local pub, he managed to talk me into setting up a bogus ID for him so he could keep on using the University's computer. In return, he told me if I was ever in need of a favor, especially of the computer kind, to give him a call.

"So I started searching for Ted on the WooferNet. I could still remember the password I'd set up for him at the University: PLETHORA. It was his favorite word. I spent several hours methodically dropping in on various chat rooms, browsing forums, casually mentioning the name Ted and anything I could think of having to do with plethoras.

"Not surprisingly, it was around three in the morning when I found him. He'd always been a middle-of-the-night sort. He'd sleep all day till maybe three or four in the afternoon, have a nutritious breakfast of cheeseburgers and M&M's, and then hack away on the computer till dawn. Before I had a chance to ask him any questions he gave me a phone number and told me to call him from a public phone in twenty minutes. He said he needed to talk to me but didn't want to do it over the WooferNet.

"So I got dressed, went out and found a phone booth, and called him. He spoke quickly because he was concerned the call might be traced. He told me my brother had been convicted of assassinating the President and was serving time in a top-secret location even Ted hadn't been able to figure out. Then he told me all about the bananas and the cover-up, the invention of the Iraqi assassin named Hussein Al-Matar, and the adoption of Buzz by Bill Allen. Finally, he told me the FBI and the CIA were looking for me in connection with the assassination. Aside from my mysterious disappearance from the scene of the crime, they had telephone records showing I'd spoken with Federico Garcia a week before he sent the bananas to President Bongo, and they suspected a conspiracy. And then Ted told me to stay out of sight, and he hung up.

"I hurried back to my hotel, slipped unseen into my room, and sat nervously in the dark, trying to figure out what to do. I ended up dozing till about four-thirty in the morning, when I awoke abruptly and decided to slip away quietly. I found myself a cheap drab hotel on the other side of town, and I stayed there for three or four days. Every few days I would leave and find another cheap drab hotel in a different neighborhood. I lived this way for a month or so. I'd sleep in the daytime and venture out in the wee hours of the night only. I constantly had the feeling someone was watching me or knew who I was. It wasn't a particularly pleasant way to pass the time, and I'm hoping I never have to stay at another cheap drab hotel for the rest of my life."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, and then he chuckled.

"Well, look at that! The horizon's back." The reappearance of the horizontal line was disorienting to Alex. He'd become used to walking through nothingness, aware of nothing but himself, Malcolm, and the road he could feel beneath them. He felt as if he were about to fall from a high ledge, and he stumbled.

"Don't get all excited, Alex," said Malcolm. "All this means is we're getting closer to Aunt Mavis's house. We're still a long way from home."

"Those burnt cookies are starting to sound pretty damn good. So what happened next?"

"Seeing as how my phone call to Federico Garcia had become suspect, I started worrying about the rest of my experiment notes. I decided somehow I'd have to get back to La Verne and destroy them before anybody found them. So I started working my way stealthily toward Illinois, taking a rather haphazard route in case anyone might be tailing me. I took local buses and trains and hitched rides with truckers down alternate routes. It was a slow process; it took me a week to get to La Verne. My notes were at the University, but I was getting low on cash and thought I'd try to stop at my house first. You see, I had some cash socked away in a firebox in the basement for emergencies, and I naturally didn't want to risk using my ATM card. When I reached my street and neared my house, however, I spotted a suspicious-looking car--some sort of Oldsmobile, I think--with government plates parked in my driveway. I could also tell that someone was walking around inside my house, no doubt an agent staking out the place. So I took off and hurried up to the University where I managed to slip undetected into the Ethnomusicology and Ceramics Lab and grab my portfolio."

"Wait a minute--what were your notes doing in the Ethnomusicology and Ceramics Lab? I thought you taught chaos theory."

"I did. I was merely catching up on a little ethnomusicology." The corners of Malcolm's mouth twitched slightly.

"At that point," he continued, "I didn't know what to do next. I was feeling exhausted, frustrated, confused, hopeless, scared witless, and terribly saddened for having caused all this to happen in the first place. In other words, I was extremely depressed. So I did what any extremely depressed person in my situation would do: I bought a pint of Wild Turkey, walked way out of town into the woods near the Amy Vanderbilt Memorial Bridge--otherwise known as Suicide Bridge--and got inebriated. As with many great writers under the influence of alcohol, my thoughts began to flow liberally with no creative restrictions, and I came to the conclusion that I had no choice but to throw my notes and myself off the bridge. So I walked out to the middle of the bridge and watched the lake below for a while. I immediately understood why jumping off the bridge is the most popular method of suicide in the county.

"I finally tossed my portfolio with all my notes into the abyss, climbed over the railing, and jumped. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up under your lilacs with a splitting headache."

Chapter 22

They moved on in silence. Alex was at a loss for words. He sympathized with Malcolm and his brother but could think of nothing encouraging to say. All he could think of at the moment was how petrified he was at the thought of mean, nasty thugs with mean, nasty guns who were undoubtedly searching for Malcolm this very minute. Do they know Malcolm's with me? he thought. Do they know we're here in Kansas? Are they watching us now? Will they follow us home? Are we going to be blown away in a rain of bullets while my house is peppered with holes until it collapses, just like in a Dirty Harry movie? Will we ever make it back to my house in the first place? Or are we condemned to live out the rest of our lives at Aunt Mavis's, living on burnt cookies and weak coffee? If that's the case, perhaps I could offer to bake the cookies and Malcolm could make the coffee. Surely I could talk Aunt Mavis into that. Or is she too stubborn and proud? And how long would it be before we were so sick of cookies and coffee we would choose to starve to death instead?

Alex decided he didn't want to face the answers to any of these questions right now. So he said the next thing that came to mind that had nothing to do with any of these questions.

"So what's with you and Char?"

"Char?" Malcolm said quietly. "Well, I guess it's pretty obvious we were seeing each other. She's quite a woman, you know, very intelligent. She says her three main passions are music, travel, and power tools, and that's why she's studying to be an industrial ethnomusicologist. She's introduced me to some fascinating forms of ethnic music, especially the songlines of the Australian Aborigines. And she's been very enthusiastic about my experiment and has pointed out some intriguing parallels. At first glance you wouldn't think chaos theory and Aboriginal music would have much in common, but I started to see the connection. After all, the initial conditions of the Aborigines' Dreamtime--the ancient period when they believe all life was created--would have experienced a radical progression of bifurcations to bring us to the current state of Aboriginal society, particularly after the industrial and post-industrial changes. Of course, since the glacier floods, there's not much left of Aboriginal society, much less of Australia, except for a few small islands."

"This is all very interesting, but what about you and Char?"

"There's not much to tell. I suppose I could say we were getting close to that precarious point of obsession, the point where you realize you're teetering and in danger of falling off the edge of your day-to-day life. We were madly infatuated and on a crash course with a serious love affair. The timing was terrible, though--absolutely terrible. I can't stop thinking about that last time I was with Char, when I met her after classes at the Ethnomusicology and Ceramics Lab. I was so excited about seeing her that night I could hardly contain myself. I'm sure I must have been floating a foot off the ground. I was oblivious of everything else, including my notes which I left in the lab. And then the next night was when Dennis and I got together and had dinner and killed the President, among other things."

"So she doesn't know about that yet."

"No. We hadn't talked to each other for two months--or a year, in my case--before today, that is. When I sneaked into the lab that night--just the other night, I suppose it was--to retrieve my notes, I was hoping I'd see her there. I knew it would have been dangerous for the two of us if she were to see me, but I wanted one last glimpse of her. After all, my future was looking horribly bleak, and I had no idea what lay ahead. I still have no idea. And I most assuredly had no idea we'd be meeting again today at your place."

"I wonder if she's still there."

"Well, 'wondering if she's still there' implies some sort of normal progression of time. After all, if we can ever find our way back to your house, in the next hour or several weeks or decades, we might end up there before she got there in the first place. Or perhaps several weeks later. We could conceivably get back long before you bought the house."

"You know," Alex sighed, "you have a real knack for completely confusing me."

"Thanks. It's nice to feel appreciated. And here we are."

The house was several yards away. Hungrily contemplating Aunt Mavis's cookies, Alex started to walk faster, but Malcolm stopped him.

"Perhaps we should think of a plan," he said.

"What for?"

"Because it's extremely hard to think while Aunt Mavis is talking. And I doubt she ever stops."

They crouched down and stared at the small white house next to the crumpled airplane. It seemed to Alex like they were viewing a painting: soft lines blending into diffuse pastels that imparted a two-dimensional appearance to the image. He could almost imagine being a subject in an Andrew Wyeth painting, if only the landscape wasn't so bland and uninspiring.

"So we have to figure out what happened in my kitchen, right?" he said.

"That would help."

"What about the vacuum cleaner?"

"What about it?"

"Well, we were vacuuming when we ended up here, right?"

"Right."

"Didn't you say you were vacuuming in Mexico one minute, and the next minute you were on the airplane?"

"That's a good point," Malcolm said slowly. "But how--?" He stared at the house for another minute and then began tracing indistinguishable figures in the dirt with his finger.

"Do you want to use my Swiss Army knife again?" Alex offered.

"No," Malcolm mumbled. "I'm not drawing anything." He sketched idly for a few more seconds and then stopped abruptly, as if struck by a brainstorm.

"Now, listen to this," he said. "A vacuum cleaner sucks in air, right?"

"Right."

"When you first turn it on, the air is sucked into the bag in a regular flow. But almost immediately that air flow, which is altered by particles of dust and debris and various forms of interference and feedback, becomes chaotic."

"Okay. So?"

Malcolm thought for a moment, and then shrugged, disheartened.

"So what?" he muttered as he brushed the dirt off his finger.

"Let's try something," said Alex. "Let's go turn on Aunt Mavis's vacuum cleaner and see what happens. It can't hurt!"

"I suppose you're right: it can't hurt. If she has a vacuum cleaner, that is."

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, she doesn't seem to have a blender."

"Yes, but a blender is one thing. A vacuum cleaner's another thing altogether."

"You're very observant, Alex."

"Thanks a lot. Come on, let's see what we can find."

They approached the house. Alex knocked lightly on the front door.

"You don't have to knock," Malcolm said, going for the door handle. "She thinks we belong here."

"Yeah, but it's only polite."

"Hey, did Ricardo Gomez knock before he came into your house? Did Barbara Rose, or Devin Zalewski? Or Char, for that matter?"

As they entered Aunt Mavis came fluttering out of the kitchen to greet them.

"Well, hello there!" she exclaimed, nervously fingering a dishtowel in her hands. "Did you boys have a nice walk? You know, if you keep on in that direction, you pass the old Wynne farm on the left. Did you boys see it? That's where my neighbors Jack and Kay Wynne used to live. They raised corn and vegetables like lots of folks around here, but I tell you, those chickens of theirs were something else! They raised the most marvelous hens! Why, I always had fresh eggs because Jack would stop by every single morning and see if I needed any. And the chickens themselves were absolutely scrumptious! Every now and then Kay would fry up a bunch of toms and invite everyone for miles around. And I tell you, those breasts were so good I could have eaten three of them in one sitting! And their daughter Jill would come by now and then and drop off some preserves. They were just the sweetest people! You can see the fruit trees from the road, too, depending on which fork you take. Did you boys go to the left or to the right?"

"Well, actually--" started Alex.

"I guess it doesn't matter which way," Mavis went on. "I think you can see the trees from either direction. But their son Paul runs the place now. Jack and Kay decided they were just getting too old for a farm. Can you imagine that? They moved out to Kansas City--well, just outside Kansas City about twenty or thirty miles. I can't for the life of me remember the name of the town, but it's out there. I have it in my address book somewhere. Anyway, they just--"

"Say, Mavis," broke in Malcolm. "We're a little hungry. You wouldn't happen to have any more of those cookies, would you?"

Stifling a laugh, Alex shot a surprised glance at Malcolm, who shrugged.

"Oh," Mavis giggled, wiggling her fingers in front of her face. "How silly of me! Of course you boys must be starving! Well, the good news is I've just been cooking up some beef stew on the stove. Would you like some? I can serve it up really quick. It'll stick to your ribs."

"To tell you the truth," said Malcolm, "we're not that hungry. We were thinking more of a snack."

"Oh, you can just eat as much of it as you want. I can give you a cup or so, just to warm you up. Just eat what you like. It won't offend me at all. Why, sometimes I eat only a little dab myself--"

"Thanks, Mavis, but the truth is, I don't eat beef."

"Oh." Mavis sounded disappointed. "Is it your gall bladder? Because if it is, this is the leanest grade beef. I know some people just can't take the fat, so I try to trim off as much as I can, but you have to leave a little of the fat for flavor--"

"It's not that," Malcolm tried again. "I can't eat any kind of meat. You see, I have this rare form of ulcer, and I'm supposed to eat simple carbohydrates. So, actually, some toast or crackers would be great. Or cookies."

"Oh, dear, you poor boy! No wonder you're so thin. Sit down, then. I'll bring you some crispbread. And what about you, honey?"

"I'd better stick with the crispbread, too," said Alex, noticing Malcolm was mouthing to him what looked like the word crumbs. "Yeah, crispbread sounds good, thanks."

As Mavis fluttered off to the kitchen Alex grinned at Malcolm.

"Ulcer?" he whispered. "You with an ulcer?"

"Why not? Lots of people have ulcers."

"And I suppose pouring gallons of coffee into your stomach helps cure an ulcer?"

"Hey, she fell for it."

"We could have tried her beef stew, you know, or at least I could have. It might be very good."

"Perhaps, but you can't vacuum up beef stew crumbs."

"But you can eat it!" Alex argued. "Especially if you're starving to death, like I am."

"Listen, Alex," Malcolm said quietly. "Do you want to eat or do you want to get back to your house?"

"Well, both."

Mavis returned with the same tray as before, this time loaded up with glasses of milk and plates of crackers and oatmeal cookies.

"These are just some store-bought cookies," she said, placing the tray on the coffee table. "But I think they're pretty tasty. And I brought you boys some milk, too. It's supposed to be good for ulcers. Or that's what I've always heard, anyway. I listen to that doctor show on the radio--oh, I never can remember his name. . . ."

"Thanks, Mavis," said Malcolm. He and Alex went straight for the crackers and cookies, spilling as many crumbs as they possibly could without being too obvious about it. While they ate, Mavis happily prattled on about the old Wynne farm, cookie-baking, putting up preserves, sewing curtains, old movie stars, and anything else that happened to wander into her mind. When Malcolm decided he couldn't take much more he slid the glasses off the tray and casually stood up, knocking the tray with the rest of the cookies and crackers to the floor. Crumbs flew everywhere.

"Oh, my God, what a clutz I am!" he said, picking up the tray. "I'm sorry, Mavis. Let me vacuum up this mess for you, okay?"

"Oh, no. I wouldn't hear of it."

"Come on, it'll take only a minute. Where's your vacuum cleaner?"

"I'm not having you touch my vacuum cleaner," she said stubbornly. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it later. You boys didn't come all the way out here to do housework. Now, you just relax and enjoy yourselves. Can I get you some more milk?"

"No, thanks," said Malcolm. "But maybe Alex wants some of that beef stew." He peered intently at Alex and nodded slightly.

"Yeah, that sounds great," said Alex, picking up the cue. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, heavens, no! I'd be more than happy to fix you some." Mavis popped up like a piece of toast. "It'll take me just a couple of minutes to warm it up. You boys go ahead and watch TV if you like."

As soon as she was out of the room Malcolm and Alex quickly checked the closet by the front door, finding nothing but some old coats and umbrellas.

"Maybe a bedroom closet," whispered Malcolm. They ducked into the hallway and crept quietly up the stairs to the bedrooms. In the master bedroom closet they found a vacuum cleaner, an antique-looking canister model.

"I sure hope this thing still works," said Alex as they pulled it out. He plugged the cord in an equally-antique-looking wall socket as Malcolm turned on the switch. With a startling roar the vacuum cleaner began to spew dust and debris through the hose and into the air. Malcolm quickly turned it off.

"Well, it works," he said. "To some extent."

"Yeah, but the wrong way! A lot of good that's going to do."

Malcolm's face lit up suddenly.

"You know something, Alex," he said. "I think Aunt Mavis does have a blender after all."

"Why do you say that? And why should we care?"

"Remember what I was saying about the vacuum cleaner sucking in an air flow that becomes chaotic?"

"Yeah."

"So the blender works the opposite way, chewing up liquid and matter and, in essence, spewing it outward in a chaotic manner."

"Especially if the lid isn't on," Alex muttered, recalling his spilled breakfast drink.

"So," continued Malcolm, "perhaps there's a reflective resonance established between the blender and the vacuum cleaner!"

"What do you mean?"

"You know how the moon rotates nice and regularly around the earth, always displaying the same face to us? That's because there's a resonance established between the two spheres. It has to do with the relation between their orbital periods and how they fall into sync with one another."

"So what does that have to do with blenders and vacuum cleaners?"

"I'm thinking of why the blender came on in your kitchen after we turned on the vacuum cleaner. It's only a hunch, but--"

Malcolm unplugged the vacuum cleaner.

"Come on!" he said resolutely. "We have to take this downstairs. We're going to have to confront Mavis, stew or no stew."

Puzzled, Alex followed him down the stairs. The beef stew smelled quite appetizing, and his stomach was growling in reply. Perhaps it was growling in resonance with the beef stew, he thought. When Mavis saw them enter the kitchen with the vacuum cleaner, she planted her hands on her hips and glared angrily.

"Now, just what do you think you're going to do with that?" she said sternly.

"Do you have a blender, Mavis?" said Malcolm.

"Of course I have a blender! Everybody has a blender! What do you want a blender for? Do you boys want milkshakes? Well, I'd be happy to make you milkshakes but only if you put that vacuum cleaner away this minute!"

"Where's the blender?"

Mavis huffed with indignation. Malcolm approached her and glowered threateningly.

"Where is the blender, Mavis?" he demanded.

"Under here," she muttered, reluctantly pointing to a lower cupboard. Malcolm shuffled noisily through the pots and pans and finally found an old dusty blender that he pulled out, set on the counter, and plugged in the wall. Then he plugged the vacuum cleaner into the same outlet.

"Okay, ready, Alex?" he said. Mavis stepped back, flabbergasted.

"I don't know what you boys are--well, I never--now, see here--!" she twittered, her fingers twitching nervously.

"Now!" Malcolm shouted, turning on the blender as Alex simultaneously turned on the vacuum cleaner. The blender, which was sucking debris down into its blade, buzzed loudly as the vacuum cleaner noisily spit out white dust. Mavis's twittering faded and Char reappeared. She was hollering something.

"What?" Alex said, turning off the vacuum cleaner.

"I said it's not working! I think we need a broom."

He looked around: he was back in his own kitchen which was still full of kitty litter, but something was missing. His blender! And there was something else--

"Where's Malcolm?" he said.

"He was here a second ago." Char opened the back door and stepped out. "He's probably looking for a broom."

"Oh, my God--I turned it off too soon!" Alex lunged for the vacuum cleaner and switched it back on. Dust filled the room again, accompanied by the unbearably loud buzzing of bees. Alex clapped his hands over his ears.

"Hey, turn it off!"

It was Malcolm. Alex shut off the vacuum cleaner and the buzzing stopped abruptly. His blender was sitting on the counter.

"Man, that thing is noisy!" said Malcolm, rubbing his ears.

"Welcome back," Alex said with relief.

"Why? You been here long?"

"Only a few seconds. Did you hear the bees, by any chance?"

"Yes, I heard them. Damn noisy things, too."

"What is that sound? It's not really bees, is it? Have you figured it out?"

"Alex, if I had everything figured out I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in, now, would I?"

"Hey, anybody hungry?"

Standing by the refrigerator was a young woman with a thick unruly mop of red hair. She was holding a tray of small pies.

"They're right out of the oven," she said cheerfully, and then she noticed Malcolm. "Hey, I know you! Malcolm Peevey, right? The guy who studies dogs!"

"Hello, Yasmina," Malcolm replied, slightly confused. "What have you got there?"

"Breakfast Pies. And they're really hot! Do you mind if I put them down? I'm not used to doing this." She set the tray on the counter. The eight square pies were all bubbling and steaming.

"They smell good," said Alex, stepping up to examine them hungrily. "But why are they ticking?"

"Ticking? What do you mean?"

Alex leaned over and listened to each pie closely.

"This one," he said, pointing. "This pie is ticking."

"Maybe your watch is in there," Malcolm said half-jokingly.

Alex took a carving knife out of a drawer and slit the top of the ticking pie.

"Yes, it's definitely ticking," he repeated as he carved up the top crust and pushed it aside to get a better look.

"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, backing away from the counter. Nestled inside the pie was a clock that said 11:50. And wired to the clock was a homemade bomb.

Chapter 23

"Oh, my God!" shrieked Yasmina, stepping back from the pie. "I didn't know that was in there! Honest!"

The back door burst open suddenly and in stumbled two men, one in blue pajamas who was holding a knife to the other's throat.

"Leave the bomb alone!" shouted the man with the knife. "Just do as I say or I'll kill him!" His small browless eyes darted back and forth like a reptile's. With his white hair shaved short, along with the words STATE HOSPITAL stenciled on his shirt front, he looked like a denizen of some futuristic dystopia. He jerked the knife several times as he spoke.

"Fuck!" whimpered the hostage, a young man with a strange blue haircut and a large silver ring dangling from his eyebrow.

"Now, sit down! All of you!" ordered the man with the knife. "On the floor--right now!"

Alex, Malcolm, and Yasmina sank to the floor, unleashing a small cloud of kitty litter dust.

"How come the floor is all--?" Yasmina gasped, regarding the litter with revulsion.

"Now, listen to me!" hissed the man with the knife. "Don't anybody try anything or I'll kill this guard!"

"Guard?" cried the hostage. "I'm no fucking guard!"

The man hugged the hostage closer and pressed the knife dangerously close to his jugular vein.

"Don't use that language around me," he growled through his teeth. "I know you're on the payroll! They pay you to do this, don't they?"

"Oh, fuck!" the hostage breathed, his face turning pale. The man with the knife spotted something outside and recoiled.

"WHO SENT FOR THE BUTCHERS?" he shrieked as he crouched behind the back door, pulling the hostage with him.

"Keep quiet!" he whispered loudly. "Nobody breathe!"

Alex folded his arms tightly against his abdomen, hoping this would prevent his stomach from grumbling. Through his left sleeve he could feel the bandage on his arm. Startled, he looked over at Malcolm, who leaned toward him.

"Do you recognize this guy?" Malcolm whispered.

"No."

"It's Frank Rogers, the psycho mailman! And that's Hal Blank, the student with the loud music--the one who called for the pizza!"

"Shut up!" whispered Frank Rogers, pointing emphatically at the door. Everyone was silent. The door opened, and in walked Char with a broom.

"Hey, look what I found!" she said, oblivious of what was occurring. "It's kind of dirty, but--"

"SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN!" Frank Rogers cried. Char dropped to the floor, clutching the broom tightly. She looked questioningly at Alex and then at Malcolm, who shrugged.

"Ever notice the best parties always end up in the kitchen?" he mumbled.

"DID I TELL YOU TO TALK?" Frank Rogers screamed again, his eyes darting back and forth between Malcolm and Char. "Listen to me! I'm the one who talks now! I'm sick and tired of your constant whining! If you can't keep your damned dog tied up, you won't get your mail! That's how it works! Understand?"

He lurched around to face the Turkish mural, yanking Hal Blank along with him.

"So you changed your name!" he barked to the mural. "But you didn't turn in a change of address card! How do you expect me to deliver the right mail? Huh? YOU TELL ME!"

"Hey," Alex whispered as quietly as he could. "How does a time bomb work when time itself isn't working right?"

"That's a very good question," Malcolm whispered back.

"Why don't you have any answers?"

"A time bomb?" Char gasped, her eyes widening.

"Up on the counter," Alex whispered. "In a pie."

"When is it going to . . . ?"

"Well, it said 11:50 just now, so probably twelve o'clock."

"Twelve? But it's almost three-thirty!"

"Oh, shit!" Alex whimpered, his stomach churning noisily. "Are we dead already?"

Frank Rogers lunged toward Alex.

"What do you want?" he yelled. "You want your mail? THAT WHAT YOU WANT, PUNK?" With a sickening thud he shoved Hal flat on the floor and straddled his chest, waving the knife back and forth in front of his face.

"This is what I get for prompt delivery? This is what I get for years of clean and courteous SERVICE?" He stuck the point of his knife in the hollow of Hal's throat and glared menacingly.

"And now you want to bury me in here?" he hissed. "That's what you call a pension plan?"

"No . . . !" gasped Hal, breathless. "No! Fuck!"

"We're wasting valuable time," Char whispered. Aiming the broom toward Frank Rogers, she charged; the end of the handle clipped him on the chest and he fell backwards, dropping the knife. With a firm grip on the broom handle she jabbed at him repeatedly as Hal scrambled across the floor to safety.

"Alex!" yelled Malcolm as he jumped up and seized the blender. "Turn on the vacuum cleaner! Hurry!"

Alex groped for the switch, hitting it just as Malcolm started the blender. The kitty litter surged up and whirled around like a tornado, filling the room with white dust as the vacuum cleaner screeched in agony. Alex could barely make out Yasmina and Hal but he could tell they were both screaming. He saw Yasmina clap her hands to her ears as she bent over into the dust cloud. The noise was deafening, excruciating--and then he heard bees, and then he saw Malcolm waving his arms and yelling.

"I said TURN IT OFF!"

Alex shut off the vacuum cleaner. The noise stopped abruptly and the dust started to sift down gently. Hal was leaning against the cupboards on the floor, clutching his side and wincing. Yasmina was still bent over with her hands covering her ears. When she realized the noise had stopped she sat up and noticed the blood on Hal's shirt.

"You're hurt!" she said.

"I know," he gasped, lifting his shirt up to see. "It nicked me--when he dropped the fucking knife--I think it's just--fuck!"

"Jesus Christ!" exclaimed Alex, noticing the pool of blood forming under Hal. "I better call 911!"

"No, don't!" Malcolm snapped as he examined Hal's wound. "I don't think it's a bad cut--it's just bleeding a lot. How do you feel, Hal?"

"Oh, just fucking great! Fuck, he almost killed me! Who the fuck is that guy?"

"It doesn't matter. He's gone now. Unfortunately, so is Char."

"And look what's still here," Alex whimpered, pointing frantically to the counter where the Breakfast Pies sat. Malcolm jumped up to take a look.

"Two minutes!" he gasped.

"Two minutes to twelve," said Alex, bewildered. "But is it twelve o'clock? What the hell does it mean?"

"It means two minutes to zero hour, whatever that is! Damn!"

"I don't suppose either of you is a bomb expert," said Alex, looking hopelessly at Hal and Yasmina.

"Oh, great," Hal moaned, his face turning even whiter. "There's a fucking bomb here?"

Holding his breath, Malcolm gingerly picked up the bomb-filled Breakfast Pie.

"All right," he exhaled slowly. "Let's hope this works!"

"For Chrissake, Malcolm!" Alex cried out. "What the hell are you doing?"

Malcolm glanced squeamishly at the pie in his hand and then motioned Alex toward the vacuum cleaner.

"What the hell," he murmured as he squeezed his eyes shut and turned on the blender. Alex switched on the vacuum cleaner and crouched down, covering his head. He had no idea what was about to happen but he expected it to be horribly traumatic, whatever it was. He heard the roar and scream of the vacuum cleaner, he heard the angry buzzing of the bees, he heard yelling and screaming, but he couldn't bear to look. And then the sound of the bees and the vacuum cleaner and the blender stopped abruptly. He held his breath and waited in the deathly hush for the explosion. . . .

"Excuse me, it's okay now," Yasmina was saying. "The bomb's gone. It just vanished!"

Alex opened his eyes and sat up. Hal was still slumped against the cupboards, staring in shock at the blood that dripped slowly but consistently from his side. Yasmina was leaning over Alex.

"Where's Malcolm?" he said.

"He vanished, too!"

Alex looked at the litter-strewn floor. He felt something inside him shift uneasily, as if a prowler were lurking around in his gut. Yasmina sat down next to him.

"I'm Yasmina?" she said as if it were a question. Alex gazed at her numbly.

"Hi. I'm Alex."

"Alex . . ." she mused. "That was my father's name. In fact, did you know you look a lot like my father?"

"I do?"

"Yes, you really do. In fact, well, can I ask how old you are?"

"Thirty-two. No--I'm thirty-three."

"Yeah, he was around that age the last time I saw him. In fact, I think he was thirty-three, too. I remember his hair the most: it was kind of a light red like yours. I was only nine."

"What happened to him?" Alex was doing his best to sound civil, considering the complicated acrobatics his stomach was going through at the moment.

"He disappeared."

"That's a shame. Did he ever write or call or anything?"

"Oh, no! I mean he disappeared. Vanished--like Malcolm did just now. Like, into thin air. One day, he just . . . poof!"

Yasmina made a motion with her hands as if she were a magician letting go of a dove.

"And that was the end of Alex Borrego?"

"Oh, no, my stepfather's name's Borrego. He adopted me, you see. Actually, he's the one who started calling me Yasmina. My real name's Jasmine."

"Jasmine? That's pretty."

"I used to think so: Jasmine Ann Martell. But I like Yasmina now."

Alex felt as if his stomach had just been trampled by a team of elephants.

"Martell?" he gasped.

"Hey," groaned Hal, who had turned gray and feverish. "Nice chitchat, but I'm fucking dying over here!"

Stunned, Alex simply stared at Hal. His stomach was tying itself into some sort of complicated Boy Scout knot, and his mind felt like the shambles of a hurricane. What do I do now? he thought frantically. What the hell do I do now?

"Hospital," he heard himself say. "Gotta get you to the hospital."

"Should I call an ambulance?" said Yasmina.

"No." Alex found himself fumbling through the large clutter-filled ashtray on the counter. "Here. Take my car--here's the keys. Take him to the hospital. There's something I need to do."

"But--"

"Come on, let's help him up. Hurry!"

They put their arms around Hal and pulled him up to a standing position.

"Oh, fuck," he whimpered as he slid back down to the floor.

"It's right out front!" Alex cried. "The car's just a few feet out front. Can you make it?"

"Okay . . . okay . . . fuck!"

With a great deal of effort they managed to get Hal up, out, and into the passenger's seat of Alex's car.

"The car has gas, I think," Alex said frantically. "The engine--well, hopefully it'll get you there. But the, uh, clock doesn't work. Or maybe it does--well, probably not, but it might. I don't know. But there's gas in it."

"What should I do when--?" Yasmina started to say.

"Just take it! Hurry! Get him to the hospital!"

Alex turned and ran back into the house. I have to find Malcolm, he said to himself. I have to find him; that's all there is to it. I have to find out if he's still alive, somehow. I have no choice!

"Oh, shit!" he yelled as he tore into the kitchen and stopped dead, staring helplessly at the counter. The blender was gone.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," he chanted as he sank to the floor by the vacuum cleaner. "Oh-fuck-oh-Jesus-H.-Christ please let this work!" He crouched over the vacuum cleaner and hugged the base tightly. For some reason all he could think of was the moon orbiting around the Earth. He fumbled around till he found the switch and turned it on. The vacuum cleaner shuddered and kicked angrily as it screamed. White dust was everywhere, filling his nostrils and lungs. His eardrums felt as if they were about to explode. He thought he was going to be sick.

Chapter 24

Alex opened his eyes. It was dark, nighttime. He felt cold and damp. He was in a forest of some sort, on the side of a steep slope. The ground was moist as if it had been raining lightly, and the wetness had soaked partially through his clothes. The pungent odor of rotting leaves marked the air.

He sat up, shivered slightly, and listened. From below came the sound of moving water, like a river or creek; from above, the occasional cluster of cars.

Since he had to go either up or down he decided to go up, figuring it would be less confusing and possibly more constructive than going down. He started to climb. The damp leafy ground cover was slippery under his feet so he tried to avoid it, stepping on tree roots and muddy patches instead. As he worked his way up the slope it became steeper and steeper, until he was grabbing branches and tree parts to pull himself along. It was tiring work; but Alex's mind was blank, filled only with spatial images of what he was touching with each hand and foot. He felt like an amoeba propelling itself along through the process of survival. The goal was to get up there, and there was nothing else to consider.

After what seemed like hours he found he could walk again. He'd reached a more level area, a small grassy clearing. He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree to rest and wiped his forehead with his left sleeve. He pushed back the sleeve to see how the wound on his arm was doing. He was surprised to discover the bandage was gone again, and where the wound had been was an ancient-looking scar. Oh, well, he thought. At least the wound hasn't vanished again. Does that mean I'm somewhere now, as opposed to nowhere? My watch is still missing, so does that mean I'm somewhere but still not there, wherever there is? Was there ever really a there? Do I have any idea what the hell I'm talking about?

"Oh, man," he groaned and leaned over, letting his head roll back and forth loosely against his chest. His shoulders and neck were stiff from the tensions of the past few hours, and he could feel the vertebrae in his neck popping and crackling. I need a hot shower and a massage, he thought. I need a good soak in a Jacuzzi, a nice hot shower, and a massage. I need--

His eyes fell upon a small liquor bottle covered with muddy leaves lying against the trunk between his feet. He reached down and picked it up. It was an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. He sat up; the last part of Malcolm's story came to mind, how Malcolm had polished off a bottle of Wild Turkey and then jumped--

He heard the leaves rustling behind him. He turned to look and thought he saw something moving behind the trees.

"Hello?" he said warily. The rustling stopped.

"Who's there?" he said, barely breathing. Whoever or whatever it was rustled once and then stopped. And then he heard a woman's voice.

"Alex, is that you?" A wave of relief washed through him.

"Char?" He could see the almost luminiscent outline of her waves of hair as she approached.

"Alex! You scared me! Is Malcolm with you?"

"No." Alex could barely make out her face in the dark. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay--just a little cold. How about you?"

"I'm all right. Where's--"

Alex lowered his voice to a whisper.

"--the psycho?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen anybody except for you. It's so dark!"

"Where are we?"

"I don't know. But I hope we're close to La Verne."

"There's a road over there somewhere," said Alex. "I keep hearing cars. Let's go find it."

"That's easier said than done. I've been walking near what sounds like a road all day, but I haven't been able to find it."

"Well, let's try going this way."

They took off in the direction of the traffic sounds. They'd been walking for a minute or two when Alex stopped Char.

"Wait a minute!" he said. "What do you mean, you've been walking all day? What do you mean, all day?"

"What do you think I mean?" she replied. "All day. As in hours: maybe six or seven hours I've been out here. And I can tell you I'm pretty famished! Just be thankful I'm not chewing your arm off right now."

"But we were at my house this afternoon!"

"That was yesterday afternoon, Alex! Where have you been?"

Alex shook his head. He was utterly confused now, his mind a muddle. The only thing he could be certain of was that he was completely and totally confused about everything.

"Alex," Char said. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine."

"Look, there's a bridge over there. Is that Suicide Bridge?"

"Yes!" He broke out excitedly into a run for the bridge. "Yes! Yes!" he shouted. It was Malcolm's bridge! He finally understood something!

"Wait!" yelled Char as she ran to catch up. "Don't jump! Let's talk it through!"

By the time they got to the bridge they were laughing.

"I have to hand it to you, Alex!" said Char. "I've never seen anybody get so elated over Suicide Bridge."

"That's because I just knew we were near here! I knew it!"

"Hey, you aren't one of those guys who gets their kicks from watching people jump, are you?"

"Hell, no," he snickered. "I like to push 'em off myself!"

They walked out to the center of the bridge which was illuminated with an eerie glow from the streetlights. Char peered over the railing into the darkness. Three or four cars approached and passed, the headlight beams truncated by the dampness in the air. When they were out of sight no more cars could be seen in either direction.

"I wonder why the traffic comes in clusters," said Alex.

"Maybe it has to do with magnets." Char picked up a pebble and threw it over the railing. It fell into the darkness toward the lake below, never making an audible splash. Alex took a look over the railing and felt his knees wobble.

"Whoa, that's a long drop," he said, stepping back.

"You're scared of heights?"

"Not heights exactly. It's the thought of falling from heights that terrifies me."

"Me, too." Char leaned slightly over the railing and looked down. "I love the adrenaline rush, though, when I get scared. It's like riding on a roller coaster."

Alex stepped back up to the railing and peeked over timidly. It was so dark below them he couldn't distinguish much of anything. As long as he didn't look straight down he felt okay.

"Malcolm told you all about his experiment, didn't he?" he said.

"As far as it had progressed. It seemed like something that would go on and on indefinitely."

"He jumped off this bridge, you know."

"What? No he didn't, Alex."

"Yes, he did," Alex said earnestly. "He jumped off the bridge, and somehow he ended up in my back yard."

Char looked at Alex incredulously.

"I know it sounds strange, but it happened!" he said.

"Alex, Malcolm's alive! Nobody could survive this jump!"

"I didn't say he was dead, although. . . ."

"Although what?"

"Never mind." Alex stared off into the darkness.

"Hey, look!" said Char, pointing to an opening in the railing on the other side of the bridge. "Is that a trail?"

"It sure looks like it."

"Maybe it goes all the way down to the lake."

"It's possible. It could go anywhere."

"Yeah, but somewhere around here there has to be a trail that goes all the way down. I don't think you can get a vehicle down by the lake. There are no roads and the forest is too dense."

"Why would you want to get down there, anyway?"

"To pick up the bodies! I mean, somebody has to get down there to retrieve all those suicides. They wouldn't just leave them there."

Char headed for the trail.

"Come on!" she said. "Let's see where it goes."

"But I thought you were starving!"

"I know, but this looks fun!"

"You're nuts, Char," Alex muttered as they began to wind their way down the path.

"No, I'm not," she replied cheerfully. "I just have a morbid curiosity."

"You mean you're honestly hoping we find some dead bodies?"

"Not really. But we might find other interesting stuff. People throw all kinds of things off this bridge, you know. Hey, I'll bet this does go all the way down!"

After a few minutes Alex looked up at the bridge silhouetted against the glow of the streetlights.

"You realize we have to walk all the way back up again," he said.

"Don't worry about it, Alex. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"It already seems like we're a couple hundred feet down. I mean, just how far--ouch!" Alex stumbled; his foot had collided with something rock-hard in the path.

"Hey, careful up there!" hollered Char. "Do you need some help?"

"No," he said, searching for the obstacle. "Wait--hey, Char, come here! You aren't going to believe what I just tripped on!"

She climbed back up to see what he'd found. Smack in the middle of the trail, wedged tightly in the dirt as if it had been hammered in with something powerful, was what looked like the top part of a blender. Alex scraped the dirt away and tugged at the blender until it came free.

"Hey!" he cried as he examined it closely. "This is my blender!"

"You're kidding!"

"No--see this right here? This chip in the glass--can you see it? It's been there for years! And see this zigzag gouge in the chrome that looks like a 'W'? And this switch! See how it's white? I had to replace the original switch, which was black!"

"Boy, you're really hard on your blenders, aren't you?"

"Hey, I've had this thing forever. We've been through a lot together: margaritas, piña coladas, chocolate malts. . . ."

"What's that inside?" said Char, pointing to the bottom of the glass pitcher.

"Oh, my God--it's my watch!"

Alex tried to extract the watch but it wouldn't budge.

"It feels like it's welded to the blades or something."

"But why would you put your watch in the blender in the first place? So you can time your margaritas?"

"Hey, I'm glad I found these! And you know what this means?"

"That we can make margaritas now?"

"It means Malcolm's around here somewhere."

"Why, because he wouldn't miss one of your margaritas?"

"No! I just know he can't be far."

Alex peered up at the bridge and then down toward the lake. By his best estimate they were halfway down.

"What in the--?" Char murmured.

"What?"

"Out there," she said, pointing. "Just up a little bit--do you see it? What is that?" A few feet above them, halfway across the river, a dark shape was slowly materializing in the air.

"Is that a reflection from something?" Char whispered. "Or a shadow?"

The edges of the shape began to sharpen.

"I don't know," said Alex. "It almost looks like--"

Suspended in the air like a phantom, a human form gradually came in focus, and then it dropped.

"It's Malcolm!" shouted Alex, and he took off running down the path, Char following close behind. They heard the splash of something hitting the water. Alex tried to run faster but it was a difficult path, and he ended up tripping and skidding his way down to the bottom as he absentmindedly clutched his blender to his chest. Through the scuffling he strained to listen for more splashing, any splashing that might suggest signs of life in the lake. He just wanted to hear splashing, that was all. Any splashing! It was far too quiet.

When they reached the edge of the lake the two of them stopped and watched and listened, barely breathing.

"How deep is Lake La Verne, anyway?" whispered Alex.

"I don't know. It's pretty far across. I would hope it's . . . deep enough. . . ."

Alex felt his stomach knot up slowly as if a small child were tediously trying to tie it in a bow. It seemed like hours had passed since they'd heard the splash. And then there was the Lower La Verne River to consider. On the far side where the lake fed into the river, the current was strong.

"I suppose a lot of bodies end up downstream," he mumbled.

"I think the river narrows quite a bit about a half a mile down," Char replied in hushed tones. "They probably wash ashore eventually."

Alex watched the motionless reeds that rose silently from the shallow water at the lake's edge.

"I wrote an article on poet deaths once," he said, half whispering. "It was published in the Angst Quarterly."

"Really."

"Yeah. Drowning seemed to be popular. Percy Bysshe Shelley, for example, disappeared in a boat off the coast of Italy, and his body finally washed ashore two weeks later. By that time the only way they could identify him was by the poetry books in his vest pocket."

"Did you write about Virginia Woolfe?"

"But she was a novelist, wasn't she?"

"Oh, I guess that's true. She died a poet's death, though."

"Drowning?"

"Yeah. She was afraid of becoming incurably mad; so she filled her pockets with heavy stones and then threw herself into the river. Her body wasn't found for three weeks."

Alex eyed Char with amusement.

"I thought you were interested in industrial ethnomusicology," he said.

"I'm interested in a lot of things."

They turned their attention back to the inky surface of the lake. The distant roar of the river on the other side was getting monotonous. Alex took a deep breath and exhaled a long sigh.

"Maybe it was a reflection we saw," Char said disappointedly. "Anything could have fallen into the water, or it could have been a large bird."

"Or a crocodile."

"Yes, a crocodile. Or maybe a hippopotamus. . . ."

Just then she spotted something.

"Over there! Is that a person?" A hundred feet away somebody could be seen moving silently across the surface of the lake.

"Hey!" Alex shouted, waving his arms wildly. "Over here!" The figure, now recognizably human, swam toward them slowly.

"This is amazing!" said Char, on the verge of jumping up and down with excitement. "How could somebody survive that fall?"

"Whoever it is looks exhausted," said Alex. "Maybe we should--"

"Wait a minute! What's that?" Another figure could be swimming toward the first figure. Alex and Char watched as the second swimmer finally reached the first, and then the two figures began splashing.

"What's going on?" cried Alex.

"The other guy's pushing the first one under! They're fighting or something! What's he yelling?"

They listened closely as the splashing and struggling grew in intensity. The second swimmer's screams were barely audible.

"It sounds like he's yelling something about insufficient postage," said Char.

"Oh, my God!" gasped Alex. "It's Rogers, the nut case! He's gonna kill him!" A nauseating wide-screen image of Hal Blank's blood on the kitchen floor flashed through his head.

"We have to do something!" said Char. She tore off her shoes and grabbed Alex by the arm. "Come on! You can swim, can't you?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Give me your blender!"

"No!"

"But I need some sort of weapon--something I can hit with! If that really is Malcolm I have to get that other guy away from him!"

Alex wouldn't let go of his blender. He felt it was too important now, perhaps his only ticket home.

"Here!" he said, and he reached in his pocket and tossed Char his Swiss Army knife.

"This is no picnic, Alex!" she cried.

"But you can stab him with it! Or snip him or screw into him or something. It's better than nothing!"

Char was in the water already, swimming toward the two figures who were splashing wildly.

She's crazy! Alex said to himself, frantically trying to think of what to do. They're all going to drown each other! What good will that do? And then in complete desperation he kicked off his shoes, waded through the reeds into the lake a little way, and screamed as loud as he could, "MY MAIL CARRIER IS A STUPID INCOMPETENT JERK!"

After a moment of stunned silence, one of the figures separated from the other and started swimming directly toward Alex with frenzied strokes. Alex scrambled to get out of the water as fast as he could, fighting his way through the thick tangled reeds, his limbs numbed by the paralyzing cold of the water. As he dropped down on the shore and frantically stuffed his damp shoes back onto his sopping feet, he could see Frank Rogers' murderously beady eyes come closer and closer, glowing from the dark surface of the water like the piscine eyes of an insane vampire shark. Alex's first instinct was to run for his life, which he considered the only sane option when one is being pursued by a psychotic killer. But something irrational, dangerous, and stupid inside him told him to fight back, especially when he spotted a cluster of large rocks a few feet off. He ran over, picked one up, and heaved it at Frank Rogers as the madman was fighting his way through the reeds. The rock clipped Rogers on the side of the head, slowing him for only a second. Alex heaved two more rocks that resounded with sickening clunks, and the mail carrier disappeared under the water. The reeds shivered and then were still. Alex grabbed another rock and held it above his head, watching the water tensely for several minutes. Everything appeared calm. There was no sign of Frank Rogers for the time being.

"Alex!" yelled Char. He spotted her and Malcolm on the shore a few yards off. Grabbing his blender he ran over to join them. Malcolm was lying on his side, coughing and sputtering.

"Is he all right?" said Alex.

"Yeah," Char shivered. "I think so. Are you okay?"

"Yeah! Are you?"

"Uh-huh! Where's Mr. Mailman?"

"I'm not sure. Either he passed out and drowned or swam away. I couldn't tell. The water's too dark."

"What's--that ticking?" Malcolm managed to cough.

"What ticking?" said Alex.

"Don't you hear it?" said Char.

"Oh, yeah . . . now I do."

"Alex!" Malcolm shrieked, rearing up frantically. "The blender!"

"Yeah, it's--"

"Get rid of it!"

"What?" Alex glanced down at his blender just as Malcolm ripped it from his grasp and flung it as hard as he could across the lake. An instant later it exploded with an earth-shaking boom, forcing massive torrents of water out of the lake and into the air, spewing gallons in every direction. The result was a dazzlingly fierce display of pyrotechnics and water displacement only a healthy amount of dynamite could produce. At such close range it seemed like the end of the world.

Chapter 25

Slowly Alex lifted his head from the pool of mud engulfing him. The showers had ended and all was quiet except for the trickling of water rivulets finding their way back to the lake. Malcolm was on his hands and knees, staring at the ground as muddy water dribbled from his forehead.

"What the hell was that?" Alex gasped.

"The bomb," Malcolm muttered.

"What bomb?"

"The time bomb. In the blender."

"What are you talking about?"

Malcolm sat up and wiped the mud from his eyes.

"The bomb was in the blender," he said.

"My watch was in the blender. That's what you saw."

"That was no watch. That was a bomb."

"No, it was my watch! You remember, the watch I lost."

"Then explain why your watch exploded."

On that note Malcolm stood stiffly and trudged, dripping with mud, over to the lake's edge.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Alex yelled. "Where's Char?"

Malcolm shrugged and then plunged into the lake.

"Oh, great!" Alex muttered to himself. "Char's vanished, Malcolm's delirious, and I'm covered with mud!" He stepped over to the water's edge and waded in shoulder-deep. The water was still churning from the effect of the explosion but it felt invigorating, like a giant roiling Jacuzzi. Except it was much colder than a Jacuzzi. In fact, it was a whole lot colder. As a matter of fact, it was downright freezing!

Shivering, Alex scrambled out of the lake. Malcolm was already out, wringing the water from his clothes as best he could.

"Do you have any idea what happened to Char?" said Alex.

"No."

"Well, she couldn't have just disappeared!"

"Why not?" Malcolm replied sullenly.

"Well, because--I mean, people don't just--"

"Listen, all I know is she's not here--and we have to get out of here fast!"

Malcolm looked up at the bridge and shivered. The tiny backlit silhouettes of perhaps a dozen people could be seen looking down over the railing.

"It's a long climb back up," Alex said.

"We'd better not go that way."

"What other way is there?"

Malcolm watched the bridge nervously.

"I don't know," he said. "But there's already a crowd up there. The police are bound to show up after an explosion like that."

"But we didn't do anything!" Alex protested.

"You didn't do anything," Malcolm corrected. "I'm still an accessory to an assassination, you know. I don't want to take any chances."

"Oh, yeah." Alex folded his arms tightly against his body and shivered. "I guess we could find our way through the forest."

"Listen, why don't you go back up there? They won't arrest you."

"What? And just leave you here?"

"Sure," said Malcolm, smiling slightly as his teeth chattered. "And then you can go home and reset your clocks and have some peace and quiet."

Alex glanced up at the bridge.

"Nice try," he muttered. "But I'm afraid you're stuck with me." He turned and headed for the forest. Malcolm ran after him.

"Alex, are you sure about this? There's still time to--"

"Yes, I'm sure, damnit! Besides, you owe me a blender. And a Swiss Army knife."

Malcolm reached in a watery pocket and pulled out Alex's knife.

"Here," he said. "Now I just owe you a blender."

"Hey, thanks," Alex chattered, taking the knife. "Jesus, it's freezing! Why doesn't the Swiss Army put some type of heating device on their knives?"

"There probably is one on the Arctic expedition model, in place of the toothpick."

"Then what happens if you're in the Arctic and you need a toothpick?"

"I have no idea. Come on, let's walk fast and we'll warm up. And we'll get there faster."

"Where's that?"

"I don't know. Wherever we're going to end up."

"Do we want to be going this way, then? We could go the other way."

"I think this way might get us to town faster."

"Fine."

They traipsed briskly through the darkness for a while, during which time Alex forgot how cold and wet he was. He was getting used to the darkness, too, and had become aware of an assortment of small creatures darting and scurrying about.

"I wonder if any local animals are rabid," he said.

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me what you can find to worry about."

"I was just wondering. I wasn't actually worried."

They pushed on silently. A light rain began to fall. After awhile Alex broke the silence.

"So what the hell's the deal with Char?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened to her?"

"She vanished, obviously."

"I know she vanished! But you seem surprisingly unconcerned!"

"Alex, don't worry about it."

"Why not?"

"I'll explain later."

"Why not now?"

"Because I'm too tired." Malcolm stared straight ahead, glassy-eyed. He looked as though he was moving on automatic pilot. The rain was beating down furiously now.

"Damn it," muttered Alex. "We're going to either freeze or drown."

"It's a good thing it's raining. It'll wash away our tracks."

"I suppose you have a point."

"And that means we can stop somewhere for a while."

"Like where?"

"I don't know, anywhere. I need to stop."

"Okay, I'll keep my eyes peeled for the next Holiday Inn."

The rain kept pelting down. Streams of water flowed through Alex's hair, running down his forehead into his eyes and pouring off the tip of his nose. He felt like a garden fountain.

"I don't think I've ever been this wet before," he said, blowing futilely at the streams. "I think even my internal organs are soaked."

"Hey, look!" said Malcolm, his eyes focusing. "I think we're in luck!" Up ahead of them was a wooden structure that looked like a garage or toolshed.

"Is this part of someone's house?" said Alex, ducking under the eaves.

"I don't know--I can't see much through the rain. There must be a door on the other side." Malcolm disappeared around the corner.

"We're probably trespassing," Alex mumbled to no one in particular.

"Hey, Alex, come here!" On the other side of the building Malcolm had found an unlocked door. The room inside was cluttered but pleasantly warm. It was also very dark. As he squinted to see, Alex struck his head against a metal shelf and stifled a yelp. Several objects tumbled to the floor, clattering noisily like tin cans.

"I wish I had some matches," Alex muttered as he stepped through the debris.

"If you had matches they'd be soaked." Malcolm peeled off his shoes and wet clothes and spread them out on what seemed to be a small drying rack. Then he sank gingerly into what had once been a couch but now seemed more like an avant-garde furniture sculpture. He pulled a threadbare blanket up from the inner recesses of the couch and covered himself with it.

"Why is it so warm in here?" said Alex as he continued to explore the room.

"Maybe that stove's been used recently," Malcolm mumbled back.

"Hey, I think you're right." Alex had just noticed the wood-burning stove in the center of the room, camouflaged amid the clutter. It was still hot to the touch. Next to it were two large wooden tables piled high with sheets of canvas, and on the floor was a large pile of muslin scraps.

"Hey, look!" he said, holding a piece of muslin up against his body. "We could make ourselves some dry clothes!"

Malcolm made no reply; he was sound asleep. Alex removed his clothes and draped them over a chair. He wrapped himself loosely in a large sheet of muslin and eased down into a broken wing chair that smelled faintly of paint thinner. I should probably stay awake, he thought. One of us should be alert. Somebody's bound to come back. I'm not sleepy anyway. I wonder how late it is. . . . He decided it was a good time to mull over the events of the past few days. He began with Char: just what had happened to her at the lake? Why couldn't he get her soft brown eyes out of his mind? As his eyes drifted shut, he felt the waves of the lake wash over him rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth. . . .

Chapter 26

Alex was on a small raft on the ocean, floating toward an island littered with broken furniture. As he neared the island he could hear a strange droning sound emanating from the top of a bridge that spanned the island. The bridge was constructed entirely out of furniture: dressers, chairs, dining room tables. At the base of the bridge Alex found Jay Gabinski, who was smoking five cigarettes at once.

"How do I get to the top?" said Alex.

Jay took a deep drag off the cigarettes.

"Oh, Geez," he said, exhaling a massive cloud of smoke as he spoke. "You'll have to climb up the side. But don't worry, I just got done fixing all the loose chair legs and drawer handles I could find on the goddamn thing, so it should be safe."

Alex began to climb up the side of the bridge, grabbing onto chair parts and table legs to pull himself up and using drawer handles as toeholds. When he reached the top he found Malcolm, who was sitting in Alex's favorite armchair playing a didjeridu. A swarm of bumble bees circled Malcolm's head as he played, and the music grew louder and louder. All at once he stopped playing and offered Alex a tray of sugar cookies. That's when Alex noticed Malcolm was wearing a postal uniform--

****

Alex awoke abruptly. Sunlight was pouring through the small windows, flooding the room with the crisp clean brightness that imbues the air after a heavy rain. Now he could see they were in somebody's art studio: paintings were stacked against the wall, tubes of acrylic paints were scattered about, and much undefinable junk filled in the remaining space.

Alex climbed out of the wing chair, stretched languidly, and sauntered over to the paintings to get a closer look. They were brightly-colored abstracts with a dazzling display of fine geometric detail: almost fractal in nature, he thought. The paint strokes were thick and dark in some areas, thin and light in others, but with a liberal use of metallic and iridescent pigments throughout. At first glance he thought the paintings too busy; but after examining them closely he found them almost soothing.

He took a quick look around the rest of the room. Malcolm was still embedded in the broken couch, sound asleep. Strolling over to the wood-burning stove Alex was surprised to discover heat emanating from it. Through the vent on the side he could see a small fire burning within. He looked around for his clothes, but they were nowhere to be found.

"Malcolm!" he whispered as he shook the couch sculpture. "Wake up--hurry!" Malcolm's eyes popped open, but it took a moment for them to focus.

"What's up?" he finally mumbled.

"Our clothes! Somebody's stolen them!"

Malcolm sat up and noticed the empty drying rack.

"Shit!" he muttered, emerging stiffly from the depths of the couch. "Who built the fire?"

"I don't know! Maybe the burglar did."

"Well, it was either a very thoughtful burglar, or . . ." Malcolm draped his blanket over his shoulders and walked over to the door, pushed it open slightly, and peeked out.

"Is anybody out there?" whispered Alex.

"I don't see anybody. But--" Malcolm stepped outside for a brief moment and came back in with a stack of clean, neatly-folded clothes.

"Did you order laundry service last night?" he said, bewilderedly.

"What?" Alex said as Malcolm handed him his clothes. "How the hell . . . ?"

"I get the feeling whoever owns this place is not the hostile sort." Malcolm started to get dressed. Alex retrieved his mud-caked shoes from under the stool.

"Too bad they don't do shoeshines, too," he said.

"Probably not much call for it around these parts." Malcolm fished his wallet out of his pocket, inspected it, and frowned.

"Is something missing?" said Alex, quickly feeling for his own wallet. "Did they take any money?"

"No, not at all. I'm just getting low."

"Do you need some cash? I can loan you some."

"Well, there's plenty in my checking account, but I can't figure out how to get to it. If I try to cash a check it's likely to be traced, and if I use the ATM I'll be videotaped. I guess this is why fugitives end up robbing liquor stores."

"Sorry," Alex said skeptically. "You just don't seem like the liquor store-robbing type."

"No?"

"No way. I'll loan you some money, okay? I'll get some cash when we get back to town. Nobody's looking for me."

"At least we hope not," Malcolm muttered. He pushed the door open and they stepped out into a small unpaved courtyard. More broken pieces of furniture were scattered around as well as a functioning patio table and some chairs. Malcolm picked up a coffee cup that was sitting on the table.

"It's still warm," he said apprehensively. "I think somebody's been waiting for us."

They heard footsteps. Approaching from the forest was an older woman with a tanned face and a long gray ponytail. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a bright red workshirt.

"Oh, you're awake!" she said when she saw them. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"We apologize for trespassing," said Malcolm.

"Oh, heavens!" The woman waved her hand as if brushing his apology aside. "Don't even mention it. People lose their way in here all the time! I'm quite used to it."

"You're a very trusting soul, then."

"I wouldn't put it that way. I like to think of myself as a good judge of character."

"But what can you tell about someone who's asleep?"

The woman broke out into a toothy smile.

"I can tell a lot from clothing," she said. "Your garments, for instance, indicated to me you were well-educated city types who probably just took a wrong turn in the woods."

Alex felt a flicker of pride. After all, it was his clothes the two of them were wearing.

"Thanks for washing our things," he said. "You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, it was no problem! What did you two do last night, anyway? Fall in a lake?"

"It was raining pretty hard," Malcolm said uneasily.

"Oh, it was a frightful night, wasn't it?" said the woman. "Such a downpour! It cooled things off a good deal, though. And did you hear that big explosion? I don't remember what time it was, but it was fairly late. I'm pretty sure it wasn't thunder."

"Yes, I think we heard something."

"Where did you two start out from, anyway?"

"La Verne," Alex replied as Malcolm shot him a wary glance. "Are we close to La Verne?"

"But this is La Verne! You two certainly were lost!"

The woman stepped forward and offered her hand.

"I'm sorry--where've my manners gone? I'm Susie Simmons."

"I'm Alex Martell," said Alex as he shook her hand. "And this is--"

"Joe," Malcolm cut in, extending his hand. "Joe Williams."

"Well, Alex and Joe, I hope you're hungry, because I just picked up some fresh scones a few minutes ago. Would you two like coffee?"

"Sounds great," said Malcolm. He and Alex seated themselves at the table as Susie took off for the scones. Alex leaned toward Malcolm.

"Joe?" he said.

"I don't think we should take any chances," said Malcolm.

"But you've been using your real name up till now. Why the sudden change?"

Malcolm drummed his fingers listlessly a few times and then looked at Alex intently.

"I think we should be careful because of Susie," he said quietly.

"Why? She seems nice enough."

"Yes, but she's not like the others. She's not like Ricardo Gomez or Barbara Rose or Jay Gabinski."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she's here, right now, where we are!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Alex," Malcolm said, leaning closer. "Haven't you noticed everyone we've been running into is somebody I've already told you about?"

"You've got a point," replied Alex. "But what do you mean by 'really here'? We're here, aren't we?"

"Listen, you asked me last night why I wasn't upset about Char disappearing. It's because--I don't exactly know how to put it--"

"Wait just a minute! Are you implying Char wasn't real?"

"Of course she was real! But I don't think she was completely there--at least not in her mind. Obviously she was real. Frank Rogers was a little too real! But where did he think he was? Alex, haven't you noticed everyone who's ended up in your kitchen hasn't been the least bit surprised by the fact that they're there? I mean, if you were in your house and suddenly, just like that, you were in somebody else's house--like the way we ended up at Aunt Mavis's--wouldn't you be a little disconcerted?"

Alex pondered the problem for a moment.

"It is pretty strange," he said. "But the whole thing's pretty strange! You've got to admit this entire situation is pretty damn strange!"

"Now here's my theory," said Malcolm, speaking quickly. "Every time somebody ends up in your kitchen, I think they honestly believe they're still at their own house or wherever they originated. I don't think they can tell they're somewhere else!"

"What about Aunt Mavis? She was at her own house."

"But that's the point: she wasn't! She should have been in Chicago! Even Sam Rose probably wasn't really at his own place in Puerto Vallarta, because he wasn't really anywhere! And neither was Aunt Mavis."

"Then where are we now?" Alex said, exasperated.

"On the outskirts of La Verne, obviously--at Susie Simmon's place."

At that moment Susie returned and placed a pot of coffee, three mugs, and a basket of scones on the table.

"Help yourself, Alex, Joe," she said. "These are date scones from the Primrose Bakery. I think they're the best around."

Malcolm poured himself some coffee and took a long slow sip.

"Mmm," he moaned. "Great coffee!"

"Caffé Velocita," said Susie. "I get their African blend."

"It's tasty," said Alex as he reached for a scone. "And these look good, too."

"So where are you from originally, Susie?" said Malcolm. "Do I detect an English accent?"

"Australian," said Susie. "I thought I'd practically lost it by now."

"Have you been in the States a long time?" said Alex.

"Let me see . . . in August it will be exactly twenty-seven years."

"So what brought you from Australia to La Verne?" said Malcolm.

"Education," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I came here from Sydney when I was thirty-three to attend the University of La Verne."

"What could our university possibly offer that you couldn't get in Australia?" said Alex.

"A Masters degree in Zoological Psychology, for one thing. You see, I had originally studied to be an English teacher, and that was my profession for over ten years. But then, after undergoing a rather nasty divorce, I decided to pursue the field of zoological psychology. I know it's quite a change from teaching English, but I had changed a great deal myself. And since the University of La Verne has such an esteemed School of Zoological Psychology, it was the obvious choice for me. And, like most Aussies, I was itching to see a bit of the world."

"So what did you do after you got your degree?" said Malcolm.

"Well, I continued on and got my doctorate in Clinical Zoological Psychology. I worked for several years at the S. Magma Institute of Zoological Psychology in Minneapolis."

"You didn't know a Dr. Ordean Pugh, by any chance?" said Alex.

"Why, of course I knew Ordean! We worked on several feline projects together. The one that I recall most vividly was where we exposed domestic cats to prime-time television programming while monitoring their neural responses."

"I interviewed Dr. Pugh a couple of years ago," said Alex. "I wrote an article for Zoo Psych Today about his studies on the effects of computer-generated fractals on cats."

"Yes, of course!" cried Susie. "I read your article! Oh, it's a shame the cats turned out to be so nonresponsive. Perhaps it was because they were shown static graphics. He should have been using animated fractals, in my opinion."

"Perhaps chicken-scented animated fractals," added Malcolm as he poured himself a third cup of coffee.

"Oh! Cheddar-scented, definitely," said Susie, her eyes glittering. "I doubt there's ever been a cat who could resist cheddar cheese. Of course, then your results would be somewhat skewed."

"So when did you become an artist?" said Malcolm.

"Well, it's been a hobby of mine for several years. It wasn't until the glacial floods that I began painting full-time."

"Did you lose many people in Australia?" said Alex.

"Oh, a few acquaintances, but nobody I knew well. Everyone dear to me made it to the highlands in time. They had plenty of warning. My daughter and her family decided to stay in Canberra, but most of my old friends and cohorts have relocated to other parts of the world. The white Australians are a tough sort, you know, quite adaptable. The ones I feel so dreadfully heartbroken about are the Aborigines. They're spiritually bound to their land, you see. They consider the mountains, valleys, and rivers to be sacred. Do either of you know much about the Dreamtime?"

"Funny you should mention that," said Malcolm.

"Yeah," said Alex. "We were just talking about it. That's when the Aborigines believe life was created, right?"

"Exactly," said Susie. "They believe everything in existence originated from this creative period; first the spirits from the Dreamtime created all the Earth's physical features, and then they created life in its many forms. They believe these spirits live eternally, continuously connecting the Aborigines with the land and nature and with the Dreamtime. So what happened to these spirits when Australia went literally 'down under'? Where are they now?

"You see, I've been painting pictures of nature from the start. I've always loved the outdoors: the mountains, seashore, lakes and rivers, country meadows full of wildflowers. I was born a nature lover and I've felt akin to nature all my life. But after the floods I found myself seeing nature in a different light. I had this strong desire to somehow connect myself more profoundly with the earth. And after losing Australia, I felt a need to forge a deeper bond with my adopted homeland in case I should ever lose it. Well, I finally realized, after I'd finished a few paintings, that what I was truly painting were the spirits themselves: the spirits from the Dreamtime who unite us with nature."

Susie laughed just then.

"Oh, listen to me!" she said, waving her hand aside. "I didn't intend to start spouting philosophy on such a pleasant day! No, really, I merely felt I should explain why my paintings don't look like your average landscapes."

"What about the broken furniture?" said Malcolm. "You seem to have a lot around."

"Oh, that's just for fun! You see, I've never been able to throw anything away. I'm a real packrat. So when my old useful things finally fall apart, I can create new completely useless things out of them."

"Say," Malcolm said slyly, "I know this guy named Gabinski who'd probably love to come over and fix a few things."

"Well, for God's sake, don't invite him, please! I prefer my furniture this way."

"Speaking of the Aborigines," said Alex, "you don't happen to have a . . . didjeridu, by any chance?"

"No, I don't. Why? Do you play?"

"No, I was just wondering."

"Maybe I'll pick one up next month!"

"Are you going back to the Australian islands?" said Malcolm.

"Not quite," Susie beamed. "I'm going to New Arnhem in Western New Mexico. Have you heard of it?"

"No."

"Well, surprisingly enough there was a small group of Aborigines who immigrated to the United States after the floods. Since the land in the Southwestern United States is considered so sacred by Native Americans, the Aborigines thought it was possible they could establish their new spiritual home there. I understand there's been quite a unique integration of cultures. It should be a fascinating visit. And maybe I'll get some fresh inspiration."

"We should probably get going," said Malcolm, standing. "I can't thank you enough, Susie. We honestly weren't expecting breakfast and laundry service."

"Oh, think nothing of it! Just be glad you found my place last night. You could have ended up wandering into my next-door neighbor's workshop, and oh boy, would that have been a mistake!"

"Why?"

"Oh, he'd have come running out with his shotgun, no doubt, the ol' fart!"

"So how do we get to town from here?"

"This way. I'll walk you out to the road." Susie led them down an indiscernible path through dense woods that emptied out onto a small paved road.

"Turn left at the next street," she said, "and it'll take you right up past the university."

"Thanks, Susie," said Alex. "Nice meeting you."

"And you, too, Alex! And you, Joe!"

Susie leaned toward Malcolm discreetly.

"I know your name's not Joe," she whispered. "And I don't know from whom you're hiding. But don't worry--I won't tell anyone I saw you!"

Chapter 27

They turned the corner and headed up the road toward the university.

"What did Susie just say to you?" said Alex.

"Nothing too surprising," Malcolm grumbled. "Apparently when she washed our clothes she checked our ID's."

"So she knew you weren't Joe Williams."

"Right."

"You know, you just don't look like a Joe Williams."

"Well, it was the first name that popped into my head."

"Next time you should try Bob Smith. I think you'd make a good Bob Smith."

"Who the hell is Bob Smith?"

"Well, nobody!" snorted Alex. "Who the hell's Joe Williams?"

"He was my swimming instructor," Malcolm said, reminiscing. "Joe Louis Williams. He was this tall, beefy African American from Atlanta. Bald as a billiard ball, but he said it was to his advantage. He claimed he could swim faster with no hair.

"So this guy taught you how to swim?"

"You could say that. He was my coach for three years. I was--well, it's hard to imagine now, but I was pretty heavily into competitive swimming when I was young."

"No kidding! In high school or college?"

"Oh, hell, I'd outgrown it by then. This was when I was ten or eleven."

"Where did you grow up? Not around here, I take it."

"You're right. I grew up in Santa Monica--three blocks from the ocean."

"Are you serious?" Alex laughed. "You don't look anything like a Californian!"

"And just what are Californians supposed to look like?"

"Well, tan, for one thing. You're too pale."

"Give me a break, Alex! You don't honestly believe birthplace determines skin color, do you?"

"No," Alex sighed. "I'm just delirious, I guess: too many scones on an empty stomach. So you're a good swimmer. Well, I guess that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Why you didn't drown last night. That was an awfully long fall."

Malcolm looked at Alex curiously.

"Did I fall from the bridge?" he said.

"No, you fell from about halfway down. It was really weird. You don't remember falling?"

"Oh, I remember, all right. I just don't know at what point I started to fall. I was trying to get away from Rogers, and then suddenly the ground under my feet was no longer there and I was falling. It was unnerving as hell."

"Wait a minute!" Alex said slowly. "After you left my kitchen with the bomb, where did you go?"

"That's a good question; I don't know where the hell I was. And I didn't have much chance to think about it, either, because Frank Rogers was there with me. And he jumped on me and started beating me with this big stick or pole or whatever the hell it was."

"It wasn't Char's broomstick, was it?"

"No, it was a lot thicker and harder--more like a small tree trunk. He hit me so hard my head was bleeding and I thought I was going to pass out. I'm just lucky I got away before he bashed my skull in."

Malcolm stopped suddenly.

"We need to figure out where we're going," he said.

"Let's go back to my house," said Alex. "That seems like the logical place, doesn't it? We're already headed in that direction."

"Fine. When we get there I want to call Char."

"Sure. Oh, wait--I don't have my house key! I gave my keys to Yasmina so she could use my car."

"Don't worry about it. We can break in through a window."

"But all my windows are locked!"

"It doesn't matter. We can get in through the kitchen window."

"What kitchen window?"

"The one I opened so I could talk to Jay Gabinski."

"But you closed it and locked it. I saw you."

"Sure I did," Malcolm said casually, "but the lock's broken, you know. Anybody could jimmy that window open from the outside."

"No, I didn't know!" Alex grumbled. "Thanks a lot for clueing me in!"

"Alex, I wouldn't worry about it right now. After all, any burglars who try to break into your kitchen will probably end up in Virtual Kansas or somewhere."

"Then what makes you think it's safe for us to break into my kitchen?"

"Hey, I didn't say anything about it being safe."

They passed the University and continued on toward Alex's neighborhood. Alex decided this was as good a time as any to ask the one question that had been gnawing at him for the past few hours or days or whatever the hell it had been.

"Malcolm," he said.

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do now?"

"Break into your house."

"No, I mean in general. Your brother's disappeared, you can't go home, you're running out of money, and you're being hunted by the feds. And you're still wearing my clothes."

"I'm sorry," said Malcolm. "Do you want your clothes back?"

"No, I don't! I mean--not right now. I was just wondering if you had some sort of plan. You know, maybe you should turn yourself in."

"Turn myself in?"

"Yes! After all, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Hmm, you have a point, Alex." Malcolm's voice dripped with sarcasm. "And all Dennis did was shoot an intruder in self-defense. They were extremely understanding about that, weren't they?"

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Well, that's what I've been trying to figure out."

Alex shook his head. He felt as if he were getting nowhere. Of course, he'd been feeling that way a lot lately.

"Okay, I'll tell you what I'm thinking," Malcolm said, sensing his frustration. "It's true I didn't do anything illegal. But I think I did do something."

"What are you talking about?"

"The experiment."

"What . . . ?"

"Remember my experiment, Alex? Remember how all this started in the first place?"

"Oh, come off it! You can't blame one little single random event for this mess!"

"Why not?"

"Because you'd be crazy!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No. Explain yourself."

"Explain myself? For Chrissake, Malcolm--the guilt has affected your mind!"

Malcolm stopped in his tracks for a moment, stunned.

"What guilt?" he demanded.

"What do you mean, what guilt? We're talking truckloads of guilt here! For Chrissake, we're talking about a presidential assassination, we're talking about an entire continent washing away, a chimpanzee in the White House, a homicidal maniac. . . . You're feeling guilty about all this, and it's made you go completely insane. No wonder you jumped off the bridge!"

"Whoa, hold on, Alex! Listen to me, okay? I'm not feeling guilty about anything! I may be responsible, but that's totally different! The only thing I'm guilty of is perhaps a little too much scientific curiosity."

"Then why did you try to do away with yourself?"

Malcolm took a long slow breath before he spoke:

"Haven't you ever had an occasion where you felt as if your life was totally out of control, like you were doomed to complete devastation and absolute ruin, and there was nothing you could do about it? Haven't you ever felt like leaving it all behind?"

"Well, sure. But only momentarily."

"So take that momentary feeling, add a pint of Wild Turkey and a high bridge within arm's reach, and what do you get? You get a lottery, right? And if your lucky number comes up, then you'll jump. But odds are you won't."

"But you did."

"So I was lucky. What can I say? Besides, that was hours ago! Isn't this your street?"

They turned and headed up toward Alex's house. Two houses away they slowed down.

"Looks like I've got visitors," said Alex. A steel-gray van was in his driveway, and parked on the street in front of his house was a black Oldsmobile Machete with government plates.

"Shit!" Malcolm gasped. He grabbed Alex and pulled him out of view behind the neighbor's hedge.

"What is it?" Alex cried.

"Didn't you see the government plates on that car? That's the same fucking car that was at my place! They're probably in your house right now!"

Alex's stomach lurched like an overloaded washing machine changing cycles.

"Right now--" he croaked.

"I'm really sorry about this, Alex!" said Malcolm, shaking his head.

"Hey, Alex!"

Startled, they spun around. A bicycle had just entered the yard, ridden by a boy around eight years old. He stopped and waited for them to reply.

"Hey . . . Curtis," Alex said as coolly as he could, trying hard to conceal the fact that he was shaking like a spin cycle. "How's it going?"

"Okay, I guess." Curtis sat back on his bike and studied the two of them. "So what are you guys doing, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing," said Alex quietly. "You know, just taking a walk. Say, uh, Curtis . . . do you think we could use your telephone?"

"Sure! Come on in."

Curtis dropped his bike on the lawn and charged up the front porch.

"It's okay, he's a cool kid," Alex whispered to Malcolm. "You can call Char from here."

"Looks like I have no choice," Malcolm replied.

"The phone's in the kitchen," said Curtis, leading them through the house. "You aren't going to call long-distance, are you?"

"No, it's local," said Alex.

"Good, 'cause my mom'd get real pissed. Hey, Alex, this guy stopped by a little while ago. He was looking for you."

"What was his name?"

"I don't remember. But he said he was from the FBI! And--"

Alex could feel the muscles in his legs liquefy.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Curtis said, pointing his finger like it was a gun at Malcolm. "You're Malcolm Peevey! He's looking for you, too!"

"What makes you think I'm Malcolm Peevey?"

"Because he showed me your picture!"

"Hmm," said Malcolm, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. "Maybe this is about the inheritance."

"What inheritance?"

"Well, my wealthy aunt just passed away. I was her favorite nephew, you see. They're probably looking for me to sign the papers."

"It didn't sound like that," said Curtis skeptically. "He said you were a wanted criminal!"

Malcolm smiled benignly.

"Oh, come on, Curtis!" he said. "Do I look like a criminal?"

"Sure, why not? So what did you do--rob a bank or something?"

"Nope," said Malcolm coolly. "I shot the President."

"No, you didn't!" Curtis snorted. "I bet you probably forgot to pay your taxes or something boring like that!"

"Hey, let's let him call his wife, okay?" said Alex, steering Curtis toward the back door. As soon as they were outside Alex slumped down onto the porch. He felt as if his intestines were trying to climb up into his stomach.

"So what did he do, Alex?" Curtis whined. "You can tell me! I promise I won't tell anybody."

"Curtis--"

"Come on! This is so totally cool! I never met anybody who was wanted by the FBI. Please?"

Alex took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could.

"Sorry, Curtis," he said. "I hate to disappoint you, but he didn't do anything."

"No way! Then why are they looking for him?"

"I'm telling the truth! He didn't do anything! Sometimes people can be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that's all. Or they can be in the wrong place or the wrong time or both, or perhaps a time or place that doesn't really exist. Or, perhaps the wrong person is in the right place but at the wrong time. . . ."

Alex's voice trailed off when he realized he wasn't making any sense. Just then Malcolm came outside.

"Her phone's been disconnected," he said uneasily.

"When was the last time you called her?" said Alex.

Malcolm thought for a moment.

"What's the date today?" he asked Curtis.

"The tenth."

"The tenth of what?"

"Geez, you guys!" Curtis scoffed. "Don't you even know what month it is?"

Malcolm fixed on the boy with his intense stare.

"I just came out of a coma, Curtis," he said grimly. "So what month is this?"

"May," Curtis muttered, glaring back.

"So it's been four and a half months. Alex, we have to get out of here."

". . . . May?" Alex murmured in a daze.

"Yes, it's May and we have to go!"

Malcolm quickly scanned the perimeter of the back yard.

"Curtis, do you know your neighbors behind you?" he said. "Do they have any vicious pets? Guard dogs, man-eating sharks, anything?"

"No," Curtis muttered sullenly.

"Good. Let's see if we can get through to the next street."

"Are we going to crash through time?" said Alex.

"No, we're going to crash through somebody's back yard--and that's all, I hope."

"Okay. . . ."

Alex stood; it seemed to take forever. He no longer felt shaky--just numb and unreal, like a badly-drawn cartoon character.

"See ya later, Curtis," he managed to utter in a hollow voice very unlike his own. Curtis was too busy moping to respond. Sensing this, Malcolm sidled up next to him.

"Tell you what, kid," he said in a low voice.

"What?" Curtis grumbled.

"If you keep quiet about this, I'll send you part of the money."

"What money?"

"From the bank robbery, what else?" said Malcolm. "So is it a deal?"

Curtis broke slowly into a cool grin.

"Deal!" he said. "How much?"

"How much? You ask too many questions, Curtis! We'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay."

"And remember: don't tell anybody about this."

"Geez!" Curtis replied, offended. "What kind of guy do you think I am, anyway?"

"Just making sure. Come on, let's go!"

Malcolm and Alex hoisted themselves over the short chain-link fence separating the yards and slipped quietly past the house. The coast was clear; nobody was home. They hurried out to the street.

"Wait," said Malcolm, stopping cautiously to survey the block. "What's the fastest way out of here?"

"That way," pointed Alex.

"Hey, are you all right?"

"I suppose, considering the circumstances. Why?"

"You're white as a sheet. Are you going to faint again?"

"No, damnit!" Alex snapped. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out forcibly. "See? I'm fine!"

"Good. No offense to your charming neighborhood, but let's get out of here!"

They tore off down the street and around the corner, covering another long block before they slowed to a walk.

"So where are we going, anyway?" said Alex.

"I don't know. You're the one who knows where we are."

"Where do we want to be going, then?"

"Well, I'd like to get to Pie R Squared."

"Don't you need a calculator for that?"

"No, but a car sure would be nice."

"Where's Pie R Squared?"

"It's over in Madison, on West Soter near Ashley."

"That's not far. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes if we walk fast."

"Fine. Let's walk fast, then."

They quickened their pace and proceeded.

"So tell me something," said Alex after another couple of blocks. "How come you hate kids so much?"

"What makes you think I hate kids?"

"Well, for one thing, the way you were lying through your teeth to Curtis."

"You lied to him, too."

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did. You told him I was calling my wife."

"That was a white lie! It's not the same thing at all. You, on the other hand, were going way out of your way to lie to him!"

"Come on," said Malcolm defensively. "Just because I enjoy tormenting kids doesn't mean I hate them."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Besides, what did you expect me to do? Tell him the truth?"

"I suppose not," Alex muttered. "But you didn't have to be so cruel."

Malcolm chuckled.

"I wasn't cruel, Alex," he said. "I like kids!"

"Sure you do."

"Hey, some of my best friends are kids!"

"Oh yeah? Like who?"

"Well, some of my students, for example."

"But you teach college!"

"So? Everything's relative, isn't it?"

A few minutes later they found themselves on West Soter Drive a block past Ashley Avenue. McDingle's Pie R Squared was across the street. The orange neon script letters which spelled out "McDingle's" towered above the restaurant, dwarfing the circular "Pie R Squared" sign.

"Shall we go in and have some pie?" said Alex, starting to cross.

"No, wait," said Malcolm. "I'd better not go in. We should be careful."

"Food's that bad, huh?"

"Listen, you remember what Char looks like, right?"

"Of course," Alex said dreamily. "How could I forget?"

"First of all, could you go in and find out if she's working? And if she is, tell her I need to talk to her. Find out when she gets off work."

"Okay, sure. Where should I meet you?"

Malcolm gave a quick glance up and down the street.

"I'll be right around here somewhere," he said. "I'll try my best to look invisible."

"If you look invisible, how will I find you?"

"Oh, you'll find me. Just use your X-ray vision."

Alex crossed the street and entered Pie R Squared. It wasn't a particularly busy time of day; only two customers were in the restaurant. From out of nowhere the hostess appeared.

"One for lunch?" she said.

"Yeah, sure."

"Smoking or nonsmoking?"

"It doesn't matter--is Char working today?"

"You betcha! I'll put you in her section."

She seated Alex in a spacious booth and handed him a large triangular menu. Before he had a chance to open it Char appeared. Her waves of blond hair were pulled back tightly in a pony tail, and she was wearing a pale green and white checked dress and a white apron covered with orange chickens and yellow pie slices. Despite all this she still managed to take Alex's breath away.

"Would you like some coffee to start?" she said, not recognizing him.

"Actually," he stammered, "well--you're Char, right?"

"Yes. Have we--?" She looked at him curiously.

"I'm Alex."

"Hi, Alex," she replied, suddenly confused. "I'm sorry--you looked like somebody else for a minute. Or maybe--"

She shook her head nervously and laughed.

"Don't mind me," she said. "It's probably just déjà-vu. I've been having it a lot lately."

"Hmm," said Alex, watching her with amusement. "So do you know what I'm going to say next?"

"Well, no! I would think you'd have to have already said something, and then if you were going to say it again, then I'd know what you were going to say."

". . . . say that again?"

"I don't think I can!" she laughed. "Oh, you'll have to excuse me--it's been a long day and I didn't get any sleep--"

"I need to talk to you about Malcolm."

Char paused for a moment, stunned, and then sat down.

"Is he all right?" she said quietly, her brows furrowing.

"Yes, he's okay."

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Alex couldn't help noticing how pale and graceful her neck was. Then she sat forward and looked at Alex.

"I was so worried," she said, and her eyes began to dart across the table and around the room as she spoke. "He just vanished, you know. One day everything was great and the next day he was just . . . gone! I have no idea what happened. At first I was angry--I was so angry--because I couldn't think of anything I'd done or said that would cause him to just go off like that--but then when I discovered his phone was turned off I got worried, and then I didn't know what to think. And then when his brother disappeared, that's when I got scared! I knew something terrible had to have happened. I mean, it's just too weird!"

She gazed bewilderedly at Alex then, waiting patiently for him to speak. He felt tempted to say something that had nothing to do with Malcolm: something like "You have beautiful eyes" or "Let's go for a walk" or "What do you say we have some children together?" But alas, Alex could say none of these things; it was the curse of being the decent sort he was.

"Char, listen," he did say. "Malcolm needs to talk to you."

"Where is he?"

"Outside, across the street."

She looked at her watch.

"Wait here, okay?" she said. "I get off in five minutes. I just need to close out and I'll be right back."

"Okay. Can I ask you one thing?"

"Sure."

"What time is it?"

"It's almost two o'clock."

Two o'clock! Those words shot into Alex's ear, threaded their way through the fractal passages of his brain at close to the speed of light, and flew out the other ear, leaving nothing behind but an image. Two o'clock! What did it mean? Where had the day gone? Had it been long enough? He couldn't tell anymore. After all, if the entire month of April and the beginning of May had eluded him, how could he possibly tell what time it was? Now that he'd missed his appointment in Minneapolis, now that he'd broken several dates with friends, now that he probably had a pile of overdue bills, what difference could it possibly make what time it was right now?

"Okay." Char had returned with her coat and purse. "Should we take my car?"

"Well," said Alex, "seeing as how we don't have one, do you mind?"

"No problem. I'm parked out back."

They exited the restaurant and jumped into Char's red Mazda Minna, and she pulled one of those maneuvers only a woman like Char could manage: she moved the car out of the parking lot, coasted it perpendicularly across Soter Drive, and somehow managed to swing it through a seemingly impossible right angle into an almost nonexistent parking space across the street, all in the space of ten seconds.

"Great parking job," said Alex.

"Thanks," she said, turning off the ignition. "I'm a professional. So where is he?"

"He said he'd be right around here."

"Maybe he went into that donut shop."

"Are you kidding?"

"You're right," Char replied, rolling her eyes. "He'd never go into a donut shop. What was I thinking?"

"Hang on--I'll see if I can find him." Alex got out of the car, walked slowly down to the end of the block and around the corner, and came back up the alley, peering in store windows and back doorways.

Come on, Malcolm! he thought to himself. Where the hell is he hiding, for Chrissake? What if they found him while I was in the restaurant? What if they've taken him away to lock him up with his brother in Never-Never Land? Or, worse yet, what if he's been sucked back into my kitchen by my vacuum cleaner, right into the hands of the FBI? Jesus, that might scare those goons into shooting him! Or what if Frank Rogers materialized again? What if Malcolm's been sucked into another void somewhere? What if--

"Alex!" At the sound of his name he spun around, startled. Malcolm was directly behind him.

"Where the hell were you, for Chrissake?" Alex snapped.

"I was in the appliance store on the corner."

"What--an appliance store? At a time like this?"

"I was thinking about appliances and how they work. I think I'm understanding the blender-vacuum cleaner connection! It may have something to do with reflective resonance, and I'm just wondering if it could work with other appliances. I wish we could experiment with timers--"

"Listen," Alex broke in. "Char's parked around the corner."

"Why didn't you say so?" Malcolm exclaimed. They rushed back out to the street. Char was standing on the sidewalk next to her car, her arms folded against her chest.

"Char!" yelled Malcolm. As he approached she watched him with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.

"Malcolm!" she gasped. "Where--? I mean, what--?"

He threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

"Those are all very good questions," he said quietly. "And I can answer them all, but it's a long story. It's--so good to see you again!"

As they stood on the sidewalk and kissed, Alex watched the traffic pass. He coughed nervously when a police car started to cruise by. Malcolm caught sight of the car.

"Say, Char," he said. "Let's go over to your place, okay? This isn't the best place to talk."

They climbed into the red Minna.

"Are you two in some sort of trouble?" she said as she started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Malcolm contemplated the question for a moment.

"You could say that," he said.

Char's eyes widened.

"What kind of trouble?"

Malcolm looked at her for a moment. Then he looked out the window, and then back at Alex, and then at Char again.

"That's a good question," he said. "Trouble, hmm . . . what kind of trouble? You know, that's a very good question. In fact, it's an excellent question!" He started to laugh. "Absolutely stunning! Well put!" he roared. "A shining example of a question!"

"Don't mind him," said Alex, noticing Char's stricken look. "He's had nothing to eat but scones for the past--I don't know, day or so. And it's been a very stressful . . . oh, I don't know, day, or . . . whatever. Oh, Jesus!" He and Malcolm were in hysterics by now.

"Come on, you guys!" said Char angrily. "Malcolm, you know I can't stand to be left out of a joke!"

"I wish it was a joke," he said, wiping his eyes. "Or maybe it is a joke after all. I only wish I knew what the damn punch line was supposed to be!"

"Don't say that!" Alex said. "I'm depending on you to figure everything out for us. I mean, I sure as hell have no idea what's happening!"

"Listen, you two!" Char snapped. "Would somebody mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Malcolm, slowly regaining his composure. "I'm sorry, Char. It's just that an awful lot has happened since the last time I saw you--in fact, starting immediately after the last time I saw you--relatively speaking, that is--and so far I haven't been able to explain any of it. I mean, I can tell you what appears to have happened, but none of it makes much sense. And now I've probably got you involved in it, too. Did you know your phone's been disconnected?"

"What? My phone?"

"Yes. I tried to call you a little while ago."

"Are you sure you dialed right?"

"I'm sure. I tried four times."

"Well, I'll check it out as soon as we get to my place."

"Oh, and what time does your watch say?"

"2:14. Why?"

Malcolm stared intently for a moment at the dashboard clock which said 2:18.

"Oh, nothing important," he said casually. "I was just wondering what time it was."

Chapter 28

As Char turned onto North Wesley Avenue, Malcolm sat forward nervously.

"You'd better go slowly," he said.

"Why?"

"I just want to be careful. Have you noticed my brother's house lately?"

"Sure, but--"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like a house. Why?"

"You haven't seen anyone hanging around? No cars in the driveway or anything?"

"As far as I can tell nobody's been there. The place has been deserted."

"Okay. But go slowly anyway."

They cruised past Dennis's house. The place was dark and deserted and looked as though no one had been around for awhile. The yard was overgrown and weedy and newspapers were piled up on the porch and scattered along the walkway.

"The lawn needs mowing," said Malcolm.

"Is that what you're worried about?" said Char.

"No," he sighed, sitting back relieved. "Everything looks just fine."

They pulled into the small parking structure under Char's building. Three other cars were parked there: a white Plymouth Siren, a silver Honda Concerto, and a red Triumph Bandit. No Oldsmobiles, no government plates. So far so good, thought Alex, relieved. Once they were safely inside Char's apartment he felt an even deeper level of relief. As he sank into Char's pillowy couch he felt as if it were the first time he'd ever sat down. He watched Malcolm and Char, who were moving excitedly around the room, with detachment. Char had changed out of her green checked uniform and chicken-pie apron and into a much more flattering black sweater and jeans.

"I don't understand why it's disconnected," she was saying. "I'm sure I paid my bill this month."

"It was probably turned off by mistake," said Malcolm.

"Let me see if Rob's home next door. I'll call the phone company from his place. Why don't you guys relax a minute and--"

She was interrupted by a loud vigorous knocking at the front door which rattled the windows. Alex's heart leaped into his throat as he lurched out of the couch. Malcolm stopped in his tracks and backed slowly into the kitchen, watching the door tensely. Alarmed by their reactions, Char peered through the peephole cautiously.

"Oh, it's just Rob," she said, and she opened the door. Rob Vickerstrom was standing in the hallway looking extremely agitated.

"Hi, Char," he said, bending his skyscraping head down at an angle toward her. "I'm sorry to bother you like this, but I've just discovered my phone isn't working! And it's absolutely terrible timing, because I'm expecting an important call from the Echs-Kremen Gallery in Manhattan. Would you mind terribly if I used your phone?"

"Sorry, Rob. Mine's not working, either."

"Oh, my," he said, sighing dramatically. "Then is everybody in the whole building out of order? What a complete disaster this is!" Straightening his neck momentarily he banged his head on the top of the doorway and winced.

"Why don't you go check with the manager?" Char said. "If the whole building's out, she's probably getting it fixed. And you can use her phone if it's working."

Rob grimaced; little beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

"Yes, yes," he groaned. "I guess that's what I'll have to do! I simply must get myself a cellular phone--I can't go on like this! Oh, some days! Well, thanks, Char."

Char closed the door and smiled.

"He's so funny sometimes," she said.

"I believe strange is a better word," said Malcolm. "He carries around a hell of a lot of angst for one person."

"Yes, I know. He's got the complete Tortured Artist's boxed set: Angst, Torment, Misery, Suffering."

"And pizza delivery," added Alex. Char looked at him blankly.

"He tried to deliver a pizza to my house the other night," he said.

"Who did?"

"That guy, Rob. Your neighbor."

"What?" Char was stunned. Malcolm approached her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Perhaps we'd better fill you in on what's been happening," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "That sounds like an excellent idea. But first, would you guys like something to drink or eat? Have you had lunch?"

"No," said Malcolm. "And I don't know about Alex, but I'm famished."

Char gazed into his eyes seductively.

"Would you like a . . . tuna sandwich?" she said in a low sexy voice. Malcolm gazed back at her, captivated.

"Yes," he replied hungrily.

"Would you like one, too, Alex?" Char threw him a flirtatious look he couldn't refuse.

"Sure," he replied.

They moved into the kitchen, where Char's cat Timothy was lying sphinxlike on the table in a feline state of half-sleep.

"I think I should warn you, Alex," Malcolm said as he stroked the cat. "Char makes the best tuna sandwiches in the world--possibly in the universe. And I'm sure Timothy here would back me up on that."

"Malcolm's right, you know," Char boasted as she opened a can of imported albacore.

"I wouldn't doubt it," said Alex. "After all, I'm sure Malcolm has extremely high tuna sandwich standards."

"Well, of course," Malcolm said semi-seriously. "Making a good tuna sandwich is an art form, you know."

"Like French pastry?"

"Yes, like French pastry."

By now the albacore fumes had aroused Timothy from his semiconscious state, and he jumped from the table in order to better situate himself between Char's legs.

"Oh, you hungry boy," she said. "I guess I'd better feed you first."

Alex seated himself at the table and looked around. The walls were plastered with a jumbled assortment of images: color posters of wild animals, black and white photographs of urban buildings, miscellaneous postcards, and snapshots of people, Char included. The shelves over the table were cluttered with primitive statuary and artifacts, wind-up and battery-operated toys, and various hand-held power tools. On the small shelf behind Alex's head a diminutive Godzilla was attacking a nail gun while a procession of wind-up penguins paraded in front of a battery-powered stud detector.

"So what about fractals?" he said, letting his eyes wander leisurely through the bric-a-brac. "Does a tuna sandwich have a fractal surface, too? Or--"

He stopped when he spotted a long cylindrical object stuffed in the corner behind a shelf. He reached over and extracted it.

"A didjeridu!" he exclaimed, inspecting the instrument closely.

"Yes," said Char as she sliced the sandwiches. "I picked it up in Australia a couple of years ago. Do you play?"

"No, but--you aren't going to believe this, but I dreamed about a didjeridu last night! Or maybe it was a few hours ago--I'm not sure. Anyway, it looked exactly like this one--same patterns, same colors, same stripes around here, this same design right here--it was this didjeridu! And Malcolm was playing it. I swear!"

Malcolm approached the table, mesmerized.

"Let me see that," he said quietly. Alex handed the instrument to him and he turned it around and around in his hands slowly, his expression of fascination changing to one of shock.

"What the matter?" said Alex. Malcolm wiped a small trail of red liquid from the didjeridu with his finger and tasted it.

"This is what Frank Rogers was hitting me with," he said, bewildered. "And this--" He held up his finger. "This is blood!"

Alex stared, astonished. Then he realized his own hands were smeared with red.

"Oh, come on, you guys!" said Char. "It's only a didjeridu!" She brought the sandwiches over, set them on the table, and grabbed the instrument from Malcolm.

"See?" she said, positioning her hands around it firmly. "You play it by blowing on this end. You have to learn to blow without pausing, so you have a constant flow of air. It's hard to explain, but you learn to circulate your breath continuously, and then you use your tongue to create the rhythmic patterns. It's a fascinating . . . what's this red stuff?"

She looked at the red smears on her hands, and then noticed Malcolm's hands.

"Are you bleeding?" she gasped.

"Not now," he said, contemplating his hands. "But I was . . . before I fell in the lake."

"What lake?" Char's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Lake La Verne." Malcolm watched her closely, curious to see what her response would be. Her expression changed to one of uncertainty.

"You know something?" she said. "I dreamed about you last night."

"What did you dream?"

"Well, you aren't going to believe this, but . . . I dreamed I was out by Lake La Verne. And you were drowning, and I saved you! And there was--well, there was another person with me--"

She looked at Alex.

"You!" she cried. "That's why you look familiar! You were--but how could you be in my dream? For some reason I dreamed about you, too!"

"Funny you should say that," Alex replied, intrigued. "Did I have a blender with a watch in it? And was there a crazy guy trying to drown Malcolm?"

Char's eyes widened.

"You're psychic!" she said.

"No! I was there! And so was Malcolm."

"What? What are you saying?"

"So it's dreams!" said Malcolm. "When we collide with fractal time, it takes the shape of dreams!"

"But you and I haven't been dreaming!" said Alex. "I mean, I've had a couple of strange dreams recently, but this--I mean, we aren't dreaming now! And you can't tell me Kansas was a dream!"

"No, you and I haven't been dreaming," Malcolm pondered. "But--how come it's only the two of us, Alex? And just what is it that's so special about your kitchen and your appliances, anyway?"

"Okay, enough," said Char, at which point she went to the refrigerator, took out three bottles of beer, and brought them back to the table.

"Now," she said. "Wash that blood or whatever it is off your hands, and let's eat these sandwiches, damnit! And then the two of you are going to talk!"

Chapter 29

They ate the sandwiches in silence. Alex was surprised how ravenous he was and tried hard not to wolf down his sandwich. Nevertheless he polished it off well ahead of the others.

"Gee, Alex," said Char. "I'm sorry you didn't like it!"

"I believe Alex is the fastest eater I've ever known," said Malcolm.

"Hey," Alex said, reddening slightly. "So I was a little hungry, that's all."

"Would you like another one?" said Char.

"No, thanks."

"Another beer?"

"Sure."

"I also suspect he's never turned down a beer," Malcolm added.

"Oh, yeah?" said Alex. "Well, I doubt Malcolm's ever turned down a shot of caffeine."

"How long have you two been friends?" said Char.

"Since Friday," said Alex.

"Just this last Friday?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Malcolm. "At least to our perception."

"And I don't know if I'd call us friends," added Alex.

"Alex was a lot better off before he met me," Malcolm said, smiling.

"Why?" said Char. "You don't exactly seem like enemies."

"We aren't," said Alex. "Actually, I'm more his victim."

"Oh, boy," said Char, rubbing her forehead. "There goes that déjà-vu again. . . ."

"It's not déjà-vu," said Malcolm. "The three of us have had practically this same conversation before."

"What do you mean, we've had this conversation before? I just met Alex!"

"That's true, in a manner of speaking. But you were probably dreaming during the last conversation."

"You mean I was falling asleep? You know, I'm not surprised, considering how much sleep I've been getting lately. When was this, anyway? I honestly can't remember--"

"Yesterday," said Malcolm. "At least to Alex and me. I don't know when it actually did take place. And I have no idea when it took place for you. Maybe last night, or maybe some other time."

"You've lost me," said Char.

"Okay, let me try again. You were with Alex and me yesterday, or whenever it happened to occur, only you were dreaming. And Alex and I weren't."

"So are you saying the two of you consciously entered a dream I was having?"

"No, I didn't say that at all."

"Well then, what are you trying to say?"

Malcolm smiled, bewildered.

"I'm not sure," he said.

"Let me try," volunteered Alex. "You see, while you were dreaming, somehow you ended up physically in my kitchen while Malcolm and I weren't dreaming."

"That's right," said Malcolm excitedly. "You see, there's something very strange going on in Alex's kitchen. Actually there's something very strange going on in general, and it all started right after the last time I saw you, in December." Whereupon Malcolm told Char about how Dennis had killed President Bongo; about how Malcolm found himself stranded at Sam Rose's house in Puerto Vallarta for a year; about how he ended up jumping off Suicide Bridge and landing in Alex's back yard; and about all the strange adventures Malcolm and Alex had experienced up to this point. When he finished he sat back and waited for Char's response.

"I've got to hand it to you, Malcolm," she said, shaking her head in amazement. "That's the wildest excuse for not calling me I've ever heard!"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me if I told you I lost your number," he replied, shrugging. "I had to come up with something."

Char smiled affectionately at him, and then laughed.

"Oh Jesus, what a mess!" she said. "My poor Malcolm!"

"So you believe me?"

"I have no choice, do I?"

"Then tell me," he said, leaning forward and taking her hand in his. "Do you recall dreaming any of this? Do you recall being in Alex's kitchen with the vacuum cleaner and--"

"Yes!" she broke in excitedly. "I do, now that you've reminded me. There was a dog--a really sweet dog--and there was kitty litter in the refrigerator. But--if it wasn't a dream--"

She looked at Alex, perplexed.

"If this really happened," she said slowly, "why was your refrigerator full of kitty litter?"

"You got me," Alex replied. "Why has my house been full of strange people?"

"Because according to Malcolm they were all dreaming, right? But kitty litter doesn't dream!"

"How do you know for sure?"

"There's something I'm curious about," said Malcolm. "When you dreamed about saving me from drowning, how did the dream end?"

"Oh, let me think. It was pretty strange. I pulled you out of the water, and Alex was there, and then there was a big explosion. And then I was in Australia and I was . . . surrounded by dinosaurs!"

Malcolm drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

"Dinosaurs," he murmured.

"Now, wait just a minute," said Char. "You aren't going to try to tell me I really was surrounded by dinosaurs?"

"Anything's possible, although I don't understand how you could have gone back in time. It's not consistent."

"What do you mean it's not consistent?" said Alex. "Just what would you call it when you were in Mexico for a year, and then you ended up on that flight where only two months had passed? Wouldn't you call that going back in time?"

"Not really. Time is an arrow. It might be fractal, but it's still an arrow."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm simply saying time goes in one direction: what we perceive as forward. If we follow time in a fractal pattern, bumping in and out of the irregularities, we may be moving backwards and forwards, experiencing constrictions and protractions of time--but when you consider the whole of time, these variations are on a relatively minute scale. Just because I experienced a few extra months in some sort of pseudo-Mexican holding pattern doesn't mean it's possible to go back millions of years!"

"Maybe I didn't actually go back in time to visit the dinosaurs," said Char. "Maybe it really was a dream. It's possible, you know. Perhaps my dreaming got tangled up with your reality. Or perhaps you two stumbled across my dream when you weren't looking."

"Say that again?" said Alex. Char smiled.

"It's just an idea," she explained. "I've been reading a lot lately about the Dreamtime for my Industrial Ethnomusicology thesis. I'm comparing pre- and post-industrial music systems, and the Australian Aborigines are a fascinating pre-industrial example. You see, back before the floods they believed Australia was covered with this huge labyrinth of unmarked pathways called dreaming tracks. They also call them song lines because there's a song associated with each track, and the songs were taught to each succeeding generation. The Aborigines considered these pathways to be the tracks of their ancestors from the Dreamtime. They'd travel down these invisible paths to perform their social rituals. The song lines were a part of their daily life. And now many of them--the physical pathways--have vanished underwater. But the songs remain, and therefore so does the culture. After all, a song can't be erased by a flood."

"What does this have to do with dreaming about dinosaurs?" said Alex.

"Well, perhaps our dreams are invisible roads, and for some reason you two have been stepping in mine."

"Interesting concept," said Malcolm.

"It still doesn't explain the dinosaurs," said Alex.

"Maybe the dinosaurs don't need explaining."

"Of course they need explaining!"

"Then you explain them," Malcolm said indifferently. "I've run out of ideas."

"You've what?" Alex gasped in disbelief. "Are your caffeine blood levels too low or something? We could make some coffee."

"I doubt it would help much, Alex. I'm not exactly sleepy."

"If we only had your notes here--"

A look of alarm flashed across Malcolm's face.

"Oh, my God!" he muttered. "My notes!"

"Where are they?" said Char. "Maybe we should get them."

"We can't--they're at Alex's house!" He jumped up and began to move nervously around the room. "They're probably being dissected this minute by a bunch of government dickheads who don't know chaos theory from a hole in the ground. And, if they've decided to be particularly anal, they're going to investigate every single person named in those notes! Which means--"

"Which means we've got to figure out what to do right now!" Alex burst out.

"Oh, sure, Alex," Malcolm said sarcastically. "You got any ideas?"

"Come on, you're the chaos expert!"

Malcolm stepped over to the window, peeked out anxiously, and then sat down.

"If I were an expert," he said, rubbing his temples tiredly, "I would have figured out this mess a long time ago. As it is I'm nothing more than a has-been college teacher with a potentially lethal chaotic mess on my hands."

"Hey," said Char, leaning over and touching his face sympathetically. "What's a little chaos between friends?"

Alex stood up resolutely. Someone needed to do something fast, he told himself, and at this rate it didn't look like it was going to be Malcolm.

"Where's your blender, Char?" he demanded as he scanned the countertops.

"I don't have a blender."

"You don't--" He stopped dead and stared helplessly at her.

"But I do have a small food processor," she said. "It's over there by the toaster."

Alex went over to the food processor and examined it tentatively.

"All right," he said. "Now, do you have a vacuum cleaner?"

"What do you plan to do?" said Malcolm doubtfully.

"I have no idea. But one of us should be doing something, even if it doesn't make any sense."

"The proverbial grasping at straws?"

"Yes, damnit! Now, are you going to help me or not?"

"But my vacuum cleaner's not here," said Char.

"Where is it?" Alex was starting to feel desperate.

"I dropped it off at the repair shop this morning."

"What? Why?"

"The switch was broken," she said apologetically. "It wouldn't turn on. It just needs a new switch."

"It doesn't matter," said Malcolm with a sudden flash of inspiration. "Alex, your vacuum cleaner should be enough. It's worth a try."

"But my vacuum cleaner's still at my house."

"That's okay. Turn on the food processor."

"But there's nothing in it!"

Malcolm approached the food processor.

"We aren't making margaritas," he muttered, cranking the food processor's lid to the 'on' position. The kitchen filled with the loud whine of nothing in particular hitting nothing in particular. Then they heard two dissonant whines, four cacophonous whines, and finally a symphony of metallic whines screeching in disharmony at an ear-shattering intensity.

"Turn it off!" shrieked Alex, cringing as he clasped his hands to his ears.

"I'm trying to!" Malcolm yelled as he struggled to disconnect the lid. The noise had become unbearable. In desperation he yanked the cord out of the socket, and found himself face to face with a young man in a navy blue suit that looked two sizes too large. The man, who was holding a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, looked around, stunned. When he saw Malcolm he immediately wrested a gun out from under his coat.

"Freeze!" he yelled, pointing the gun with one hand while he clutched the sandwich with the other. For a tense moment he kept his eyes fixed on Malcolm, snatching an occasional glimpse of his sandwich. Finally Malcolm ventured to speak.

"Are you going to eat that?"

The man glanced at his sandwich and back at Malcolm.

"Freeze!" he repeated. "FBI!" He started to reach for his identification but hesitated when he realized both hands were full. As he turned momentarily to find a clean spot on the counter to set down the sandwich, a long cylindrical object came hurtling through the air, knocking the FBI agent sideways into Alex and sending gun and sandwich flying. Malcolm dived for the gun as Alex struggled to get out from under the thrashing agent who'd managed to get his arms around him in a choke hold. As Alex fought frantically he heard the sound of something hollow and melodic bouncing off something dense and nonmelodic, and then he felt the agent's hold weaken.

"Hold it right there!" Malcolm yelled, gun pointed at the agent's forehead. Char stood over the agent and Alex with the didjeridu poised for another attack. Alex scrambled as fast as he could away from the agent and in the process plowed into Char, sending the didjeridu bouncing wildly across the floor and Alex and Char crashing into the refrigerator. As they collided an array of refrigerator magnets, snapshots, and notes tumbled down around them, followed by a box of small soldering irons that slid off the top of the refrigerator.

"Are you okay, Char?" said Malcolm, keeping his stare and the gun fixed on the agent.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she said, peeling off an Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet that had embedded itself in her arm. "You okay, Alex?"

"Yeah." Alex brushed a McDingle's Casa de Taco magnet and a grocery list away from her face. He was so close to her he could smell her hair. Violets, he thought.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"Hey, don't worry," she replied, smiling provocatively. "It was sort of fun! And it's just a dream."

"No, it isn't!"

"Sure it is . . . isn't it?" She looked at him uncertainly.

"It isn't!" Alex repeated, glancing at Malcolm and the gun and the agent and then back at Char and her violet-scented hair. "This isn't a dream!"

"He's right," said Malcolm, staring fixedly at the agent. "Nobody's dreaming now."

The agent, who'd managed to regain his equilibrium, scowled at Malcolm.

"It's-a-federal-offense-to-detain-a-federal-agent-in-the-line-of-duty," he recited in as officious a voice as he could muster. "You're in a lot of trouble, Mr. Peevey." Malcolm edged the barrel of the gun closer and closer until it rested against the agent's forehead.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," he said acidly. The agent flinched.

"Agent Hill," he mumbled.

"Well, Mr. Agent Hill, I realize this is terribly illegal and all, but I simply cannot have you lousing things up at this point."

Agent Hill swallowed nervously and stared at Malcolm. Alex and Char stared in turn at Malcolm, at Agent Hill, and at the gun. Malcolm stared at Agent Hill, glancing now and then at a squashed piece of sandwich which clung to Agent Hill's shirtfront. The silence was broken by Timothy's meow; the cat sauntered casually up to Agent Hill, gave the sandwich chunk a brief sniff, and strolled away uninterested.

"What is that?" Malcolm demanded, indicating the chunk.

"My sandwich," Agent Hill replied.

"I know, but what is it?"

Agent Hill swallowed again.

"Just some lunchmeat," he said.

"What kind?"

"Uh, headcheese."

"Why are you eating that stuff?"

"Because--" Agent Hill was starting to sweat. "It's my lunch."

"Do you know what headcheese is?" Malcolm said in a professorial voice. Agent Hill paused, searching in vain for what he hoped was the correct answer.

"Not really," he breathed. "No."

"It's made out of pig brains. You shouldn't be eating that junk."

"It's all I had at home," Agent Hill said tensely.

"Can't you guys stop at a deli or something? I could see you eating pastrami or smoked turkey breast or--hell, even chopped liver's better than that garbage! I mean, the cat won't even touch it."

Char and Alex looked sideways at each other, trying hard to stifle their smirks. The chunk of headcheese continued to cling precariously to Agent Hill's shirt.

"Okay, get up," Malcolm ordered.

Agent Hill did as he was directed.

"Now put your hands on the food processor."

Horror swept across Agent Hill's face.

"I didn't say in the food processor," said Malcolm. "Just on it. And hold down the lid so it doesn't come off. I promise this won't hurt a bit." As soon as Agent Hill's hands were touching the food processor Malcolm plugged it in the wall and jumped back. The processor began shrieking again with a series of metallic whines, increasing in volume and intensity until no one could do anything but cover their ears in pain; and then everything was still and Agent Hill was gone. Unfortunately so was Char's kitchen.

"Wh-where--?" Char stuttered, but Alex motioned frantically for her to be quiet. He looked over at Malcolm who had turned pale and was distinctly mouthing the words oh fuck. Somehow they'd managed to land back in Alex's kitchen.

Chapter 30

They froze. No one made a sound. Alex leaned toward Char.

"We're in my kitchen," he whispered in her ear.

"Where's Agent Hill?" she whispered back.

"I don't know--but the place is probably crawling with his friends!"

"Do you hear that?" They could hear the faint rumblings of the TV in the living room. And then they heard a loud raucous laugh.

"Jesus Kee-rist!" yelled a male voice. "She married him? What a friggin' loser!"

"What are you watching?" said a second male voice.

"Oh, you know ol' Cody," a female voice said. "Probably one of his stupid talk shows again. It looks like Vicki Nicki Tordini."

"Hey, you gotta see this, though!" said the first male voice. "The whole show's about "Women Who Love Men With Tiny Heads Too Much", and I've got to tell you these gals are lookin' good! What the hell do they see in these pinheads? Just look at the head on that geek! Je-ee-SUS!"

By this time Malcolm had spotted Alex's vacuum cleaner perched on a mound of kitty litter by the back door. The variegated image of a large figure smoking a cigarette on the back porch was discernible through the slightly cracked blinds. Malcolm managed to direct Alex's attention toward the vacuum cleaner. When he realized Malcolm was nodding and mouthing the words Let's go, Alex shook his head vehemently and mouthed the word no.

What! Why not? Malcolm mouthed back.

No way! mouthed Alex. He sure as hell didn't want to end up back in Char's kitchen with Agent Hill and his headcheese. On the other hand, not many options presented themselves at the moment.

What the fuck? mouthed Malcolm as he edged his way toward Alex and Char. When he got close enough he whispered.

"Come on! We have to get out of here!"

"But there's no blender!" Alex whispered back.

"So what? We've got to try it. We have no choice!"

"Try what?" Char whispered.

"We have to get to the vacuum cleaner and turn it on!"

"What's that stuff around it?"

"Kitty litter. Come on! We don't have much time!"

"Hey, Hill!" The voice called Cody approached the kitchen. "You still stuffing your face in there? You gotta come take a look at these friggin' weirdos!"

Malcolm grabbed Char and Alex and bolted for the vacuum cleaner.

"Come on!" he yelled, yanking them along. In a frenzy he fell onto the vacuum cleaner and flipped the switch.

Nothing happened.

"Fuck!" he shrieked as he frantically popped opened the canister lid.

"What the--FREEZE!" shouted Agent Cody. In an instant the other two agents had joined him, and three serious-looking guns were drawn and trained attentively on Malcolm, Alex, and Char. Alex held his breath and watched, petrified, as the room started to spin. He caught a quick glimpse of his throbbing arm and noticed the sleeve was drenched with blood. Oh, shit! he thought. I'm bleeding--I'm going to bleed to death right here! Or else I'll just faint, and then they'll shoot me for fainting! And if they don't, I'll have a heart attack anyway! And then they'll shoot me for having a heart attack!

But Malcolm, who was staring wide-eyed at the exposed vacuum cleaner bag, was oblivious of the guns.

"What the FUCK--!" he gasped.

"FBI! YOU'RE ALL UNDER ARREST!" shouted Agent Cody, his gun aimed at Malcolm. The other two agents cautiously approached the vacuum cleaner, their guns pointed at Alex and Char. The agent on the back porch could be seen drawing his gun. Alex had decided by this point he wasn't going to faint or have a heart attack after all. Vomiting was more like it. I'm going to puke my lunch all over the floor, he thought. A large tuna sandwich followed by two beers! He felt as though he was surrounded by bloodthirsty sharks hungrily waiting for him to either bleed or spew. . . .

During these few tense seconds, however, Char noticed why the vacuum cleaner didn't work: it was unplugged. In one bold and careless move she grabbed the cord, lunged for the outlet on the wall, and plugged it in.

What happened next was not something Char, Alex, or even Malcolm could have predicted. The vacuum cleaner screamed and buzzed loudly as before; but rather than screaming in three dimensions, it was more like seven or eight dimensions. This is because the vacuum cleaner bag Malcolm couldn't peel his eyes away from was a multidimensional object that simply couldn't exist in only three dimensions. Malcolm, Alex, and Char were each aware of being somewhere other than in Alex's kitchen, and they were simultaneously and unanimously unaware of being where any FBI agents were, so it could be concluded they had escaped from the hands of the feds. But exactly where they had escaped to, on the other hand, was difficult to determine for a length of time that was also difficult to determine.

Alex, or whoever or whatever Alex happened to be at the moment, was having trouble determining if he was dead or alive or awake or dreaming or some variable mixture in between.

"I've been shot," he heard someone say who sounded a lot like himself.

"Who's been shot?" he asked, although he couldn't hear his own words.

"Alex," he heard the voice say. "I'm Alex, and I must have been shot! I must be dead!"

"What?" he said again, noiselessly. "I'm not shot, and besides, I'm Alex!"

"Are you okay, Alex?" he heard Malcolm say from somewhere inside his head, wherever his head might be at the moment.

"I'm not exactly having a great time," replied Alex wordlessly. "But I don't think I'm dead. Are we dead?"

"Are you dead, Malcolm?" he heard the voice that sounded just like him say.

"Of course not," said another voice that also sounded like Malcolm. "This is incredible!"

"What happened to Char?" said the first Malcolm voice.

"I'm here," said a voice that sounded like Char.

"Where?" said another voice that sounded like Char.

"I can't tell," replied the first voice. "Where's here, anyway? I need a point of reference."

"Can you see this?" said a voice that wasn't sure whose voice it was. Something similar to a hand attached to twelve arms radiating outward made a discernible motion. To anyone watching--if anyone was watching--it looked as if one of the many index fingers was trying to trace a circle but kept ending up with a sphere.

"There's a map in the glove compartment," said Al Strickland, the driver of the kitty litter truck. He was driving Alex's yellow Toyota forwards and backwards at the same time, only the Toyota seemed to be painted dark red even though it still looked pale yellow. Al took a slug off a bottle of Wild Turkey and dialed a number on the car phone.

"Does your clock work?" he asked Denise Woolfe, who was clinging to the antenna of a communications satellite that was careening in several directions at once. Denise paused a moment, set down her tray which was piled high with bright orange bananas which matched her lipstick, and took a long drag off her brown cigarette for what seemed like hours or perhaps only a fraction of a second.

"Depends on if it's still plugged in," she replied, blowing crystals of smoke in more directions than were possible. Before she put out her cigarette, or perhaps well after she put it out, Dr. Elvira Smith began shooting hot dogs from a large handgun into an empty refrigerator box; or perhaps she'd been doing this all along. Perhaps the refrigerator box was shooting the hot dogs into the barrel of Dr. Elvira Smith's gun instead. It was hard to tell. The angles were too numerous and convoluted to be able to--

"We interrupt this bulletin for an important bulletin," said a voice.

"We interrupt this important bulletin for another important bulletin," said another voice that sounded much like the first voice.

"Where did you get the vacuum cleaner bag?" said a voice that sounded like Malcolm's voice but which smelled like violets.

"Shh!" said another voice that sounded like a cross between Malcolm's voice and Alex's voice. "I'm trying to watch the news! Here's Diane Pickett. Diane?"

"Thanks, Bob," said Diane Pickett, standing in the middle of Char's kitchen, or was it Alex's kitchen? It might have even been the Ethnomusicology and Ceramics Lab at the University of La Verne, except it seemed to be in Kansas off and on.

"Police are searching for the didjeridu used in the bludgeoning death of dog programming pioneer Howard J. Schwartz," said Diane Pickett, standing in the middle of what might have been Char's kitchen had she been somebody else. "This is Diane Pickett in La Verne, Illinois."

"This is getting pretty ridiculous, if you ask me," said a voice that sounded like Char except Alex could have sworn it was his own voice. "What's the deal with your vacuum cleaner, Alex?"

"Wait!" yelled a voice that sounded like Alex except he could have sworn it was Malcolm's voice. "Don't jump!"

But it was too late: Diane Pickett had just jumped off Suicide Bridge.

"I put in a new vacuum cleaner bag the other day," she reported as she fell what seemed like millions of miles in any given direction. "It didn't seem like it fit. Do you have any dental floss?"

"Can anybody unplug the vacuum cleaner?" Malcolm heard somebody who sounded like Malcolm say, although he was saying the exact same thing Alex thought he himself was thinking.

"I think it's important to unplug it," Alex agreed in Char's voice, "although somebody needs to find it first."

"Something's in my mouth," said Char's voice. "Or is that your mouth, Malcolm? I can't tell!"

Alex reached into what looked like a beating heart and grasped the plug by surrounding it with as many of the multitude of hands as he could gather together.

"Oh, really! Must you unplug it now?" whined Rob Vickerstrom, scratching Malcolm's shoulders which seemed to be inside Alex's skull, if Alex hadn't become part of Char by now.

"What's going on?" said a voice that thought it was one of Alex's voices. "What are you doing, Alex?"

"What are you doing, Alex?" echoed several voices that looked as if they were going backwards in all directions. "Quit scratching me there!"

"Pull it out!" yelled Char's voice, thinking it was Malcolm's voice twenty years ago or at some time in the future. The smell of violets tugged hard in all directions, just missing a multiple collision with the satellite.

"I've almost got it out!" yelled the continent of Australia using Jay Gabinski's voice as it jumped up and down and inside and outside excitedly. A huge spark flashed somewhere--the same spark that someone once reminisced about in a state of déjà-vu. And then Alex and Malcolm, or perhaps it was Alex and Char, felt as if any minute Malcolm was going to implode. . . .

Chapter 31

The steady pulse felt like a light switch being turned on and off, on and off, over and over again. Gradually he realized the pulse was simply the blinking of his own eyes opening and closing, opening and closing. After what seemed like the life span of a high-intensity lightbulb, he came to realize he was seeing blue. He was lying flat on his back, the sun was shining brightly, and he was looking at a cloudless blue sky. He lifted his hand, held it in front of his eyes, and wiggled the fingers: good, he thought. His body was functioning. That meant he must be Alex Martell and only Alex Martell.

He sat up slowly. He looked around. Next to him was Char who, curled up on her side, was hugging her knees and staring.

"Char?" he said, looking into her sightless eyes. She blinked several times; then her eyes focused.

"Hello, Alex," she said quietly. "We did get the vacuum cleaner unplugged, didn't we?"

"That's how I'm understanding it--although I'm not sure who unplugged it."

"It's so weird," she said. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, felt her face with her hands, and looked closely at her fingers. "I couldn't figure out whose hand that was--or hands. Could they all have been one hand?"

"You got me. I couldn't tell who was talking. I mean, there were so many voices, but they all seemed to be coming from the same person."

"It was like we were all talking inside each other. I don't know about you, Alex, but it was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced."

Char blinked a few more times.

"Do you know what's really strange?" she said.

"What, besides everything?"

"I feel well-rested, like I finally had a decent night's sleep!"

She stood, stretched luxuriously, and surveyed the terrain. It was flat, barren, and weedy. The parched ground appeared coarse and sandy, as if any potential rainfall would sink to unfathomable depths without leaving even a hint of moisture on the surface. The sun shone brightly and cast a pinkish glow across the land, yet a dense fog on the horizon surrounded them.

"Where are we?" she said.

"Who knows?" Alex grumbled, glaring at the fog. "I just hope to God we're not in Kansas."

"Kansas doesn't look like this, Alex." Char nudged the sandy soil with her foot. "This is some sort of desert. The lighting sure is pleasant, though."

She gasped as if she had just remembered something important.

"Where's Malcolm?"

"I don't know," said Alex apprehensively. "I hope he's around here somewhere."

"Malcolm!" Char yelled toward the fog. "Malcolm!"

"Over here!" they heard from somewhere in the fog. Alex let out a little sigh of relief. He honestly didn't think he could handle misplacing Malcolm right now.

"Where's here?" he yelled. "We can't see you!"

Malcolm emerged from the fog and ran toward them.

"Alex!" he exclaimed. "Where the hell did you get that vacuum cleaner bag?"

"I don't know, at the store. Why?"

"My god--didn't you realize what it was?"

"Well, it's a vacuum cleaner bag, obviously."

"But did you look at it?"

"Well, sure, it looked sort of funny, like it was the wrong kind. But it said on the back of the package it would fit my vacuum cleaner."

"Do you have any idea where we are?" Char broke in.

"Nope," Malcolm replied cheerfully, pulling her toward him. "All I know is we're not in Kansas." He kissed her enthusiastically, and then wrapped his arm around her shoulders and grabbed Alex with the other arm.

"Come with me," he said, vibrating with excitement. "I'm going to show you something astounding!" He led them several yards through the brush, never reaching the fog that remained hovering on the perimeter of their perception. Lying open in a clump of dry weeds was the object of Malcolm's enthusiasm: Alex's vacuum cleaner. As they approached it, several small lizards scurried out from under it.

"Look at this!" said Malcolm, squatting next to the vacuum cleaner and pointing to the exposed bag. "How would you describe what you see here?"

Char stared at the bag, blinked, and rubbed her eyes.

"I think I need glasses," she said.

"But Char, you don't wear glasses! Just tell me what you're seeing."

She squinted at the bag a second time.

"I can't. . . ."

"What about you, Alex?" Malcolm said imploringly. "What do you see?"

Alex took a look and felt nauseated.

"Well, the bag's kind of screwed up," he said, looking away quickly. "I had quite a bit of trouble putting it in, and the instructions weren't very helpful."

"Wait--now I can see it!" Char said, stooping to get a closer look. "I just have to look sideways! It's sort of like one of those laser illusions where if you're looking straight at the image you see a line, but as you look away your eyes get this two-dimensional image. Only what I'm seeing when I do that looks like something M.C. Escher would draw--like one of those staircases people are climbing in two different planes at the same time. It's an optical illusion!"

"Yes, that's exactly what it appears to be," Malcolm said excitedly. "And do you know why? Because this is a Klein bottle! And a Klein bottle in three-dimensional space is impossible!"

"What the hell is a Klein bottle?" said Alex, plopping onto the ground wearily.

"Well, you know what a Mobius strip is, don't you?"

"I remember those," said Char. "We used to make them in elementary school. You'd take a long strip of paper, twist one end halfway like this, and tape the ends together to make a loop. And then you could draw a pencil line all the way down the middle of the strip without lifting the pencil, and it would end up on both sides, just like magic."

"That's because the strip of paper had become a two-dimensional surface with only one side! You see, a Klein bottle is also a surface with only one side."

Malcolm picked up the vacuum cleaner hose and bent it into a ring.

"It works like this," he said. "If you take an open cylinder, like this hose, and bend the ends around to form a doughnut like this, then you have a torus, a continuous surface with two sides--the inside and the outside. But if you were able to bend the ends around in some other manner, like you bend a Mobius strip, so that your figure is continuous but has one side only, then you've got yourself a Klein bottle."

"So how do you twist that to get just one side?" said Alex.

"That's the whole point: you can't! There's no way you can create a Klein bottle in normal three-dimensional space. Basically, Alex, you have an object inside your three-dimensional vacuum cleaner that can exist only if you have more than three spatial dimensions!"

Alex tried to look obliquely at the impossible vacuum cleaner bag.

"That's funny," he said, forcing his eyes sideways. "It didn't say anything on the package about needing extra dimensions."

"That's the problem with labeling these days," said Char. "They'll tell you how many calories you can expect in a package of doughnuts, but they won't tell you how many dimensions are required to eat them in!"

"Where did you buy this bag?" said Malcolm.

"At the supermarket."

"Which one?"

"MegaDine. The one in Belmont."

"How many did they have?"

"Just this one. I got the last one in stock for my model. Does it matter?"

"Not really. I was just curious."

"Well, this is interesting," Char said as she examined the bag more closely. "It says right here this was made by Dreamtime Industries in New Arnhem, New Mexico!"

"So?" Alex muttered. He was starting to get a headache.

"Remember when I was telling you about the Australian Aborigines just a few minutes ago? Or was it yesterday? Or, wait a minute--" She looked bewilderedly at Malcolm.

"Join the club," he said. "Let's just say it was before right now, relatively speaking. You were telling us about the Aborigines?"

"Yeah," she continued. "After the floods this group of Aborigines migrated to the United States. They settled in the western part of New Mexico."

"Right," said Alex. "I remember you telling us about this a few days ago."

"I think that was Susie, the Australian woman," said Malcolm. "You just met Char, remember?"

"Oh," said Alex as he rubbed his aching head. "Sure." His temples felt as if they were going to explode through his eyeballs.

"To get to the point," said Char, "they named their settlement New Arnhem. And this vacuum cleaner bag was made in New Arnhem, probably by Aborigines! And . . . Alex, are you okay?"

Alex was brutally pounding his forehead with his fingertips.

"I just need an aspirin," he said. "I hope hallucinating in more than three dimensions doesn't cause brain tumors."

"I seriously doubt it," said Malcolm. "Eye strain, maybe--if your eyes remain three-dimensional, that is."

"You're probably too tense, Alex." Char started to massage his shoulders. "You've got to relax. Your back is stiff as a board!"

"Does it feel like a three-dimensional or a four-dimensional board?" he mumbled as his eyes drifted shut. He could sense tingly sparks igniting in his head as Char's fingers deftly kneaded the knots in his shoulders into submission. The popping and crackling of his neck created a relaxing rhythmic accompaniment to the singing he heard. The voices became louder but were soothing, like lullabies in some strange tongue. He could almost go to sleep, his dreams swaddled sweetly in the pulse of Char's violet-scented fingertips as the singing grew louder and louder. . . .

The fingers stopped.

"Do you hear that?" Char said.

"You mean the singing?" said Malcolm.

Alex opened his eyes. The singing faded away quickly.

"What language was that?" said Char.

"I have no idea," said Malcolm. "We could be anywhere, you know."

"Well, let's go find whoever was singing, and then we can find out where we are. We must be pretty close to some kind of community."

"I doubt it," said Malcolm, watching the foggy horizon.

"How can you say that? Let's go find out." Char jumped up.

"It won't do any good, Char. It'll just be a waste of energy."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"It's like the old Irish expression," Alex said. "He means you can't get there from here, wherever there is."

Making a full circle Char meticulously scanned the horizon inch by inch. Every inch looked exactly the same as every other inch.

"Just what is all this, then?" she said. "Malcolm, do you have any theories?"

"He's got a truckload of theories," said Alex sarcastically. "What kind of theory would you like?"

"Well, one that would help get us back."

"To where?" said Malcolm gloomily. "Where would we want to get back to?"

Char frowned slightly, and then knelt down next to Malcolm.

"This is a big mess, isn't it?" she said, taking his hand in hers.

"That's a succinct way of putting it," he replied. They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Malcolm smiled.

"Alex is right," he said. "I do have a few theories. But they're all pretty fragmented."

"Then explain one thing to me, okay?" Alex broke in. Malcolm and Char shot him surprised looks as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"I'm sorry," he said acidly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's all right," said Malcolm. "What's on your mind?"

Alex sat forward, clasped his hands together tightly, and tried unsuccessfully to focus on the vacuum cleaner bag.

"If this bag has only one side," he said, "is it the inside or the outside?"

Malcolm's interest was piqued.

"In reference to what?" he said slowly.

"Well, when the vacuum cleaner is on, where is it sucking all the dirt--onto the inside or onto the outside?"

"That's a good question, Alex!" Malcolm said, his eyes flashing. "That's an excellent question!"

"So what's your theory?"

Malcolm reflected for a moment.

"I hadn't really thought about it," he replied.

"What's strange," said Alex as he squinted at the bag, "is whatever it is I'm looking at, I don't see any dust or dirt. You'd think this thing would have at least picked up a little kitty litter."

"That's probably because it's all being sucked somewhere where we can't perceive it. Remember, we're dealing with more than three dimensions here."

The singing started again, this time loudly. They looked out at the foggy perimeter but could see nothing that wasn't fog.

"Hello?" Alex called out. "Anybody there?" They watched and listened for a response: nothing but singing.

"Malcolm," said Char. "Tell me about one of your partial theories--the first one that pops into your mind about what's happening right now."

The singing increased in intensity; it sounded like several voices, each coming from a different direction and singing a different song.

"And it doesn't have to be about the singing," she added, trying to ignore the singing. It continued, loud and unchanging.

"This is what I've been thinking," said Malcolm after a moment. "If we've been running appliances in more than three dimensions, it might explain how we've been bumping into fractal time. It would explain these unnerving excursions we've been taking into different points in time--not to mention the different time lapses and the different spatial locations. You see, at first I was thinking Alex's blender and vacuum cleaner were creating a sort of reflective resonance between each other, similar to the way a planet and its moons interact. But now that we know a Klein bottle is involved, well. . . . "

He paused to think.

"Well what?" said Alex impatiently.

"Well, it's undoubtedly creating one hell of a lot of multidimensional turbulence. We're talking real chaos here! Your vacuum cleaner has really done it this time, Alex!"

Alex was about to protest when he realized the three of them were no longer alone. The singing had stopped abruptly, and a lone figure had emerged from the fog. A small dark-skinned man clad in a fringed suede shirt, jeans, cowboy hat, and black leather boots stood watching them silently for a moment. Then he stepped forward and eyed the vacuum cleaner.

"You having problems with that?" he said with a slight drawl.

"Yes!" replied Char eagerly, assuming the man was an Australian Aborigine. "We think we have the wrong type of bag installed. You don't by any chance know somebody who sells vacuum cleaner bags, do you?"

The cowboy squatted and examined the bag closely.

"I can sell you any type of vacuum cleaner bag you want," he said. "Uprights, canisters, discontinued models. But that's not going to help you."

"What do you mean? We just need to replace this bag--"

"You can't replace this bag."

"Why not?" said Alex.

"It's like saying you're going to replace the sun," replied the cowboy. "You can't do it. It can't be done."

"But why not?"

The cowboy laughed.

"Hey, I'm not a miracle worker," he said and started to walk away.

"But what the hell do you expect us to do?" Alex yelled. "This bag isn't even supposed to be physically possible!"

The cowboy stopped for a moment, shook his head, and smiled at Alex.

"What can I tell you?" he said sympathetically. "I don't have all the answers, pal!" He turned and headed off into the fog.

"Wait!" Char hollered, and she took off after him. Alex was tempted to follow her but thought better of it, figuring it was no use chasing what was most likely a phantom.

"You know, Alex," said Malcolm as he contemplated the vacuum cleaner. "The instruction manual for this should have warned you against using a Klein bottle as a bag. I mean, not only could you destroy the universe as we know it but, hell, you could burn out your vacuum cleaner motor."

"Are you trying to blame this on me?" said Alex.

"Of course not."

Char came running back from the fog just then, breathless.

"I can't figure out where he could have gone," she said. "He disappeared! I tried to run after him, but no matter how far I went, it all looked the same!"

"Just like Kansas," Alex muttered.

"But this isn't Kansas, Alex!"

"How do you know that for sure?"

"Because I grew up in Kansas."

"You never told me that," said Malcolm.

"Well, you never asked."

"So you're a nice Jewish girl from Kansas," he mused.

"That's right," Char said, slightly embarrassed. "My parents had a farm, if you can believe it, just outside Salina."

"Salina?" said Alex and Malcolm in unison.

"Yeah. We moved up to Chicago--to Skokie, actually--when I was thirteen. And then I moved to La Verne when. . . ." Her voice trailed off when she noticed Malcolm's surprised expression.

"You didn't by any chance know a Carlson family, did you?" he said.

"Not that I remember. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. It's probably just a coincidence."

"It's a pretty strange coincidence, if you ask me," said Alex.

"Why?" said Char. "Who are the Carlsons?"

"It's a Mrs. Carlson," Malcolm said. "She happens to live on a farm just outside Salina, too."

"But who is she? Should I know her?"

"Not necessarily, but I told you about her. She was the one who was watching Goodnight, Bongo after the satellite crashed in her yard."

"No kidding! I remember you told me she lived in Kansas, but you didn't mention anything about Salina! You mean the woman who was responsible for getting Bongo elected President?"

"Well, partially. I don't think she had anything to do with the hallucinogenic popcorn--at least not yet."

"For Chrissake!" groaned Alex. "This whole thing is getting way too convoluted. It's like one big Mobius strip!"

Malcolm fixed on him with his intense blue-eyed stare.

"You know," he said slowly, "you may have a point."

This particular stare of Malcolm's made Alex very uncomfortable.

"Well," he said, looking away deliberately. "If we had a pencil we could start drawing a line and see if it ends up back at this spot."

"Of course it would, eventually," said Char. "After all, the earth is round. But it sure would require an awful lot of pencils."

"Maybe Alex is right, though," said Malcolm. "We keep ending up in a convoluted way at the same event. Not that we actually experience the event again, but we pass it nevertheless."

"What event?" said Alex. "You've lost me again."

"Okay, let me explain. You see, there's one common thread running through everything we've been experiencing that has me totally baffled, and that's that almost everything that's happened to us--almost every place, person, and thing we've been encountering through all these time shifts--it's all from my story! It's as if my memory has been tapped by some cosmic screenwriter and turned into a film loop! A big-budget Mobius strip of a film loop, that is. It seems as though everything I wrote in my notes keeps cycling around somehow and making an appearance, over and over again. Sometimes it's just a coincidental suggestion, but it's still pretty damn unsettling."

Malcolm rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Maybe I've gone insane," he said. "Maybe you two are hallucinations."

"I don't feel much like a hallucination," Alex muttered.

"Maybe it's your notes," said Char. "I mean, all these people are mentioned in your notes, aren't they? Mrs. Carlson, Ricardo Gomez, Jay Gabinski, me? You've written our words down in detail. So maybe it's not your brain that's being tapped-- it's your notes! And perhaps your notes have become twisted through some sort of Mobius strip."

"Or Klein bottle," Malcolm added. "You know, you might be onto something, Char. It's as if my notes fell through a Klein bottle! But it doesn't make sense--they're just words written on paper! They're just pieces of paper, for God's sake!"

"Okay," Char said, contemplating. "What about wherever the vacuum cleaner is sucking things--wherever the dust and kitty litter have ended up? Maybe that's where your notes should be but aren't."

"Go on," Malcolm said, watching her intently.

"Well, supposing the dust and kitty litter have been sucked somewhere where it's impossible for us to perceive them. Perhaps your notes have also been sucked somewhere where we're perceiving them a little too much. It's as if they're existing in a few too many dimensions."

"That would explain how the kitty litter got in my refrigerator, wouldn't it?" said Alex.

Malcolm looked baffled. He leaned forward and stared at the vacuum cleaner bag for several minutes, speechless. His fingers began tapping vigorously but silently against his knees. Finally he stopped and looked up with a defeated expression.

"We have to get my notes back," he said quietly. "I don't know how, and I'm not sure why, but we have to get them back."

Chapter 32

The three of them sat and stared at the vacuum cleaner. To be more precise, Malcolm stared at the vacuum cleaner; Char stared back and forth between the vacuum cleaner, Alex, and Malcolm; and Alex had pushed back his sleeve and was staring back and forth bewilderedly between his arm, the vacuum cleaner, Malcolm, and Char, the emphasis being on his arm. Char finally broke the silence.

"Is something the matter with your arm, Alex?"

"I guess not."

"Then why do you keep staring at it like that?"

"Well, it was bleeding in my kitchen."

"Bleeding? What from?"

Alex pointed to the smooth unmarked skin on the inside of his left arm.

"There was a big cut here," he said. "It must have been right on this vein, because it was really gushing out."

"So that was blood on those hands!"

"What hands?" Malcolm looked up from the vacuum cleaner.

"The hands that were trying to unplug the vacuum cleaner," Char replied. "Or maybe it was only one hand--it was hard to tell."

"Then it must have been my hand," said Alex.

"No," said Malcolm. "I think it was mine. I grabbed your arm, remember? If your arm was bleeding, I would have had blood on my hand."

"But your hands aren't bloody," said Char.

"Not anymore. Neither are yours or Alex's. And Alex's arm isn't bleeding anymore, right?"

"It's not even wounded!" said Alex. "Again!"

"I've got an idea," Malcolm said. "Alex, do you still have your Swiss Army knife?"

"What are you going to do?" said Char. "Cut his arm?"

"And why would I want to do something like that?"

"Well, so he can have his wound back. I mean, if his arm's supposed to be bleeding. . . ."

Alex, who was about to throw his knife to Malcolm, hesitated.

"Wait a minute!" he said warily. "You weren't actually thinking of . . . ?"

Malcolm smiled.

"Your toothpick, Alex," he said. "I need to draw something."

Reddening slightly, Alex tossed the knife to Malcolm, who used it to trace the outline of a vacuum cleaner in the dirt.

"Okay," he said. "Here's the hose that sucks in the dirt, and on the other end over here is the outtake of our Klein bottle bag."

"Hey, that's pretty good," said Char. "I never knew you were an artist."

"Only with a Swiss Army toothpick. Now, this hose sucks up the dirt and this outtake leads to where the dirt collects. In the case of our Klein bottle, we don't know where the dirt's collecting because we can't see it. So for now let's assume it's in some of the other dimensions--we'll call this location Elsewhere for now. And let's call the place that seemed like Kansas Not Kansas, and we'll call wherever we are now Not Here."

"Let's call it Not New Mexico," said Char. "That guy in the cowboy clothes looked like an Australian Aborigine, probably one of the New Mexico immigrants."

"Okay, then: Not New Mexico. Now, when Alex and I found ourselves shifted from Alex's kitchen to Not Kansas, let's assume Elsewhere had become Not Kansas. The way we managed to get back to Alex's kitchen was to use Aunt Mavis's vacuum cleaner, which happened to work in reverse. In other words, the outtake sucked us in, so to speak, from Not Kansas, and the hose blew us out into Alex's kitchen. Do you follow me so far?"

"Yes," Alex mused. "For some strange reason I do."

"Go on," said Char.

"This time the hose sucked us from Alex's kitchen and the outtake dumped us here, in Not New Mexico. Now, if this vacuum cleaner in Not New Mexico was just like Aunt Mavis's vacuum cleaner in Not Kansas, logic would tell us if we were to turn it on, it would work in reverse as well, sucking us back into Alex's kitchen."

"Like a mirror-image vacuum cleaner," said Char.

"Yes," Malcolm said. "Like a mirror image of Alex's vacuum cleaner in his kitchen. But what if Aunt Mavis's vacuum cleaner in Not Kansas was an actual mirror image of Alex's vacuum cleaner, but Alex's vacuum cleaner here in Not New Mexico is simply Alex's vacuum cleaner? In other words, maybe it's not necessarily a mirror image of itself simply because it's here. If that's the case, then in order to make it work like Aunt Mavis's vacuum cleaner--to make it reverse direction--we would have to switch the hose and the vacuum cleaner bag so the outtake from our Klein bottle bag would be sucking us up from here and the hose would be blowing us back out into Alex's kitchen."

"How do we know for sure it's not a mirror image of itself?" said Alex, not sure he was understanding his own question.

"We're not sure. It could be a mirror image of itself or it could be simply its original self."

"But if this vacuum cleaner was a mirror image of itself," said Char, "wouldn't we be mirror images of ourselves, too? After all, we were sucked from Alex's kitchen to Not New Mexico just like the vacuum cleaner."

"But we'd look funny to each other if we were mirror images, wouldn't we?" said Alex. "I mean, our eyebrows would be reversed, like looking in a mirror--"

"Yes, but our minds and perceptions would be mirrored, too," argued Char. "We'd look normal to each other because we'd all be in the same mirror-image boat together."

"Then is this my left arm?" said Alex, raising what he thought was his left arm. "Or is it my right arm and I don't know it because I'm backwards?"

"Interesting point," said Malcolm. "Did you check both arms for your wound?"

Alex pushed back the sleeve of what he thought was his right arm.

"It's the same as the other arm," he said. "Nothing."

"Oh, well," said Malcolm. "I suppose that wouldn't have solved anything, anyway. But I think Char's right. We can assume if the vacuum cleaner is a mirror image right now, then so are we. But let's face it: the three of us don't want to get anywhere else in particular right now, especially not back to Alex's kitchen."

"So why the hell are we even talking about this?" Alex muttered.

"Because we want to get my notes," said Malcolm. "We need to figure out if the vacuum cleaner is reversed or not so we can figure out the logic we need in order to suck my notes out of your house. In other words, do we run the vacuum cleaner as it is now, or do we switch the hose and the bag? Since we don't know if the vacuum cleaner is a mirror image or not, we'll have to try it both ways."

"What if your notes aren't in my house anymore? What if they've been sent off to FBI Central or to the Pentagon or to the moon?"

"Then we have a different problem. But for starters let's assume they're in your living room where I left them. We have to start someplace."

"Yeah, but where are we going to plug in the vacuum cleaner?" said Char. "We're in the middle of a desert! And I sure don't see any outlets."

"Well, it's possible we don't need to plug it in."

"Of course we need to plug it in!" said Alex. "Why do you think it's called an electric appliance, for Chrissake?"

"I'm just saying it might still be plugged in," said Malcolm. "I mean, none of us actually saw it being unplugged, did we? We're only assuming it was unplugged because we're all here and the vacuum cleaner's turned off. That doesn't necessarily mean it's unplugged."

"But here's the plug, right here!" said Alex, holding the plug up in front of him.

"Yes!" Malcolm agreed. "In three dimensions. But where is it in any other dimension? Where is it existing in relation to the rest of the dimensions in which the Klein bottle exists? Where is it in terms of Elsewhere?"

"Well, here, let's turn the damn thing on and see!" said Alex as he reached for the vacuum cleaner switch.

"No, wait--!" Malcolm yelled as Alex turned on the switch. Nothing happened. Alex turned the switch back off.

"So what do we do now, Mr. Wise Guy?" he said. "Start building a generator out of dirt?"

"I wish that cowboy would come back," said Char, searching the foggy horizon.

"Why?" said Alex. "You honestly think a cowboy in the New Mexico desert would have an electric generator?"

"Well, at this point anything's possible--wouldn't you agree? I mean, I for one don't want to rule out any options. But--"

Char jumped up suddenly.

"Wait a minute!" she said. "If we are mirror images of ourselves, then I tried to follow that guy the wrong way. I should have run away from him, not toward him!"

"What?" muttered Alex.

"It's like if we were on Venus or something, you know?" She took off running in the opposite direction from where the Aborigine had disappeared in the fog.

"Venus?" Alex said. "What's she talking about?"

"She's probably referring to the refraction," said Malcolm thoughtfully. "It's an interesting phenomenon. You see, the atmosphere on Venus is so dense that any light shining through would curve 180 degrees. In other words, if you could stand on the surface and look at the horizon without frying instantly, you'd be able to see the back of your own head."

"Interesting. But we're not on Venus."

"True," sighed Malcolm. "We definitely aren't on Venus."

"So what happens if we get your notes back? What do we do then?"

"I'm not sure. Destroy them, I suppose, although I honestly don't know why. I agree they should be destroyed, but I don't see how that will change anything. After all, they're only words. I mean--"

He shook his head incredulously.

"They're just words!" he repeated.

"Well, look at it this way," said Alex, trying to help. "If one picture is worth a thousand words, that means words are worth something, right?"

"Only if the picture's worth anything to begin with."

"Hey, you guys!"

Char came running out of the fog, accompanied by the Aborigine cowboy. The cowboy was dragging a long black cord behind him.

"This is Jim," Char said excitedly. "I found him not too far from here! And guess what he's got?"

"That's not an extension cord, is it?" Alex gasped.

"Yep," said Jim flatly.

"What are you doing with an extension cord in the middle of the desert?" said Malcolm.

"Well, it's a matter of survival," Jim said. "It's so I can plug in my espresso machine."

"Espresso machine--" sputtered Alex.

"Well, sure. You don't honestly expect me to drink that rotgut camp coffee the other fellows drink, do you? Shit, that stuff tastes like horse manure!"

"What other fellows?" said Malcolm.

"Oh, my buddies over there, Gary and Harv. Hell, they don't care what they drink, just as long as it's hot. Now, I understand you folks want to plug something in?"

"How long is that cord?" said Malcolm. "I mean, where does it--?"

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Jim. "It's UL-approved. Now, is your plug grounded?"

"Grounded?" muttered Alex to no one in particular.

"Is it a two-pronger or a three-pronger?"

Alex looked at the plug in his hand.

"Three," he replied weakly.

"Okie-doke," said Jim, offering him the end of the extension cord. "Plug'er in!"

"Before we turn it on, let's switch the hose and the bag," said Malcolm. "Since Char found Jim by looking for his mirror image, I think we should assume we're all mirror images. Therefore the vacuum cleaner's a mirror image, too."

"Makes sense to me," said Char, and she bent down to unscrew the hose.

"I'm gonna be right over here," said Jim. "Just bring the cord back when you're finished. There's no hurry." He disappeared back into the fog.

"I have one question," Alex said. "How do we suck up your notes without getting ourselves sucked in? And how do we keep from sucking up the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

"I've been thinking about that," said Malcolm. "It seems like every time we've shifted we've heard bees, right?"

"Yeah, possibly. Sometimes it's just been an intensely loud, obnoxious roar."

"Okay, an almost unbearably loud sound of some sort, then."

"Right."

"So perhaps the sound helps to suck us in. It's pretty excruciating and disabling."

"I'll say!" said Char. "My ears haven't stopped ringing since we got here."

"But how could a sound physically move us that far?" said Alex skeptically. "I mean, how come audiences at loud rock concerts don't get blasted out the doors?"

"Because they're dealing with only three dimensions," said Malcolm. "Maybe these sound waves, as they're twisted through the additional Klein bottle dimensions, become more substantial--more physical, so to speak--so they actually propel our physical bodies through the dimensions."

"Wow!" said Char. "With sound like that, thunder would sure be an experience!"

"It's only a theory," said Malcolm. "But it's all I can come up with right now."

"So what you're saying is we need to do something so we don't hear the sound," said Alex.

"That's what I'm guessing."

"We could plug up our ears somehow," Char suggested. "Although I don't know what with. Weeds, maybe."

"Or sing," Alex added.

"Sing?" said Malcolm.

"Sure. That's what I used to do when I was a kid. You see, when I was little I had freckles and my hair was a lot redder than it is now, and the other kids would tease me about it all the time. They'd call me Carrotbrain, Measleface, mean stuff like that. Anyway, I discovered if I started singing out loud I couldn't hear them anymore. Sometimes I'd have to sing louder and louder till I was practically screaming, but I'd eventually drown them out. Of course, my singing gave them even more reason to tease me."

"What did you sing?" said Char.

"Oh, anything. Pop songs, rock and roll, Christmas carols--whatever popped into my head. It wasn't an aesthetic choice; it was pure self-defense."

"Well, then," said Char. "Would we all have to decide on something to sing together, or should we each sing our own songs? And do they all need to be in the same key?"

"Screaming would probably work just as well," said Malcolm. "If we don't feel like singing we can scream bloody murder."

"Hey, it was only a suggestion," Alex said.

"And it's a good one," Malcolm said earnestly. "Sing, yell, whatever--just do something that drowns out the noise. It's worth a try. I's not as if we have anything else to work with at the moment."

"So how do we get this Klein bottle unscrewed?" said Char. "I can't for the life of me figure it out."

"I told you I had a hard time putting it in," said Alex. "I couldn't see what I was doing, so I just forced it in as far as I could."

"Well," said Malcolm as he examined the bag. "If you have to look away from it in order to see it, then you may have to move your hand away from it to get a grip on it. If I were to move my hand over here behind me, where I'd least expect to be able to touch the bag--there, I've got it!" He unscrewed the Klein bottle.

"Oh, my God!" said Char, turning away quickly. "This is making me dizzy!"

"Now, if I can just get it over to the hose input." Malcolm turned his head and looked sideways at the vacuum cleaner as he worked with his hands behind his back. "It's really not that hard, if you can just throw away your preconceptions of reality." Crossing his eyes and concentrating on an indirect reflection of the vacuum cleaner, he managed to get the Klein bottle screwed to the hose input.

"All right," he sighed, squinting as if he'd just come out of a dark room. "We have one other thing to decide: should we close the canister or leave it open with the bag exposed?"

"What difference does it make?" said Char.

"Well, the shifts seem to be pretty direct and basic when it's been closed. But this last time it was open. I think that's why it was so, well. . . ."

"Hallucinogenic?" said Alex.

"I suppose you could call it that," said Malcolm. "Intense, at any rate. I think we might have more control over things if we leave it open, though. If we close it, we won't be able to see my portfolio when it comes through."

"Or hear it or taste it," said Char.

"Or experience what it's like to be your portfolio," said Alex. "Although I don't know if I'm ready for that yet."

"I say we leave it open," said Char. "Let's go for it."

"What about you, Alex?" said Malcolm. Alex looked at him and Char for a moment, rubbed his forehead, and sighed.

"Sure," he said impassively. "Bombs away."

"Just think of it as a giant step for humankind," said Char. "Or better yet, one small step for vacuum cleaners, one giant step for portfolios!"

"Ready to start making some noise, then?" said Malcolm, hand on the switch.

"Wait a minute!" said Alex. "How is this going to work without a blender? There's no blender in my kitchen anymore, you know."

"It should work with Char's food processor," Malcolm replied.

"But that's in Char's kitchen, not mine."

"We're not in your kitchen, either, Alex."

"But--" he started, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Are we ready now?" said Malcolm.

"Wait!" Alex broke in again. "Are you guys going to sing something or scream?"

"I'm going to scream," said Char. "It sounds nice and therapeutic."

"Does it matter?" said Malcolm.

"Not really," Alex replied listlessly. "I guess I'll scream, too."

"Just think of it as atonal singing," said Char.

Malcolm looked at Alex and then at Char, and then back at the vacuum cleaner.

"Here goes," he said quietly, and he flipped the switch.

Chapter 33

They covered their ears and screamed--or so they thought. In reality they weren't all screaming because only one of them was screaming through all three of them, although it was impossible to tell just who it was. It was impossible to tell whose hands were covering whose ears as well. The following events happened in a fraction of a second, or perhaps it was twenty million years or maybe two and a half weeks, give or take a day.

"YEEEEOWW! This is great!" someone was thinking who felt like Alex but was expressing Char's feelings through the horn of a passing red Mazda Minna which Federico Garcia was driving into a lake.

"I never get to yell this loud! NEVERNEVERNEVERNEVER!" it occurred to a grocery list embedded in one of Malcolm's many arms.

"Where are my keys?" ejaculated a toaster as it wove a six-dimensional Turkish tapestry whose many corners were anchored by somebody's forgotten phone number.

"Whaaat?" wondered a cluster of cowboys driving their Triumph Bandits in several directions at once. In the center Ricardo Gomez could be seen as a luminescent virus trying to drown Hussein Al-Matar in a boundless turbulent margarita.

"Keep your eyes peeled for the portfolio!" Devin Zalewski contemplated in some orange-hued simian language. "I mean, keep your ears peeled! But don't peel my ears off!"

"Which way to Santa Monica?" emanated a plethora of scones swimming down the Mobius Strip on a Saturday night, taking a brief detour through an appliance store Char thought Alex was dreaming about with Malcolm's eyes closed.

"How do we know we're not FBI agents?" entertained the headcheese sandwich as it leaped off Suicide Bridge and fell into a tuna sandwich that thought it was the moon but was merely an unproved theory.

"I can taste it! I can taste it! I can taste it!" visualized an infinite number of smells lingering under Agent Hill's skin. "I remember having it for breakfast before you were born! FREEEEEEZE!"

"I'm listening to it now!" deduced a song Alex almost recognized from Malcolm's childhood. "I'm holding it! I'm riding it like a horse!"

"I'm getting hoarse!" concluded Char's cat Timothy in five flavors, two of them chocolate. "Get that damn dog out of my portfolio!"

"Somebody's got it!" shouted Char using Alex's frame of mind as an alphabet.

"Somebody's got it!" assumed a thousand undelivered pizzas that were turning themselves inside out.

"Who's licking my eyelashes?" questioned a blender full of Alex thinking he was Char and Malcolm in an embrace.

"Sorry!" spewed the pieces of Alex as they splattered in shades of orange and blue all over a one-dimensional version of Malcolm. "I'm trying to reach the--"

". . . . switch."

Something ached. He realized it was his own eyes clenched tightly shut. He opened them. The sharp sunlight flooded his vision painfully. He snapped his eyes shut, blinked several times slowly, and then tried opening them again. Through the glare he could see Malcolm who was flat on his back, staring wide-eyed at the sun.

"Malcolm!" Alex whispered with difficulty as he crawled toward him. "Are you . . . all right?"

". . . . switch," Malcolm mumbled again, his gaze frozen on the sun. His pupils were almost invisible, like needles lost in the ice-blue oceans of his irises. Alex passed his hand back and forth over Malcolm's unseeing eyes.

"You're going to go . . . blind," he said, having some difficulty coming up with the words. Malcolm finally blinked.

"Oh . . . shit," he said as he sat up stiffly. "I can't see . . . a thing!"

"It's very . . . bright," said Alex, squinting. "And I . . . think I'm . . . deaf."

"No . . . you aren't . . . I'm not . . . so you . . . can't be."

"True. . . . you wouldn't . . . lie to me."

Malcolm's pupils had enlarged to the size of fleas.

"My God . . . Alex!" he gasped. "What were you doing . . . traipsing around in my . . . brain?"

"I was . . . looking for your damn . . . portfolio. Did . . . we get it?"

"I . . . hope so. I don't . . . think I could do that . . . again . . . right now . . . I can't seem to . . . think of the right . . . words."

"Where's . . . Char?"

Malcolm tried with great effort to look around, but it was still too bright to see much.

"Char . . . are you there . . . somewhere?" he called out.

"Mmmm," moaned a voice. After what seemed like an eternity Char's figure came into view a few feet off. She was hunched over Malcolm's portfolio and was hugging it rapturously. Malcolm painstakingly edged his way toward her.

"Char?" he said gently.

"Mmm?"

"It's just a . . . portfolio, Char."

She looked up at him dreamily and smiled.

"Yes," she moaned sensually, and she reached up and wrapped her arms around him. "But it . . . smells so . . . good!"

"Jesus--Christ!" said another voice. "Where in the . . . hell . . . ?" A bulky heap that lay just beyond Char reared up suddenly, revealing a tall, husky man in a brown suit. He had bushy wheat-colored eyebrows and at least two chins and was probably around fifty. He surveyed the immediate vicinity, moving his head slowly and deliberately. On seeing Malcolm he pointed in slow motion and opened his mouth.

"I . . . know you," he said with difficulty. Then he squinted and nodded a couple of times slowly as he reached under his coat, pulled out a gun, and aimed it jerkily at Malcolm.

"Ff--reeze!" he managed to stutter.

Malcolm, who was still in an embrace with Char, blinked several times to better focus on the man.

"I don't . . . believe this," he muttered.

"You--better--believe--it," sputtered the man with the gun. "Eff . . . be . . . eye!"

"What about . . . your eye?" said Alex, blinking.

"I--said--eff--BEE EYE!" the man shrieked, his face turning purple with effort. His eyes jerked back and forth stiffly. "Where the--?"

"Howdy!" a voice shouted. Two Aborigine cowboys approached from the fog. The shorter of the two smiled and tipped his hat.

"Howdy!" he repeated. "Could you folks use some java?"

The taller cowboy held up a glass carafe half full of coffee.

"It's still pretty fresh," he said. The man with the gun stared open-mouthed at the cowboys.

"Where--!" he managed to splutter again. The cowboys grinned.

"Yep," drawled the shorter one. "I'd say these folks need some coffee!" He pulled two mugs out of a leather bag hanging from his belt.

"I'm Gary and this here's Harv," he said as he handed one mug to Alex and the other to Malcolm. "We've only got two cups, so you'll have to be neighborly and share 'em."

Like an addict Malcolm thirstily gulped down several ounces of coffee, breathing a deep sigh of relief as the caffeine entered his system. He handed the cup to Char, who made whimpering sounds of pleasure as she drained it. Harv refilled her cup and she held it out to the man with the gun.

"Hey, Mr. Bee Eyes," she said seductively. "Try some of this. It'll make you feel really good!"

The man with the gun stared at the cup, horrified.

"What--!" he managed to spit out.

"Relax, it's not poison," said Malcolm. "And it makes it a hell of a lot easier to talk. But if you prefer to keep choking on your words, go right ahead."

Reluctantly the man took the cup and drank.

"I've got to hand it to you," Malcolm said to the cowboys. "This coffee's surprisingly good!"

"Thanks," said Gary. "It's the way we like it."

"It does hit the spot," Alex said as he finished his cup. "We met your friend Jim earlier, and he said your coffee was lousy."

The two cowboys laughed.

"Yep, that's Jim, all right!" said Gary. "He just doesn't understand the French method. For him, it's always got to be espresso. He says he can't see how anything good can come out of a coarser grind!"

"It has a lot of body," said Malcolm. "Surprisingly satisfying."

"That's because it's made in a French Press," said Gary.

"Yep," said Harv.

"Camp style," added Gary. "And no electricity needed. You see, the press method leaves the essential oils in the coffee, so you end up with a cup full of flavor and texture."

"Thanks for sharing," said Malcolm. "It's a lifesaver."

Gary let out a little chuckle.

"Well, you know what they say," he said. "Caffeine's the most effective drug known for restoring mental alertness when you're suffering from excessive drowsiness or weakness. Not only does it stimulate your central nervous system, but it also eases the blood flow to your brain so you can think more clearly. And, most importantly, it facilitates effective conversation by promoting eloquence."

"Yep," Harv agreed, holding up the carafe. "Refills?"

After another round of coffee the cowboys said goodbye and departed. Char snuggled sleepily against Malcolm's chest as they watched the two figures recede into the fog. As he kissed her lightly on the head, Malcolm studied the man with the gun as if he were some sort of mathematical problem to solve.

"Say, Bee Eyes," he finally said.

"The name's Wertz," said the man. "Agent Wertz, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And you're under arrest, Mr. Peevey!"

"Listen, Wertz. We're out here in the middle of nowhere, and there's no place for us to go. So can't you put that thing away? Before you hurt somebody with it?"

Wertz looked around suspiciously.

"Just exactly where are we?" he said slowly.

"I told you: nowhere. Literally."

"Then how the hell did I get here?" said Wertz apprehensively. "And how did you all end up here?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"Only if you put that gun away. It makes me nervous."

"How do I know you won't make a run for it?"

"Where the hell am I going to run to?" said Malcolm, indicating the fog around them. "We're nowhere and we're surrounded by nowhere! It's all the same for as far as you can go."

"What about those two in the cowboy getups, then?"

"What about them?"

"Well, they came from somewhere else. Where did they go?"

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself.

"If I knew all the answers, Wertz," he said, "none of us would be here right now, in Nowhereland or Not New Mexico or wherever the hell we are."

"So we're in New Mexico!" Wertz snorted, as if Malcolm had slipped and given away a secret.

"No, we aren't," said Char. "It would seem like New Mexico--Western New Mexico specifically--especially because of the Australian Aborigines. But I think Malcolm's right: you can't get anywhere from here."

Wertz grunted skeptically.

"No, it's true!" she insisted. "Go see for yourself! Take a good long run somewhere. I guarantee it'll all look exactly the same. You can't break through that fog! You can't even reach it."

Wertz turned his gun toward Alex.

"You're Alexander Martell, aren't you?" he said.

Alex felt his stomach do a small back flip.

"Yeah," he replied.

"So what's your story?"

"Well, all I know is I've been to Not Kansas, and it's just like this. They're both right. This is nowhere!"

"Where in the hell's Knot Kansas?" Wertz growled.

"How should I know? All I can say is it's not where Kansas is."

Wertz glared at Alex and then lowered his gun in defeat.

"I'm surrounded by a bunch of lunatics!" he grumbled.

"It's better than being bored, isn't it?" said Malcolm.

"Listen to me, Peevey," Wertz said as he put his gun away. "You're still under arrest, you understand. For conspiracy to assassinate, and as an accessory to the assassination, of the President of the United States of America! Do you understand?"

"Call me Malcolm, please. And yes, okay, I'm under arrest."

"So's he," Wertz added, indicating Alex. "For harboring and possibly abetting a wanted felon."

"Okay, fine," said Malcolm. "Alex is under arrest, too. So what's your first name, Wertz?"

"Just Wertz is fine," Wertz replied curtly.

"Hmm," said Char. "Wertz Wertz. What an unusual name! I'll bet everybody calls you Wertz, huh?"

"And who are you?"

"I'm his girlfriend, I think," said Char, smiling as she looked at Malcolm. Wertz spotted the portfolio in her lap.

"Let me see that!" he demanded.

"No!" she replied, clutching it tightly. "It belongs somewhere else."

"I believe it's evidence in this case, and it belongs with the FBI!"

"No, you're wrong," Malcolm said. "It belongs Elsewhere."

"Just open it, damnit!" Wertz barked. "Let me view the contents. If it's not the evidence in question, then you can keep it."

"I'll let you have a little peek," said Char. "But don't remove anything!" She opened the portfolio and held it toward Wertz. He leaned forward, flipped through a few pages and then, satisfied, sat back. Char closed the portfolio with a defiant snap.

"And just when did you remove this from the Martell premises, young lady?" Wertz demanded.

"Either address me as 'Char' or as 'Ms. Solomon!'" she snapped. "But don't you dare call me 'young lady!'"

"Okay, Ms. Solomon," Wertz said reluctantly. "Just when did you remove the portfolio?"

"I didn't. The vacuum cleaner did. It sucked it up."

"What vacuum cleaner?"

"The vacuum cleaner that was in Alex's kitchen. But it's here now, somewhere--at least I hope it is." She looked at Malcolm quizzically.

"Where is it, anyway?" said Alex, eyeing the area around them.

"It's got to be close," said Malcolm, who sounded unconvinced. "We just aren't seeing it yet."

"Now, Mr. Peevey," said Wertz in his best private investigator voice. "Your girlfriend says Mr. Martell's vacuum cleaner 'sucked up' this portfolio."

"Yes, I know she did."

"Is that your story, too?"

"Of course."

Wertz snorted in disgust.

"What about you?" said Malcolm. "Were you at Alex's house just now?"

"Yes, I was."

"Where?"

"On the back porch." Wertz pulled a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. "I'd just finished a cigarette, and then I found myself lying on the ground here."

"Then it's obvious the vacuum cleaner sucked you up as well. Too bad."

"I've got an interesting question," said Char, watching Wertz light his cigarette. "If you smoke a cigarette in Not New Mexico, does that mean you're not smoking a cigarette?"

"That would make 'smoking' and 'no smoking' sections rather ambiguous, wouldn't it?" said Malcolm.

"What about if you're in reverse, like we are now?" said Alex. "Does that mean you exhale instead of inhale?"

"I would think you'd smoke backwards," said Char. "You know, you'd light a butt and smoke it until it was a whole cigarette."

"That's only if time was going in reverse," Malcolm argued. "As far as we've determined, time hasn't changed direction."

"But some of our clocks have," said Alex.

"That's funny," Char said, glancing at her wrist. "I could have sworn I put my watch on today! I get so forgetful when I don't sleep."

"You were wearing a watch," said Alex. "I asked you what time it was, remember?"

"It probably disappeared on our way here," said Malcolm.

"Which you still haven't explained," broke in Wertz, stubbing his cigarette out in the dirt. "Now, will one of you please explain how we got here?"

"I told you already," Malcolm said in a condescending tone. "We were all sucked up by a vacuum cleaner."

"What goddamn vacuum cleaner?" Wertz snapped.

"Hey, look!" cried Char. "Is that the extension cord?" About two feet beyond Alex an eight-inch segment of electric cord could be seen arcing up from the ground, its ends buried in the dirt. Alex jumped up, grabbed the segment, and tried to pull it out of the ground. Malcolm and Char joined him, each grabbing a portion of the visible cord and pulling as Alex dug away at the dirt with his hands. After much tugging Malcolm was able to unearth a foot-long section from his side, and then the cord refused to budge further. Char and Alex grabbed onto Malcolm's side and helped pull. Even Wertz, who'd been watching skeptically, finally joined in the tug-of-war.

"It's coming!" said Malcolm as he uprooted another foot or so. "We've almost got it--" At that instant the cord broke free of the dirt, sending everyone behind him reeling backwards.

"We have to quit meeting this way!" Char laughed as she lurched into Alex.

"Oh, I don't know," he said under his breath. "I'm starting to like it."

"What in blazes is that?" said Wertz, staring open-mouthed as Malcolm clung to the cord, motionless. The socket end of the extension cord had come free, and the vacuum cleaner cord was still plugged in to it. But beyond three feet the vacuum cleaner cord simply vanished into the air. The others gathered around, amazed.

"Watch this," Malcolm whispered, his eyes glued on the spot where the cord vanished. He moved his hand slowly up the cord to the vanishing point, and then slightly further where first his fingertips, then his fingers, then his entire hand up to his wrist vanished from sight. When he pulled back, his hand reappeared.

"I think the vacuum cleaner's hiding in some other dimensions," he said breathlessly.

"What happens if you try to pull it out?" Char whispered.

"I don't know. I'll give it a try." As he tugged gently on the cord, more and more of it appeared out of nowhere until finally a portion of the vacuum cleaner emerged.

"Holy shit!" Wertz gasped, staring at the piece of vacuum cleaner hovering motionless in the air. "In the name of Jesus--it looks like a goddamn vacuum cleaner!"

"Would I lie to you?" said Malcolm, extracting more and more of the vacuum cleaner from the invisible window. When half of the canister could be seen, gravity took over and it fell to the ground, yanking all but a small portion of the hose end with it. Startled, everyone jumped back. Wertz pulled another cigarette from his pocket.

"I sure could use a double shot of Cutty right about now," he muttered as he lit the cigarette and plopped down on the ground next to the portfolio. The almost complete vacuum cleaner stood erect like a charmed but decapitated cobra.

"Will the hose come out, too?" said Alex.

"It seems to be pretty well lodged in there," said Malcolm. "Wherever there is, that is. It may be--"

"What?" Alex whispered excitedly, edging closer. "What are you thinking?"

Malcolm studied him for a moment.

"I was thinking," he said, "that you haven't asked what time it is for quite a while."

"For Chrissake, Malcolm! We've got this impossible vacuum cleaner materializing out of thin air! Who the hell gives a flying fuck what time it is?"

"It was just an observation."

"So what exactly is going on here?" Char said, contemplating the end of the vacuum cleaner. "Do you have any theories, Malcolm?"

"Well," he replied, somewhat awestruck. "I'm thinking this must be some sort of window to another dimensional reality."

"Really!"

"Yes. Did you notice how this time when we turned on the vacuum cleaner, the whole experience was a lot more visual than the last time?"

"Is that why my eyes hurt so much?" said Alex.

"It's possible. When we got sucked from your kitchen to here, it was a multidimensional and, as far as the five senses go, multisensual event. But this time, simply because we were trying to block out one element--namely sound--it seems like it was more visual."

"It was as if we were experiencing maybe only six dimensions instead of ten or fifteen," said Char. "That's sort of the impression I got."

"Which means we weren't experiencing all the dimensions the Klein bottle exists in this time! Some were filtered out, as if our brains were wearing dark glasses. So that's why we couldn't see the vacuum cleaner--because it was Elsewhere, where it was visible."

"But why couldn't we see it in Elsewhere, if we were having such a visual experience?" said Alex.

"Because to be able to see the Klein bottle we may need to use more than just vision. We might need to use our other senses such as touch, hearing, smell, balance, kinetics, and then maybe a dash of logic and imagination, too. Since we were creating audio filters with our screams--if we actually were screaming--we were effectively masking or blocking out portions of our minds. I suppose we were lucky we didn't burn our eyes out in the process."

"But blocking out just one sense would make that much difference?"

"Sure, to our minimal-dimension-perceiving minds. But the first time, when we got sucked from your kitchen to here, I doubt our minds were perceiving all the dimensions in which the Klein bottle exists. I imagine our minds are simply incapable of perceiving all the dimensions--at least simultaneously."

"I think I'm getting a multidimensional headache," said Alex.

"So what we're seeing here," Malcolm continued, pointing to the disappearing end of the vacuum cleaner, "is an object existing partially in three spatial dimensions and partially in more than three spatial dimensions. So most of the vacuum cleaner, which we've naturally assumed to be a three-dimensional object, is visible and tangible to us. The vacuum cleaner's hose end, on the other hand, is not because it's existing in more than three dimensions at the moment."

"So is the vacuum cleaner three-dimensional or not?" said Char.

Malcolm stared at it for a moment.

"That's an interesting question," he said with a puzzled smile. "I suppose we've always assumed it was three-dimensional like we assume with every object we see. But are we simply three-dimensional? Or is it that our senses are capable of perceiving only three dimensions, so we're cognizant only of the three-dimensional parts of ourselves and our world?"

"We'd probably need a few more sense organs to be able to perceive more dimensions," said Char.

"Just think how much more intense our headaches would be," Alex said as he massaged his aching temples.

"I think Char's right," said Malcolm. "We don't have the physiological or psychological equipment to perceive what's beyond this point. But--"

He moved his hand up the vacuum cleaner again beyond the end of the visible segment until his entire hand had vanished from sight.

"--we can reach it, at least!" he said.

"What does that feel like?" said Char, fascinated.

"It doesn't feel any different from normal." Malcolm pulled his hand back into view and wiggled his fingers. "My hand is still my hand, no matter how many dimensions it's being perceived in."

"So why is the vacuum cleaner divided like that?" said Alex. "Why can't we either see it all or else not see it all?"

"I'm not quite sure," Malcolm said slowly, dipping his finger in and out of the vanishing point. "But I think this may be our door to Elsewhere."

Chapter 34

"Well," said Char as she watched Malcolm's finger disappear. "If you can fit your entire hand through there, we should be able to get your notes through there--even if we have to do it page by page."

"Whoa, hold on, folks!"

Agent Wertz was sitting on the ground a few feet away with the portfolio in his lap.

"These notes aren't going anywhere," he declared. "They stay right here with me."

"And just what do you plan to do with them, Wertz-Wertz?" said Char. "Eat them?"

"Nope," he replied. "I'm taking them back to headquarters."

"Headquarters?" said Malcolm incredulously. "How are you going to get there?"

"I'll figure it out. I got here, didn't I?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then I'll go back the way I came."

Malcolm plunked down next to Wertz and stared fixedly at him.

"Listen to me," he said quietly. "You're here because a vacuum cleaner fitted with a multidimensional bag sucked you from Alex Martell's back porch through some sort of wormhole, polydimensional matrix, alternate universe, or perhaps simply the proverbial looking glass, so you could be with us here in Not New Mexico, which is simply a fancy name for Absolutely Nowhere! And since the vacuum cleaner is stuck in a position where we can't get our hands on the hose end because it's hung up in Elsewhere, the only thing we can do is turn on the vacuum cleaner and suck whoever or whatever's here at the moment into Elsewhere, where I don't think any of us particularly want to go. Since we can't switch the ends of the vacuum cleaner, there's no way we can suck anybody back to Alex's kitchen or to any location in the Real World as we know it!"

Wertz took a long drag off his cigarette and held his breath as he studied Malcolm's face.

"You serious?" he exhaled finally, engulfing Malcolm in smoke.

"Do you honestly think I would make this up?"

Wertz looked over at Alex and Char, and then at the truncated vacuum cleaner perched on its end, and then back at Malcolm.

"You teach some sort of science, don't you?" he said.

"Practical chaology. I teach chaos theory. Or I used to."

"It's a funny thing," said Wertz, an expression of bittersweet nostalgia washing over his features. "Years ago, before I became an agent, I wanted to be an astronaut. Boy, it was something--I really wanted to be an astronaut!" He chuckled, sprinkling the portfolio in his lap with cigarette ashes.

"But I couldn't make the grade," he went on. "There was a lot of . . . science. I mean I was young, in top physical form, fit as all getout, and ready and willing to explore new frontiers for my country. But I've just never had a head for numbers and that sort of thing. Hell, I have a hard enough time using that goddamn computer at the bureau! So here I am instead. . . ."

"Don't you like working for the FBI?" said Malcolm.

"Aw, hell, it's okay," Wertz replied wearily. "It's a job, you know. Sometimes it gets mighty tedious. But don't get me wrong--I'm proud of what I do! I just sometimes wish . . . ah, what the hell."

"It's never too late to change careers, Wertzie," said Char. "Maybe you could still become an astronaut."

"Nah, I'm too old now. Besides, I've got a good pension plan, I'm putting my two daughters through college, and if the wife loses her job with the City, what with all the cutbacks . . . it's a little too late to think about changing horses in the middle of the stream. I've got too many responsibilities. Hell, I can't go chasing after those dreams of my youth."

"Well, Wertz," said Malcolm, glancing at the portfolio. "If we can't figure out a way out of here, there's not much point in worrying about your family or your job--or anything else, for that matter."

Wertz contemplated the vacuum cleaner for a few moments and then sighed heavily as he stubbed out his cigarette.

"So what is it you're planning to do with the notes?" he said with resignation.

"We're going to feed them into that invisible window where the vacuum cleaner disappears."

"Why?"

"I honestly can't tell you why. I have no idea."

"Then why do you want to do it?"

Malcolm shrugged.

"Because it's something to try," he said. "We don't have too many options at the moment, and there's a chance, however slight, that doing this will somehow alter our present situation."

Wertz nodded slowly and pulled out another cigarette.

"Oh, hell," he muttered as he lit the cigarette. "I've got to cut down! I'm smoking like a chimney."

"May as well smoke 'em while you got' em. I doubt you're going to find any stores or cigarette machines around here."

"What I'd give for a drugstore right now," said Alex, whose head was pounding like a bass drum at a sound check. "Or a bottle of aspirin. Just two lousy aspirins! And maybe a six-pack of beer to wash them down."

"I'd be happy with something, anything, cold to drink," said Char. "A glass of ice water would be heaven."

"I wonder where those cowboys went," said Alex.

"I have a strong feeling we aren't going to be seeing them again," said Malcolm.

"What about Jim?" said Char. "He wanted us to return the extension cord, remember? He said he'd be nearby. He's got to be--wherever the cord's plugged in!"

She grabbed the segment of exposed extension cord and started pulling the still-buried end out of the dirt. With Alex and Malcolm's help they managed to unearth another six feet of the cord. At that point, however, the cord--like the end of the vacuum cleaner--disappeared into another vanishing-point window. Malcolm approached the point where the cord vanished, poked his finger in, and watched it disappear.

"Well," he said, smiling weakly. "It looks like our friend Jim is Elsewhere at the moment."

"There goes my ice water," sighed Char.

"So," said Alex, "are we going to hang out and psychologically torture ourselves to death, or are we going to do something with those notes?"

"Oh, hell," said Wertz, shoving the portfolio toward them. "Take 'em."

Malcolm took the portfolio over to the upended vacuum cleaner. He pulled out a notebook, ripped a page out, and rolled it into a tight cylinder. As the others watched, he inserted the paper cylinder into the vanishing-point window above the vacuum cleaner and gave a little push. The cylinder disappeared. He tore out more pages and inserted them the same way, reviewing each page briefly one last time before he pushed it into oblivion. Char and Alex assisted, tearing out more pages and handing them to him. Before long they had disposed of all but one folder of newspaper clippings.

"Should something be happening?" said Alex as Malcolm fed the clippings into the hole.

"How should I know?" Malcolm muttered. "I don't even know why we're doing this."

One last page remained: the article about the satellite. Malcolm looked at Char and Alex hesitantly. Then he took a deep breath, rolled the article up, and pushed it through the window until it vanished--

Nothing happened.

"Well," sighed Malcolm. "I guess that's that."

"Wait a minute," said Alex, searching through the portfolio. "Didn't you have a videotape in here? Yeah, here it is!" Out of the side pocket he pulled the videotape of Frank Rogers at the hot dog shop and handed it to Malcolm.

"Is that everything?"

"Yep, that's it."

Malcolm tried to squeeze the videotape through the vanishing-point window, but the window wasn't big enough.

"Guess I'll have to do it the hard way," he said, and he started pulling handfuls of tape from of the cassette, feeding them inch by inch into the window.

"I've always wanted to do that," said Char as she watched. "Especially after I've wasted an entire evening watching a lousy rental."

"My VCR used to do that all the time," said Wertz. "Christ, I had to pay for so many damn videos! Cost me an arm and a leg--"

Malcolm had reached the final foot of videotape. He paused, looked around at everyone, and smiled.

"Well, here goes," he said, and pushed it through.

Still nothing happened.

They all sat down again. Wertz lit another cigarette.

"Well, sorry, guys," said Char. "I guess it was a stupid idea."

Malcolm put his arm around Char's shoulders.

"Hey," he said, giving her a gentle squeeze. "It was worth a try."

"Maybe. But now your notes you worked on for such a long time are lost forever."

"And we're still here in Nowhereland," Alex added glumly.

"They way I see it," said Malcolm, "my notes aren't lost. They're simply in the same place as Alex's vacuum cleaner hose."

"Wherever in the hell that is," grumbled Alex.

"But it might be right here!" insisted Malcolm. "The pages could be in a pile right in front of us at the moment, perhaps mirrored or otherwise transformed, but here nevertheless. And we can't see or feel them because--"

He stood up suddenly and walked toward the fog. After a few yards he stopped and stared blankly at the fog. Char ran over to join him. They stared at the fog together in silence.

"What is it?" she whispered. "What are you thinking?"

Malcolm was silent for a moment.

"What am I not thinking?" he said, bewildered. "Or what am I not not thinking?"

"That depends. How many nots are we talking about?"

He looked at her and smiled.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"So that's what you're thinking," she replied, smiling back. They held each other for a moment and then kissed.

"Do you ever think--" Malcolm said suddenly, his face clouding over.

"Think . . . what?" said Char uncertainly. He brushed a hair away from her face gently.

"Do you ever wonder if things are supposed to be this way?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean--" He stepped back suddenly as if he'd been slapped in the face.

"What?" said Char. "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter?" he replied, almost laughing. "A whole lot of things are the matter! Or hadn't you noticed?"

"Well," she said, indicating their surroundings. "Obviously none of this is right, but--"

"Then explain something to me, Char," said Malcolm, his eyes widening. "How in the hell did an ape get in the White House in the first place? Have you ever thought about that? I mean, have you stood back objectively and thought about what it means? Why hasn't it ever happened before? Why did it wait until now to happen?"

"Well," Char said, caught off guard. "There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

"Well, sure, you can say that," he continued as he began to circle the vacuum cleaner like a restless fly. "You can rationalize anything, I suppose. But how come this has only happened here, in this country? Why hasn't a cat been elected President of France, for example? Or what about Egypt? There has to be plenty of capable camels there! Why aren't any of them President of Egypt?"

He approached Alex and peered at him.

"Don't you think it's strange that dogs are programming computers?" he said. "When you first started your writing career, Alex, could you ever have predicted you'd be interviewing dogs? Doesn't it seem a little too strange? And why the hell did Australia go--as Susie Simmons put it--down under? Why not the rest of the world, too? If global warming is causing the glaciers to melt that fast, why aren't we all panicking?"

Alex blinked nervously.

"Those are difficult questions you're asking," he mumbled.

"Are they really that difficult? Or is it simply because nobody's been paying close enough attention to think about them in the first place? I mean, why hasn't anybody noticed? And how much more is there that we haven't noticed?"

"Well," said Alex, searching in vain for something intelligent to say. "If I didn't have such an awful headache right now, maybe I could think more clearly."

Deflated, Malcolm plopped down beside Alex.

"It's that bad?" he said quietly.

"Yeah. Kind of like a brain tumor."

"I've never had a brain tumor myself."

"Neither have I. But I'm pretty sure this is what it would feel like."

"Too bad I don't still have that bottle of aspirin."

"What bottle?"

"The one I bought for my hangover."

"What hangover?"

Malcolm smiled slightly.

"The one I had under your lilac bush, Alex," he said. "Have you forgotten already?"

"No," Alex sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Not really. It's just that so much has happened, you know. It's hard for me to think at the moment."

"Want me to rub your neck again?" offered Char.

"Sure, if you're willing to."

She sat behind Alex and worked her fingers gently in and around each vertebra in his neck.

"Stress goes right to your head, doesn't it?" she said. "I mean, some people get ulcers, I can't sleep, and you get headaches. I suppose anything's better than losing your mind."

"Oh, I don't know," said Alex, welcoming the firm yet gentle touch of her violet fingertips. "Losing one's mind doesn't sound all that bad."

"But how do you find your mind once you lose it?" said Malcolm.

Wertz, who'd been half-listening to the conversation, laughed.

"Why do you think there's so many nuts locked away in loony bins?" he roared. "Hell, if anybody could figure out how to locate all those lost minds, they'd make medical history!"

Malcolm looked at Wertz, intrigued.

"So where's your mind, Wertz?" he said.

"Hell, I've got all my marbles!" Wertz chuckled.

"Sure, but where's your mind?"

"What do you mean, where's my mind? It's right here in my head!"

Malcolm sat forward excitedly.

"Your brain's in your head," he said. "But where's your mind?"

Wertz looked at him suspiciously.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he said.

"I'm talking about the mind!" Malcolm began drumming his fingers rapidly on his knees. Oh, thank God! thought Alex. It wasn't that he particularly welcomed this irritating habit of Malcolm's--especially not while he had a pounding headache--but he knew it meant Malcolm was deep in thought. And if he was deep in thought, perhaps he'd come up with some brilliant idea to get them out of this mess.

Malcolm jumped up and started pacing in circles again.

"Did you ever think about where the mind exists?" he said, speaking rapidly. "I mean, our brains exist in our heads, right here in three-dimensional space, right? We can measure the brain, we can take pictures of it, we can touch it and dissect it. We can prove the brain exists just as much as any other physical object. But the mind is a different story. This mysterious entity--this control room in which each of us sits and experiences our entire life--just where is it located?"

"It'd be pretty hard to pinpoint where mine is," Alex said sleepily. "It's been wandering so much lately."

"How's your headache now?" said Char, who had progressed to massaging his shoulders.

"It's a little better," he said. In reality his headache had lifted entirely. He simply wanted to bask in the warmth of Char's sensuous fingers for as long as he could.

"You know," she said, her fingers pausing momentarily, "maybe our minds exist in those other dimensions! Maybe they're located in the same three-dimensional space as our brains, but we can't see them because we can't see all the other dimensions."

"In other words," Malcolm said, "you're saying our brains are here but our minds are Elsewhere."

"That's right!" Char said, jumping up and pointing at the invisible window where the extension cord vanished. "Maybe our minds are in there!"

Malcolm stopped in his tracks and stared at the window with consternation.

"I think I'm starting to see the problem," he mumbled to himself.

"Then what is it?" said Alex. Malcolm looked vacantly at him and Char as if he didn't see them. He was about to say something, but instead turned back to the window and stared at it with a look of utter hopelessness.

"You look like a man who could use a drink," Wertz called out as he was about to light another cigarette. When Malcolm failed to respond, Wertz approached him with his pack of cigarettes.

"I'm afraid I can't offer you a drink," he said. "But can I offer you a smoke?" Malcolm looked dispiritedly at the extended pack, and then took one. Wertz lit the cigarettes.

"Malcolm!" said Char, watching him take a couple of contemplative puffs. "I didn't know you smoked!"

"I don't," he said, smiling feebly. "I did once, for a year or so. But I quit."

"Then why are you smoking now?"

Malcolm took another drag and let it out slowly.

"You were almost right, Char," he said finally. "You were definitely on the right track. But it's not the paper my notes were on--it's the notes themselves!"

"What do you mean . . . ?"

"They're all in here," he said, pointing to his head. "Relatively speaking, that is--I'm not sure where they're located physically. But they're all here in my mind. After all, they're my notes. I was the one who wrote them."

Char looked at him uneasily.

"What is it you're trying to say?" she said. He tossed the cigarette on the ground and looked closely at her.

"I'm not exactly sure, Char," he said. "I haven't lost my mind--I'm pretty certain of that--but I think my mind may have wandered so far off track it became . . . misplaced."

"For Chrissake, Malcolm!" Alex burst in. "You have lost your mind, haven't you? Or did it leave you on purpose?"

Malcolm smiled tolerantly.

"I'm sorry about your blender, Alex," he said. "And your vacuum cleaner. I realize now it was all my fault."

"Wait a minute--I was the one who bought the vacuum cleaner bag!"

"True. But in retrospect I think I'm probably the one who caused you to buy it in the first place."

"What do you mean? How?"

"Through my experiment."

"What?"

"You see," Malcolm explained, "I think I was concentrating too hard on tracking causes and their effects. The problem is if you get too close to something, you can't see it anymore, and you end up overlooking what it was you were looking for in the first place. All these bizarre events happened because I was looking for them. If I'd simply chosen to conduct my experiment by ignoring everything that happened, then nothing unusual would have happened. Australia wouldn't have flooded, the Aborigines wouldn't have moved to New Mexico, nobody would have manufactured a Klein bottle vacuum cleaner bag, you wouldn't have bought it, and I wouldn't have ended up under your lilacs with my thoughts inadvertently mislaid."

"Wait a minute," Alex said. "You're losing me again! Slow down and explain this a little more scientifically."

"But this has nothing to do with science! I'm not offering theories or proof--just pure logic. And you, as a writer, should understand logic. It's like trying to see a six-dimensional object in three dimensions. You have to look away from it to see it."

"So what the hell's logical about that?"

"Well, what's logical about looking at it in three dimensions and not seeing it?"

"I--" Alex was thoroughly confused.

"Don't worry about it, Alex," Malcolm said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It looks as if my thoughts may have taken on a life of their own, that's all. But it's my problem, not yours or anybody else's. And I think I've just figured out how to solve it." He turned and walked over to the vacuum cleaner.

"How?" Alex said nervously. "What is it you're going to do?"

Malcolm knelt down and placed his hands on top of the vacuum cleaner.

"You see," he said calmly. "I think I may be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps I belong . . . Elsewhere."

"Malcolm!" Char cried. "What are you doing?"

"I figure it's worth a try," he said, and he reached for the vacuum cleaner switch.

"Wait!" Alex yelled. "You're not--"

"Malcolm, NO!" Char shrieked.

But it was too late. Malcolm had flipped the switch.

Chapter 35

"Damn!"

Alex glared at the computer screen in frustration. Why did this always have to happen? He'd promised this article to Zalewski's Monthly by the day after tomorrow, and yet here he was, once again stalled on the last paragraph. He reached for his cup, guzzled down the cold remains of his coffee, and read through the tortured sentence one more time:

"All in all, it's been another typical day for Jill Patterson, Director of the La Verne Shelter for Homeless Jugglers and Mimes."

"For Chrissake!" Alex growled. In the past hour he'd gotten nowhere. The sentence sat there in front of him, festering like a bloody stump. Exasperated, he spun around in his chair, shook his head violently, and rubbed at his eyes in a futile attempt to erase the fatigue. He felt as though he'd been working for days. He glanced at his watch: it said 3:49. Obviously it had stopped again.

He leaned back and stretched just as a heavenly form appeared in the doorway.

"Hey, Birthday Boy," she said seductively. "It's almost quarter to nine."

"It's that late already? I lost track of the time."

"Me too. So are you about ready to go?"

"Sure. I'll finish this tomorrow." Alex turned off the computer and approached Char. He kissed her gently and rested his hand on her rounded stomach.

"Has she been kicking?" he said.

"Not in the past hour. She seems pretty calm. The vanilla steamer I had after dinner probably relaxed her."

"So you've already got her hooked on steamed milk?"

Char smiled.

"Look at it this way," she said. "By the time she's born she'll be all ready for her first cappuccino."

"Her first latte, perhaps. I don't think she should be drinking cappuccinos until she's at least two."

"Hmm, I suppose you're right." They kissed again, longer this time, and then Alex bent down to pet the black Labrador who'd come trotting into the room, tail wagging vigorously.

"Molly, my girl! How's the mama dog?" Alex scratched her ears playfully as she licked his face and exhaled several fishy breaths.

"Phew!" he gasped. "What have you been eating, girl? Fish heads?"

"Oh, no," sighed Char. "Did she get into Timothy's catfood again?"

"Smells like it--unless she's been gargling with eau de mackerel. How are the puppies doing?"

"Well, she just finished nursing them, so they're probably asleep by now. We'd better get going."

"Okay, I'll get my jacket."

When they got to the party Dennis greeted them at the door.

"I'm glad you guys could make it," he said as they entered. "Did it finally stop snowing?"

"For the moment," said Alex.

"They said on the radio we're supposed to get a couple feet tonight," said Char.

"This has been the weirdest April, hasn't it?" said Dennis. "And May's supposed to be more of the same. Say, Alex, I hear today's your birthday. Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks."

"So how many years is it?"

"Too many," Alex muttered.

"He's thirty-three," said Char, grinning at Alex. "A real relic, isn't he?"

"Hey, I'll be thirty-three in a couple of months myself," said Dennis. "Listen, I've got some champagne in the fridge. A little later we'll have to drink a toast! Say, have you two met Barbara?"

"No, I don't think so," said Char, smiling at the tall woman who had just joined them.

"These are my friends Alex and Char," said Dennis. "Char used to live next door."

"It's nice to meet you," said Barbara. "How far along are you?"

"Seven and a half months," said Char. "But it seems like forever!"

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"It's a girl," said Alex proudly.

"We're naming her Jasmine Ann," Char added.

"Hey, Char," Dennis said excitedly. "There's someone I want you to meet. He arrived this morning from Australia!"

"You mean your brother's here?" said Char. "The one who teaches at the University of Wallabang?"

"That's right! Let me see if I can find him." He gave Barbara a small hug and then took off through the crowd.

"It was a real surprise this morning," said Barbara, shaking her head. "Dennis wasn't expecting him here till late June."

"So how long have you and Dennis known each other?" said Alex.

"Well, we first met in Mexico last summer. You see, Dennis was in Puerto Vallarta on vacation, and I was down there going through a nasty divorce. And then we ran into each other again last October at a conference at the University of Kansas in Salina. But we didn't actually start dating until a month ago, when I started teaching at Trausch High School."

Dennis returned just then, accompanied by a thin dark-haired man with intense pale blue eyes.

"This is my brother Malcolm," said Dennis. "This is Char, my former neighbor."

"Nice to meet you, Char," said Malcolm.

"And this is her husband, Alex."

Malcolm stared at Alex for a couple of moments.

"Hello, Alex," he said finally.

"Hello," Alex managed to mumble. He suddenly felt very strange, as if he were in someone else's dream.

"So what's the University of Wallabang like?" said Char. "I'm dying to hear all about it."

"It's an interesting place," said Malcolm. "The Chaology Department is quite small, really, but it's a great environment in which to do research. They've offered me a guest lectureship for another year, but I haven't decided if I'm going to stay."

"Do you miss the United States?"

"Oh, a little bit now and then; not too much. I've become pretty used to the Australian way of life--although now that I think of it, there is one thing I find sadly lacking there."

"And what's that?"

"Decent Indian food." Malcolm shot a quick but forceful glance at Alex.

"Well," said Char. "At least in Australia you don't have to deal with President Beady-Eyes and his Psycho Cabinet."

"Honestly, Char," chuckled Dennis. "You make it sound as if Frank Rogers is some sort of monster."

"Well, that's because he is a monster!"

"Okay, so maybe his foreign policy program leaves a bit to be desired. That still doesn't--"

"Oh, come on, Dennis! What about his great idea to cut federal funding for state psychiatric hospitals?"

"Well, you've got a point there. But you have to give him credit for the Postal Service reforms."

"I suppose so. But somehow I don't think having the fastest mail delivery in the Western world is going to solve very many problems."

"Char's the industrial ethnomusicologist I was telling you about," Dennis said to Malcolm.

"Well, that's what I'm planning to be," said Char. "I've still got another year left to get my Masters. But the Society of Industrial Ethnomusicologists is having their annual conference next year at Wallabang, and since I'll be close to finishing I thought it would be fun to go."

"Both of you?" said Malcolm, glancing at Char's belly.

"Sure, why not?" Char replied, patting her stomach lightly. "You're never too young to start seeing the world."

The conversation was interrupted by a furry black and white spotted tornado that came barreling through, landing in the middle of Alex's chest.

"Whoa, Buzz!" Alex cried, shaking his head and spitting as the dog slathered his tongue eagerly across his face. Dennis lunged for the dog's collar.

"Buzz!" he yelled. "Get down, boy! Down!"

"Oh, Geez, I'm sorry, folks!" Jay Gabinski was right behind Buzz. "I was trying to step out as discreetly as I could for a smoke, and before I knew it he came flying through the goddamn door."

"Don't worry about it, Jay," said Dennis as Buzz jumped on him and licked his face. "It's all right--he's just a silly dog! Aren't you, Buzz?"

"Are you all right?" Char whispered to Alex.

"Yeah," he replied. "I just have an extremely clean face now--and an odd taste in my mouth. At least it's not fishy."

"Why don't you go find something to drink?"

"Good idea. Do you want anything?"

"Not right now, thanks."

Alex made his way through the crowd to the kitchen. As he approached the refrigerator a loud buzzing sound startled him.

"Hey, Alex! Want a margarita?" Ricardo Gomez was mixing up a batch of something bright pink in the blender.

"Oh, hi, Ricardo," Alex replied, feeling slightly disoriented. "How's it going?"

"Couldn't be better! How's Char coming along?"

"Well, she's due in six weeks, so it's getting close. Say, do you know if there's any beer?"

"Check in the fridge. You sure you don't want one of these? I'm using fresh Costa Rican strawberries."

"No, thanks." Alex opened the refrigerator, shuddering slightly as the sound of the blender raised goose bumps on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he studied the contents of the refrigerator. On the top shelf was a six-pack of Carlson's Wheat Beer, on the bottom shelf were a few bottles of Topeka Plains Amber Ale, and the middle shelf was packed tightly with several bottles of wine and a good supply of fine Kenyan champagne. Alex looked back and forth between the two varieties of beer. Okay, he thought. What type of beer do I feel like? Is it a wheaten sort of night, or is it amber?

"Try the amber." Alex spun around, startled. Malcolm was right behind him.

"I think you'll like the amber ale," said Malcolm. "It has a lot of character. And you can pass me one, too."

Alex grabbed two bottles and handed one to Malcolm.

"Have you seen a bottle opener lying around anywhere?" he said, trying to sound casual.

"No, I haven't. But maybe somebody has a Swiss Army knife on them."

Alex's stomach did a double cartwheel.

"Wait, here's one." Malcolm pulled a magnetic church key off the side of the refrigerator and popped opened the two beers. "So I hear today's your birthday."

"Uh, yeah."

"Well, Happy Birthday!" Malcolm lifted his beer in a toast.

"Thanks--say, Malcolm," Alex started, and then downed a slug of beer nervously.

"What's on your mind?" Malcolm took a leisurely sip and savored it.

"You--you know, you look really familiar. Have we met before?"

Malcolm looked closely at him for a moment.

"Of course we have," he said quietly.

"Where?"

"Well, as I recall, it was in your back yard."

Alex could feel the blood rush from his face. The room started spinning.

"I--need to sit down," he gasped. Malcolm pulled a chair over for him.

"You don't look too well," he said.

"I'm--fine! I just need--to sit down for a minute." Alex sat and rested his forehead in his hands and waited for the blood to return. He tried to think but his mind was swimming.

"What the hell's happening?" he whispered, not expecting to be heard.

"Hey, it's just a party, Alex," Malcolm said quietly. "Do you want me to go get Char?"

"No, I said I'm okay! Just give me another minute."

"Sure. Take all the time you want."

Malcolm turned and watched as a woman escorted a little girl into the kitchen. As she poured the girl a glass of soda she smiled at Malcolm.

"So, Alex," Malcolm said after another moment or two. "I noticed you're going to be a father."

"Yeah."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"A girl."

"Well, if she takes after your wife she'll certainly be beautiful."

Alex lifted his head up slowly and glared at Malcolm.

"So what were you doing in my back yard?" he said.

"When?"

"When we met, damnit!"

Malcolm looked away as if he were searching for a distant memory, and then he turned back to Alex.

"I believe I was about to eat some halibut," he said.

"What?"

"It was around two years ago, wasn't it?"

Suddenly it all came flooding back into Alex's mind: one weekend several years ago, before he knew Char, he'd thrown a barbecue for a few friends. And Meg, his old girlfriend from college, had brought somebody along.

"You came with Meg," Alex said.

"Meg Thomas, right! We were going out then."

Alex shook his head in a feeble attempt to clarify his thoughts; it was as hopeless as homogenizing oil and water.

"I still can't--" he stuttered. "I mean, I don't--didn't we first meet earlier than that? Or possibly . . . even later?"

Malcolm pulled another chair over and sat down. He took a few swallows of beer, watched the crowd through the kitchen door for a moment, and then looked at Alex and smiled.

"Do you realize what you just said?" he said.

"Yes. I know what I said! I think we've met more than once!"

"Well, sure, that's possible."

"I mean first met."

"How could we first meet more than once?"

Alex scooted his chair forward noisily.

"Come on, Malcolm!" he pleaded. "You're the professor here! You should be able to answer that logically!"

"Hey, I teach chaos, Alex! I never said anything about teaching logic. Perhaps you're having a nasty case of déjà-vu."

"Yeah, sure, déjà-vu," muttered Alex. "Hell, my whole life is nothing but déjà-vu!"

"Well, you know, some cultures in the world believe their lives are nothing but dreams."

Alex eyed Malcolm suspiciously.

"And what do you think?" he said.

Malcolm paused for a moment, reflecting on the question.

"I think life is very interesting," he replied, smiling slightly.

Alex took a long drink of beer and watched silently as a young man with green hair on one side of his head rushed into the kitchen.

"Hey, have you guys seen a pitcher of margaritas?" he said.

"Over there, in the blender," said Malcolm.

"Oh, yeah, hey, thanks." He grabbed a paper cup, poured himself a small portion of the pink mixture, and tasted it. For some reason the gold ring hanging from his right eyebrow attracted Alex's attention.

"Whoa!" the man said. "This is a great fucking margarita! Did you guys try this shit?"

"No," said Malcolm. "But I heard the strawberries are from Costa Rica."

"No shit? Man, that Ricardo makes one fucking amazing drink! Fuck!" He topped off his glass and returned to the other room. Alex glanced down at his watch: it was 9:21. On an impulse he pushed back his sleeve and examined his arm closely.

"Did you do something to your arm?" said Malcolm.

"Uh, no," Alex replied, nervously pulling his sleeve back into place. "No, I was just checking the time."

"It's still pretty early."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He felt as though the ground had been eased gently out from beneath his feet while he wasn't looking.

"So," he said in a hollow voice. "What were we talking about?"

"Déjà-vu, I believe."

"Right. And you were saying we met just once."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"At a barbecue. At my house."

"That's right."

"We met once at a barbecue, and that's all."

"That's what I said."

Alex looked blankly at the beer in his hand, took several numb swallows, and nodded his head slowly.

"That's what you said," he echoed.

"Hey," Malcolm replied, looking at Alex with a faint glint in his eye. "Would I lie to you?"

T H E E N D