D.K. KIRTS

Space Sex

a science fiction novel

BOOK ONE

TRICKS FOR GOLDFISH

CHAPTER ONE

If it hadn't been for the goldfish, Emmet Suckerfield might have done something rash during a period of despondency. Like jumping off the Santa Monica Pier with a thousand pound lead weight tied to each ankle. But luckily he had the goldfish.

They swam around in the forty gallon aquarium, completely dependent on him for their livelihood. To them, Emmet was a god, the bestower of manna. And he, in turn, felt godlike--even to the extent of coercing those innocent creatures into doing tricks for their hi-pro food flakes. He wanted to make them famous. And himself, of course. Among other things, Emmet wanted to be known as the first goldfish trainer of the "Dumb Pet Tricks" portion of the Letterman Show.

For his entire life, Emmet Suckerfield had felt that he was waiting around to do something special - to be someone very special. And, of course, this premonition was correct. He was waiting around to be the first Earthling to be knowingly visited by alien bureaucrats from a planet called The Gangamma Tornando. Well worth waiting around for, you might think.

Listen to this.

Emmet Suckerfield had the world by the ass. He had just started writing his first movie script, on spec, and was living on credit card money. The credit cards had come to him through the mail during an influx of Arab oil cash into the American banking system. The banks desired the money to work, so they sent inquiries asking Suckerfield if he would like to use some.

For the previous year and a half, he'd been a time keeper at Bullock's Department Store in Beverly Hills. The job required two hours work out of every eight. He was supposed to look busy for the other six hours. He could have looked busy writing.

However, his joint checking account balance, coupled with his complimentary Bullock's' charge card allowed him to receive the credit card applications. Emmet signed on the dotted line, and the pre-approved plastic arrived. With four credit lines of fifteen hundred and a biggy from Citibank good for three thousand, Emmet felt he could safely take a sabbatical to write his movie. Thusly, Bullock's had lost a time keeper and Emmet lost a wife.

Alicia Wilson Suckerfield, the former Miss Dairy Products at Ball State University, took the news of her husband's unemployment as an opportunity to depart for greener pastures. After four years of connubial dissatisfaction, more or less hidden from Emmet and the neighbors, Alicia was on her way out anyway. She made a call to her father in Indiana to say she'd be visiting; spent a morning packing her clothes and mementos; sat three minutes at the typewriter to write Suckerfield a note; then into their five year old yellow Chevy hatchback and gone. The team of Alicia and Emmet no longer existed.

The note said:

Dear Emmet,

I am leaving you. It was a mistake from the beginning. I never

should have let you talk me into getting married. And this quitting

your job is the last straw.

I want to live on a farm. Nothing else will make me happy. I don't

think I would be happy with you, even on a farm. This decision is final.

I'll let you know about the divorce.

It's been real...

Alicia

Emmet found the note when he came home from writing at Bob's Big Boy, a coffee shop down the street. He read it with a certain degree of amusement. Alicia would be back, she couldn't get along without him. In the meantime, he would use the freedom from nagging to get started on the project.

That was fourteen months ago. Since then Emmet had written a movie script bearing the title, Beach Bums In Outer Space. He had also received his final divorce papers and had moved from the spacious two bedroom apartment into his bachelor pad. After cashing in his life insurance policy with Alicia as the beneficiary, he made a payment on all his credit cards, paid the rent and utilities on his pad, then he treated himself to a sushi dinner, including three flagons of hot sake. The sushi chef became wonderfully bilingual during the third flagon.

Emmet was now devoting full time to finding a literary agent for Beach Bums. He had procured a list of Hollywood agents from the Writer's Guild; but all the agents were busy, as were their secretaries. After weeks of pounding the pavement in Century City and in Beverly Hills, he found one agent who offered to read the script--Hanson McIvor at the Carruthers Literary Agency on Sunset Boulevard. McIvor was thusfar known to Emmet only as a telephone voice.

In real life Hanson McIvor was short, wore a flamboyant checkered jacket and had lanky blonde hair which kept falling into his eyes. He was getting back into the agent business after a detour through children's shoes at a local department store, and needed a client list. McIvor was so in need of hot scripts that after a month he still hadn't read Beach Bums In Outer Space. This morning on the telephone he had promised Suckerfield that he'd get to it over the weekend.

Emmet felt pleased about talking to his agent, even though McIvor wasn't his agent yet. But it was practically in the bag because, after all, he had taken Suckerfield's call, and Emmet knew from experience that an agent's phone is a serious matter. Most agents are tied up on long distance during normal business hours.

Suckerfield was ecstatic about his future. McIvor would probably call him Monday or Tuesday at the latest. Until then he was going to stand in a hot shower and let the scalding water beat soothingly on his knotted shoulder muscles. In that respect, he was much like his goldfish. They sometimes liked to swim directly in the bubbles of the aeration device. Emmet assumed that was like taking a shower for a fish.

Another lady was on her way into Emmet's life, a Fuller Brush salesperson. Her name was Emira Spain. Ms. Spain had recently moved to Los Angeles from Mansfield, Ohio. She had lots of country girl chutzpah and innocent brass. Ohio held no future for her.

Emira knocked on the door of Emmet's apartment while he was in the shower. Knocking was more personal than ringing a doorbell.

Emmet opened the door with a white Hilton Hotel towel wrapped around his waist. He saw a moderately pretty young woman in a brown skirt and a pale green sweater, sticking her nylon encased leg into his door. Other than a surprising streak of blonde in her shoulder-length brown hair, she was very normal looking.

"Hi," Emira said brightly, surveying Emmet's tuft of blondish chest hair and turgid nipples. "I'm the Fuller Brush woman. Wouldn't you just love your free gift?" She held out a round vegetable brush. "It's a vegetable brush! Just what every household needs." Now this is a nice looking older guy, she thought, glancing down despite herself to see if anything else was turgid. She noticed that he wore no wedding ring. Fair game.

"Is your wife home?" she asked, pointedly.

"I'm not married," Emmet responded. "Let me get dressed. I just stepped out of the shower."

"You don't need to dress on my account," Emira said, deciding to dish up a little soft soap. She needed a sale. "You're a very beautiful man," she added.

"Oh, well. Thank you." Emmet gave a flustered little laugh. No one had ever called him beautiful before, not even Alicia. "Is Fuller Brush still giving away those free samples? I can remember my mother getting those brushes when I was a kid."

"They're extremely useful," she said, apropos the vegetable brush. That towel is about to come undone, Emira Spain noticed.

"I agree. Very useful," he agreed. "Why do you put that streak in your hair, if it's not too forward of me to ask? Are you a punk rocker?"

"Goodness no," she laughed. "May I come in to show you my samples..?"

"Sure. Actually, do you have those red metal brooms? My mom always bought those. I'd like to have one."

"Red brooms. Of course, we do." She opened her sales kit on his grey corner couch and pulled out a brochure. "I don't carry brooms with me, but we can order one for you in no time, Mr...?" Emira sat on the couch, finding it a shade too soft for her taste. Behind her, an aquarium of goldfish bubbled softly. She looked up into the man's smiling face.

"Mr...?" she repeated.

"Suckerfield. Emmet."

"Mr. Emmet Suckerfield," she said, writing it on her order pad.

"Right," he said. The stolen Hilton bath towel picked that frozen instant to come undone from around Emmet's waist. He grabbed for it, but the grab was futile. Fortunately for Emmet, he had a good-sized hammer, or the embarrassment could have been more extreme. He bent over and seized the towel to cover himself.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I don't know how that happened. I told you I should get dressed."

Emira giggled like a nineteen year old, which in fact, she was. Not wanting to show her embarrassment, she said, "I knew it would happen. I saw it coming undone."

In the bedroom, Emmet slipped into a blue sateen robe. On its back was letter GOLD'S GYM in white block letters. Gold's was a gymnasium for body builders and weight lifters. Alicia had obtained the robe from a temporary friend of hers, and had given it to Emmet as a joke on their third wedding anniversary. Emmet didn't know it was a joke.

"About the broom," Emmet said, coming back to the living room.

"Please don't be embarrassed," Emira bubbled. "I'm not. That could happen to anybody."

"I'm not embarrassed," he said.

"It's quite large, isn't it." Emira pursed her lips judiciously and crossed her legs.

He thought of asking if she was the Fuller Brush consultant to the Guinness Book of Records. "You've probably had more experience in size checking than I," he said instead, chuckling roguishly.

"Oh, yes, probably," she teased. "You have nothing to be ashamed of Mr. Suckerfield, take my word. Now, which style red broom were you interested in? The straight or the flared..?

"Do you have a picture?"

"Yes, sir. Right here." Emira opened the sample booklet. "This is the flared," she pointed out. "Number 273Q."

"I think I'll take the straight," he said, studying the color brochure. "That looks more like the ones Mom bought. How much is it?" He crossed his leg casually over his private organ, which had decided to stand at attention. Women this young seldom appealed to him, but this one apparently did.

"That would be Number 273P," Emira Spain said. "Twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents."

"Twenty-eight dollars for a broom..?"

"Well, it's made of steel. It never wears out."

"The bristles aren't steel," he reminded her.

"No, they're straw. Dyed dark red."

"They wear out."

"Yes, but the handle never does," Emira said.

"Right. Now that I think of it, I remember worn out, stubby brooms in Mother's closet with perfect handles. The red paint rubs off where you hold them."

"That's why they cost so much," Emira suggested.

"Why?"

"Because the handles are indestructible steel." She poised her pen over the order book. "How many would you like?"

"Twenty-eight fifty seems like a lot," Emmet reasoned, considering the state of his checkbook. Just how badly did he need a broom? "I'll either buy a broom or take you to dinner."

"Oh, well. Why don't you get the broom."

That stopped Emmet. He was expecting the other answer. "You sort of gave me the impression that you liked me," he said. "I guess I misunderstood." His member wilted.

"It wasn't my fault your towel fell off, Mr. Suckerfield. I was just trying to be polite while I gave you your free sample."

"I'll take the broom," he scowled. "I need one anyway. Should I write a check now or later..?"

"Now would be fine," Emira answered, jotting down the order.

"I guess I'll wait until it comes," Emmet said. He uncrossed his legs, deciding that the robe was protection enough.

"What's the address?" Emira asked.

"1227 Sergeant."

"Apartment four, isn't it?"

"Yes. Four. You didn't tell me why that streak of blonde is in your hair, not that it's any of my business, I suppose." He chuckled to show that there were no hard feelings.

"I don't mind telling you. It's my wild streak." She smiled coyly. "I put it in the night before I left Mansfield. I'm glad I did, too, because everybody wants to talk about it. It's such a good conversation starter."

"That's right," Emmet marveled. "I started talking about it right away."

Emira put her order book away and stood up. She straightened her skirt. "Thank you very much, Mr. Suckerfield," she said. "Your broom will be here sometime within two weeks. Are you home in the daytime?"

"You'd better call first," Emmet said.

"Oh, I forgot to get your phone number," she said, clicking the button of her ball point pen.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

After the Fuller Brush girl had gone, Emmet fed his goldfish. He and Alicia had bought them one afternoon along with the forty gallon aquarium and the filter pump which had never worked right. The clerk at the pet store had been against selling the little goldfish to them, claiming they were feeder fish for carnivorous tropical species. But Emmet wanted them. They'd been really tiny at first, so tiny that one of them got caught in the filter intake tube. Emmet hadn't been sure if the little guy had been trying to swim up, or had gotten sucked up the tube; but after Emmet had shaken him out, the fish swam around in his forty gallon lake apparently unhurt.

Now they were bigger. Dining on nothing but hi-pro food flakes seemed to agree with them. If they kept growing at this rate, he'd be able to eat them in a year or so if the need arose.

Twenty-eight bucks for a broom was a lot of money, though. And goddamn, that was stupid to let the towel fall off. I'll bet she sees some pretty strange sights going door to door. What a life that must be. Thank God, I don't have to be a salesman.

Emmet put on his own salesman uniform: blue Levis, Levis shirt, Levis jacket, brown loafers and no socks. That was the proper dress code for a Hollywood writer in search of an agent. Writers should be completely casual, like they have the world by the ass. While he was dressing, he had an absurd vision of a group of alien creatures -- strange humanoid lion/toads having an orgy. They wore outlandish space-age clothing that exposed their genitals. Shaggy, sandy colored manes of hair bristled on their heads and necks like angry lions. And where their lumpy skin wasn't covered by the tawny hair, it was green as a toad's. Lion/toads, what a strange vision. Their snouts were flat and roundly pointed like a reptile and their eyes were slightly protuberant. One of the creatures, a blue eyed female, was especially enthusiastic about the orgy. Her well-formed green breasts, set high on her chest, bounced wildly as she flaunted herself. The creatures had hairy hands and lion's feet. Dozens of hands reached up from the orgiastic pile to grab a handful of the slut's flesh or to probe an aperture.

The setting of his vision was a rolling lawn on a space fantasy college campus. Lots of lion/toad students kept running over to join the party, throwing their books and clothes aside on the grass. What a strange picture, Emmet thought, digging through yesterday's pants pockets for his keys and money. That would make a sensational opening scene for a science fiction script, wouldn't it?

Since Emmet had talked to Hanson McIvor yesterday, he decided not to call today. Of course, there was no reason not to try Beach Bums with another agent. He could play one against the other when it came time to sign. With that in mind, he checked the agent's list. Once again he found that he'd contacted all the agencies, so he decided to walk down the street to meet the mailman.

Locking the door, he went out into the fine December morning. December 9th. Who would believe it back in Plains City? Bright and sunny. Seventy degrees. What a great day! Dad ought to see this. There's probably a foot of snow at home by now.

Walking down the gentle hill toward San Mateo Boulevard, Suckerfield enjoyed the row of plantation palms on the opposite side of Sergeant Street. Why the city hadn't planted palms on both sides of the street was a mystery, but they hadn't. On his side were bottle brush trees. Their red bottle brush flowers were colorful, but they made the street look lopsided.

He found the mailman down at the bottom of the hill, pulling his leather pouch on a two wheeled cart. He wasn't the regular mailman, so Emmet had to show his driver's license and go through a big deal to get his mail. With the mail in hand, he made a right turn onto San Mateo Boulevard strolling toward Bob's Big Boy. The postman had been correct to be so careful--two bills and a Christmas sale flier from a cheap jewelry store. What if someone else had gotten this important mail, Emmet mused.

Sitting at the counter in Bob's, Suckerfield ordered a cup of coffee from a regular waitress, and guess who was sitting at a booth by herself? The Fuller Brush girl--reading People Magazine.

"I got dressed, as you can see," Emmet said, stopping by her booth with his coffee. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Oh, hello, Mr. Suckerfield. Do you come here often?"

"Never," he lied, with a smile. He slid into the booth across from her. "I followed you down the street."

"Did you?" Emira squealed. She was an excitable girl. To be honest, she had headed straight for Bob's to get a coffee because the sight of a naked man had stimulated her just a teensy bit. She hadn't really counted on naked men when she took the job on Monday. Emmet was her first one. Not her first one ever, there'd been John Riley last summer on her family vacation to Houghton Lake. But John had been in love with her. She wasn't with him, of course. John was just a passing fling, down in that old boat house with the moon sailing over the lake. And he was so immature--a year younger than she was. His thing was so little and cute that she hadn't seen what harm it could do to let him put it inside her. He wanted to so badly. And it was so tiny. What harm could it do? It hadn't done any harm that she could remember. In fact, the whole episode was rather dreamlike.

Then there was her father. She must have seen him naked sometime, when she was a little girl, at least. She thought she remembered. What she really remembered was his chest hair spilling over the top of his under shirt, after he loosened his tie every day. You'd think she could recall if she ever saw him naked or not. Mr. Suckerfield didn't have chest hair like that, but it was still thrilling. Thrilling..? Well, I wouldn't call it thrilling, but it was better than all those dumb housewives in their holey bathrobes.

"I was surprised that you didn't stop into any houses on your way here," Emmet hypothesized. He hadn't dawdled and she was already at Bob's when he arrived. "I thought you worked door to door."

"I ran out of time," she replied, finding it necessary to lie. "I always get coffee at eleven-fifteen." She picked up her cup daintily and sipped at the heavily creamed coffee. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Suckerfield?"

"I'm a writer."

"Oh, are you..?"

"I really am. And a pretty good one, too."

"I'll bet you are. What do you write?"

"Well, I've just finished a science fiction movie script. I think it's quite good."

"Who's starring in it?"

"It's a little early to tell, but the Carruthers Agency is negotiating with some very heavy people."

"Is one of them Brad Pitt?" she asked, wide-eyed. "He's my extremely favorite. Are you trying for him? I'll die if you are."

"I do like Brad." Emmet let the sentence trail off. No sense laying it on too thick. The girl is so star-struck, she can't see straight.

"He's got such a dreamy body." Not too much chest hair, she thought, but enough. Why didn't I bring that poster with me? That's one of the first things I should have packed. I can't write home for it. They'd think funny things about that. "Would you be able to get me an autographed poster from Brad, Mr. Suckerfield? "

Emmet laughed indulgently. "I don't think so. Posters are a little tricky to come by. What's your name, anyway."

"Emira Spain."

"Is that with an E..?" he asked.

"Certainly. How else would you spell Emira?"

"Maybe with an I."

"Yes, I suppose it could be with an I."

"I keep my eye open for E people."

"What on earth for..?"

"Because my name's Emmet, I guess. It's interesting to me."

"I suppose it would be to a writer. I never think of things like that."

"Oh, yes. There are many fascinating things to apply your mind to, if you try. I'll tell you something interesting, Emira. I just had a flash for a new story that I believe I'm going to write. What would you think of a movie based on fierce lion creatures with faces like toads..?"

The young woman looked at him with total concentration, as if trying to appear intelligent. Her forehead wrinkled with the effort. "Sounds kind of icky," she said, finally.

"Not icky at all," he corrected. "The scene opens with an orgy on the lawn of a great university on a weird foreign planet."

"Would it star Brad Pitt..?"

This was leading nowhere, he thought. He certainly wasn't going to make a fool of himself by asking her out again, and having her refuse. She probably thinks it's fun to be a cock teaser, acting so interested in what I'm saying, then not picking up on my innuendo. The fact that he hadn't made a real innuendo escaped his attention; but he did suspect that she was too young for him.

"No, I doubt if Brad will have a part in this one. Well, I have to run," he said, standing up. "I guess I'll see you when you bring the broom."

"Someone else may be delivering it," she said, vaguely.

"I'll try to be dressed when they arrive." He winked at her and headed for the cashier.

Shuffling up the street toward his apartment, he had forty-three cents left in his pocket after paying for the coffees and tipping the waitress. This poverty has to end pretty soon, he thought, wondering about getting a job. If something didn't click with the script, he'd be in deep water. In another month, he'd be over his head. Hell, he was over his head now. Who was he kidding? Five hundred and nine dollars left in his checking account, with nothing coming in to augment it. He'd balanced the check book twice and couldn't add it up to more than that. And the rent was due again in three weeks.

It just might be a good idea to write this new orgy script soon, as a follow-up project for McIvor. He could get me a two picture deal right off the bat. Science fiction is still hot, look at all those remakes of Star Trek. But I need a twist. Some new kind of hook to get everybody interested. Maybe I'll write it starring a woman. Exactly..! That lion slut..! Right. She comes down to Earth disguised as a nitwit like Emira. Right..!! A character patterned after Emira as a space girl researcher who comes down here to do sex experiments. That's hot! The people on her planet want their ambassadors to inter-marry; but the marriages keep getting screwed up because their sex practices are so kinky. So they need research. But the slut bumps her head on a parking meter or something, and gets a kind of amnesia. She can't remember what she's supposed to be doing. She thinks she's an airhead Fuller Brush lady. God, that's a riot! Too bad Lucille Ball is dead, she would have been hysterical in a vehicle like this. There must be some starlet around who'd give their left tit for a juicy space girl part. I could call it Space Girl or how about Space Sex..! That's it! But it's not a comedy, it just seems like a comedy.

Nothing to worry about. As soon as McIvor reads the first script, things will start to cook. The problem is, I might need a job to tide me over for a month or so. Simple. I'll just get one. But maybe I should write this new script first.

Totally lost in the new story, he unlocked his apartment and sat down at his writing table. Ideas flooded in. Emmet wrote non-stop for an hour, then came up for air long enough to realize that the only thing in his life that currently made him happy was writing.

Wow! Wait a minute. I used to be really happy all those years at college. Damn right. Happy as a lark. Before I met Alicia I was happier than any of my friends. I remember that perfectly clearly. Ziggy was morbid all the time. He used to hunch down in dark corners and read weird books. Don Mills was basically unhappy because he couldn't find a girl. Everybody thought it was cool to act unhappy, but I didn't. I was pretty content in the philosophy department, remember?

And then I got really happy when I met Alicia. So what the hell happened? Was it Alicia? Emmet got up from the writing table and walked outside. He sat on the concrete steps and looked at the palm trees and the bottle brushes down the street.

Did Alicia ruin my life? Is that it? How in the world did she do it? She wanted to live on a farm and raise cows and chickens. Well, of course she did, she was an Agriculture major. But hell, I've been glumming around like an old man. Thirty-nine isn't old. I let myself get stale. Hell, I'm a doctor of philosophy! Am I supposed to worry about getting a job driving a cab? Are you kidding me..?!

And waiting around for Alicia to come back is pitiful! Who needs it? She's not coming, and I wasn't happy when she was here! Unbelievable. Alicia made me unhappy, and I'm acting like she was the girl of my dreams. What a laugh! Goddamn, that's amazing.

The Emmet Suckerfield who jumped off the steps was ten years younger. He ran inside, hauled the vacuum cleaner out of the closet and started sweeping the carpet.

What's going to happen around here is some light-hearted fun, he decided as the vacuum sucked up two weeks of dirt. That's it. That's going to be the code name. Light-hearted fun. Where's the Fuller Brush girl now?! That was a ludicrous performance. I was buck naked, but I was so old that I didn't get any fun out of it. Did I think Alicia was going to come waltzing in and break up the party? Fuck her. Let her suck a cow's hind tit.

Sally, his sister, called the next day while Emmet was napping. Incidentally, Sally had kept her married name of Carson, even after her divorce from Robert Carson. "Did I wake you?" she asked.

"Hmmm," Emmet responded in the affirmative.

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon," Sally said. "You should be up."

"I worked all night on my new script."

"Oh, gee. Poor baby. I just wanted to invite you for dinner. I guess I should have called later."

"That's okay," Emmet said. "What time?"

"What time for dinner?"

"Yes."

"Is seven o'clock allright? I think Joe will wait that long."

"Fine. See you then."

"Em," Sally equivocated, "could you try to dress nicely."

"What?"

"Could you wear slacks and a nice shirt? Sometimes you dress like such a hippie."

"You're the one that went to all the peace marches."

"I know, but I invited a friend of mine to have dinner with us. I thought you might want to look presentable, that's all. Don't you still have those gray slacks?"

"A woman friend?"

"Well, yes. She's very intelligent and awfully nice."

"And ugly. Why is it that women never have girlfriends who are as pretty as they are? Never. Even sisters.

"Dee Ann is not ugly. I love to look at her."

"No blind dates, please."

"It's not a blind date. You're both coming to dinner, that's all."

"I don't need to be fixed up, Sally."

"Well, I think you do. Your whole life is spent grumping around you apartment."

"How do you know?"

"That's all you do when I'm there. Have you had a date since what's-her-name left?"

"No, and I'm not having a blind date, now. That's final.

*

At seven-ten that evening, Emmet arrived at Sally and Joe's house in Reseda. Sally introduced him to Dee Ann Rosten. Dee Ann was myopic, had sallow skin and mouse-colored hair. And she had big boomers. Very big. The trouble with her bust asset was that Emmet wasn't necessarily a melon-breast man. He liked them to conform to the rest of a woman's body.

"Hello," Emmet said, dully.

"Hello, Emmet," Dee Ann said. "I've heard so much about you."

"All bad, I'll bet."

"Oh, no. Ha, ha, ha." She was nervous. Sally's brother was a pretty nice looking guy, and Dee Ann knew what her mirror revealed every day.

"Hey, Joe, what'd ya know?" Emmet said to Joe Balducci. Joe and Sally had lived together for three years. He apparently wasn't going to marry her, but he seemed fairly permanent. He also made half the mortgage payment. Joe was a construction worker on the high steel, and consequently had a certain fearless attitude toward life. To Emmet, who disliked heights, working the high steel was brave and foolhardy beyond words.

"Pretty good, Sucker," he answered. "How about you?" Joe thought it was funny to call him Sucker. Lots of people had called him that over the years, naturally; so Emmet tolerated it.

"Dee Ann is a dental hygienist," Sally interjected. "She works for Doctor Sims."

"Fascinating job," Emmet said. I'll bet she plonks those boobs on a lot of shoulders, he thought. "What's for dinner?"

"Lamb chops," Sally answered.

"Hey, boy! Lamb chops. I'm starved."

They ate at the dining room table, under the pull-down electric candelabra. Joe had installed the rheostated light for Sally's birthday. When the rheostat was set on low, as it was for tonight's dinner, there wasn't enough light to see.

"I've got a new direction," Emmet said, conversationally. His mouth was full of lamb chop with mint jelly. The lamb was good, tender and juicy. "My life is going to center around light-hearted fun." He took a bite of parslied potato.

"When didn't it?" Sally asked, happy that he was eating.

"That's very interesting," Dee Ann said, buttering a puff roll. "My analyst just said very much the same thing. He said the id needs a very direct expression and that fun is the most expressive part of living." She took a dainty bite of roll, glad she'd found a way into the dinner conversation.

Emmet chewed his potato thoughtfully. Egad, is what he thought.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

"You were disgusting," Sally informed him the next morning via the telephone. "If you weren't my brother, I'd never talk to you again.

"Come on, I wasn't that bad," Emmet said, sitting up in bed.

"I felt absolutely dreadful for Dee Ann."

"I was nice to you, wasn't I?" he asked.

"You're always nice to me. That's not the point."

"I like you, even though it was pretty rotten of you to invite me for Dee Ann. You knew she wasn't my type."

"She's very, very nice and a good friend of mine."

"Uh, huh," Emmet agreed.

"Why did you have to embarrass her with that horrible remark about putting her bosoms on her dental customer's shoulders? That was pretty low, Emmet, even for you."

"Boobs is what I said."

"Yes, that is what you said."

"Well, I was trying to have some fun. You know my new motto. I only blurted it out after it came sailing through my mind for the third time. It's not my fault that Dee Ann can't take a joke."

"I don't think I'm going to talk to you for a week or so. See how you like that."

"Fine," Emmet said. "Defend your friend's honor to the highest court, just because you wanted to put me on the spot. Try fixing me up with somebody good next time."

"There won't be a next time." Sally hung up on him.

She called back ten seconds later. "And if you're waiting for your darling Alicia, forget it. She won't be back," Sally spat, and hung up again.

Well, that's settled, Emmet thought, climbing out of bed. He decided not to shower and not to shave either. After slipping into his Levis outfit, he wiped the dust off his typewriter and walked down to Bob's with his notebook, which already held the outline and first three scenes of Space Sex. The alien girl in the story, he had decided to name Venus. Venus, the love goddess from outer space. Perfect.

He sat in a booth, opened his notebook and took a sip of coffee. Poverty ought to be a disease name, he thought, moodily. Treat with a massive injection of cash. Or how about this one -- It's not a crime to be poor in this country, especially if you have fifty grand in the bank. Quit it, he said to himself, reasserting his positive thinking. McIvor just needs to start sending Beach Bums In Space around, so I can get a development deal on this new one. And I'm going to see him right now! Emmet stood up and whirled out of Bob's without a coffee refill.

*

The Carruthers Literary Agency was on the top floor of a two story building on Sunset Boulevard, the part known as the Strip. Old Walter Carruthers owned the building and anything else he wanted to own. He'd been the Hollywood agent for practically everybody in the literary world during the 40s and 50s. That was a lot of ten percents. He was famous for his shrewd negotiating, and had been know to invite movie biggies to put their deal where the sun don't shine, when it didn't meet his client's financial expectations.

Hanson McIvor had about as much business in the agent racket as a meatball does in a dog kennel; but he had married Dolly, the niece of Walter Carruthers' wife. After firing him a year ago for incompetence, the old man rehired him to keep his wife from yammering. Hanson had reoccupied his office at the back of the agency suite, and found it stacked full of boxes of old scripts to be moved to the basement storage room. It was Carruthers' policy never to throw scripts away nor return them. Not that he remembered what was in the boxes, but that was the policy. A cold script might suddenly turn hot.

Hanson and Dolly McIvor had a two year old son, who Mildred Carruthers simply doted on. The baby, named Vance, was the only new bud on her family tree. Mildred wondered fifty times a day why she and Walter had been too busy to have children of their own. That had been a very big mistake, and it was impossible to repair now. They'd been so awash with their parties and trips abroad that they'd overlooked the most important thing. Of course, she could adopt a child even now, but she detested little unknown monsters underfoot.

*

One could scarcely say that Hanson McIvor was a happy man. First of all, he disliked reading. This is quite a drawback for a literary agent, so Hanson faked it. He always left the office with a stack of unread scripts under his arm and returned in the morning with the same stack, still unread. At night he watched TV, played with little Vance and serviced his wife. Dolly McIvor required a lot of attention.

After the baby was born, Dolly came upon her femininity at a New Mother's group. One of the guest speakers suggested that it was completely within the scope of most women to have up to one hundred orgasms a day. The suggestion hit a harmonically welcome chord inside Dolly. Hanson theorized after two months of marathon screwing that the speaker meant a hundred times a

day--now and then. Nobody could want that many every day.

Nobody except Dolly. She made it her religion. She counted. Hanson could feel her whole body relax as the magic hundredth shuddered past every night. Then she would roll over and go to sleep with a sigh, like she'd done what was expected by the sisterhood.

Hanson thought the whole deal was strange as hell, but he didn't believe he should complain, exactly. What other man did he know who was getting so much nookie? Never a headache from Dolly, never a missed night since the stitches healed. But the thirty or so orgasms every morning were a little rough on him before work. Dolly was a rambunctious bunny at dawn, which was just as well. It gave Hanson a running start on the day's count. Why complain? He did love his wife. She kept the apartment clean and tidy, and he didn't want her getting her quota from the milkman. Besides, he had the desensitizing cream now, and that made it much easier.

Hanson did have honest intentions of reading a script every night; but somehow when he snapped the bedside light on after love making and opened a script, the words quickly turned to mush. Dolly's peaceful breathing made him want to snuggle down next to her. Every night he decided to get up and read at the kitchen table, but every night he didn't. For one thing he was tired from lugging boxes of books all day.

He dreamed of making big deals. A couple of TV series on the air would set him up for life. Uncle Walter had promised to give half a percent of any deals he made. Half a point of M*A*S*H amounted to a substantial fortune. If he had a couple of shows like that he'd be sitting pretty. But why did Dolly have to count? That's what he couldn't understand. Couldn't she just signal when she was satisfied? Surely that was a more natural approach to it. But what if she didn't have a limit anymore? At least the artificial one hundred made a stopping place. He'd better not complain.

Last night, Hanson had given up on reading as usual, snapped off the night-stand light and snuggled beside Dolly. Most nights they nestled spoon style, after she was satiated. He loved to feel her backside pushing against him. If there was a better pleasure, he didn't know what it would be. The script he had tried to focus his eyes on for ten unsuccessful minutes was that Suckerfield outline. Hanson didn't see how it could be any good. It certainly wasn't grabbing his attention. But it was sci-fi, and since Star Wars, sci-fi continued to be a hot number. At least the title was pretty good -- Space Sex. Hanson prided himself on being able to pick out a good title. As a grade school he had known Star Wars was going to be big, just from the title. And lots of others, too. Cuckoo's Nest was another one he'd known. How could a title like that miss? This one was kind of kooky, a lot like Cuckoo's Nest. It had a good ring to it.

Walter Carruthers called Hanson into his imposing oak paneled office the next morning at ten-thirty. This was two weeks after Suckerfield's blind date. Also the morning that Suckerfield was driving his ancient Dodge Dart into Hollywood in his writer's uniform, with the completed script of Space Sex lying on the seat beside him. He had been writing like a man possessed.

Two weeks is an awfully short time to finish a hundred and fifteen page script; but the words kept tumbling into Suckerfield's mind, so he wrote them down. He was sure that Hanson McIvor would be pleased to get the final script so soon.

"I don't want to seem like I'm pushing you," Carruthers said to Hanson McIvor, looking up from the New York Times, "but you've been here for several months and as far as I know you haven't signed a project yet, let alone making a deal. What's the problem, no interesting material crossing your desk?"

Hanson stood in front of Walter Carruthers' massive desk, trembling. He was fairly certain that the trembling wasn't noticeable to the old man, but he couldn't stop. Authoritarian figures gave Hanson a gripping weakness in the bowels and knees. He'd learned to compensate with what he thought was a boyish manner.

"Well, actually, Uncle Walter," Hanson said, "I'm trying to be cautious about the material I accept. Like you said, I have to believe in it, or I can't sell it." He brushed a straying hank of blonde hair out of his eyes.

"Has anything tweaked your interest a little? Sometimes a concept is enough to sell, boy. I think of you as a barometer of America's viewing taste, so what you like is crucial to me." Why does he have to call me Uncle Walter, Carruthers wondered. None of my fucking blood is in his wimped-out veins. Look at him, shaking himself to pieces. Does he think I'm going to fire him again?

"Well, Uncle Walter, in all modesty, I really do have a sense of what makes a good movie." Goddamn, he finally noticed my ability. How about that?

"So what have your eagle eyes feasted on, boy? Let me hear about it."

"Well, I've got this science fiction piece that's very promising."

"Are you planning to let me in on the secret?"

"The secret? Oh...it's called Space Sex. It's by this fellow, Suckerbush."

"Suckerbush? Now, there's a name!" Carruthers looked up from his paper to see if a joke was being played on him.

"That is a wild name, isn't it?" Hanson agreed. "Heh, heh, heh. I'm thinking about signing him, but I wanted to talk it over with you first."

"Get some people signed, boy. That's the name of this game." He went back to the Times, turning from the book review section to the financial.

"I will, Uncle Walter," Hanson said, to the top of a bald head. "I'll have him come in this morning." Hanson wondered about asking for a small raise, but decided against it. He turned to slip out.

"You have all those scripts moved, boy?" Carruthers asked.

"Yes, sir. Just about all of them."

"Keep on it."

"Yes, sir." Hanson shut the oak door and walked back toward his office. He stopped into the bathroom on the way. There was a girlie calendar on the wall, left over from 1944. It was hard to understand why the yellowed photographs aroused him, given his sexual situation, but they did.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Emmet Suckerfield circled the block twice before finding a parking spot. The one he found was right across Sunset Boulevard from the agency. There's a stroke of luck, he projected. This must be my day to score with McIvor. He locked the door of his old Dodge sedan, checked his reflection in a window to make sure his collar was straight, and jaywalked across Sunset.

Taking the stairs one at a time to prove he wasn't nervous, he opened the door into the agency reception room. A stuffed moose head hung on the wall directly opposite the door. On Suckerfield's initial visit to the Carruthers' Agency, he had wondered what the hell a baleful moose head was doing on the front wall. Was Carruthers a big game hunter, or was the head a movie business joke? The same question presented itself now that he'd seen the moose a second time. Hard to imagine how an animal could carry fifty pounds of antlers on his forehead. Emmet decided that the moose was a nice touch. With Carruthers' reputation, any decor scheme that made the old boy happy was good enough for Suckerfield.

A pretty, dark haired secretary looked up from her desk at the far end of the room. Behind her was a door to the inner sanctum of the agency's offices. The girl didn't look substantial enough to prevent a deranged writer from charging through the door; but probably the door was locked--bolted from inside.

"May I help you?" the secretary, whose name was Roberta Weinstein, inquired. She didn't remember Emmet from the last time, but he remembered her. Horn-rimmed glasses hid her eyes somewhat, but she was very pretty. Milk white skin, blue eyes, mink dark hair coiled at the back of her head.

"Emmet Suckerfield to see Hanson McIvor," he said.

"Oh, yes. Let me see if he's in, Mr. Suckerfield." She buzzed the intercom.

Dropping a heavy box of books onto a stack of other boxes, McIvor answered the buzz. "Yes..?" he said. It was the first buzz he had gotten in two days. Sweat rivulets ran off his high forehead into his greenish eyes. He was a heavy sweater when he exerted himself, and those basement stairs were an exertion. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief in a gesture much older than his twenty-six years.

"A Mr. Suckerfield to see you," Roberta's voice said through the scratchy intercom. McIvor gulped. He had attempted to call Suckerfield before the basement trek, but no answer. That was his name, Suckerfield, not Suckerbush, remember that. And now here he was! Mental telepathy or something.

"Send him in," Hanson McIvor replied. He took his checkered jacket from the back of his swivel chair and put it on. After adjusting his tie, he sat at the desk and shuffled through some papers, trying to appear on top of the situation. Why shouldn't he be on top? He was the agent. This Suckerfield was only a writer, and it was his first script to boot. This guy needs me a hell of a lot more than I need him.

This was more like it, Suckerfield gloated. He pushed through the door behind the secretary. It wasn't locked. I'm finally getting some respect in this business. McIvor must have read the script. I knew those Beach Bums would get me over.

"Room Nine," Roberta Weinstein said. "Down the corridor, last door on the left." Roberta knew her key to the ark was her looks, and that irritated her. She was a very bright young woman, but nobody seemed to care. Carruthers had intimated that she could be an agent when she had some experience; but he'd hired McIvor to fill the office she wanted. It wasn't fair. She was worth five of Hanson McIvor.

After the reception room door shut behind him, Emmet found he was a bit intimidated. The corridor was dark. The walls were painted dank green and were heavy with age. The varnish on the row of oak doors was darkened like an old master painting. Two forty watt bulbs provided what light there was. All in all, it was dark and felt like the catacombs. Several doors were open onto the hallway, but the sour agents who sat talking on telephones did nothing to dispel the gloom. Where was the cheerfulness? The movie business was supposed to be happy.

Emmet tapped on the door jamb of the last room. The door was open. He could see the occupant sitting at his desk in front of a venetian blinded window. Bright sunlight reflected from a concrete hillside outside the window and blasted across the desk in slanted bands. The short blonde man stood up, smiling. He wore a brown checkered jacket that reminded Emmet of a sideshow tout. Sweat rivulets rolled down his temples. He offered his hand.

"Hanson McIvor," he said.

"Very nice to meet you," Emmet replied. McIvor's handshake was sweaty.

"Hot as hell, isn't it?" Hanson said, sitting down. He took out a damp handkerchief to wipe his brow. "Have a seat." He glanced down at a script on his desk. "Emmet Suckerfield. That's a name you don't hear very often."

"I was thinking about changing it to Leon," Emmet said with a smile. He sat on the padded chair to the left of McIvor's desk.

McIvor laughed appreciatively. "That's what I liked about your script. It's pretty humorous in spots." After his talk with Carruthers, Hanson had skimmed through the outline that Suckerfield had sent. He was half petrified because he didn't know if it was good or not; but the title was fine. He knew that much. And it was sci-fi. Hanson thought maybe it was funny. Space Sex, that was funny, wasn't it? "Of course, it's a little rough here and there."

"Oh..? Where do you mean? I can tune up anything that doesn't flow right." Emmet fixed his attention on the little agent, waiting for some sage advice. The guy certainly didn't look like a shark eater, but he must be if he works here.

"Well, it's not really my job to start writing your script," McIvor said, retracting his position. Don't get caught talking about the script. Just get him signed, then he can finish writing it and I'll read it. "What you need, Emmet, is some top notch representation. I guess you know that."

"That's what I'm looking for," Emmet said. Hot damn, he likes it. The Carruthers Agency! Oh, man! He felt his hands start to shake with excitement, and folded them on his knee lest they give him away.

"Well, I'm willing to take on this project," McIvor said. "I'd say there's a pretty good chance for a quick sale, actually. Sci-fi is very hot. And I like the girl forgetting who she is."

"Oh..?" Emmet said. "That is a different twist, isn't it." He paused. "What did you think of Beach Bums In Outer Space?

Hanson McIvor squirmed. He had no idea what this Beach Bums project was like, although he did remember carrying it home for a few weeks. "Actually, the sci-fi is much better. I can't wait to see it done."

"They're both science fiction," Emmet said.

"Yes, I know that," McIvor mumbled, looking through his desk drawer for an agency contract.

"How quick would you say we can get an advance..?" Emmet asked, with a hopeful smile.

"I don't want to speculate or get your hopes up to the sky; but we'd like to sign you and then get to work on it."

"No problem there," Emmet said, cheerily. "Where do I sign?"

"Right here." McIvor pulled out the agency contract and slid it across the desk. He held out a pen.

"I've got one," Emmet said, pulling a black plastic Scripto out of his pocket. He picked up the contract, braced the paper subtly against his knee so it wouldn't tremble, and read it. It was a contract for one year to exclusive representation by the Carruthers Agency. It claimed they would leave no stone unturned to sell the script. The actual words used were "reasonable diligence." They would use reasonable diligence in endeavoring to market, offer for sale and dispose of the publication rights, motion picture rights, music rights, dramatic rights and all other subsidiary rights that might accrue from the literary work(s) described hereunder, both in the United States and throughout the world.

Funny place for it, but a pang of longing for Alicia crossed his heart like a shudder. She should have stayed. She should have waited for this. I knew it was coming. Maybe I'll phone her. "Just sign here, where it says Very truly yours..?" Emmet asked.

"Yes, sign that line. You don't use a pen name or anything, do you?"

"Not hardly," Emmet said, scornfully. He signed his name with a flourish.

Hanson McIvor took the contract and looked at it with satisfaction. The last time he'd been an agent, he had signed four writers. Uncle Walter had been dissatisfied with their scripts and wouldn't let him submit them anywhere. At the time of his firing, Uncle Walter had said that an agent had to be selective or he wouldn't get into a producer's office twice.

So Emmet Suckerfield was his fifth client. The other four hated him, he supposed. Hanson fervently hoped that this script would be good enough to meet Uncle Walter's standards, so that he could find out what it was like to submit a project.

Suckerfield and McIvor shook hands on the deal, both pleased with the morning's work. "Now, if you'll finish the script, we'll get to work on it," McIvor said, with his patented boyish smile.

"It's done," Emmet chortled, unsnapping his briefcase. He pulled the script out and handed it to McIvor. "I've only had a couple hours sleep in the last two weeks; but this baby is done, and it's tight as a drum."

McIvor was flummoxed. He realized that he'd have to read the script. "Excellent," he said. "Great. Get ten copies made and we'll start sending it out."

"Don't you make the copies?" Emmet asked, feeling somehow that they should, since he'd done all the work.

"We might if you were Ernest Hemingway," McIvor said, jocularly. "But you're not."

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

Roberta Weinstein sat at Carruthers' reception desk, reading Space Sex as she did every script that came through the door, even though she wasn't paid to read them. Where did this guy, Suckerfield, get such an understanding of the feminine mind, she mused. He acts like a complete jerk. He must have a woman co-writer. Maybe his wife or somebody wrote it with him, but why wouldn't he share the credit? Only his name was on the title page. Somebody helped him, that's for sure, the form is completely different than that other piece of junk he turned in. This one reads almost like a novel, and it's so goddamned juicy.

Smart of him to hand me a copy on his way in to see McIvor with his arms full of scripts. "Want to read something great, read this," he said with a big, excited grin, handing her a copy off the top of the stack. Smartest thing he ever did.

The quick mind of Roberta Weinstein made a snap decision. This is going to be my project. Hanson will louse it up like he does everything else, but Venus could be my ticket. It's perfect for some woman producer.

She read on. It was so utterly fantastic. An advanced culture of strange creatures on some planet named Torano, that spent all their free time in three dimensional piles fucking each other's brains out. No onus of stupid, puritanical morality. Sex organs and sex were part of community life.

Then this sexpot, Venus M'Gnapt, gets sent to Earth to do her Master's thesis on the sex practices of an alien race. Alien sex was a hot topic on Torano. A lot of studies were commissioned on foreign planets, looking for compatible species.

While Venus was not the brightest student in the Universe, her father was a Senator, so she was given a juicy planet to research--the Earth. But somehow the sophisticated transfer equipment screwed up. She got transferred allright, and her molecules were fitted neatly into the body of an Earthling woman; but her long term memory synapses were messed up in hyper-space. She couldn't remember what her mission was on Earth, or even who she was. Strangely, the transfer machine filled in a prearranged cover story to her short term memory, just like it was supposed to--so she was a functional Earthling, in no danger of landing in a nut house. But her daydreams were filled with shadows and her night dreams were torrid Toranian orgies. In a way, she couldn't wait to go to sleep because the dreams were so hot, but some deep part of her realized the horror of the situation. She might be trapped on Earth forever, because she had no idea how to make contact with Torano. The contact procedure was as gone as a goose.

A truly displaced person--just like me, Roberta thought. She shuddered. This has to be my script, Roberta decided, firmly. That simp, Hanson, couldn't possibly recognize what he's got here. He talks like he hasn't even read it. Calls it a comedy for Pete's sake. How can I make the old geezer let me have it?

Roberta pushed a button on the intercom. Mr. Carruthers answered it with a grunt.

"A Miss Sand to see you, sir," Roberta said. There was no one in the reception room. No Miss Sand.

"She got an appointment?" Carruthers growled.

"She says she does, sir. She also has a project that you should see."

"She does, huh?" He paused for an eternity. "Allright, send her in."

Roberta stood up. She put a "Please wait" placard on her desk and walked through the door behind her. Locking the door with a dead bolt as she'd been instructed to do, she paced down the corridor with the script under her arm. After tapping lightly on Carruthers' door, she went in.

"Where's Miss Sand?" Walter Carruthers asked, looking up from his Daily Variety.

"I'm her," Roberta said. "Roberta Sand, that's my professional name. I've got a very hot property here, and you promised to make me an agent."

"Of course, I did," Walter said, with a slight twinkle in his eye. An adversary had arrived to test wills with him. That was more or less what he lived for. "And I mean to, just as soon as you have enough experience."

"I've got a giant property here, which you'll lose unless you let me represent it. Can you take that chance?"

"What is it?" Walter asked, feigning disinterest.

"Make me an agent and I'll tell you. Otherwise, forget it."

"Oh, she's serious," he needled. "It looks like I've got a sizzling salesperson on my hands."

"You're damned right, you have," Roberta smiled, viciously.

Walter glanced back down at the Variety. "Interesting things in here," he muttered. "Do you indulge in Hollywood gossip?"

"I read the trades every morning, Mr. Carruthers. I also read ten or more scripts a week, and this is the best one I've found since I've been here, which is two months or eighty-six scripts.

"Is that so?" he asked, without looking up.

"Are you going to hire me or am I taking this somewhere else, Mr. Carruthers?"

"Come now, Roberta. Junior agents make less than your salary now. You know that, of course."

"I'd want my current salary. It's not that much for what I'll be doing."

"I generally give my agents half a percent of all sales. I presume you'd want to forego that in favor of your exorbitant demands?" He looked up and studied the girl like she was a tropical fish in a bowl.

"I wouldn't want to forego anything. You promised me the position you gave to Hanson McIvor, and you know he's no agent. I want that job."

"My dear girl, what exactly makes you think you can sell this dynamite script?" he asked with only a tread of scorn.

"Your name opens all the doors, sir," she said, being actually very bright.

"That's true, it does," Carruthers said, accepting the praise as his due. "But we have the problem of your office. I don't have a vacant one."

After delivering the scripts to McIvor, Suckerfield was high as a kite. Imagine that, he was making the Big Time. He'd taken a chance on his future and it was paying off. Hanson McIvor had flipped over the script. Sure, it needs a few changes since I wrote it so fast, but that's no big deal.

He parked his car on Gayley Boulevard and walked into Westwood Village. An up atmosphere was what he needed and the UCLA campus was just right. Young co-eds crowded the sidewalks. Look at them, so sure of what they're doing--heads so full of cotton that they never considered looking past their invulnerable social swirl. I could pick up one of those little cuties, he thought. What an excellent way to celebrate. He decided to stop somewhere for a coffee and strike up a conversation with some lambie-pie, and when she found out who he was, she'd fall all over him. He, of course, would be entirely cool before dropping the bomb on her. Yes, I have a screenplay making the rounds. How about stopping over to my place and listening to a few records?

Hey, wait a minute..! I have an agent! I actually delivered the scripts to him, and now I can start on another one. How about a sequel to Venus..? I need a notebook. He stopped in his tracks and peered up the street for a drug store. What the hell is this? What happened to all the stores? As far as he could see up Westwood Boulevard there was nothing but disco clothiers and hip restaurants. That's strange, no drug stores on campus anymore. Where did they all go? There used to be a bunch of them, didn't there..?

The closest thing he found after a tour of a four block area was a cutsie greeting card and novelty shop. A hot-shot clerk in tight pants and a tank top showed him the only notebook they carried--a little three by five spiral jobbie. No fucking thanks! I'm talking about a serious notebook. Suckerfield declined the purchase.

Walking back out on the street, he asked three students for directions to the new student store before he finally found it. Sure enough, they had several aisles crammed full of notebooks. Suckerfield was torn between spending the money for a hundred pager or getting a cheapie--those ten copies of Space Sex had set him back a hundred and twenty dollars. But how could he break tradition? Both Venus and Beach Bums had worked out so well in a fat notebook. He coughed up the $3.99 and walked out with his new masterpiece under his arm. It was only a question of filling up the pages.

Damn, Westwood was lousy with young quail! Bevies of them. He had twelve dollars and some change in his pocket. His bank account consisted of zilch. Not so easy to score nookie on twelve bucks, but you never know.

Stopping into burger joint on Westwood Boulevard, he noticed that it had been yuppified with partitioned tables and fake stained glass. Ordering a cheeseburger and a coffee, he sat in one of the booths and looked around. Scads of girls sat at the yellow plastic tables, most of them wearing tight jeans and sweat shirts, and a disproportionately high number were movie star beautiful. The dogs must not come to Westwood in the daylight.

Eating the burger reminded him of a chain of burger shops in the Midwest called White Castle. Now, there was a good burger! Melted in your mouth. If I had some money, I'd buy a plane ticket right now and go get a sackful. Maybe I could see Lotti Miller, too.

What about Lotti Miller? Emmet polished off his cheeseburger and sipped his coffee. Lotti had liked him a lot. Actually, she was crazy about me, but she wouldn't stop going out with other guys. Now, there's a wild realization! Alicia was the same way. She was fucking all those musclemen that she thought I didn't know about. What does that disclose about me? Sally Parkinson was going out with Ned the whole time I was with her. Even Pam Zeitsinger had that other guy. What was his name? Richard. Hey, why didn't I ever notice this before? Something about me makes the women I'm with need another man. That's really something big to see.

He noticed a very pretty blonde in a bright mauve sweat suit sitting at a booth across the aisle. Her hair was cut wind-blown with bangs. Instead of running shoes, which usually complete a jogging outfit, she wore canvas wedgies. The girl was deeply into the front page of the LA Times, drinking a cup of coffee with her left hand. No rings on her wedding finger. He tried to catch her eye, but she only stared down at the paper. Probably had millions of guys hitting on her wherever she goes, so she doesn't look around. Must be hard on a girl to be that pretty. Gorgeous lips, no make-up. Well, maybe a touch of mascara, he couldn't tell from so far away. But if he wanted to talk to her, he'd have to make a big deal out of interrupting her paper. She wasn't going to make it easy. Hasn't looked up once. Undoubtedly has a boyfriend, or a whole string of them. See, there you go. I pick out girls on purpose who are guaranteed to have other men in their lives.

So big deal. He wasn't going to hit on the blonde without a little indication from her. No way. The timing was off. He had no money for a date, even if she said yes. He studied the cover of his notebook. Why did I buy this stupid pink cover? I should have gotten a blue or green--something unobtrusive. The blonde folded her newspaper and stood up to go. Suckerfield watched her jiggle out the door. She never looked back; probably didn't even know he was in the booth across the aisle.

Emmet left the restaurant a few minutes later, without making a hit, naturally. What the fuck, twelve bucks. Not enough. McIvor wouldn't sell the script for at least a month. Quicker than that was asking too much, so I need a job. He drove home, pondering the availability of Nancy, the new girl upstairs.

Nancy lived in Apartment 6, upstairs and across the hall. She made weird jewelry. Her boyfriend had moved out a week or so earlier, which translated into Nancy being on the loose. As far as Emmet knew, the girl wasn't especially broken-hearted. She smiled at him each time they happened to arrive at the mailboxes together. The only problem with Nancy was the clothing combinations she picked out to wear were stranger than fiction. For instance, red slacks, green blouse and yellow knee socks. And he'd never seen her without strange mismatched ear rings, which she claimed gave her magic properties. The one totally positive thing about her was her availability.

Tomorrow, he thought, dropping a pinch of fishfood into the aquarium. Of the original nine fish, only three remained. He had named them all, a few months after Alicia had split. The big, dominate one was Achmed. The white female with the red spot on her fin was Bertha. Her shorter tail plumage and less brilliant coloration convinced him that Bertha was a female, although this was total speculation. As small fry, they had all looked much the same. Then Achmed started sprouting his magnificent tail fins, while Bertha hadn't. Really, there was no basis in fact for judging gender. Cock pheasants were more brilliantly plumed than the hens, but whether outward sex characteristics carried over to goldfish, Emmet had no idea. Maybe they were different species. Anyway, he called her Bertha. And the smaller male was Charlie. Charlie's tail feathers were getting as long and delicate as Achmed's, although his body wasn't as big. In the afternoon, when the sun beams slanted through the water, those tail fins were truly a sight to behold. Delicate and splendid, they fanned out lazily behind the fish, displaying an incredibly intricate system of veins.

The simple fact that the goldfish responded to their master even when very small was what first alerted Emmet to the fact that they might be trainable. It was surprising how alert they were. Whenever he walked across the room, they got all excited--swimming fast, bumping their noses against the front glass, wagging their tails. He assumed that the greedy little pescadores wanted ever more food flakes. But then one day the truth dawned. The fish just might yearn to be friendly. But how in the heck to communicate? Emmet couldn't stick his head under water and bubble English words to them.

But if he could somehow communicate? Well, then, he could train the little buggers. Late one night he'd been watching the David Letterman Show, and the skit called "Dumb Pet Tricks" had come on. Watching the stupid tricks had set Emmet's mind to churning. His fish were at least as smart as the moron pets that Letterman's contestants had toted across the country so they could exhibit their dumbness.

Suckerfield sighed and lay down on the couch. Tomorrow, I'll talk to Nancy and get a job, he decided. Today is too special to botch up. I wonder where McIvor plans to take the script first? He didn't say. Probably the Major studios. Sure, he'll take it around to Fox and Columbia, probably MGM. He knows all those guys. That's what I'd do, if I had his connections. Big budget picture. The Majors are used to handling fancy space sets. Damn, those sets on Torano should be something! I'll consult on them, of course. If they want the movie to look right, I'll have to. A knock on the door interrupted his daydream.

He was mildly surprised to see the Fuller Brush girl standing on the doormat with a red broom in her hand. She wore English walking shoes and a black leotard under a plaid kilt skirt. On top she wore a white middy blouse. Her braided hair was tied with red rubber bands--the blonde streak was woven into the left braid. She smiled happily.

"Hello, Mr. Suckerfield. Sorry it took so long, but they were back ordered. We tried everything to get it here on time, but there was a steel strike or something terrible like that. But here it is!" She held the rust red broom out to him.

Suckerfield enjoyed a classic case of mixed reactions. On the one hand, his chance for a celebration was standing on the doorstep, heaven sent. On the other hand, he owed the girl twenty-eight dollars.

Surely I can be suave enough to land this one in bed, he thought. It's just a question of playing the game. I'll think about the money later. Maybe a mailgram will arrive from a rich relative. Motioning the girl to come in, he glanced surreptitiously at his Japan Airlines wall calendar where he'd written her name. Emira Spain.

"What kind of music do you like, Emira?" he asked.

"Oh, anything," Emira answered, conversationally. "Rock songs. You know, the same things that everybody likes."

"How about the Rolling Stones?" He pushed the record changer switch.

"Sure, whatever you want, Mr. Suckerfield. It's your house. I just brought the broom."

"I thought you might like to chat for awhile. Wouldn't it be nice to take a break from the hard streets, Emira?" He sat on the couch in front of the aquarium. Pulsing music filled the apartment. Mick Jagger sang, evilly. "By the way, those are very sensible shoes," he said.

"You know, they really are. I always thought women who wore walking shoes were such phonies, but if you have to walk all day, they're great."

"Why don't you sit down, Emira? Would you like some wine, or perhaps some tea?"

"Actually, I should be going, Mr. Suckerfield. I haven't had lunch and I'm hungry." She smiled at him and proffered the broom. "It's just like your mother's, isn't it? These products never change."

"By golly, you're right." He hefted the rust red, metal broom. "It's just the same."

Emira opened her sales kit and took out a pre-prepared invoice. "Twenty nine, ninety-three," she said.

"I thought you said twenty-eight?"

"No, it's twenty-eight, fifty. Then there's the tax."

"Oh, that's right. Tax." What a stupid position to be in. I can't even pay for a broom. "Why don't I fix you some lunch?" he asked.

"I really should be going," Emira Spain said. It was an effort to keep on smiling, but she did.

"Lunch would give us a chance to spend some time together," Emmet insisted.

"Would we want to do that?" she asked, leaving the cutting edge showing, but sheathing it with naivet. Obviously, this man was lonely. Should I do a good Samaritan deed and give him a little happiness. It's not like I'd be involved with him or anything. Jeff would never know--if I didn't get a disease. Besides, how do I know what Jeff does all day while I'm at work? Besides that, I'm not even committed to him, just because we're living together.

"I'd like to know you better," Emmet said. "You seem like a very interesting woman."

And you're such a drip, she thought. Is he really a writer? How could anybody be so unsure of themselves? Does he think I'll lay down and spread my legs when he feeds me lines like he wants to know me better? I heard better lines than that in Mansfield, and that's why I got out of there.

"Besides that," Emmet said, warming up, "that streak of blonde in your hair drives me bananas."

"My wild streak," she answered, automatically. Actually, he does have a big one. She remembered exactly what it looked like. Long and limp with a blue vein running down the top.

"You're wild streak drives me completely wild. I'd love for you to undo those pig-tails so I could see it better." He reached out his hand to touch her hair.

Emira took a step backwards. "I really wish you'd write me a check for the broom, Mr. Suckerfield. ..And they're braids, not pig-tails. Little girls wear pig-tails."

He laughed and leaned back on the couch, laying the broom aside with its bristles resting on the rug. The laugh was harsh, not a happy laugh, but it was the best he could do. "I'll tell you a joke, Emira. Get ready to laugh. Mr. Suckerfield, the famous writer, delivered ten copies of his new script to his excellent agent today. He should be out celebrating, but he doesn't have any money. He can't pay for the broom."

"I knew it!" Emira crabbed. "Another stiff. This section of town is full of them..!"

"And besides that," Emmet continued, "he can't find anyone who wants to sleep with him, so he could have a real celebration. He doesn't know how to find a woman, anymore. Isn't that funny, Emira? He hasn't gotten laid since his wife left him, over a year ago. All these situations aren't making him too happy, especially the part about not being able to pay for a broom."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Maybe we could work out some kind of time payment schedule?"

"Of course we could," he replied, caustically. "How about ten cents down and ten cents a month?"

"I can't believe things are that bad, Mr. Suckerfield. You're a healthy man."

"I really am, Emira. ...Well, what would we like to do about the broom? I guess you should take it back, huh?"

"I suppose I'll have to, if you can't pay. They don't like me to bring the product back." Her bottom lip pushed out.

"I'll bet they like it less if I keep the broom, and don't pay for it either."

"Mr. Suckerfield, all I can say is I'm disappointed." She picked up the broom. "And the reason you can't find a woman is because your approach is terrible. Did you think I was a push-over?"

"I don't know what you mean..?"

"That is obvious." Emira opened the door and swooshed out, slamming it behind her. A second later, she knocked four staccato knocks on the door. Now this is stupid, Emira thought, cringing at her brainless move, but I can't leave my sales kit in there.

Emmet opened the door a crack and looked out at her.

"I left my sales kit," she said.

"So you did. I wondered if you'd come back."

"May I have my case?'

"I haven't ever forced anyone to sleep with me before; but if you want the case, that's the price. You're not going to lose anything, and I need to celebrate."

"Okay," she said, simply. She needed the sales kit.

Emira stepped out of her kilt skirt, frowning, and left it laying on the bedroom floor. Her blouse fell near it, and then her underwear, which were functional white cotton. She kicked her English shoes near the rest of the things and lay on the bed with her knee socks still on. As an afterthought, she spread her legs.

"Would you mind using a rubber?" Emira requested. "I'd prefer not to get a disease or pregnant."

"Sure," Suckerfield said. "I think I've got one somewhere." He rooted around in his top drawer and came up smiling with a foil square in his hand. "Found one," he reported.

"Good," Emira said. "Could you hurry, please. I have a lot to do today."

"You could be a little pleasant," Emmet requested, unzipping his pants.

"Why should I..? I'm just keeping my end of a bargain, and that's all. I should have remembered the kit, but my temper got me again. I am trying to control it." Her new friend, Jeff, had insisted, forcefully, that she not fly off the handle at every little thing, so she was trying.

With his clothes off, Suckerfield knelt beside her on the bed. "Would you like to put this rubber on me?" he asked.

"I'm sure you can figure it out, Mr. Suckerfield."

"Oh, sure. I just thought you might enjoy the experience." He chuckled to show his light-hearted intent.

"No," she said. "Don't bother with any foreplay, either. Just stick it in. I'd like to make a few more stops so I can recoup my loss from your broom."

Emmet was having a small problem with the condom. He'd torn the foil and gotten the slippery oval out, but the problem was erectile. He wasn't rising to the occasion. Putting a rubber over a flaccid organ isn't the easiest undertaking in the world. What is going on here? he thought, distractedly. This was his first experience with what he'd assumed would be a problem of old age. He wasn't that old.

"This isn't working out too well, Emira," he said. "Maybe I shouldn't have made you celebrate with me."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Suckerfield! I suppose now you're going to tell me I have to suck it to get it hard? Well, I'm not going to. And this is not too complimentary, if you don't mind me saying so. I'm leaving now." She jumped up and disdainfully threw on her clothes. Emmet slipped into his robe and followed her into the living room. He watched her pick up the sales kit and the broom.

"Good-bye, Mr. Suckerfield," she said. "It was an experience." She closed the door quietly behind her. Emmet hadn't even had a chance to undo her pig-tails.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

Roberta was pleased as punch, and Hanson McIvor was pretty damned disgruntled. Carrying a heavy desk up from the basement was no joke. The furniture dolly kept slipping on the steep steps because one of its wheels was fucked up. And old Hornborn pushing from below was about as much help as nothing. But compared to having Roberta Weinstein sharing his office, moving her desk was the lover's waltz.

When she'd hopped in to tell Hanson the wonderful news that Mr. Carruthers had made her an agent and she'd be sharing his office and his client, the words that had crossed McIvor's mind were: ÔOh, no you're not. I'm quittingÕ.' But he didn't say the words. He didn't say them again when Uncle Walter had asked him to carry her desk up from the basement, but he was thinking them, over and over. With every step of the slipping dolly, he thought the words.

"Push, Hornborn! Can't you push? How do you expect me to get this up by myself?!"

"I am pushing, but what if the thing gets away and falls on me?" the old man wheezed. "I don't see why he couldn't hire a moving man?" The "he" referred to Mr. Carruthers.

"That's why he hired me, hadn't you noticed? McIvor's Moving Service."

"Well, I'm an agent."

"If you don't push, you're going to be a crushed agent, because I'm letting go if you don't help me."

"I am pushing..!"

"Hey..!" McIvor yelled up the stairwell. "Somebody help us! This thing's too heavy!"

Roberta stuck her head down the dark stairway. She saw that her desk was teetering precariously, half-way up the stairs. Leaping down the stairwell, she grabbed the dolly handle below McIvor's hand and pulled with all of her one hundred and eleven pounds. The desk righted itself and came to rest on a short landing midway up the stairs.

"That was a close one," she said, catching her breath.

"Thanks," McIvor said. His knees and arms were trembling. "That was almost bad news for old Hornborn. How you doing down there, Hornborn..?"

"I can't push anymore," Hornborn said, weakly. "They'll have to get somebody else. I'm going downstairs out of the way until you get it up."

The desk was hauled up by Ben DeSoto, McIvor and Jack Seivers. Seivers was a former tight end for the Rams, who put his shoulders to the desk and shoved it up the steps. He should have had the moving job in the first place, but he was actually a hot agent and Carruthers didn't ask him to do odd jobs. Roberta pranced around opening doors and directing the show. Her own desk! Oh, boy, oh boy! And she planned to get some ficus plants for the corner of the room and curtains for the window.

*

Strange, Emmet Suckerfield thought. Not getting hard, what a peculiar thing not to happen. I wonder what that means?

Emira had been angry. Why wouldn't she be? Is it all over for me sexually? Good Lord, I hope not. Emira ruined it by acting so cold, didn't she?

He sat in his TV chair, watching the goldfish and wondered what Alicia was doing. Probably milking a cow. Maybe she did this to me. Nah. He found to his surprise that he didn't feel any bitterness toward her. That was a novelty. All that bitterness that had gnawed at his guts for months was gone. Where did it go? Inside his chest the feeling was clean and painless. God, what a relief! I feel wonderful. He took a deep lungful of air and relished it! Outside the front window, palm trees swayed. The little cottages across the street caught the afternoon sunshine on their rooftops as they marched down the gentle hill toward the ocean. The sky in the top half of his window was deep royal blue changing to paler blue the higher he looked. Emmet was startled. God, it had been a long time since he looked at the sky.

Walking outside, he stood on the cement stoop. It's beautiful, he thought, looking around. What a beautiful world we live in. Feel that wind blowing! It's blowing all the way around the world, and I never notice it. Why is there wind? How did an absolutely great thing like that get to be here? He felt the breeze whisper against his face and arms.

A line of people stood at the bank on the corner of the street, waiting to make transactions at the walk-up teller window. Look at those people. Human beings. Standing in line on a slab of concrete. The sky is up there and the wind is blowing on them, and they don't even notice. Or maybe they do. Do they? Are any of them aware of what's going on? What is going on? Emmet gazed around, his eyes wide with wonder. This is an incredible place to live in, he realized in a flash of awe. I'm alive in this incredibly beautiful place!

Roberta Weinstein took Space Sex home with her that night. She lived in a single apartment on Barrington Avenue. The rent was hideous, but it was a security building in a good neighborhood, and Roberta felt safe there. After showering and dining on a salad, she settled into her reading chair with a pot of English tea on the end table beside her and Suckerfield's script on her lap. She opened to a random page and began reading:

9.

(CONTINUED)

Venus M'Gnapt stepped trustingly into the dream tank cylinder of the University's transfer machine and lay down.

VENUS

See you in a couple of months.

SARR

(smiling)

Have fun. Be a good girl.

Venus laughed.

The University of Sidap had been using this machine for over ten years. All the Universities and most government agencies had them.

It was her first long trip, but last year Venus had been transferred to nearby Curmin XII for a month, where she did some very interesting research with a group of Mandibi warriors. She had boarded a space liner when the month was over and had flown home.

Venus was primed for another wonderful adventure; but she had lost sight of one critical detail. She trustingly allowed herself to be scheduled for departure on a Friday afternoon with a nurd sex maniac for a programmer.

Sarr R'Tangele, the head programmer at the University of Sidap, had a date later that night with a tender, young laboratory analyst whose pants he'd been trying to get into for months. He was more than a little preoccupied with thoughts of his upcoming conquest.

Venus noticed his erection while she chatted with R'Tangele about the details of her cover story.

VENUS

I have to be very pretty, with a great body. And I have to be smart, of course, so that I can do the research.

SARR

Your mind will be just as it is now. I suppose that will be sufficient..?

VENUS

(smirking)

Of course. I just wanted to make sure.

SARR

(superior smile)

Rest assured...

She had thought the programmer was excited by her. Her vanity knew no bounds.

But although she felt complimented, Venus had no inclination to get tangled up with R'Tangele, who was a mere Garun technician. It was not considered moral for high class Taarks to have sexual relations with civil servants. Not that impropriety would have stopped Venus if the mood was on her, but she was as preoccupied with her trip as R'Tangele was with the lab girl.

Her father, the Senator, would be so proud if she could do some meaningful research. She couldn't wait for him to stop treating her as a child. This trip -- coupled with her other research -- would prove to Taark society that she was someone to be reckoned with.

Venus regarded her father as the sexiest man in the Universe, and she wasn't far wrong. When he assumed his leonine appearance, his majesty was awesome. Venus had seen him mount as many as twenty females in a single night. Unfortunately, she had never been one of the lucky ones. Always and without fail, he swatted her on the fanny and roared at her to go do her homework.

Sarr R'Tangele, with his minuscule civil servant's erection, closed the glass and chromium lid and locked the lock.

SARR

Nighty, night.

Sarr twisted the dials and made the settings for Venus M'Gnapt's journey. He knew the mixing procedure like the back of his warty hand, having sent thousands of students here and there across the galaxy on their data gathering trips. He had never had a problem on a transfer and expected none this time.

Looking at the succulent Venus, Sarr thought about his date with Brenda Var'Nuit, who had finally agreed to go out with him, precisely because he was a flawless performer on the transfer console. Brenda wanted a promotion, which translated into Sarr's lucky night, since she needed him to sign her proficiency report.

He allowed himself to float into a sexual Friday afternoon daydream of Brenda's scaly thighs -- and his fingers failed to find the exact settings to restore Venus' long term memory after it had expanded and whirled across space like a controlled spiral nebula. Such are the failures of science.

Venus winked at him through the torsion glass window.

Sarr R'Tangele pushed the transfer button.

Venus closed her eyes and a smile froze on her face, as the particles of her being zoomed into space.

CUT TO:

Roberta Sand Weinstein licked her lips, took a sip of her tea, and continued reading.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

Night had fallen. It was cold and dark. Emmet Suckerfield was alone. Cold winter nights are not fun alone, even in the tropics of Southern California. Emmet sat in his TV chair, staring at the dark television screen. There was nothing on worth watching. No Lakers game tonight. Also no Kings hockey. Nothing to distract him from the murderous gnawing inside his little self. The goldfish tank needed cleaning, he noticed, watching the fish swimming behind the skim of algae on the tank walls.

He fed the fish three times a day. A few multi-colored flakes of fish food always seemed to drift down to litter the top edge of the couch. Unavoidable somehow, since the tank was behind the couch. Emmet couldn't see the flakes from his chair, but he knew they were there. When the plastic bottle was empty, he could get several more feedings from those strays. Funny how he'd managed to feed those damned fish for over two years, three times a day. He hadn't been away from home for a long time. Even when Alicia was there, he had fed them. She liked the fish, but he fed them.

Needless to say, the afternoon high which he'd experienced on the front steps was gone. Once he had seen the intense beauty of the world, Emmet expected to be in that heightened awareness for the rest of his life. It had been so wonderful and so easy. Slowly, as dusk had turned to dark, the feeling had departed. It was so gentle in going that Emmet didn't miss it until it was gone.

Hanson McIvor, Suckerfield's agent, sat in his living room, holding a copy of Space Sex on his lap. The baby was asleep finally, and Dolly was at a Woman's Club meeting. She would come home soon and he'd get on with his husbandly duties. Of course, he should be reading the script. Roberta was probably reading her eyes out. Imagine her stealing my project! That takes a lot of brassy nerve. Well, that's what she's got, tons and tons of brass. I found this fucking project, it's really shity of big Uncle Walter to give it to the whore. She undoubtedly traded him ten or twenty blow-jobs. Hanson hope the old tyrant liked them.

He sighed and looked down at the script, needing to get some work done while there was time. Hanson wasn't sure that he approved of these Women's Club meetings, but he didn't know how to bring up the subject at this late date. Opening the script, he began to read. Midway through the second page his eyelids got very heavy. To keep from falling asleep, he switched on the television to a rerun of M*A*S*H and continued reading.

11.

(CONTINUED)

EXT. MILKY WAY COSMOS

The consciousness of Venus M'Gnapt exploded into a billion phempto-particles as it rocketed through hyper-space on its way to Earth.

CUT TO:

McIvor found that sentence somewhat confusing, but people who start reading in the middle of a script often feel that they have missed something.

INT. MIDDLE CLASS APARTMENT - LOS ANGELES - DAY

At a prearranged time -- a time ordained by Sarr R'Tangele's nimble fingers and the giant computer coupled to the transfer equipment, the particles of Venus reassembled inside an apartment in Los Angeles, which had been rented especially for her use during the research project.

Venus looked like a young Earthling woman with all her working parts intact. WHISTLE BAIT, actually.

Walking immediately to a bureau, she found the necessary documents for her cover story as an Earthling.

In the closet were Earth clothes. On an end table were recent periodicals -- Red Book, Cosmopolitan and People Magazine. In the refrigerator was food.

The only thing missing from Venus M'Gnapt was her long term memory, which overshot the Earth and continued streaking out past Betelgeuse. As far as she knew, Venus was a young Earthling woman with a complete history, trying to make it on her own in the rather hospitable city of Los Angeles. Most cities on Earth are rather hospitable to a pretty, young woman.

Venus saw no reason not to leave the sterile apartment and MOVE in with the first young man who picked up on her obvious charms. His place, near the beach, was much nicer and the air was better to breathe.

CUT TO:

INT. BOYFRIEND'S APARTMENT - DAY

Venus decided to leave the sterile apartment and MOVE in with the first young man who picked up on her obvious charms. Her new boyfriendÕs place, near the beach, was much nicer and the air was better to breathe.

Hanson McIvor put the script aside with another long sigh, and concentrated his attention on M*A*S*H. Now, what made that fool Corporal Clinger dress up in woman's clothing?

*

There must be a way to beat this, Emmet Suckerfield said to himself after sitting immobilized for two hours staring at his goldfish. He hoisted himself out of the easy chair and did five jumping jacks, almost brushing his fingertips on the nine foot ceiling. Then he touched his toes, did a few rope pulls and plopped on the floor to do three push-ups.

Get the blood flowing, he thought. It wasn't flowing well. With a pit of emptiness yawning under his feet, he walked into the kitchen, observed the unwashed dishes and popped a handful of Vitamin C pills. Vitamin C is supposedly good for depression. But was he depressed? Yes. You bet your sweet ass he was. Depressed right out of his goddamned gourd.

Sitting on his telephone chair, he leafed through a leather address book. Maybe I'd like to call Alicia, he mused. It's not too late back there. Six-thirty here. That makes it nine-thirty there. They can't be in bed yet.

He found the number of Gerald Wilson on the farm in Indiana and dialed it. His heart beat wildly. Why would it beat like that? Am I in love with her? Is this a big deal phone call? The phone rang in a hollow, long distance ring. A man answered--Emmet's former father-in-law, who had always seemed fond of Emmet.

"Hello, Gerry. Emmet Suckerfield here. Hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, you didn't," Gerald Wilson said, with an Indiana twang. Very solid sounding--corn, soy beans, black dirt, cows and pigs. "I was just looking at the TV."

"Oh, sorry to bother you."

"No trouble at all. Just a rerun, How you doing out there, son?"

"Oh, pretty good, Gerry. How are things on the farm?"

"Tolerable, but it's getting cold. Had a little snow this morning, so me and Tim went out to hunt up a rabbit. Had quite a little walk."

"Sounds like fun."

"Yep. Maybe it'll be a mild winter. The rabbit fur doesn't seem very thick. We could sure use a mild one. I get tired of fighting it. Well, I suppose you want to talk to Allie?" Gerald Wilson said.

"I would like to... Nice to talk to you, though."

"Call anytime, Emmet. Well, I'll get Allie." Gerald Wilson called for Alicia. It sounded like he was calling upstairs.

"Hello..?" Alicia said, a minute later. She didn't sound too pleased.

"Hi," Emmet said. "I just called to say hi. I guess I was lonely."

"It's nice to hear from you, but I'm slightly busy."

"Oh, what are you doing?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in. I've got a new boyfriend, though, and I'd really rather you don't call."

"Oh. Well, sure, I guess not. I wasn't trying to cause any trouble. I just wanted to say hi."

"I know, Emmet." She paused for a long second. "How are things going with you?"

"Oh, fine. Actually, fine. Well, I guess I'll hang up, now. Say hello to your mom for me. Bye, Alicia." She said good-bye and he recradled the telephone. Emmet was alone in desolation. He looked over at the Gold's Gym bathrobe, which was hanging on the corner of the bathroom door. How had it gone wrong with Alicia? I really loved her. What happened that I couldn't love her enough when she was here? He didn't know. Could any man know how it goes wrong, or know how to repair it? Repair must be a function of God, Emmet realized suddenly, clearly. There seemed no other way to view the matter. Submission to the will of God is the only possibility open to a frail human -- all else leads straight to desolation. Faced with the black pit or submission, Emmet Suckerfield submitted. Tears flooded his eyes and sobs wracked his frail body.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dolly McIvor came home at 12:15. Hubby was far from asleep. In fact, Hanson was pacing the floor. For the second time in his life, he had first-hand experience with that term. His other acquaintance with pacing had been at the hospital when Vance was born. They had planned to do natural childbirth, so he was on hand as the Lamaze coach; however, complications had arisen at the last moment. The baby turned, and the doctor had insisted on a saddle block. That decision had deposited Hanson uselessly in the waiting room, still wearing his green surgery smock and plastic booties. He paced that night for two and a half hours before the nurse told him he had a son.

It had only been an hour tonight. He hadn't started until after the late news, which he seldom watched. When Dolly walked in smiling, he looked down at the beige pile carpet and found there wasn't even a groove worn in it. No tell-tale pathway.

"Sorry, I'm so late," she said, not acting sorry at all. She hung her tan raincoat in the coat closet. "There was a very interesting speaker at the group," she said. "He took several of us out for drinks afterwards. The man was so interesting that I just had to go. I felt like I had to. You weren't worried, were you?"

"Worried?" Hanson asked, feeling his insides turn upside down. "I didn't call the police, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, good," Dolly said, going into the bedroom. "I knew you'd understand."

"What was so interesting about the speaker?" Hanson McIvor asked, modulating his tones to keep them conversational. He followed Dolly as far as the bedroom door, where he leaned against the jamb.

"Whales," she said, turning off the night stand lamp before slipping into her nightgown. "He said a lot of things, but mainly he said it's very important to protect the whales from extinction." She turned the covers back and slid into bed. "You didn't have any trouble with Vance, did you?"

"No, no trouble with Vance," an edge of spite was creeping into his voice. He could hear it, but couldn't control it. First that cunt-head Weinstein and now his wife! When am I going to get a break? I deserve a hell of a lot better than this. "Vance was fine. He slept right through it."

"Through what?" Dolly asked sweetly. McIvor watched her pretty lips purse like they did when she was in doubt about what had happened.

"Through the mother-fucking whale lecture..! Then he slept right through going to the bar with some asshole. He's a great little sleeper."

"You're taking this all wrong, honey. Please come to bed, then you'll feel better."

"I doubt if we have time to get a hundred big ones in before I go to work," Hanson commented with scathing sarcasm.

"Come to bed," she said, getting in and sliding over to give Hanson room. "We'll just do three or four tonight. Or maybe I'll do something for you, if you'd rather."

"Oh, I see," Hanson cheeped, having lost momentary control of his vocal cords. Just why didn't she need her hundred big ones tonight? And she never offered oral sex. She hadn't done that since before they were married.

"You don't see anything," Dolly commented, tiredly. "Come to bed. Or if you want to make a mountain out of this, sleep on the couch. I don't really care, Hanson. It's up to you."

*

Emira Spain was spending a restless night. There was no reason for her to feel like this, she knew. Mr. Emmet Suckerfield was nothing to her. Less than nothing. A starving writer, what a laugh. Why did she keep thinking about him? And why couldn't she go to sleep? She had a busy day tomorrow, the first day of her new job.

*

Roberta Weinstein lit her forth Kent filter of the evening. She allowed herself five a day, so she had one more to go. Roberta prided herself on her self-control. By controlling these little things in her life, she was convinced that she'd be able to maintain when something big happened to her. The way most people reacted to their big break was frightening. It ate them alive. Roberta most certainly didn't want to go through that madness. It didn't take much imagination to know that she was destined for big things. Big things. She smiled to herself. The truth was she could have used a big or medium-sized thing right this minute, but none were available. At least, not without getting dressed and going out. Space Sex was intriguing Roberta's prurient interest rather surprisingly. She had no illusions that she, herself, was a good girl, far from it. But Venus was so open about her sensuality, and those orgy scenes were mind blowing. Having finished reading the script once, Roberta was wending her way through the hot parts a second time.

I'll call Suckerfield first thing in the morning, she decided. There's more to him than meets the eye. Nobody would suspect that he's a closet swinger, but what else could he be? She had somehow stopped thinking that Emmet's wife wrote the script.

*

"You wouldn't like to see me kicked out of my apartment, would you?" Emmet Suckerfield wheedled, having stopped at his sister's house for a midnight snack. He sipped his coffee, facing Sally across her marbleized Formica kitchen table. "If I don't pay the rent, I imagine I'll be out next week."

"Then pay it," Sally advised. She studied the crack that had reappeared in the ceiling plaster where the repairmen had fixed it. The shower was probably leaking again. That's why the patch was there in the first place. A whole section of the kitchen plaster had fallen out one day while she'd been at work. She walked in with a bag of groceries to find a sodden mess all over the stove and floor. What a trauma that had been. If the shower was leaking again, the ceiling would probably fall down again.

"Do you think you could fix the leak in my shower?" she asked.

"What's wrong with Joe? He knows about that stuff."

"Forget it. I just thought you might want to do something useful for a change. I forgot you were the famous Doctor Suckerfield, who spent all that money on his education, then never used it. Got any new theories, Doctor?" Sally was angry, but then suddenly she wasn't. She looked at her brother and started giggling. She had always expected him to be the strong one in the family, even after she realized he didn't know the first thing about making money. A financial vacuum. But she knew he had a brilliant mind, and she knew somebody had to look after him.

"Let me have five hundred and I'll pay it back by your birthday," Emmet said.

"Forget it," she said. "Out of the question." Her birthday had just passed. The next one was eleven months away.

"Two hundred, then."

"I work for that money. I don't pick it off bushes. Why don't you get a job? I'm sure I could find you something at the hospital." Sally was an RN. She had been at the same hospital for six years, and had some clout.

"No thanks," Emmet said. "I can't picture myself as an orderly, wheeling stiffs around."

"Oh, Em," she sighed.

"Make it a hundred, can you? That will get me through this week. Things are going to be allright, Sal. They really are. It's just a little tight, now."

"This one time," she said, coldly. "But don't expect me to keep doing this. I'll write this off as your Christmas present."

"What kind of bird is that?" Emmet asked, cocking his ear toward the kitchen window.

"Bird?"

"That one that's singing. Is he here every night?"

"I don't have time to listen to birds all night, Emmet, darling. I have kids to raise and a job to go to."

"Don't you hear him?" Emmet demanded.

"Of course, I hear him! He's practically breaking the windows with all that chirping."

"Why would a bird do that..?"

"What, Emmet..?"

"Sing his brains out at night."

"I don't know, Emmet. Why would he?"

"Sounds like he's happy, doesn't it? Do you think it's a nightingale or what?"

"I don't know, Em," Sally said. "I don't have cash. Is a check allright?"

"Perfect," he said. "Don't worry about getting me anything else for Christmas."

*

The next morning found Suckerfield sitting on a weather-beaten couch that some neighbor had left in the alley behind his apartment building. For reasons that were unclear to him, he'd slept on the couch all night in his sleeping bag. He'd never done anything that strange before; but really, was it so strange? He had felt like sleeping outside. Big deal.

The morning sun was warm, he was sweating in the bag. He unzipped the sleeping bag, crawled out and sat on the couch, combing his hair with his fingers. No sense looking unkempt in case his neighbors saw him. Sitting in the sun felt extraordinarily good. He hadn't sat in the sun with nothing to do since he was a kid.

Across the narrow alley, a clump of foxtails grew beside a telephone pole. Amazing, he thought, watching them stir in the light breeze. They grow in the spring, then turn brown. They die, they come back the next spring. They don't do anything useful that I know of, just live.

If I'm really in the hands of God, I'm just like those foxtails. There's nothing to do. He'll provide. Women, if I need them. Money. Or nothing, if I need that for some reason. Is this too far-fetched? Can it really be that simple? And what I have to do is listen for guidance, I suppose. That's pretty heavy. I'd probably have to be ready all the time. Every person I meet is a potential message bearer. How about a cloud formation? Clouds might spell out a word message. He frowned. I've got to be careful not to let my sarcasm get in the way.

Emmet felt the sun beating on his head and neck. It felt dandy. I wonder if this is the experience that those religious kooks have before they start preaching on street corners? He walked up to his apartment with his sleeping bag in his arms, thinking it would be a good idea to brush his teeth.

Looking in the mirror, while scrubbing his teeth with a clear green toothbrush, another thought hit Suckerfield. I probably need a teacher, he thought. It suddenly became crystal clear that Socrates was a teacher, not a philosopher as his college professors had led him to believe. All those young men who flocked around the bearded sage had been trying to learn how to live correctly. They hadn't cared one whit about syllogisms. Probably what Emmet needed was an honest-to-God teacher.

Wow! Listen to that, Emmet marveled. This language has some real depth to it! Honest to God. What a far-out concept! Honest -- to -- God. Far out! He rinsed his toothbrush and stuck it in a glass. Then he rinsed his mouth.

The phone rang. "Emmet Suckerfield..?" a sweet, feminine voice asked.

"This is he," Emmet cringed. Another bill collector. How could he brush off her request for blood?

"This is Roberta Weinstein at the Carruthers Agency."

"Oh, fantastic," Emmet spouted. Sunshine flooded the room. "Nice to hear from you, Roberta."

"You gave me your script of Venus M'Gnapt to read," Roberta said. "Do you remember?"

"Of course. You're the receptionist. What's your name again?"

"Roberta Weinstein." She had decided against using the nom de plume. Saying she was Roberta Sand only confused her. Anyway, Weinstein was a perfectly good Hollywood name; and it was her heritage, so why not use it?

"Let me write that down so I don't forget it," Emmet said, pushing the C button on his phone index. He planned to write her name as a sub-heading under Carruthers. "How did you like the script?" he asked. "Sorry, but it's a little sexually oriented."

"Loved it," she answered. "Did I pronounce her name correctly? Venus M'Gnapt..?"

"That's how I'd say it," Emmet responded cheerfully.

"Do you think we could have lunch today so we can plan a strategy? I'm going to be working with Hanson on your project; so we need to talk, if you're free."

"Well, sure. Lunch would be fine," he said, a little flabbergasted. That girl is pretty, he recalled. That was why he'd given her the script. Now she wants to have lunch. "Fine," he repeated. "Where should we meet?"

"How about Romaro's at one o'clock? Today's special is stroganoff. It's usually quite good."

"Fine," Emmet said.

*

"I think it's time for a little straight business talk," Roberta Weinstein suggested pleasantly to Hanson McIvor. Their desks were side by side, hers was nearest the window. She swiveled to the left in her chair. Yellow sunlight reflected off the concrete hillside and hurtled through the venetian blind.

"Okay," McIvor said, gritting his teeth.

"First of all," she said, "it's completely necessary that we be honest with each other. If we're going to work on this script together, we don't want to screw one another up."

"Quite true," he said, looking down at his desk blotter. "You already screwed me."

"In what way?" she asked. Roberta was eager to hear what McIvor would say, because she wanted to get this conversation out of the way. She had important things to do now that she was an agent. If this nerd could fit into a slot where he could help, that was fine. Otherwise, she was dumping him.

"Well, you stole my script," Hanson said. "I'd call that screwing." He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. "Since you're a woman, I don't suppose you regard that as screwing, but most people would."

"My, what an advanced attitude toward women," she said, restraining her temper.

"If you don't like it, move out. I doubt if Walter will fire me because I'm a chauvinist."

Roberta knew he was right about that. Compared with old Carruthers, Hanson was a dreamboat. "It's good to talk these things out," she said, "if we're going to be an effective team. Please go on."

"Just because you're somewhat pretty, you're probably used to twitching your box and having the world flop over. Personally, I'm sort of tired of box twitching."

"It's lovely to hear your complete views on womanhood," she said, icily, scraping the lipstick from her bottom lip with her front teeth. "I'm sure that's a very enlightened viewpoint."

"Secondly, I don't like you. I didn't like the way you answered phones, and I don't like you in my office. If I could afford to quit, I would. But I can't."

"It's important to clear the air of our personal feelings," Roberta said. "Anything else..?"

"Yes, there is. My lovely wife has decided to drive my crazy by cuckolding me. This has nothing to do with you, of course; but I'm not too thrilled with women talking about honesty." He turned to look at her, then looked at the bookcase on the far wall instead.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Roberta said, unmoved. "Still, that needn't affect our relationship, which will be purely business. If you're finished with emotional matters, perhaps we can get down to something important."

"Why don't we," he said. "Something important." As may be noticed, Hanson McIvor was not quite the same person he had been last night. Being backed up against the wall had done wonders for him. Seemingly, he was finished with taking shit from everybody.

"One thing we could talk about is the Venus script. Have you read it?"

"I signed the guy up, didn't I? Do you think I picked him on a whim?"

"That's exactly what I think," Roberta sighed. "Please be honest about this or we're going to have a lot of trouble. Have you read the script? I want to be straight on this."

"Have I read the script?" Hanson McIvor chuckled nervously. His desk blotter seemed slightly askew. He straightened it.

"I know you haven't read it!" she blurted, unable to stand his evasion. "Let me tell you something, I know you're here because of nepotism; but I'm not! I've got a Master's in film management from UCLA and I'm good. You can help me and I can help you, but not if you act like a sadsack jerk. Is that clear enough for you?"

"How can you help me?" He opened a copy of Space Sex and thumbed through it, not really looking at the words.

"I can make you look good, which you can't do by yourself. You can open some doors for me. Carruthers wants you to succeed, so he'll help. If we're a team, he'll help us both. I doubt if you have any idea how valuable he can be."

"He hired me to move boxes," Hanson said.

"That doesn't matter. You're related to him and you're a man. If you show a little spunk, he'll help you. He has to!"

"I doubt it." Hanson answered, but the idea of showing spunk appealed to him. He looked over at the girl and studied her face. She did have an intelligent air about her. It was in her eyes, the way she looked back. Maybe that's why Hanson had disliked her. "Well, maybe something can work between us," he said. "I guess you're a lot smarter than I am."

"Would you say you're lucky?" Roberta asked, leaning toward him like she really wanted to know. "Or exactly how did you land this script without reading it?"

"I liked the title," he admitted.

Roberta smiled at him. He suddenly seemed like a young boy who needed taking care of. "Well, you did the right thing when you got Suckerfield to sign. This is a wonderful project. He has to make it more cinematic, but I'm going to show him how at lunch. Why don't you read the script while I'm gone, and we can compare notes this afternoon."

"Fine," he agreed. "I have a lot of trouble reading, but I'll give it a try."

After Roberta had left, McIvor grumped around the office. He walked over to peer out the window at the concrete hillside. Why the hell should I do what she says, he bitched to himself. I don't even like her. Who gives a big rat's ass if she's got ten degrees in film management? Besides that, she's probably a lousy lay. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and began reading about Venus M'Gnapt.

I'm a cork in the ocean, Suckerfield thought, sitting at a sidewalk table on the terrace at Romaro's Restaurant with Roberta Weinstein. I may as well listen to what this girl is advising. Maybe she knows what she's talking about. But, wasn't Venus sent to me intact, like a vision? My Muse must have wanted it written like it is. Or has the Muse sent Roberta to help rewrite it..? Is this all part of a process to make the movie how it's supposed to be? Or is it my job to fight for keeping it the way it is?

Roberta had been telling him that he needed to juice up the action sequences.

"What action sequences?" Suckerfield asked.

"That's what I'm trying to suggest," Roberta smiled. "The concept of romance on Torano is just dynamite, but filmically it falls a little short on action. I would say it's unwise to make all the action X-rated. We could go that way and show Venus with a series of lovers. By being really graphic with that, we could get our action, but wouldn't we lose audience sympathy."

"Do you mean you want war scenes or some kind of action based on killing or atrocities?" Emmet asked, spearing a string bean with his fork. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of love making as a way of life? I mean, Venus is espousing that philosophy."

"Some kind of action," Roberta repeated.

"I can't see Venus resorting to violence without ruining the whole premise of non-violence."

"Major films have action."

"How about a sporting event? That's a way to get action."

Roberta wrinkled her nose. Sports were less than thrilling to her. She didn't want a Babe Ruth Story.

"Well, what did you have in mind?" Emmet asked. The longer he looked at Roberta, the more distracted he was by her beauty. Obviously, she wears those black rim glasses and pulls her hair back so severely to disguise her femininity. But if she wants to disguise herself, why has she left those top two buttons open? He couldn't stop looking down her blouse. The rise of her breasts was so damned arousing. Looking at her face was no good either. Her skin was flawless. Emmet certainly didn't count the beauty mark on her left cheek as an imperfection. Dark eyes, long eyelashes, fluid arch to her eyebrows. Luscious lips with pink lipstick, which was mostly blotted off now by her napkin. He couldn't look at her lips without getting lost.

"There must be some way," she was saying, "to bring in a monster or an invader from space, or something..."

Emmet looked through the ivy covered lattice onto Sunset Boulevard. The traffic moved smoothly. About a third of the cars were Mercedes or Rolls Royces driven by insouciant Hollywood types. Business men and hippies walked past on the sidewalk. Svelte secretaries hoping to be noticed strolled in pairs and singles--none of them were as pretty as Roberta, but they made a nice counterpoise. "To tell you the truth, Roberta, I've got a slight problem here," he said.

"I'm trying to be a delicate as I can; but the script really does need a few changes. I realize you're a sensitive person, and that you've worked hard on this. And it's a wonderful story, believe me. It just needs a small amount of revision."

"The problem is that I can't look at you without wondering if it's out of the question to have a closer relationship with my agent," Emmet said, supposing that honesty was the right approach. "It's difficult to concentrate on the script because you're too pretty."

Shit, Roberta swore to herself. I'm not ready to handle this. "Well, Emmet," she said, "I'm sure it's unwise to go that direction. Involvements are hard enough without mixing them with business, don't you think?"

"I agree," Emmet agreed. "I was just wondering if you felt differently than I did. It might be pretty easy for me to break my rule about that."

"I don't think so," she said. They ate in silence for a moment.

"Isn't there some way for you to sell the script, and then I could make the changes on the producer's money?" he asked. "I'm not opposed to doing some rewriting; but a few bucks would sure make things easier."

"Oatmeal diet," Roberta said, without hesitating.

"Oatmeal?"

"Yes. Mr. Carruthers once told Steinbeck to go on an oatmeal diet as the perfect way to overcome writer's poverty. Get a box of oatmeal, the big round one, and when you get hungry fix yourself a bowl of oatmeal. It's a famous story. You must have heard it."

"I never did," Suckerfield said. "Sounds like a good idea through."

"Very effective. Steinbeck wrote Grapes of Wrath after that." She popped a cherry tomato into her mouth and winked at Emmet. "You can do it," she said, chewing the juicy tomato. "It should only take a week or so to prop up the action."

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

Hanson McIvor didn't get it. He was a third of the way though Space Sex and it didn't make a bit of sense. Why had that twit Roberta made such a big fuss? It wasn't even written in proper screen play form, Hanson knew that much. It read more like a novel. Most of the dialogue took place in the character's mind. The girl was a strange looking alien slut. What kind of shithead plot is that to make a movie about?

McIvor slammed the script closed on his desk. What kind of caca was this? Suckerfield must be out of his tree to think this crap is salable to network television. Bullshit! Why hadn't he read this dreck before he'd gone out on the limb? If Uncle Walter sees how bad it is, I'll be in deep water.

*

Emmet was in the shower again. Hot water drizzled on his shoulders. Something was wrong with the damned shower. He had to turn the cold down to nothing in order for the hot to be hot enough--then there wasn't any damned pressure on the hot side. Emmet couldn't understand it. His apartment had its own water heater. Why didn't it put out any pressure? Somebody else in the building was probably tapped into his line.

He wasn't depressed by what Roberta told him exactly, but how in the hell did she expect him to concentrate on a rewrite when he didn't have a penny? He'd be forced to try, of course. Roberta had backed him into a corner by saying they weren't going to attempt selling the script until it was corrected. She also hinted that the form was scarcely like a screenplay. That's a laugh. McIvor read it and loved it.

Well, shit. He turned off the shower and toweled dry. The new notebook was perfectly ready to write in, there was no reason to save it for a new script. I'll start a rewrite.

An action sequence, he thought, how mundane! How about a fleet of Tricomonis warships raining hell down on Torano. Then the lion/toads can retaliate with their secret weapon and blow the holy crap out of the Tricomona germs. That's how their credo of free love really was promulgated--Speak softly, but carry a nuclear bomb. Or how about shoving old Venus into a cat fight with one of her rivals? They claw each other to shreds. Venus wins, of course. I could give her long, sharp claws. Why not? Turn her into a monster. She's livid with jealousy over her toad boyfriend.

But really, it's a perfectly fair question. What would the Taarks do if an invasion fleet arrived? They must have met with resistance somewhere among the planets they control--or if they haven't, they will sometime. Emmet lathered his face to shave; then stared at the lather beard in the mirror. What the hell, he thought, maybe I'll grow a beard. I haven't had one since the hippie days. I wouldn't mind seeing what it looks like with gray hairs in it. Maybe that's what I need to change my luck. He didn't see how a beard could affect luck, but it seemed as likely as anything else. He'd had a beard when he met Alicia. There must have been some reason she fell for him. Maybe that was it. He washed the lather off, and congratulated himself on the positive step. Growing a beard is something to do.

The phone rang. "Mr. Suckerfield..?" a high pitched man's voice asked. It was the collection agency for his Master Card.

"He's not here," Emmet said abruptly, and hung up.

Okay, he thought, a war fleet arrives from somewhere in space. They call down on their space speaker-phone and inform everybody on Torano that the jig is up. Excellent. Perfectly wonderful situation. Emmet stepped into clean underwear, then put on a checked cotton shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers. The Taarks would have to punt or they'd have to kick ass.

The phone rang. This time it was Emira Spain, the Fuller Brush girl. "Emmet?" she said, sweetly. "This is Emira Spain. How are you?"

Emmet was basically floored that the girl was calling, but then he came to his senses. She was either enchanted with him and had just realized it, or she wanted to resell the broom.

"Hello," he said. "I'm surprised to hear from you. Is this a business call?"

"I thought maybe you might like to get a cup of coffee or a drink?"

"You mean now?"

"Well, if you want to. I'm down at Bob's Big Boy, if you'd want to meet me."

"I guess I could," he said, hesitantly.

"Don't tell me you can't afford a cup of coffee?" She laughed delightedly at his financial embarrassment.

"I can afford it," he said. "I just thought it might be easier to talk here."

"Oh, I'm sure you want to talk!"

"Just why are you calling me, Emira?" Emmet inquired.

"Really, Mr. Suckerfield, your attitude is so poor, I'm surprised you have any friends."

"You've got me there," he chuckled. "I haven't noticed any friends around here lately."

"Now you know why. Your attitude is terrible. Are you going to meet me or not."

"Sure," he said. "I'll be right down."

Striding across Bob's parking lot, he saw Emira sitting in a window booth going through her order book. He stepped into the landscape shrubbery and tapped on the window. Emira glanced up, made a face as if he were too gauche for words, and motioned him to come in.

"This is a real surprise," he said, slipping into the orange and brown plastic booth.

"It is, a little," she replied, coolly, taking a sip of her coffee.

"You look nice," he mentioned, supposing that was the right thing to say. She did. It appeared that she'd gone to a bit of trouble for him. Her hair was brushed long, and the blonde streak was braided separately--a very tiny braid in the left side of her hair. Quite attractive, Suckerfield thought. "What do you think is more exciting," he asked seriously, "a space invasion or a lover's fight?"

"Please don't get weird on me, Emmet," she said. "I've been thinking about you a lot and I want to know if you've been thinking about me." She studied his face like she couldn't quite believe she was talking to this man.

"Well, sure I have," he lied. "How are the brushes selling?"

"I'm doing something else now," Emira said, off-handedly. She nodded her head up and down like this was the absolutely strangest encounter of her young life. "And please don't lie to me. I'm trying to find out where I stand with you, and I'd appreciate it if you don't confuse me on purpose. I don't want to become a space case, just because I might be falling for you. I can just as easily not see you, if you're not interested."

What a pleasant surprise for the Suckerfieldian ego. It sort of swelled him up inside. "Well, it was pretty bizarre the last time you were over," he stated. "As a matter of fact, because of you I had some earth-shaking insights."

"Like what?" The girl was looking at him with no discernible emotion--at least none that he could read. She expected him to have some ready answers, so that she could shut him down, if she didn't like the shape of the game.

A curvy black waitress wiggled up to take his order. Emmet asked for a cup of coffee. Emira requested a refill and some honey.

"What was your insight?" she said, unsidetracked.

"Well, because you were so crappy to me, I sort of discovered that the rest of the world was out there. Something like that."

"I was crappy..?!"

"You were pretty cold. Maybe you think that's the way to be."

"I was pretty awful," Emira admitted. "And believe me, I've suffered for it."

"I don't see how you could have suffered that much."

"I did. And I'd appreciate you not making fun of me."

"I'm not, but you could think about improving your sense of humor a little. It might make your life more pleasant."

"How would you suggest that I go about improving my poor little sense of humor?" she asked, haughtily. "I wish you'd tell me how to do that."

"The first step is knowing you're a little weak in that area."

"Have you always been such a dork..? Weren't you married?! Don't you know any of the right things to say to women..?!"

Emmet thought that over. "You know what, Emira, you could be right. Maybe I'm not such a smooth operator, but if you don't like me, why did you call?"

"I like you! You act like a dork, but I know you're not one, if you're a successful writer. I wish you'd act like the person you really are."

He laughed. "How old are you, anyway? That may be our problem."

"I'm twenty and whether you think so or not, that's old enough to know a few things."

"This is ridiculous," Emmet observed. "We don't know each other well enough to bicker, but that's all we do." He studied her face for a long second. "We must be astrologically wrong for each other."

"That does it, Mr. Suckerfield! You really are hopeless. You say the wrong things every time you open your mouth. If you don't quit talking right now, I'm going to forget all about you."

Emmet took a sip of his coffee. Emira was too much. He had a thousand times more experience than she did, and she was cutting him off at every word. A controlling personality, that's probably her story. One of those sickos that have to twist everybody around their fingers because they're so insecure. He smiled benignly. Let's see how she likes not talking. From now on, she can beg for any pearls of wisdom. He smiled again, but Emira was looking down at her coffee.

This damned poverty, he realized, is weakening my spirit. It's not fair, damnit..! I'm stronger than I've ever been. And my positioning is better. Much better! What is this, anyway?! A girl calls me, then gripes at me for being me..?

"What kind of crap is this, anyway?" Emmet shouted. Several customers stared over at him, but Emira smiled triumphantly.

"I knew you'd talk first," she chided. "I'll pay for the coffee, since you're so helpless about money. Maybe I should buy you some razor blades, too."

They walked to the cash register. Emira took his arm and snuggled against him. The manager handed the change to Emira and gave Emmet a jaded, knowing smile.

*

Emira was completely different in the bedroom this time. She was attentive to his erection to the point of acting like a sex therapist--concerned only about his gratification. To please him, she'd even peroxided a thin blond streak in the hairs of her bush to match the blonde braid at her temple. And she'd become a born-again sexual athlete, bouncing under Emmet like the bed was an Olympic trampoline. It was enough to overwhelm any sensitive artist.

"Why don't you calm down a little, Emira," Emmet suggested. "Christ, I don't know why this has to be so difficult between us?"

"What's the matter now?" she demanded.

He thrust into her, causing her eyelids to flutter. "Don't act mad," he warned her. "Don't act like anything. Just relax."

"Keep quiet, Emmet," she sighed. "Just do that some more. It feels wonderful. But please don't talk, dear."

*

(CONTINUED)

Trapped inside an Earthling body, Venus was subject to the desires and craziness of a real Earthling, as all travelers are with their new bodies. The University authorities had voted to let this process go unhindered, since the research would be more truly reflective if the researcher reacted to the same planetary influences as did the subject. Her real body, resting in a dream tank at the University of Sidap was supposed to be monitoring Earthling love and emotional response, as well as sexual gratification levels. But the monitoring device in the dream tank was volition activated. In other words, Venus could choose which selective data to send to the computer; and so far, she had chosen not to send any. The computer read-out reported that her life signs were in perfect working order; but other than that, no reportage appeared from the ZB chips attached to Unit 879S. In his weekly reports, Sarr R'Tangele had noted this lack of data four weeks in a row, and was getting very nervous. Venus M'Gnapt was a very sexy number. There should be reams of data by now.

Only motivated students were chosen for the experiments, Sarr counseled himself at the end of the fifth week, when still no data from Venus had surfaced. He had been checking her log daily over the last week, and had reached the conclusion that something was wrong. He'd never been to Rhana 1217, but from all accounts it wasn't so difficult to find a partner. Yes, something was wrong. If she was sick or in trouble, she would have reported in for assistance. Even if she had forgotten the code, she could still key in with her name. Sarr was sure that nothing had gone wrong at the transfer end. He had done it himself. That thought awakened his bureaucratic paranoia. If something was wrong with Venus M'Gnapt, then something would be very wrong with his next promotion. Her father was a very big mucky-muck in the civilian government. Old Chad M'Gnapt, the terror of the budget committee. In a panic, Sarr checked the vistape record of the transfer and found to his horror that his nimble fingers had spaced-out at one critical instant. He wasn't even totally certain that Venus had reached Rhana 1217 at all. She could be anywhere..!

That's ridiculous, he thought, taking a firm hold on his jangled nerves. He knew she was on Rhana 1217, the monitor reported her to be alive and well in a city called Los Angeles.

Rather than trusting his secretary with the task, he hopped over to the University's Spacing Library and searched through the Planetary Agent's Guide until he found the agent in charge of Western Sector -- Rhana 1217. The fellow was only an F-10, no problem there. Sarr, himself, was an F-12. With shaking fingers, he wrote down the contact code and hurried back to his office.

CUT TO:

*

Walter Carruthers turned the script face down on his oak desk. He picked at a hang-nail on his thumb. How in hell had McIvor picked this turkey, he wondered. Then little Miss What's-her-name had demanded to represent it. Mystifying. One of them could be overlooked with alacrity, but how could they both be charged up? And they're such opposite kinds of nitwits. What could they be up to..?

Walter shuffled a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and blew his nose bombastically. He reached for a cigarette, only to find that the pack was once again not in his vest. Six years since he'd kicked the habit, and he still reached for them. Why shouldn't he smoke, if he still wanted to. Times like this called for a cigarette, so he could think.

What I'll do, he concluded, is get this Suckerbush in here and look him over. He must be some kind of bird-brain, too. Anybody who would write straight narrative and call it a screenplay, can't be too firmly glued together. Who in the hell does he think I can show it to? It's not even long enough for a novel. Maybe I can get the cocksucker to pad it enough to send to New York. He pushed a button on his intercom and told the new receptionist to send Miss Weinstein in.

When Roberta cracked open the oak door and stuck her head in, Carruthers looked up from his hangnail. "You and your partner come in here," he ordered.

"My partner..?"

"Hanson. Get Hanson and come in."

*

Suckerfield the lover had been pumping away for the last twenty minutes and was no closer to his nut than he'd been at the start. Thinking back over the time since Alicia left, he realized that he hadn't had one climax with a woman. Until Emira started coming around, this fact hadn't been at the forefront of his awareness; but it was now. The first time he'd been certain it was her fault, now he wasn't so sure. Was it possible that his ability to climax normally had vanished? Out the window, just like that?

Emira's eyes were shut, but the lids had opened a fraction to reveal a tiny sliver of eerie white eyeball. She was obviously in some sort of ecstasy. A thin sheen of perspiration formed at her temples. Emmet felt it was very good luck for him to be in bed with her; but, damn, the whites of her eyes were spooky.

"Why don't you get on top?" he whispered in her ear.

"Not now," she mewed. "I'm almost ready."

So Emmet Suckerfield, the considerate, nice guy lover, plugged on. Why screw up her hot time, just because he was at a crisis point in his life?

*

When Roberta told Hanson McIvor that his Uncle Walter wanted to see them both, Hanson blushed bright crimson, then turned pale. "He took a copy of Space Sex off the rack this morning," Hanson dithered. "Shit is going to fly."

"Good," Roberta said. "We'll get some heavy input."

She was right, Old Walter was a heavyweight inputter. His first input was to tell them to sit down. When they both were seated and had turned their cherubic faces to him, he said, "I'd like to hear your bird-brain reasons for signing this masterpiece. You first, boy."

Hanson squirmed, trying to get his feet adjusted. "Don't squirm," Carruthers suggested, dryly. "Just talk."

"Well," Hanson said, brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead. "I thought the title would be very good at the box office."

"The title..?"

"Yes, sir."

Outside the picture window, traffic hummed on Sunset Boulevard. A large house fly buzzed against the window pane, trying to get out. "That's all?" Carruthers asked.

"That's what initially caught my interest," Hanson answered, feeling very sick. He grinned, boyishly.

"How about you, Miss UCLA Film School?" Walter turned his agate gaze to Roberta.

"Number one," Roberta said, acting brassy and sure of herself, "it's highly unusual material. Number two, I had lunch with Emmet Suckerfield and he agreed to write some action scenes to break up all the description. Incidentally, the internal description will be handled in a running Voice-Over, like the old detective films. That's only been done once recently, that I can recall, in "Platoon." It was quite effective."

"So you're planning to wait until the new material is forthcoming before we send this anywhere?" He picked up the script and tapped it on his desk.

"Yes, sir," Roberta answered. "We talked for a long time. I think he understood how to beef up the scenes."

"It's written in narrative," Walter Carruthers mused.

"Yes, sir. That's what I just explained. It gives us a completely unique quality that we should be able to exploit nicely," Roberta said, smugly. "I know several of the new women producers, who will flip when they see it." She had all the cards and she knew it.

"Exploit, my ass," Carruthers sneered. "Unique, my aching ass! This is Hollywood. The only literate assholes in Hollywood are agents and studio mail clerks."

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

"Would you quit fooling around?" Emira begged, looking up into Emmet's face with a sinful smile. She was turned on like crazy, and wanted more. They had rested for a few minutes after her glittering orgasm, and she was primed for a repeat performance now that he was hard again. These older men certainly didn't suffer from premature ejaculation like somebody she knew. She neatly blotted the thought of Jeff out of her consciousness, and rubbed Emmet's back in what she imagined was a seductive circular motion. "You know how to fuck, don't you?" she purred.

"Like this?" he asked, thrusting into her. Their pelvis bones bumped together.

"I thought you knew how," she sighed, digging her nails into his shoulders.

"I used to know how, but my knees are tired. Get on top." Suckerfield pulled out and fell heavily beside her.

"Oh, Jesus," Emira complained. "Wouldn't you know that I'd have to do weird things with you." She climbed on top, frowning to show her righteous displeasure; but once situated she seemed happy enough about the turn of events. She glided up and down. Spasms of pleasure rippled through her mid-section. Emmet assumed that they were real spasms. It didn't seem that she had much to gain by faking it.

The more Emira got into it, however, the less wonderful it was for Suckerfield. Sex is supposed to be a partnership. Alicia had known that much, at least. Even if she was giving it to a hundred other guys, she had always been with me in our bed. This girl was off in her own universe, bouncing up and down on his rod, but not really caring that he was connected to it. Emmet was a mile farther from climaxing than he had been. It was like trying to get off on a suction pump. He chuckled to himself. That had some comic possibilities.

Watching Emira dispassionately, he noted her grapefruit-sized breasts swaying and jiggling. She lurched forward from the waist as she impaled herself. Her face was scunched up in a private ecstasy and her hair fell in her mouth. She blew it out on the up-stroke.

The front door bell rang. Saved by the bell, Suckerfield thought. "Get off a minute, honey," he said. "Somebody's at the door."

"Who is it?" Emira asked, in a daze. She looked down at Emmet and blew a strand of hair from her mouth.

"Get off and I'll see. Maybe it's important."

Emira raised her left leg gingerly and Emmet was free. "That position kills my legs," she said. "I don't see how anybody could come when their legs are bent like pretzels." She flopped beside him and snuggled into the pillow.

Emmet belted the Gold's Gym robe around himself and walked to the door. It was Nancy, the girl from upstairs. She had on a red sweater, bulging fully, and tight designer jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, showing off her mismatched ear rings. One was a dangling purple amethyst crystal. In the other ear lobe were two small gold rings inset with green stones. They gave her an asymmetrical look that was interesting--a little odd, but interesting. She claimed the amethyst had magical properties, but she had never specified exactly what the properties were.

"Hi, Emmet," Nancy chirped brightly. "Can I borrow a light bulb?" It was a strange request on a sunny afternoon. Emmet usually remembered that he needed a light bulb only after it was too late at night to buy one.

Nancy was a very good neighbor, since Rodney had moved out. No more loud fighting or loud music. Quietness is very desirable in a neighbor. Emmet wondered if Nancy would be willing, or able, to lend him a few bucks if a crisis arose. "What kind of bulb?" Emmet asked.

"Sixty watt or seventy-five, whichever you have," Nancy said. "The bathroom bulb popped when I turned the switch."

"That sounds serious, Nancy. Why don't you walk over to the market and buy a pack of bulbs."

"I just thought you might have one," she said, casually straining to look over his shoulder toward the bedroom.

"I don't, but if you buy some I could use a seventy-five watt for my typing lamp."

"What's going on in here?" Nancy asked, with an inquisitive smile. "I heard a rumpus. Are you allright?"

"Were you listening through the floor?" he asked.

She blushed. "Of course not. I just heard some banging and I wondered if you were depressed or something."

"Not right now, but I might be later. Were you listening through the floor with a glass?" Emmet leered at her.

"I was not!" Nancy tittered a high whinny of embarrassment. "Well, I guess I'll go to the market," she said, turning toward the front stoop.

Emmet waved good-bye to Nancy and closed the door. If I go to visit Alicia, he wondered, could I have a climax? He pondered this thought on his return to bed. Allie hadn't sounded like she wanted to see me very badly, but surely she'd take pity on my predicament, wouldn't she? But wouldn't it be wise to try out a few more women before I start getting worried. This brush woman must not be my type. I mean, how am I supposed to get off on a girl who isn't my type? I'm not a young buck like I used to be. I guess it doesn't like to be stuck in just anywhere. I should find somebody to bond with emotionally. He snorted aloud at the sheer ridiculousness of that thought. The only kind of woman he'd ever looked for was the special, bondable, kind. He chuckled. Hell, he didn't have enough cash to consider going to Indiana anyway, so thoughts of Alicia were worthless to him.

"I'm back," he shouted to Emira, swirling off the robe. She had both pillows propped under her head and the sheet pulled up to her neck.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"The girl upstairs," Emmet answered, jumping onto the bed. He stood above her like a surfer practicing his Banzai Pipeline move. The bed springs squealed.

"Did you tell her I was here?" Emira asked.

"Nope, I kept her guessing. This is fun," he said, apropos of the balancing. "I haven't done this since I was a kid."

"Why not?"

"I thought you weren't supposed to. It breaks the springs or something."

"No, why didn't you tell her I was here? Were you ashamed of me..?"

"Ashamed? Why should I be ashamed of looking like a stud to my neighbors?"

"You did tell her!! How did you do it, point to the bedroom and make lewd gestures?"

"I didn't tell her. You were making so much noise before that I don't have to tell anybody on the block."

"Was I loud?" Emira asked in bewilderment.

"Well, the bed springs do squeak pretty loudly." He bounced up and down to demonstrate. The springs responded with shameful screeching.

"Stop it, you dork! That's obscene what you're doing."

Emmet's prong was hard. It bounced up and down as he did, but his climax was clogged up inside. He felt it wanted to come out and play, except it didn't want to play with Emira. Absurdum ad nauseam, he thought. I want to drive up to Indiana and fuck my wife, but I can't. What a pile of horse dreck.

"Well, what shall we do now?" he asked. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the girl named Emira, wondering what all this had to do with the cosmic insight he'd had the other day. Wasn't one supposed to flow with the music of the spheres after one had heard it? Had he had an enlightenment or not? And if he had, why couldn't he act on it..?

Emira watched Emmet's clowning. What in the world was she doing in his bed? She hadn't been able to stop dreaming about this man; but when she was with him, she felt actually terrible. He made her feel so...inadequate. It wasn't a pretty feeling, at all.

She could see that the guy was practically going nuts because he needed something, but she didn't seem to be what he needed.

"I should go back to work," she said.

"Do you have any idea what we're doing together?" he asked her, in utter seriousness.

The directness of his inquiry startled Emira. It was spooky that he should ask exactly what she'd been thinking. "Are you a mind reader or something?" she said, squirming under the covers. "That's just what I was thinking about."

"What did you decide..?"

"I don't know why I'm here... You make me feel kind of creepy, to tell you the truth."

"Creepy..?"

"Well, you know what I mean."

"No, tell me. I'd like to know."

"Well, I don't have too much experience with men, but aren't they supposed to get excited when they're with a woman?"

"You mean I'm not excited?" He lay down beside her.

"Well, are you?"

"Of course, I am. Feel this. It thinks you're great."

"Liar."

"I am lying a little bit, but I do think you're really pretty and I can't figure out what's going wrong with me. Do you think I'm getting old?"

"You are much older than I am," she said with scathing honesty. She reached over to rub his back, finding that the muscles half-way down his back were severely knotted. "Your back is very tense," she murmured, kneading the stringy knots. Rubbing backs was one of the things she was good at. She'd had a lot of practice on her father, who had a chronic case of typesetters back from twenty years on the Mansfield News-Journal. Part of Emira's weekly allowance had been for rubbing her father's back every night before supper.

"That feels wonderful," Emmet sighed. "Jesus, I can't remember the last time anybody massaged my back."

"You should have this done at least once a week," she said, professionally. "It's no wonder you act strangely. Doesn't your back hurt?" Finding a particularly bunched muscle, she squeezed hard to loosen it up.

"Ummmm," Emmet said, wincing. The girl had strong hands, he'd say that much for her.

*

Why can't I ever find myself? Hanson McIvor wondered. He knew he was a nice guy; but that, by itself, was getting him nowhere. If only...if only what? What was it he wanted and couldn't find? One thing was a job he could feel useful at. Another was a wife who wasn't always twenty steps in front of him.

The script of Venus M'Gnapt was on his lap, along with some strained pears that Vance had spit on him during dinner. Most kids don't spit out strained pears for any reason, but Vance did. For a joke. The kid was something special allright, a born comedian. Maybe he was Hanson's ace. Maybe Vance was the whole reason that he and Dolly had gotten together. One thing for certain, Hanson loved the little guy.

Hanson had another ace that he hadn't told anybody about. Almost every morning before going to work, he had coffee with a guy. The guy's name was Sid Ringo and he was a very big producer at Paramount. Ringo didn't actually have coffee with Hanson, but they sat together at the counter of Norm's Restaurant. Sid came to Norm's to stay in touch with the viewing public, at least that's what he said. Hanson believed him. He had the air of an honest person.

Dolly wasn't home again tonight. Her girl friend, Irina, was having a baby shower for a pregnant cousin and Dolly had been invited. Hanson believed that tale about as much as nothing; but was he going to get a divorce just because some geek had swept his wife off her feet? Did he love her enough to put up with the obvious lies she told to get out of the house? He wasn't sure he did. It seemed like he'd never be able to believe her again, and what kind of life was that? Your wife says she's going to the market, and you wonder if it's a lie..? That's pig shit. But could he stand to be separated from Vance? Dolly was a good mother, wasn't she? Yes, he had to give her that. Vance was a great kid, and the reason must be because Dolly took care of him all day. Didn't she? She wouldn't take him to a sitter in order to be with her boy friend, would she?

Hanson told himself that he ought to drive past Irina's apartment to see if there was really a party, except that Vance was asleep. Maybe he could get Mrs. Wyrtle to stay with the boy. He could tell her he had to get milk. But could he actually ask Mrs. Wyrtle? They'd never really talked, just nodded at the mailbox or out by the garbage cans. Nah, forget it. She's probably in bed with a hot water bottle.

If he didn't read the script, Uncle Walter would crucify him at the next meeting, so he opened Venus in the middle. The words lay on the page without moving as his eyes scanned.

(CONTINUED)

Venus felt her body rack with an orgasm as her yoni clasped the limp member. This was the weirdest thing she'd ever done, and by the strength of her reaction, she knew she would be doing it a lot more.

She'd gotten the idea from watching the old GARDENER outside her dorm window, while trying to apply her mind to remedial algebra. Math and she did not get along well. Math had very little to do with sex.

The old man was so low on the social scale that he barely had any fur on his head. Venus had hit upon the kinky idea of seducing somebody like him. To do so, she would act like a submissive Garun. Then at the crucial moment, she could let her lionine aspect reveal itself full blown--it might discombobulate him so much that he would lose his hard-on while he was still inside her.

Or it might make him ejaculate from fear..!

Venus didn't know which would happen, and this bit of research attracted her far more than all the math in the Universe. Why did she have to take math anyway?

Math had absolutely no relevance to the rest of her investigation. Social science was supposed to be social. And science was investigation. She knew it was wicked to cross social lines that far, simply on a whim; but she was a researcher.

She tapped on the window pane with her carefully manicured finger nail. The gardener looked up from his trimming.

The gardener was disgusting, of course. Not only was he old, but his hairless skin was wrinkled and scaly. And he was already nervous because he was a University employee--fraternizing with students was strictly against the rules. Only when she had promised him a hundred secmas had his eyes shifted greedily, and he agreed to meet her after sundown behind the gardener's sheds.

Venus had dressed in some plain clothing, borrowed from a girl down the hall, who was exceedingly plain. She was doing her best to be mousy and inexperienced, and it was working.

Under her skillful ministrations, the limp member was filling with life. It wasn't easy for her to act sexy without becoming aroused herself, but she didn't want to scare him yet.

How boring it must be to live like such a nothing! The next major social element she was going to investigate was exactly the Taark/Garun phenomena. They were from the very same biological base, she knew that much. Everyone knew that, but over a thousand eons, the workers (Garuns) had developed into a servile class. An actual class! God forbid that she should ever slip to such an unattractive position.

There now, the old Garun was ready to slip it to her. He was starting to sprout a few hairs where his mane should be. This was fantastic..!

She was seeing the process of dominancy taking place before her eyes, in someone as far gone as the gardener.

Congratulating herself on her acting ability, she lay back on the pile of grass clippings and spread her legs wide enough to accommodate him. He stuck it in, and she started feeling the thrills trickle through her.

Look at him sweating. I bet he can't believe his good luck at finding a college girl as docile as I am. Her mind twitched back to the experiment. Here comes his surprise, she thought gleefully. Venus let her Taark nature leap forth with a roar and a rustling of her magnificent mane.

The gardener shriveled instantly. He didn't even climax, as Venus had secretly hoped. She felt sorry for him in the brief instants between her flashing orgasms.

The old Garun struggled to get away, but Venus clutched him strongly. The outrageous thought of his thin, reptile penis inside her magnificent body threw her into spasm after spasm.

(CONTINUED)

Hanson McIvor rebelled at further reading, slamming the script shut on his end table. He stalked across the hallway and tapped on Mrs. Wyrtle's door. The frail widow-lady answered the door of Apartment 30, with her white hair up in pin curlers. She was rail thin under her quilted bathrobe and limped as if her bird legs might splinter at any second.

"I wonder if you could sit with my little boy for a few minutes," McIvor asked. "He's asleep," he added.

"I'd be glad to," Mrs. Wyrtle said, in a high tremolo voice, "except I'm right in the middle of LA Law."

"I have a TV set, Mrs. Wyrtle. You could watch at my apartment."

"Is it color?"

"Of course. Last year's Zenith. Great picture, Mrs. Wyrtle. I just have to run down and get a quart of milk."

"I have an extra quart of low fat. You could replace it tomorrow."

"It's special soy milk," Hanson explained. "That's the only kind the baby can drink."

"Is that right?" the old lady commiserated, clucking her tongue. "But aren't the stores closed? It's way after ten."

"I get it at the all night pharmacy. We don't have any left in case he wakes up, and my wife is at a baby shower."

"Oh, well, of course. I'd be glad to stay for a few minutes."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hanson escorted Mrs. Wyrtle across the hall. He hoped he hadn't acted too antsy. After installing the old woman in his TV chair, he switched the channel to LA Law. Then he threw on his sports jacket and ran out the door with assurances that he'd be back in a few minutes.

Hanson jogged to his parking space behind the building. It was a dark night, as dark as the distrust in his soul. As dark as the sticky oil sludge underneath his blue Nissan sedan. He started the clunker and drove toward the Fairfax area where Irina Slegeman lived.

Turning onto Third Street from Fairfax, he noticed flashing red lights coming down the street behind him. They were so far back that they couldn't be for him, so he pulled to the curb and waited for the police car to pass. But it didn't pass. It stopped right behind him and two burley cops stalked up beside the car, one on each side.

"Did I do something wrong, officer?" Hanson asked, rolling his window down.

"You sure did, sir," the cop on his side answered brusquely. He towered outside the door in his blue uniform. His right hand leaned on the grips of his huge revolver. "You turned in front of an oncoming vehicle when you were making your right turn from the wrong lane. May I see your license, sir?"

Hanson fished in his wallet for his license. The cop on the sidewalk shined a glaring flashlight in his eyes, then shined it into the back seat searching for contraband.

"I didn't see any car," Hanson said. "Are you sure I did it?"

"I was right behind you. You cut the guy completely off. Made him come to a full stop."

"Where was this?" Hanson asked in bewilderment. He certainly hadn't noticed that he was driving dangerously.

"Back at the corner of Fairfax," the policeman said, clomping to his cruiser with Hanson's license.

*

There must be some way to rewrite this like Roberta wants it, Suckerfield thought, not really happy with the prospect. Emira Spain had gone to her new job, or to find somebody who could fuck her right. At any rate, she was gone and Emmet had spent the last two hours skim-reading his script. There wasn't anyplace to change it without revamping a lot of the premise, and Emmet was disinclined to do that. On the other hand, he wanted to sell the piece. The only spot to stick in some major action was right after Venus decided to become a special researcher. What the hell could happen there to satisfy Roberta's thirst for action. She didn't seem to realize that not every story in the world was full of blistering chase scenes. A ton of lives are lived without any outward semblance of excitement. What's wrong with showing that on the screen?

Well, suppose an alien life force that feeds on sexual energy came looking for Venus? That should be interesting--dynamo meets dynamite.

But how to actually train a goldfish, or more specifically three of them? Emmet wondered, letting the dilemma of Venus rest for a minute. He walked over to drop in a small pinch of hi-pro flakes even though it wasn't their normal feeding time. He couldn't withhold food until they did a trick, could he? Withholding something, food or love, was a normal way to condition an animal, Emmet knew that much. And rewards. A reward for doing a trick right was a powerful conditioning goad, but how would Pavlov succeed with a fish?

Still, the fish were wagging their tails in ecstasy, just like puppies when their master walks up to the kennel. Emmet wished he were cool enough to teach them to swim through the hole in that castle, before they came up to get the food. The Castle Swim. That would be fantastic. A line of goldfish following one behind another, swirling around the tank and zipping through the castle--then a power surge up to the surface to pick up a flake of food. Letterman would flip out! So how could he accomplish this meaningless, but Herculean task?

Emmet tapped his finger on the glass, six inches away from where the fish were feeding. Surprisingly, the fish all spooked. In a flick of an eye. They fled to the rear of the tank. Never having experienced a tapping before, naturally they shied away, reasoned Emmet. But he had to make contact. Maybe he should tap on the glass every time before he fed them. That would become like a Pavlovian signal to the goldfish, and he'd have a training tool.

Wait a minute! She lied to me! That was the problem! Lies. The she referred to Alicia, his former wife. It had just occurred to Emmet that maybe it was the lies and the homicidal disregard for his...what? Disregard for what? His manhood? No, that wasn't it. His sense of fair play? Ridiculous. Their marriage? Yes. The partnership. Utter disregard for their partnership was what Alicia must have felt right from the beginning. Something about that had smashed his trust in women. I need to do a bunch more experimenting, he decided, to reestablish my trust.

But Venus never gives one indication of being in a partnership with anybody..! Her situation is not even close to mine. I thought it was Alicia's fucking around that zapped me, but it was only an outward sign of a meaningless partnership. Amazing! How could I have been so blind that I didn't see that?

There was no reason for dear Alicia to have the same feelings about the marriage that I did, of course. The fact is, she didn't. But she never bothered to let me in on the secret. But weren't the indicators pretty clear? Really, weren't they? And I overlooked every one of them.

Emmet pulled his attention back to the notebook. What would happen to Venus if somebody decided to love her?

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Turning forty without a wife or a dollar in the bank can be a harrowing experience. Yes, it was Suckerfield's birthday. His day. He had waited forty years for this day, and it felt strangely normal.

It was a Saturday morning, two months after he had started rewriting Space Sex. He had prepared himself to feel squashed, but forty seemed more solid than expected. His life. It seemed a whole lot more interesting to live it the way it was, rather than cry and moan about the way it wasn't.

Alicia had interrupted his morning typing session by calling to wish him happy birthday. She said she didn't want to ruin his day by calling, she just wanted to say happy birthday.

Emmet knew exactly what she meant, and he would have been happy to hear from her, except that there was such a chippie tone in her voice--like she had no idea that he was still hurting for her. Why did she have to act like that? The squabble started in earnest when she wanted to know about his current events, meaning was he having fun without her. He replied that if she wanted to know what he was doing, the best way would be for her to visit. He felt sure of himself at forty, sure that he could live without her, so he really had nothing to lose by acting feisty.

As a matter of fact, Alicia had departed because she thought he was weak. He had been. He still was, but his tiny show of strength had startled her. Emmet heard that in her petulant squawking. What did he care if she was surprised or not? Or if she called or not. He didn't care (not much) and if felt good. She said good-bye, and added that maybe she'd call again when he was in a better mood.

During the last month, Suckerfield had tried his luck with two new ladies. One was a pretty blonde cowgirl, who he picked up at a single's bar. They had gone to her apartment because she hadn't wanted to go to his. The girl was worried that her feet stank in her cowgirl boots, and dashed into the bathroom to wash them as soon as she pulled the boots off.

Emmet found her warm and lovely. He enjoyed lying beside her on her king-sized bed, soaking up her female aura -- but when it came time to make love, his lust seemed to dry up.

She tried to please him, the only problem was that she had a limited imagination. Most cowgirls, this one included, expect the coals to be carried to their Newcastle, and why not? She was a pretty, passive, female with every right to expect that she was sexually exciting. But not tonight. Acute pouting was her response to Emmet's supposed displeasure with her. But, in fact, he went home about four AM thinking it had been an enriching experience, in spite of being unconsummated.

His other date had been with Lizelle, an older woman he had known when he worked at Bullock's. He'd always found her attractive, and he thought that maybe an understanding older lady might change his luck. She wasn't that much older, anyway, and had a great body.

After that evening, Emmet knew it wasn't luck. His luck couldn't be bad enough to present three ladies in a row who were not his type. What force was operating in his life that didn't want him to find satisfaction in stray women? That question became one of the central topics for his ruminations, but the answer was stubbornly hidden. It appeared that he was in a waiting period, but what was he waiting for?

Meanwhile he wrote. One day when Emmet had stopped into the agency to see McIvor and Roberta Weinstein, Walter Carruthers had let him know with withering clarity that he could either write a screenplay or a novel. Whichever he decided on, he could cut the bull crap and do it right. Emmet was sure this was good advice, since old Mr. Carruthers would hardly waste his time with bad advice. On the fortieth Suckerfieldian birthday, Suckerfield was working furiously at Bob's Big Boy. He had decided to change the movie script into a science fiction novel.

After writing two intense pages, Emmet capped his pen and clipped it back in his shirt pocket. A cute, curly-headed waitress named Amy stopped to refill his coffee cup. "I'm forty," he informed her.

"Are you really?" Amy responded, wiping up a drip of coffee she had sloshed over the edge of his cup. "I didn't think you were that old." Amy didn't care how old he was. What she cared about was tips and a wealthy father for her future children. The tone of her voice communicated those truths. "Oh, your girlfriend was in this morning." she said.

"My girlfriend?" Emmet asked. He was a little hurt by Amy's lack of response to his birthday, even though he hadn't mentioned it was his birthday.

"The girl with the blonde streak in her hair," Amy said. "Isn't she your girlfriend?"

"Oh, that one. She's a friend of mine. I wouldn't say she's my girlfriend."

"Well, she was in," Amy said, walking away with the coffee pot.

Emmet had been working for the last week as a midnight shift taxi driver for Yellow Cab. The job was potentially dangerous. In a sagging economy, cab drivers were rolled regularly. But so far, Emmet had experienced no trouble, and the tips paid his rent, leaving his pitiful salary free to make payments on his credit cards and utilities. Working late at night had several advantages, aside from leaving his days free to spend at Bob's. At work, he could write while he waited for a fare at the airport. The wee hours were surprisingly conducive to heightened awareness. Several mornings as dawn pinked the sky, he had found himself linked with the world in a kind of quiet ecstasy. Actually, it felt like he was united with the Creator; but when the moment passed, it always seemed presumptive to think that an insignificant human could have such a high level hook-up.

Rereading what he had just written about Torano, Emmet wondered if that segment was juicy enough for old man Carruthers. It was taking a hellish amount of work to turn the script into a novel, but he wanted to get it right. Roberta Weinstein kept extolling the virtue of hanging the story on a gripping plot. If he couldn't find a zinger of a plot, he was better off writing a formula book, since that's what most publishers wanted anyway. It was amazing, she'd insisted, how timid most editors were these days about accepting material that was even a little outside their guidelines. Suckerfield wasn't sure Roberta was right, and he wondered how she knew so much about the publishing business, since she'd been a secretary until a short time ago. However, he presumed that she knew more than he did.

He had just written another torrid love making scene starring Venus with a despicable wino. He did want to write some violent action, but kinky sex was the only thing that appeared in his mind. A mad scientist, out to enslave everybody on Torano, was what he kept trying for, but he couldn't get a handle on how to fit it in.

So now that he'd done some fantastic writing, the need to have a lady on his birthday loomed hurtfully on the horizon. Slim chance of a lady today. He was going to his sister's for dinner. That made the prospects of fun very dim. What about joining a monastery? Was that an idea worth considering? What about shooting himself?

Isn't it pitiful, he thought sipping some coffee, that with the glut of available women in the world, one of them wouldn't be able to spin my head around. If a girl picked this moment to hit on me, wouldn't I be open enough to give her a chance? Musing on that question, Suckerfield paid his check and walked across the street to start his trek home. But his timing was a little sloppy. At the precise moment when he was jay-walking across San Mateo Boulevard, a police black and white pulled up to the corner at Standish Street.

The young officer saw Suckerfield's jay-walking infraction. There was no on-coming traffic. Emmet the pedestrian, was in no danger whatsoever. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to add a digit to the police department's ticket quota.

Emmet swore to himself as the cop whipped to the curb and motioned him to stop. Climbing out of the black and white cruiser, the muscular policeman sauntered up to the sidewalk.

"In a hurry to cross the street, sir?" he asked with a mocking sneer. "May I see your driver's license?"

Emmet immediately disliked the choleric shithead with his trimmed blonde mustache, and knew he couldn't talk his way out of the ticket. So he didn't try. He stood mutely as the cop read his driver's license to find that Emmet wasn't a street person. He had every right to be in the neighborhood, since he lived only two blocks away.

The cop lived in Orange County, sixty miles away, but he looked Emmet in the eye and said, "You shouldn't jay walk on this street. It's a very busy street. And it's against the law."

"I know," Emmet replied, sourly. The copper took out his ticket book and copied the information from Emmet's license. One more drain on his depleted bank account. Emmet didn't blame the cop for doing his job; but he didn't have to be glad about it, and he didn't thank the cop for the ticket. He folded the ticket, stuffed it in his shirt pocket and walked up the street glowering.

Sally was expecting him for his birthday dinner at six, and he had to work at midnight, so the evening was shot. Joe, the picture of conventionality, always wanted dinner at six. Emmet thought about calling to cancel, but realized that would be foolish. Sally had gone to a lot of trouble with the cake. No sense taking a chance on cutting her off.

"Hi, shrimps," he said aloud, walking into his apartment. "Feeling like TV stars today?" The aquarium was sitting squarely in the middle of the living room. Emmet walked to it and tapped on the side of the tank with his fingernail. Then he dropped in a few flakes of food.

The goldfish were no longer afraid of Emmet's tapping signal. It was gratifying to see them swim right over to whichever side of the tank he tapped on. It was quite true that they came only for the food, but they came. This in itself could make him a success on Letterman. The last time he watched the show, some bozo brought his stupid dog on stage, and the mutt ran around barking and wouldn't do anything but wag it's scrawny tail.

Emmet had moved the aquarium from behind the couch and placed it on a small second-hand table in the middle of the room, so that the training could begin in earnest. In this position, he had access to all four sides of the tank. It made the living room exponentially smaller, but only in appearance. Emmet could see around the tank easily if he wanted to watch a ball game on TV.

*

Midnight at the cab stand. Emmet was the fifth cab in line at the airport, waiting for a fare. His birthday party had been a giant success. He was officially forty now, complete with cake, candles and a new blue jacket that Sally had bought him. But the highlight of the evening was the sunset.

Emmet had insisted that Sally and Joe and the kids accompany him down to Palisades Park to watch the sunset. It was magnificent. Serrated clouds changed from orange fire to red, then to purple as the sun sank deeper into the calm ocean. On the park's high bluff, the palm trees stood like stark, velvety black sentinels against the sky and the ocean rolled pacifically to the molten horizon. Even Sally and Joe were moved by so much gratuitous beauty. Her two kids from the first marriage, after bitter complaining about having to go to such a boring place, had chased around with Joe's dog in the twilight, having a great time.

The sky and the park were so beautiful that Emmet had been viscerally stunned. The vista was so potent that he was forced to hug his stomach while looking at it in order to protect himself. How could a visual stimulation jolt him in the solar plexus? It was such a strong pleasure, that it wasn't exactly pleasurable. Why should he react to nature's beauty in that way? Nothing he had discussed in philosophy classes or read about later had prepared him to witness things so forcefully. The sights were there--brilliantly in the moment. He walked through them, being stunned. It seemed appropriate somehow.

*

Her nipples grew as she tugged gently on them until they reached their hard glory. She liked them when they got so long and so sensitive. When she toyed with both of them at once, one between each thumb and forefinger, a tingle of lust ran down her belly and danced erotically in the dark wetness between her thighs.

At those times, Roberta Weinstein needed a man.

The tingling egged her on until she was thrashing on the queen-sized bed, sweating, with both hands working. Then her back arched as the shock waves overtook her and she hung suspended, frozen, until the descent started. The bottom of the parabola was an unhappy place. Lonely and wasted. And she visited there every night. In the quiet of that desolate place, Roberta knew she needed a man.

*

Alicia phoned Emmet long distance at ten the next morning. He answered, groggily.

"Are you in a better mood?" she asked in an almost bouncy voice.

Suckerfield was unprepared to hear her being vibrant toward him. He had married her mainly for just that happy vibration toward life, which had been aimed at him during their courtship. In the intervening years, he half suspected that he had made up that vibration--but there it was again, coming over the long distance lines. What a surprise.

"I've been thinking," Alicia said, "about coming back to LA."

"Have you?" Suckerfield asked, glad that his voice stayed firm. He was intrigued by the surge of energy in his sex organs. Strange that they should respond so positively to her. That revealed something important.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was tiny and submissive, overriding any possible negativity that might come from his end of the telephone. "I've been thinking about you, Em. I'd like to see you."

"I'm a little surprised," he answered, pinching the skin of his calf muscle in an attempt to keep himself anchored in the reality of what a bitch she'd been. "But I'd like to see you too. When are you coming?"

"Maybe in a month or so. I thought I might fly in for my birthday. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"What's wrong with today?" he asked, feeling his ardor rising. She was going to make him wait for a month? What about the hard-on he had right now?

"You want me to come today?" Innocence bubbled from her end of the phone.

"I could probably stand it."

"You mean you still like me a little bit, even if you know how I am?"

"I don't know how you are. What's that supposed to mean? I know you as well as I know somebody I've never met."

"Well, you know what I mean," she said. Before he had a chance to answer, Alicia shifted direction. "Life is so funny," she said, brightly. "You know, Em, I didn't think about you at all for months and months, and then I had a dream one night. You were so nice to me and you understood me better than anybody. Isn't that a funny dream?"

"Real funny," Suckerfield said, praying for his voice not to be sarcastic.

"It was such a nice dream that I felt actually wonderful about you the whole day."

"When was this dream?"

"Last week."

"You waited a week to call me?" If he knew this woman a million years, she would still mystify him at every turn. The way she operated was like a foreign city. It was totally unreasonable that he should be sexually hooked to somebody he would never understand. But maybe the enigma was the turn-on. And then Alicia was so pretty, just his type.

"I waited until your birthday to call," she answered. "That gave me time to make sure I really wanted to see you. You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No," Emmet acknowledged, considering the age-old cat and mouse game that was being played. "Why should I be angry? I already said I'd like to see you."

"I'll come then."

"You should know," he added, "that there's a little knot of bitterness inside me that will have to be worked out. Hopefully, it won't get in the way too much."

"I guess I can understand that," she answered, generously. "Maybe I should hang up now, before this gets too heavy. I'll call you when I get the reservations."

Christ, she's going to hang up, Emmet thought, feeling the emptiness start to grip him. "Okay," he said. "A good time to call me is around this time. I'm usually here then."

"Bye," she said sweetly, letting the soft tendrils of her voice give extra meaning to the word.

"Bye," he answered. Suckerfield had no wish to break the connection. Then he heard the click as Alicia hung up for them both. Empty silence. He recradled the receiver and pulled the drapes open to look out the bedroom window. Buzzing silence filled the room, but the morning was sunny and clear. A gleam of hope lodged itself in his chest.

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

Hanson McIvor finally had something substantial to grouse about. Just now, while driving over to Sony Studio to deliver a script for Uncle Walter, he'd heard a radio interview on a daytime talk show that knocked him for a loop. The guest on the show was a Dr. Something-or-other, who was an expert on reading disability. While the moderator was keeping up his usual chatter, the Doctor stated that inability to read was often caused by a breakdown in the micro-circuitry between the eye and the brain. It was almost never caused by normal stupidity. Even the smallest human brain, with no internal damage, was plenty smart enough to learn to read and to enjoy reading. So functional illiteracy was always caused by lack of motivation or electro-circuitry malfunction. Hanson had always assumed that his inability to read was due to terminal dumbness. He caught a startling glimmer of how he had let this attitude infiltrate his whole life. The doctor on the radio said that most adult people who couldn't read thought of themselves as dumbbells, when often they were natively brighter and cleverer than their co-workers who could read.

Driving past the Sony gate guard, Hanson puttered around the lot looking for a parking space. The front parking area was completely full, so he headed toward a side lot he knew about. A pretty boy actor in a red Mercedes coupe whipped out of a space beside Sound Stage Five. Hanson had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision. He swore to himself, then pulled his little Nissan into the vacant spot, chortling at his good fortune. He failed to notice that the parking space was marked Restricted Parking.

After dropping the script off at the TV development office, Hanson decided to stop in for a cup of coffee at the Sony commissary. A guy never knew who he might meet at the commissary. It was a good idea to show your face from time to time. Also the lot was loaded with foxy bit-players today. They probably thought he was a hot new producer in his checked sport jacket. He just might turn on the charm one of these days and spin a little starlet's head around.

Sitting at a Formica table by the door, Hanson ordered coffee and added a cinnamon roll after the supercilious waiter sniffed disdainfully at the coffee order.

What Hanson really had to grouse about, and what he was grousing about inside his head at a hundred miles an hour, non-stop, was Dolly, his wife. Dolly was pregnant again. Little Vance was going to have a baby brother. Or sister, of course. It could be a girl, he supposed.

Dolly had told him the good news last night, surrounding the event with the mysterious smiling which had become her modus operandi lately. All her mysterious smiling and simpering had put him on the horns of a gargantuan question of paternity. Leaving aside the fact that he couldn't possibly afford a baby at this time, he came to the real subject of his grousing. Hanson had been chewing and chewing on the disturbing supposition that he, with all his dipping the old wick night after night, might not be the baby's father.

Dolly had totally refused to communicate with him for the entire last month, and how had the perfect excuse to continue not communicating. She was pregnant. Last night, yelling at him to stop behaving like a dork, she had left for a Women's Group meeting--then later tried to apologize by saying that she had every right to act like a hormonal idiot, since she was pregnant. This had temporarily defused a big fight, but today nasty thoughts were swirling inside his normal-sized brain with the visio-circuitry malfunctions.

He smiled vacuously at the waiter who served his cinnamon roll and coffee, and looked around the dining hall for someone he knew. Hanson recognized a few faces, but didn't know any names to go with the faces, so he nodded to them. Dawdling over the coffee for fifteen minutes allowed him to peruse many sleek long legs and ample busts, but he decided against spinning any heads today. At length, he left a quarter tip for the waiter and strolled outside to find that his car had magically disappeared. A few hours of hysteria followed.

*

The firm of Walter Carruthers Literary Agents was not actively working on Suckerfield's book, nor on his career. Agents feel it is a waste of energy to devote time to a project that is incomplete, especially if the writer is unknown.

Old Carruthers, who had himself started in the business as a neophyte writer, had grown during fifty years of success to regard all writers as cry-babies. He worked for them in the ways that good business sense demanded. Some of his stable he made rich, others remained unknown. It was up to them. If they gave him material he could sell, he sold it. If not...was it his fault they couldn't write properly? Let them cry to somebody else if they didn't like the way he represented them, he was fond of saying over lunch at the Polo Lounge.

He never attempted to sell an author's first book until it was finished. How did he, or a publisher, know if the cry-baby could finish a book, until he did it. Once completed, Carruthers would sell the book, if it wasn't ruined by overwriting, or under-writing, or by basic writer's myopic cry-babying.

*

And then, as if daily events weren't screwy enough, horse racing came into Mr. Suckerfield's life. Hollywood Park opened its spring harness season and Suckerfield had a friend who liked the horses. Ted Jones was a stocky, fellow driver at Yellow Cab. He was always yaking about how much he'd won at the track when he picked up his taxi. Emmet was slightly interested, so Ted invited him to tag along sometime.

Early on a Wednesday evening, Emmet drove by Ted's apartment because Ted was temporarily without wheels. Emmet hadn't realized his buddy had been taking a bus to work, but he was happy to drive. Ted jumped into the shotgun seat with a folded Racing Form newspaper in his hand. Emmet stopped at Lucky Market to cash a check, then the boys hit the freeway toward fun and riches. All the way out to Inglewood, Ted excitedly called out names of hot horses from the Form. The names meant nothing to Emmet.

"There it is!" Ted yelled as the brightly lighted bulk of Hollywood Park came into view from Century Boulevard. "Pull in here. It's free parking this meet," he laughed. "Anything to attract a crowd, huh?"

"Yeah," Emmet agreed, having no idea what his friend was talking about. He parked near the grandstand, mildly surprised that there weren't more cars in the lot. They walked up to the turnstile and paid their entry fee, then spent another dollar for a program which listed all the horses that would run tonight. There were ten races. Emmet had brought a bankroll of fifty dollars, which meant that he could bet five dollars a race, if his stake was to last all night. Unless, of course, he happened to win. That thought gave him a momentary buzz. Maybe he could win enough to pay off the credit cards, which were all bugging him every month with threats of canceling his credit privileges. One had already hired a collection agency to take him to court unless he paid.

The grandstand was like a huge white ship come to rest in the middle of a palm oasis. It was studded with shields bearing nautical emblems that added a bright, decorative motif to the white hull.

"Why did they put nautical signal flags up there?" Emmet inquired as they walked toward the grandstand.

"Nautical flags?" Ted Jones inquired.

"Up on the wall," Emmet said, pointing.

Jonesy laughed heartily, content that Emmet was a brainless jerk. "Those are thoroughbred owner's colors," he scoffed. "Jockeys wear them when they ride for an owner."

"Oh," Emmet said. "Interesting."

"Only for thoroughbreds, not for harness," Ted said, qualifying the information. They walked inside a long concrete tunnel with closed circuit television monitors hanging from the ceiling. A few shabbily dressed men sat on the stairs at the end of the tunnel, pouring over racing programs. At the top of the stairs, Ted and Emmet stepped out onto the racing shingle--and the magic began.

Arc lights bathed the track area in ultra high-grade white light. A hint of fog in the air reflected the light, making it seem brighter. Emmet blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the scene.

Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, stood behind the fence on the sloping asphalt shingle watching the raised dirt racetrack. They were dressed in wildly assorted styles, ranging from expensive suits to blue jeans to Salvation Army rags. All of them held newspapers and every eye in the huge amphitheater was raptly watching a white, winged pace car driving smoothly down the dirt track. Behind the pace car ran ten race horses, each dragging a two-wheeled cart with a brightly clad driver sitting precariously on a tiny seat over the spinning wheels. The horses stretched their necks so that their noses were almost touching the spread tubular wings of the cruising pace car.

"The field is in motion!" boomed a loud-speaker voice full of suppressed excitement. The crowd hummed.

"Shit," Ted Jones grumbled, weaving through the throng to an open spot. "They sure go off on time, don't they?" The digital clock on the totalizer board read 7:31. "I had a good bet for this race," he bitched. Emmet felt their lateness was probably his fault for stopping to cash the check.

The wings on the car swept forward, folding against the front fenders and the car sped away from the horses. The field surged up the track on their own, jockeying for position. Two horses took off fast, separating themselves from the others by two or three lengths.

"Which one did you like?" Emmet asked, watching the horses string out around the first turn. It was difficult to see who was in front, they all looked the same on the far side of the track.

"The six horse," Ted griped. "Look at him running third. Holding back for a big move."

Emmet glanced at his program. The #6 horse was named Buttered Popcorn. Emmet thought that was a fairly strange name for a race horse.

"Eight to one," Ted moaned. "There goes my big night. Too bad you had to stop to cash that check."

"Sorry," Emmet apologized.

The horses rounded the far turn. Every fan in the bleachers jumped to his feet and started screaming at the horses. Down the stretch they came, thundering past the stands with their drivers whipping them on. A light flashed on at the finish line. With a lurch of speed, the #10 horse burst through the rest of the pack to win by a neck. Christ, Emmet thought, the #10. That's the one I liked.

"Good thing we were late," Ted Jones laughed. "Saved myself a bundle on that one." Buttered Popcorn had finished next to last.

Emmet cruised his eyes over the crowd. Lots of women. Many of them black, but good lookers. Dressed to the nines for their night at the track. He wondered if they were hookers, and decided that they either were or they weren't. It didn't make any difference, they were out to have fun and make money--just like he was.

Over his head, the grandstand stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction, but was mostly empty. Only a scattering of people sat in the middle section, near the front railing. Everyone else was down on the shingle.

"So how do I make a bet?" Emmet asked.

"Well, look at your program, first of all. Pick a horse and we'll go to the window. I'd recommend #7 in the Second Race."

"Oleo's Duke?"

"That's the one. Only winner in this race."

"Are you sure?" Emmet asked, lowering his voice so no one would overhear.

"It's a lock," Ted assured him. "I wouldn't want to tell you where to put your money, but that's where mine's going."

"How much do I bet" Emmet asked, feeling panic and greed take hold of him.

"Two bucks is the smallest, after that the sky's the limit."

"But isn't there a bet for him to come in second?" It is noteworthy to notice that Emmet was a blue-eyed betting virgin. Almost everybody in the world by the age of forty knows how to place a bet on a horse, but presumably Emmet hadn't been interested.

"Place for second or Show for third," Ted said. "Let's go in before the line gets long."

Emmet followed him into the huge, girdered gallery under the grandstand. Thousands of people stood around with their noses stuck in racing programs. Lines queued up at beer and hot dog counters, but the customers kept reading as they waited. Numbers and names of horses were of paramount importance.

At the betting window, Emmet felt out of place and slightly claustrophobic. Was gambling his thing? He needed all his money at home, and here he was getting ready to bet it on a tip which he knew nothing about. Besides that, he needed his luck. Was he wasting it out here? He listened while Ted rattled off his bet. It sounded impressive--Ten, five and five on #7. He must really think the horse is going to win. Emmet checked his program again, and stepped up for his turn at the window.

"Oleo's Duke to come in third," he said, softly.

The ticket clerk, sitting behind his computerized pari-mutuel machine, was a balding guy in a vest and open collared shirt. He twisted his thin lips in distaste at Emmet's bumbling. "How much," he sneered.

"Two dollars," Emmet replied, sheepishly.

"Win, place or show?" the clerk asked, leading Suckerfield through the correct procedures.

"Third," Emmet said, consulting his program. "On Oleo's Duke."

"Two dollar show," the clerk punched the appropriate buttons on his console, "on what number."

"Seven. Oleos Duke."

The clerk put his hand out for the money. Emmet handed over a ten dollar bill. Scowling, the clerk punched button seven, and a white ticket with red edges zipped out of a slot in the console top. The machine flashed a message. Pay $2.00.

With a flick of the wrist, the clerk tossed eight dollars back to Emmet. "Next time say it in the right order, so you don't hold up the line," he snipped.

"Thank you," Emmet said, taking the ticket. He felt himself blushing, but when he turned around there was only one man behind him. Ted waved from a queue at a hot dog counter. The entries for the second race were announced while they waited to be served.

Back on the tarmac, the boys leaned on a heavy iron fence in front of the walking ring. A row of dull spikes lined the top of the fence, not sharp enough to cut anyone, but undoubtedly placed there to discourage leaning. Emmet placed his folded program over the spikes to give himself an arm rest. He watched the toteboard odds slip steadily downward on Oleo's Duke until they settled at 5 - 2.

The horses who had been fooling around down at the head of the stretch, started running after the winged car. They lined up in a nice row as the starting car crossed the wire, and the race was on. Oleo's Duke took off like a bolt and led the field wire to wire. There was never any doubt that he would win. He came pounding down the stretch, ahead by three lengths. Emmet's little heart was hammering like crazy.

"And that's how it's done!" Ted Jones bragged, gleefully. Emmet agreed with him. The payoff prices flashed up on the tote board. 7.00 - 3.60 - 2.60. Emmet Suckerfield, the gambler, had won his first sixty cents. He scanned his eyes hungrily over the entries for the next races.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Being the Planetary Agent for Earth, a world with no intra-space commerce and extremely rare contact of any kind with the home office, was about the poshest job in the Universe. This was Mandillo Sprut's third such world, and if the truth were known, he adored it. On The Gangamma Tornando he was an easily dismissed civil servant--an inconsequential F-10 Garun. The rank of F-10 gave one almost no pecking order--only a paycheck.

But here on Earth, where he'd been for the past nine years, he was as good as anyone else, maybe a little better. He had managed to buy a small sporting goods store with a Foreign Service Union loan, and was doing modestly well for himself. There were even several Earth people who thought of themselves as his friends.

As far as his sex life went--no problem. Divorced women were in great plenitude in Los Angeles. Whenever he felt like meeting a new one, he put tennis dresses or exercise machines on sale. Yes, life was about perfect on Earth. That's why the Spal-trans message from some moron named Sarr R'Tangele was so distressing. Calling attention to Earth or to Mandillo Sprut could only cause trouble. The home office liked the out-worlds to be quiet and trouble free.

But, of course, he would be forced to look into the matter. A Senator's daughter disappearing in his sector? How droll.

*

Suckerfield stood up and stretched, which was kind of strange since he was at Bob's Big Boy. He failed to notice the strangeness. Lately, he'd been feeling like Bob's was his semi-private office. The two to three hours he'd been spending there every day had been very productive. Not only was he writing like sixty, trying to spice up the book; but over an hour every day was consumed in scoping out the night's harness races from the Racing Form. Going over the entries in the Form was exciting. Each horse was listed on the cheap newsprint along with his performance in his last eight races or so. The whole deal was a new and slightly wonderful experience.

He normally bought the next day's Form at six o'clock, when it was delivered to the liquor store down the street. Several times, Emmet had procrastinated and found the Forms sold out. Then he had to drive around town in a panic looking for a copy in some other store. He hadn't been shut out yet, but twice he'd gotten the last copy at a distant news stand. It paid to be on time for important things.

And how was his handicapping? Well, not bad. He was losing between twenty and thirty dollars every time he went to the track, but that was just bad money management, and was due to reverse itself. The important thing was, he was picking winners. Every night three to four winners popped across the wire with his money riding on them. Fine. But somehow he was still losing money. How typically Suckerfieldian, he thought. How stupidly, endlessly like him to appear to be winning, when actually he was taking a nosedive.

As the harness season moved into mid-April, there was not a thread of doubt that he would get even, and then probably go on to financial security.

On the plus side, he was learning so much from the racetrack. For instance, if you walk out losing, there's no way to kid yourself. You're a loser. And all the losing at the track was purifying his spirit of the other rotten luck in his life. Funny but a lot of bitterness and suppressed bullshit was washing down the Hollywood Park toilet, following his money. Some mornings he woke up and felt just great.

And guess who was coming in on the 10:37 PM jet from Indianapolis? That's right, his honey, Alicia. And was he ready? His wallet could have used a few of the dollars that had gone to buy hay for the nags, but other than that Emmet was primed for her visit. Really stoked.

He had called in sick for work, so he could pick her up at the airport. Emmet figured the taxi fleet would survive one night without him. Compromising his reunion with the pulsating Alicia to give some drunken geek a ride home from a bar was hardly intelligent. The phone call was a snap. He held his nose and whispered hoarsely, like he was dying of the flu. Emmet was sick of the job anyway, so it wasn't exactly a lie. God. He was going to get laid tonight, and it was going to be beautiful.

Most of yesterday, before he went to work, was spent cleaning the apartment. Vacuuming, washing the sheets and laundry, and cleaning the bathroom. Alicia had never kept an exactly spotless house, but there was no harm in making a good impression. Emmet walked up Sergeant Street thinking it wouldn't take long to wade through the week of dirty dishes that still graced the sink, then a quick shower and a nap. Then he would spin out to the racetrack for most of the card before picking her up. Hollywood Park was only one freeway exit past the airport. How very convenient.

Arriving home, Emmet found a letter from his bank and one from a collection agency waiting in the mailbox. Disgusted at the bad news he knew both letters bore, he sat on the toilet to open them. Sure enough, rancid news. He'd bounced two little checks at the bank, which cost him twelve dollars in charges, directly attributable to the fuckers cutting off his Master Charge. The collection agency, Continental Investigation, the current owners of another defunct Master Card, suggested that if he was late with another payment, they would file a suit for full payment which would allow them to take a lien on his car or property. It was endless. Endless and depressing as hell. He had to sell the book or hit a Pick-Six at the track, so he could breathe again without those flea-flickers pouncing on him every day. He tossed the bad news on the wash basin and jumped in the shower.

The steaming water pummeled his shoulders. How did people live in the stone ages before hot showers, he wondered. And as a topper, Alicia was coming tonight! A few phrases of a song burst past his lips, some sort of country song about love coming home to roost! He was happy. What's wrong with that?

Reality reappeared as he was toweling off. There was no reason to believe that Alicia would be any different, just because she'd been away for a couple of years. Maybe she just wants a place to stay while she cooks up a deal for the 4-H club or something. I wouldn't put that past her. I don't care, Emmet Suckerfield, reformed nice guy, told himself. Whatever she wants, she's going to lay me if the wants to stay here. And I'm going to get my climax back. Great! Fabulous!! He smiled roguishly at the mirror and slapped his beard with the after-shave lotion that Alicia had brought him for his thirty-sixth birthday. Then he rinsed it off, so that only a hint of the aroma remained.

Hollywood Park was unkind that evening. After the 4th Race, he hadn't cashed a ticket and was down thirty-six dollars. That's not much money, but when your betting bankroll is forty bucks, it's kind of a grim situation. Emmet was determined not to dip into the extra twenty he had reserved for later. That money was tabbed for Alicia's dinner; but he had a hot Exacta picked out in the 5th Race. Blue Bonnet to Star's Crossing. He knew that Exacta would win and get his money back, even if Blue Bonnet went off at a short price, which it almost assuredly would. Emmet had planned to bet the Exacta combination both ways at a total cost of six dollars; but due to all the previous losing, it was now a case of either shorting his bet or dipping into the dinner fund.

Indecision gripped him all the way to the window. What to do? He needed that win! He wanted to feel like a winner when he met Alicia.

Letting several people step in front of him, he studied the program hoping magic would dance in front of his eyes with a real winning combination. Finally, unable to stand the pressure cooker any longer, Emmet plunked down his four remaining dollars on Blue Bonnet to win. The twenty was reserved, that's all there was to it. Feeling dissatisfied, he walked back to stand along the rail. I should get a bookie, so I can bet a decent amount without shorting myself on pocket cash, he muttered to himself. I'd only bet on sure winners with the book. Ted Jones plays through a bookie. I'll get him to introduce me.

Blue Bonnet was holding steady at 6 - 5 as Emmet expected. At least with Johnny Saxon driving, he was a mortal cinch to win the damned race. That would make $8.80 in Emmet's pocket in addition to the twenty. Better a short price than a long face.

The race went off. Blue Bonnet took the early lead, paced a length in front all the way around the mile track and was cruising into the final turn. Then motherhumping Ed Symington took Star's Crossing wide and blazed out of the turn like he had a supercharger on. He never thought about looking back. Blue Bonnet couldn't hold off the rush, and was second by a length - and the exacta paid $66.40. Emmet Suckerfield had failed to play his hunch correctly again. He tossed the losing ticket away, and hustled across the macadam apron to his car, with the twenty dollars tucked securely in his wallet. Big fucking thrill. A forty dollar loser. And if he encountered much traffic, he'd be late for the plane.

The airport was jammed. Cars were backed up for half a mile on Century Boulevard due to the construction that was in progress on a new LAX terminal. Emmet supposed that was the reason. He couldn't believe that hundreds of flights had arrived concurrently at 10:30 PM. Weaving from lane to lane didn't hasten his advance, but it made him feel like he was doing his best to get there on time. He'd be late, that was obvious. Alicia would be standing outside with her bags, fuming. Or maybe she'd be worried. Hey, that was a novel thought. Maybe she's worried that I'll stiff her, like fucking Saxon did to Blue Bonnet. How could I have been so stupid, Emmet sniveled at himself. I had the damned Exacta! I knew Star's Crossing had a good chance. Besides, Symington hadn't had a winner all night. He was due as a mother. And I knew it! I should have bet a six dollar box. I'd have a hundred bucks right now. I had the damned thing!

She was flying TWA, whose terminal was at the far end of the airport circle. Bumper to bumper the cars and taxis crawled, some turning into other carriers, others parking in the parking structures. Emmet had planned to be there early, so he could stroll leisurely up to the passenger terminal and see Alicia when she stepped off the plane. Naturally, that's what he planned. Naturally, he had wanted to catch the first sight of her coming down the ramp. But the fucking traffic!

Finally he made it to the TWA terminal and turned into the passenger pick-up corridor. He scunched down in his seat when he passed the taxi stand, but realized that was stupid. The guys on his shift weren't there yet, and wouldn't care anyway.

Shit, Alicia was nowhere in sight! Maybe she was inside? Maybe the plane wasn't in yet. A mountainous traffic cop motioned him to drive on. What a drag! The cop wasn't going to let him park at the curb. To get across to a parking structure would require plowing back into the molasses traffic and going all the way around the circle again. That would take an hour and he'd lose Alicia for sure. Shit. Maybe she got tired of waiting and took a cab. He zoomed his eyes into the baggage terminal without sighting his lost love. How fucking typical of her not to wait. The cop blew his whistle for Emmet to move.

"Okay!" he shouted out the window. "Where am I supposed to go? I'm picking up my wife!"

The rent-a-cop scowled at him, unused to being yelled at. Then evidently taking pity on Emmet, he waved him into a red zone at the curb. "Hurry it up," the cop said, gruffly.

"I have to run in and look for her," Emmet explained, jumping out.

"Well, hurry it up. You can't park here."

Emmet nodded and ran into the baggage terminal, where he looked hastily around and didn't see anyone resembling Alicia. Speeding his pace toward the main terminal, Suckerfield pushed at the glass door connecting the baggage area with the rest of the terminal, only to find that the door didn't open the way he wanted to go. The DO NOT ENTER sign proclaimed that the door wasn't broken, it really only worked one way. Part of the new security measures, Emmet surmised, hot-footing back outside where he trotted down the crowded sidewalk until he came to the doors leading into the Arrivals section. A glance at the airport tote board told him that Flight 38 had already arrived from Indianapolis and presumably had unloaded. Where was Alicia?

Maybe she was waiting up in the arrival lounge or in the coffee shop. But the car had to be moved! Maybe she was having a drink. Shit. If I'd been on time, then I'd know. Just when am I going to quit fucking up my life?

"Have you seen a medium-sized blonde who looked like she was waiting for someone?" Emmet asked a Malaysian girl who was manning the anti-terrorist detector.

"Is that her?" the girl responded, laughing and looking over his shoulder. Emmet turned to see his wife--correction, his ex-wife--walking toward him. Her green Samsonite luggage stood twenty feet in her wake. Alicia Wilson hadn't quite decided whether to be angry or glad about seeing him. She decided to smile.

Good God, Emmet thought, I forgot what she looks like. I made up a picture of the most beautiful woman in the world--so beautiful that nobody could compete with her, and here she is, just an averagely pretty woman in her early thirties.

"Hi," he said. "Really sorry I'm late." Should I kiss her? The instant passed when he could have. She probably didn't want to anyway. I guess she needs to make the first move. "Have you been waiting long?" he asked.

"Not too long," Alicia answered. "Fifteen or twenty minutes." She had planned to say something nice, anything nice; but some sort of nervousness had overtaken her as soon as she saw Emmet. How very strange. She had married this man once, and she saw why in a flash. He had a little boy vulnerability that showed through his serious side, and made her feel like mothering him. But in the long run she hadn't been able to get the little boy to grow up. The Professor's head was always in the clouds, so she had felt stranded. Why was she back here?

She wore a winter traveling outfit--a long, milk-colored coat of open knit wool, with a beige skirt and a red sweater. Her hair, several shades darker than Emmet remembered, fell straight to the collar of her coat and then curled inward, emphasizing the long line of her slender neck. And he had been wrong at first glance, Alicia was a lot prettier than average. There was something about her features that turned into romantic fireworks when he looked at her longer than a casual glance.

"Well, I'm parked in the red," he said, falteringly.

"I'm ready," Alicia replied. They hadn't broken eye contact yet. Moving toward the car would force them to do so, and apparently neither wished to make the first move. The Malaysian girl watched them breathlessly. Airport romance eased the monotony of her job more agreeably than a bomb scare did.

"I guess I'll get your bags," Emmet said.

"Okay." Alicia Wilson was in a position she hadn't expected. Two years on the farm made Emmet look much better to her than she knew he was. Why did I treat this man so badly? After all, he married me, and he put up with a lot of garbage so I could get experiences. I should have stuck by him, but I never knew for sure how he felt about anything. If he had made some demands on me, I never would have--oh, shoot, I needed those experiences. But I'll be good to him now. That's a promise. He looks different. It must be the beard. God, I was so nervous when he was late.

Emmet tore his eyes away from her and walked awkwardly over to the baggage. His awkward gait was caused by an erection that threatened to rip out his underwear. He wouldn't have traded it for anything. God, it felt marvelous to be a man. Allie still does it to me. Goddamn, that's great!

"Hungry?" he asked. She walked at his side as he lugged the heavy bags out through the glass doors, one in each hand, stretching his elbows out of shape. Allie always did pack too much stuff. But maybe she was planning to stay. He said a silent prayer that she would, and waddled on pretending to be superman.

"Do you want me to take one?" Alicia asked. "I had a terrible time getting them this far."

"I've got them. The car's right here." Sitting the bags on the curb, he unlocked the trunk and hoisted the bags in. "Well, we're ready." He smiled as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Hungry?"

"We ate on the plane," she apologized, "but I'll have a coffee with you." Alicia waited for him to open the door, but Emmet got in the driver's side instead. He reached over and flicked up the lock knob. She opened the door and got in, trying to remember if there'd ever been a time when he hadn't opened her door. I guess I can't blame him for being cold to me, she thought, finding a little thrill of excitement and fear.

"The door doesn't unlock from the outside," Emmet explained, starting the car. His friend, the traffic cop, was nowhere in sight. He jockeyed into the traffic lane to begin their journey around the airport circle. "Well," he said, with a smile, "here we are. Alone at last."

Alicia smiled back at him. The tail lights from a late model Buick gave her pretty face a pink glow.

*

What makes a woman stray from home? What makes her want to? In a promiscuous society it's so easy. And women really should have equal rights, shouldn't they?

Dolly McIvor was thinking those rangy thoughts as she lay in bed munching soda crackers. The crackers were for a protracted case of morning sickness, which had never bothered her at night when she'd been pregnant with Vance. The rangy terms like promiscuous society, she had picked up from a Ladies Home Journal, which lay open on the night table beside the bed. Little Vance, who had caught a cold playing in a mud puddle, was sleeping beside her, breathing raggedly through his mouth. Hanson was in the living room, pretending to read, she supposed.

At least, Hanson wouldn't leave her. She was quite sure about that.

*

"Don't you want something to eat with your coffee?" Emmet asked. The waitress at Seymore's Deli hovered at their table.

"Just coffee," Alicia said.

"Two coffees, and I'll have a corned beef on rye with a fresh pickle, if you can find one." The waitress wrote his order and paddled off in her pink uniform with a brown gravy stain on the pocket.

"So how are your folks?" Emmet asked for openers. He knew that if he looked at her face very much longer, he'd be a goner. His defenses were falling apart rapidly. If it should turn out that she hadn't come back to stay, he was in big trouble already, and she'd only been here an hour. Romance is an uncanny item, he decided. It's so damned beguiling. I love this feeling of fullness. Damnit, I love it. "Did you have fun on the farm?"

"On the farm..." she said, letting her voice trail off to show her disenchantment. "Why didn't you tell me farm life would be so...dull, I guess is the right word. I mean, it's not dull at all, really. I love the animals, and doing the chores, and Mom and Daddy are so contented there, but... Do you know what I mean?" Alicia slipped out of her coat. She wore a bra under the red sweater, but Emmet's eyes detected the full ripeness of her orbs. They were still perfect, he knew in a flash, put there for his edification. What could a short two years do to ruin perfection? Nothing.

"Most people have to try something before they know if it works for them," he said, apropos of farm life.

"You didn't have to," she snapped.

"Sure I did," Emmet laughed. "I wasn't attacking." God, she's on a hair trigger. That's not such a hot sign. "I found out about farms before I met you. You had to wait until now. Our timing is out of sync on that subject. Actually, I've been kind of thinking about buying a few horses if I ever get any money, so I'm almost full circle on the farm question."

"Horses?" Alicia smiled at such an outlandish idea. She couldn't see Emmet mucking out a stall.

"Yeah. Breeding them. Race horses. Most states have breeding programs that make it an attractive proposition. I'm not doing too well betting on them, so I'm thinking about becoming an owner."

"I thought you meant riding horses. Don't tell me you've been going to the races! You do look a little different, sort of like a big time gambler. I suppose your whole life has changed since I left?"

Emmet made a face and turned to look for the waitress. Alicia's direct questioning made him reticent. He had planned for the in-depth conversation to take place in bed, after his manhood was reestablished; but she was jumping the question into an improper time slot.

"Pretty much the same old guy," he said. "I wish I could impress you with what a success I am, but I don't have the book done yet, so I'm just a struggling writer."

"I guess it's pretty thrilling, huh? Doing exactly what you want to without worrying about a wife?"

"Writing has its moments, but I could do without the financial hassle. It's bad for my breathing."

"Here comes your sandwich," Alicia said, seeing their waitress approaching. "You must be starved. It was sweet of you to wait for me."

*

Later that night, Emmet sat at the typewriter in his breakfast nook. Alicia was sleeping in the bedroom. Thoughts and feelings had surfaced that needed to be dealt with on paper, so he had gotten up and fixed himself an egg sandwich. He munched it and mulled over Venus M'Gnapt's situation.

His body felt relaxed and energized. In fact, he wanted to laugh, just because he felt so good. By God, he thought, if I had the money, I'd take six months off and spend them getting to know Allie again. Even the acid realization of no money didn't spoil his good mood. She was here, that was the important thing. She'd get to know him as a writer, and their life wouldn't turn into a middle class hum-drum this time.

Alicia had brought a few surprises with her. First of all, she'd been very shy about undressing for bed. Not about going to bed with him--there'd been no doubt of that from the time he broached the subject.

"There's not going to be any strangeness about sleeping together, is there?" he had asked, as the car approached his street.

"No," she answered, evenly. "I came to see you. I want to sleep with you, if you want to."

And that was all there was to that. God, he felt great. Great! Then at bedtime, which came very soon after they walked in the door, he had wanted her to undress for him. Why wouldn't he want that? It was a normal prurient desire. But Alicia, typically, was resistant to the idea. He'd forgotten that little quirk in her nature. She always managed to take the edge off every suggestion he made by resisting and forcing him to ask again. Presumably, she wanted to do the things he asked, because eventually she always complied--or close enough to fulfill the fantasy. But Emmet decided it was time to change the ground rules.

"This is not the way we're going to carry on our relationship," he stated with authority. "I'm going to say something once and you're going to do it. If you don't like that arrangement, a good time to hit the road would be now."

Alicia stared at him for a surprised second, then grabbed her nightgown out of the suitcase and swooshed into the bathroom. And locked the door.

About all Emmet could do from his position on the bed, was raise his eyebrows. Alicia had been back in his dwelling for about ten minutes, and already she'd taken command. He heard the shower door slide open and the water turn on, and he knew that if he didn't take some direct action, the whole game would be right back to square one in a matter of days or weeks. Subconsciously, or consciously, Alicia was testing to see if she could respect him.

But what action should he take? Why in the hell couldn't she just do what he asked? he wondered, standing up. So simple. Everything would be perfect if she'd only act right.

Emmet pounded on the bathroom door with the side of his fist. The sound boomed through the apartment. At each blow the hollow-core door felt like it would splinter.

"Come out of there! If you're not out by the time I count ten, I'm going to break the door down." Emmet had raised his voice loud enough to be heard over the shower, but he wasn't angry. Far from it. Alicia was naked right inside the door. If he had to break it open to see her within ten seconds, he would. It sounded like fun, in fact.

"One, two..."

"Don't be silly, Em," Alicia said, rinsing the Ivory soap off her body.

"This is the new me speaking. Unlock the door."

"Well, really..! I don't know what all the hurry is about."

"Three, four, five..."

"Stop it! You've making me feel funny." And indeed her nipples were hardening, in spite of her demands for them not to. She didn't want to give away too much for free. Would he really bang the door down? She wasn't sure if that would be romantic or funny, knowing Emmet. Maybe a little of both.

"Six, seven, eight..."

Opening the shower door, Alicia reached her hand out and unclicked the lock. "So come in," she said, acting irritated. "No need to break the door down in your own house."

Emmet stepped into the bathroom, opened the shower door and stuck his head through the billows of steam. There she was, his Alicia. Back view. Arms across her chest, face into the shower spray. Wet blond hair stringing down her back. No tan marks on back or buttocks. Pink-white skin, smooth, unblemished. Waist a little thicker than he remembered, but maybe he didn't remember rightly. And it had been two years. Whether she was thicker or not, she was still breathtaking. And goddamn, she was here!

Emmet stepped over the edge of the tub and slid the door closed. Since he was fully clothed except for his shoes, joining Alicia in the shower was a Suckerfieldian romantic gesture par excellent.

Alicia, not being deaf or blind, was aware that Emmet was in the shower with her; but she refused to turn around to give him what he wanted. Was it shyness? Yes, a sudden whim of shyness, mixed with fear of rejection. She had a secret, and she wasn't sure the time was ripe to reveal it. Alicia would have much preferred to have Emmet more under control before they talked about the secret.

"I don't think it's too funny that I can't have a few minutes of privacy," she said, testing the current. "Maybe I wanted to get clean before I let you see me." Emmet didn't say anything. He did, however, think that was a plausible reason for her running into the bathroom. Women will have their modesty, even harlots. Now, that was a odd construction. Why had he put the harlot part in? It wasn't needed. 'Women will have their modesty' was perfectly clear without it.

"Maybe I was sweaty from the plane ride," she said. "You know planes make me nervous." She turned around to face him, knowing she'd have to sometime. Might as well take the initiative. But no recriminations. She was willing to be a model wife, to give in on hundreds of points to make him happy, if only he'd accept this gracefully. If he would, with no thunder cloud looks, she'd love him forever.

Through Emmet's eyes, through the billowing steam, the image of Alicia--front view--became an instant reality. He saw her eyes widen as she surveyed his sodden clothes. He also noted that something rather dramatic had happened to the body he had longed for. It had sagged or something.

"What are you doing?!" Alicia asked in a shocked tone. "God, you're as nuts as ever!" But she wasn't displeased. Somehow his wet clothes took the pressure off. She smiled at his clownish appearance so boyish and touching.

"I wanted to see you," he said, simply, taking his time in looking her over as the shower pounded hot water on both of them. What in heavens was the right thing to say about this? Her breasts, while slightly larger than before, sagged roundly on her chest. The nipples were darker and the buttons were much longer, and actually they were still a turn-on. Emmet felt his wand growing quite firm. But Christ, what happened? Her tummy below the navel was no longer flat like it used to be, and were those stretch marks? What could he say without ruining the evening? No woman likes negative comments about the way she looks, and neither would Alicia.

"You had a baby?" he asked, since that seemed like the logical conclusion.

"It shows a lot, doesn't it..?"

"Well, not so much. You look great." Words ceased coming into his mouth, so they looked at each other for awhile as the spray soaked his clothing.

"You have a good amount of hot water here," Alicia said at length, breaking the awkwardness with the mundane. She used that trick by second nature. It had never let her down. If she kept prattling, trouble smoothed over.

"Yes, good water at night," he agreed. "Boy, what a surprise! I wasn't prepared for this at all." He grinned. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked, realizing that was an appropriate word grouping.

"A little boy. I named him Billy."

Emmet nodded. The hair on her pubis wouldn't unfluff even with the hot water pouring over it, he noticed. It was still curly and thick, unlike the hair on her head which was waterlogged by now. Must be entirely different type of hair. "I guess I'm not the father?"

"No," she said.

"Just wanted to make sure."

"Billy is staying with his father while I'm out here. I thought it would be good for both of them, since they probably won't be seeing each other until Billy gets older." As an afterthought she added, "We're not married."

"Well, well, two divorces in two years." Emmet heard the scorn in his voice, but what could he do? Reaction to system shock comes unbidden. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm trying not to judge you, but it's a pretty big surprise."

"Martin and I never married," she explained, feeling a tightness grip her stomach. "So you're my only divorce."

"I guess I'll towel off." Emmet ran his hands down the front of his dripping shirt. "You always were a jump ahead of me when it came to surprises, but I'll get used to this one. It's not so bad. Just give me a little time." He stepped out of the shower and removed his wet clothing.

Alicia breathed a sigh. That could have been a lot worse. Thank God for Emmet's gentleness. "You still like me a little?" she called to him.

"Yes, it's allright. Give me a few minutes, would you?" He picked out a clean towel from the vanity drawer and dried his hair.

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dry and naked, Emmet climbed between the clean sheets. Alicia was puttering around in the bathroom. The shower was off, but who knew how long she'd fuss with her hair. A baby changes things a lot, he thought, staring at the ceiling.

But what does it change? How far can I unbend toward a kid who's not mine? Do I want somebody else's brat running around when I'm trying to work? And a boy, yet. A girl would have been a lot easier. Little girls adjust better.

Did it change how he felt about Alicia? The quick answer was yes. Obviously. How could the slut have a kid by another man? What a crappy thing to do. Must have hopped right into the sack with this Martin creep as soon as she got to Indiana. No suffering for good old Allie as long as there were plenty of cocks in the world.

On the other hand, she came back. And it was terrific to see her. He felt a stir of tumescence under the sheets. And she's right here. Pretty soon now she'll come to bed. How will that be? My God, we're not married.

His ruminations were interrupted by Alicia padding into the bedroom with a black towel wrapped around her and a pink one draped over her head. She rooted through her suitcase until she found a hair dryer, then went back to the bathroom after a short smile for Emmet. The smile said trust me. Maybe he should. He'd trusted her once and it had gotten him miles of hurt. Hard to know what to do in this best of all possible worlds. What he did was follow her into the bathroom.

*

Later that night, Emmet woke up starving. He went into the kitchen and fixed an egg sandwich, then sat down at the typewriter. There is no way of staying ahead of the game, he thought, and darling Venus can just live with that gargantuan fact like everybody else has to. If she thinks she'll get off easy because she'd a book character, she can forget it. Life dishes it out on Torano as well as it does anywhere.

Complications, isn't that what life is about? By the time you're thirty years old, it's hard to make sense of anything. What you thought you wanted turns out to be unattainable or you settle for what you get. Or you forget about the whole thing. And forty is worse. What must it be like by fifty? Hopeless. The trick must be to forget about your dreams or plans, and just play the seconds as they go past. Fuck the past. And fuck the future! And fuck this book, too! He snapped off the typewriter. The insight about Venus had vanished.

The love making earlier had been spectacular. Wonderful. Alicia really had missed him, and he really hadn't forgotten how to climax. Splendid. Twice.

The first time he was a little worried, but it was great holding her and exploring and smelling her again. And he'd reacted like a normal guy. Just like old times. The second time around was even better, sliding in and out until a bolt of pure sexual energy swallowed them both. He had felt his toes curl up from the intensity of pleasure and knew she had been worth waiting for. Alicia might be a bitch, but he sure loved to fuck her.

The confusing thing about good sex (the thing that most men believe without a moment's hesitation) is the illusion that you know a woman when you're inside her and she's giving you that incredible happiness. Wily old Emmet Suckerfield, veteran of the love wars, would not be fooled that way again. He knew he didn't know Alicia at all, did not know what was going on in her head. But he did know he loved screwing her. Was that enough to base a total relationship on? Of course, it was. If she left, the desolation would be screaming agony. He did not desire to face that emptiness again.

So he turned off the typewriter, and went back to bed to snuggle against Alicia, the girl with all the surprises. He ran his hand down her flank as she lay on her side and buried his face in the nape of her neck, and eventually fell contentedly to sleep.

*

Walter Carruthers was experiencing some discomfort, as he did most nights lately. Growing old, with the prospect of cashing his last ticket, took the edge off his self-indulgent lifestyle.

From his Frank Lloyd Wright castle in Bel Air, he ruminated on his life of moderation. Moderately beguiled, as in playing the stock market. Moderately terrified of senility and feebleness. Moderately in love with his wife? No, not really. It was a stale mate. He chuckled. Moderately rich. Moderately drunk, but on good Chivas. Moderately literate, but a hell of a lot better than those creeps who worked for him, and more insightful than the writers, too--as if he gave a damn.

Pointless. That was the problem. How much of his loot would he trade to be twenty again, when all this jing-jang had an absolute zeal to it? That was a hot question. He wouldn't give it all, he decided after a short deliberation. Too chancy the way things were now. Tons of young agents going down the tubes, because the book industry had gone to shit. To say nothing of films.

Walter couldn't understand why the government had levied such restrictive tax positions on both of those virtually harmless industries. Closing the tax shelter angle on motion pictures had driven most risk capitol to Europe, which was ridiculous if you stopped to think about it. Foreign films, uggg. And the inventory tax on booksellers was practically a death chop to small book shops already operating on a narrow profit margin. Couple that with all the publishing companies being taken over by conglomerates, which cared only about the short term bottom line. Just try to get a young author published these days! If he didn't have a block buster first novel, all the books were returned to the publisher for credit before tax time. It didn't take much foresight to see that the business couldn't foster much new top-flight literature, which was normally slow to start selling. So a lot of the kick for an agent and first rate editors had gone on vacation.

Of course, his success had been more his own doing than a fluke of the easy pickings during the '40s. By virtue of his superior determination, he would make it even if he was starting out today. Still it was pleasant to depend on gilt-edged stocks rather than on the shaky publishing business.

All these musings were located in front of a field stone fireplace where Walter Carruthers sat in a huge Moroccan leather chair. Keeping him company was his dog, Marker, a fat English bulldog. A tumbler of Chivas and water filled his meaty hand. The scotch was to assist him to a restful sleep. The water was to keep his bladder functioning somewhat normally. Walter had found it to be an excellent combination during the thirty years since he'd switched from gin.

Mildred was already upstairs in her bedroom, probably asleep in a Seconal haze. She gave him this time alone because he had been so nasty about wanting to read scripts when he was younger. To keep peace, she had developed the habit of going to bed alone. He seldom read now, and the time alone was only slightly more enjoyable than listening to Mildred's chatter. But this was the rut they had developed.

A little pain started in his left foot and traveled up his leg to lodge in his arthritic knee. Walter grimaced and sipped his scotch. Maybe he would trade all the money to be young again. This trick knee was a real pain in the ass.

*

Emmet awoke sometime after daylight. His watch was on the nightstand and the alarm clock was turned to the wall, but Alicia was snuggled beside him. Most of the covers were pulled to his side of the bed, so she had to snuggle for warmth. He rearranged the bedclothes tenderly to cover her shoulders.

Wide awake with no chance of going back to sleep, he lay looking out the split in the drapes at the grey California morning. Most early mornings were grey in sunny California, at least at the beach. A plan for leading a normal life had to be arrived at. That much was evident. Money was needed. Driving a taxi was ridiculous beyond words.

Without warning, a flash of what to do with Venus leaped into his mind, fresh as a dewy peach. Jumping out of bed, he pulled the covers around Alicia, dressed and practically ran out the front door without stopping to brush his teeth or use the bathroom. The Dodge started after several backfires. He rammed it into gear and sped down to Bob's.

Thankfully, the flash was still with him in the booth at Bob's. Emmet's pen flew across the paper even before the waitress brought his coffee. God, that was dangerous, Emmet thought. I should have jotted some notes at home--then he stopped worrying and let his ballpoint pen run free.

"But daddy," Venus laughed. "I'm doing research. Don't you want my paper to be a success..?"

The old Taark scowled, ruffling his magnificent mane. "Flagrant disregard for the conventions seems like an odd way to please the professors that I know." An hour ago, he had caught his only daughter with the houseboy, and to make matters worse, Venus had been on the bottom. The boy was still sprouting hair on his tuft of mane, as he hurried to serve drinks to M'Gnapt's luncheon guests. Senator Chad M'Gnapt could practically see the hair growing. Of course, the boy had a certain elevated position among the Garun community simply by working for the Senator. If he kept poking Venus, he'd become absolutely Taark like--the Senator couldn't allow that. One did not hire Taarks as servants.

"I'm not trying to please anyone, Daddy. I happen to be doing meaningful research which nobody's ever done before."

Chad M'Gnapt smiled at his daughter's innocence. Of course, this so called "research" had always occurred, but one didn't write about it. The younger generation was blasted difficult to understand. He reached his hand into a punchbowl filled with frightened swimming creatures called shigits. The shigits' agitation increased markedly. They swam wildly away from his hand like a school of minnows fleeing from a needlemouth nur. With a flick of his wrist, the Senator caught a gold colored shigit. He popped the wiggling creature, live, into his mouth and bit down once.

"You'll ruin Hamid's life, darling," the Senator grumbled, after swallowing the shigit. "I guess you don't care about that. I'll have to let him go if this continues."

"I don't see why. Mother has Simi and Aunt Cerrl has Ttiki."

"Totally different," Chad replied, blandly. "They are hired as sexual toys, and as such, can't rise above their station."

"You think I don't know that?" she said, petulantly. "That's why they're no good for research!"

Chad M'Gnapt shook his head tiredly. "I think it might be better for you to do an off-world project. The FPR program was initiated for the kind of pure research you seem interested in."

"It's not what I'm interested in!" she snapped. "You just don't want me to do anything that's a teensy bit new or refreshing..!"

"Your deviant leanings are not crucial," Chad informed her. "Not even slightly crucial, Venus. It just shows character weakness on your part."

"That's a lie..!" she screeched. "You think my work will hurt your reelection."

"That's enough," he said, lowering his voice. Venus saw his eyes getting yellow, and knew that she had pushed too far.

Alicia nuzzled against an empty pillow where she expected to find Emmet. Her eyes popped open. It was daylight. There was nothing to be nervous about, but she had always been the first one up when they lived together. In those long ago days, she had secretly scorned him and openly made fun of his late sleeping.

She stretched luxuriously. Last night had been good. Her body felt almost feline. Whoever invented men certainly did women a big favor.

When she had gotten home to Indiana, it had been exciting to see all the boys she'd had crushes on in high school. She had sex with a lot of them in drive-in theaters or at their apartments, something she hadn't done as a girl. That had been fun. It was good to catch up on her past; but then it had narrowed down to several men who were courting her seriously, and the fun more or less disappeared. Farm boys are so conventional, with their country ethics and possessiveness. For awhile Martin Fowler and George Lane had waged a totally hick-like contest for her hand, then George gave up for reasons she didn't understand. Hurt pride, he said. It was just as well, she was pregnant by that time. Martin was overjoyed to take the blame, although she really had no idea who the father was. But one baby and one father made things more amicable around the Wilson household. Unfortunately, Martin Fowler bored her silly. There was never really a question of getting married, although he pestered her with proposals right up to delivery day. All he talked about was the house he'd build her on a knoll overlooking his father's farm, and what a good provider he'd be. How could any girl want more than a bumper crop of soybeans every year, and a house complete with a view of cow barns and the smell of manure?

And nobody else had called her after the baby was born. Not that she wanted strange men hanging around. Having Billy seemed to complete something inside her while he was so tiny and helpless. Then the thoughts of Emmet started entering her daydreams. She had pushed them aside for six months, then had embroidered them until Emmet began to look like Prince Charming on a big white horse. Now here she was in Prince Charming's bed. She'd had a terrible moment of panic when she stepped off the plane, but Emmet was still Emmet, maybe even better than before. Thank God, he was doing something that seemed to matter to him. And he liked her. Didn't he? He acted like he did. But where was he..?

"Emmet..?" she called.

*

There was nothing for Mandillo Sprut to do but start looking for the errant girl. She was a VIP and did have to be found. At least he stood a good chance of getting some decent home-side nooky, if she was grateful enough to fuggle with someone of lesser status.

After putting a Gone Fishing sign in the shop window, Sprut waddled into the back room and unlocked his Spal-trans unit. Linking it with an Earth-made computer terminal and printer for easier use put him into the Intergalactic communications business. He called Sarr R'Tangele at the University of Sidap. Later in the day, a terse print-out armed him with the current information about Venus M'Gnapt. He read all of R'Tangele's fears between the lines.

Feeling distinctly worried, Sprut drove his tan Buick over to Studio City, to one of the apartments he kept rented for visiting nobility. In the shadow of the black monolithic tower of Universal Studios, Sprut knocked on the cheap door of the stucco apartment, and waited a normal length of time before letting himself in with a passkey.

No sign of the visiting scholar was in evidence. The Earth clothes he had bought for her to wear were gone. In theory, he had been remiss in not checking on her before this, but FPR research students liked to think of themselves as beyond the surveillance of a mere civil servant. Besides, there was a Spal-trans unit in the closet, on which she would have contacted him if she needed assistance. He had never heard a word from her, although the University TWIX had informed him that she had been transferred in perfect condition.

At the time of Venus' arrival, Mandillo Sprut had not conceived of a transfer going astray; and consequently, had lost no sleep over one more student failing to contact him. A classy Taark bitch would never ask for his assistance, anyway--unless she felt homesick. But as he looked around the empty apartment, little bits of hoar frost crystallized on his nerve endings. It was his job, after all, to look after these travelers. He would be in deep shit if he couldn't come up with a report on this one.

Just where in LA, or the United States, or the whole world for that matter, should he begin looking for her? Poor Mandillo had no idea what she looked like. The clothing specs called for a size 10 dress, size 6 shoes and a C cup brassiere. No further information had been given him. The transfer machine was not equipped to make a computerized likeness. The students all took an Earthling photo with them on the outbound trip - to include in their report. Venus M'Gnapt had left no photos laying around the apartment. With a queasy feeling, Mandillo Sprut began to suspect foul play.

*

After she had showered, Alicia found herself in kind of a tizzy. She wasnÕt exactly worried about Emmet, but he didn't even leave a note. What an inconsiderate poop. She had planned to cook breakfast for him. Little pig sausages, scrambled eggs with cottage cheese mixed in, wheat toast and strawberry jam. His favorite.

She walked around the fish aquarium, which was sitting in the middle of the living room for some unexplained reason, then pranced onto the front stoop in her bathrobe, thinking that he might be sitting in the morning sun. But all she discovered was no sun and the car was gone. Was he at work? Would he be back or what? What a crud!

And on top of that, the refrigerator was completely empty and the kitchen was a mess. Without thinking about it, she started tidying the counter top, shaking her head at the ridiculous, sloppy way Emmet allowed himself to live. The whole place could certainly use a woman's touch.

Emmet checked the results of last night's races in the Times to relive his defeat at the hands of Ed Symington, then he studied tonight's entries for a few minutes, then he went home. He unlocked the door, feeling good. Why shouldn't he feel good, three pages written before breakfast. Very satisfying. He could take the rest of the day off to play with Allie.

Opening the door quietly in case she was asleep, he discovered her marching out of the kitchen with the sleeves of her robe rolled up to the elbows.

"Quite a seductive little wench in the morning," he said with a grin. He was glad to see her. Glad she was seductive. Glad that she was there.

"Don't you generally let your house guests know where you're going?" she asked, peevishly.

"You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"You could have left a note," she said, zipping past him into the bedroom.

"I guess I could have." He flashed back to the good-bye note she had left for him, but that was ancient history. Why dwell on the bad old past? "I was writing," he offered as explanation.

"Writing..? At dawn?"

Emmet followed her into the bedroom. Alicia was dressing, as he thought she might be. He sat on the bed to watch.

"A writer writes when the call moves the pen," he said, making no move to stop her from getting dressed. He devoured her characteristic movements of stepping into her panties. They were yellow cotton with a tiny red heart on the right side. "There's no time schedule on writing."

"Stop leching," she hissed, turning away from him. "I was going to fix your breakfast, but you were busy."

"Good plan. Having breakfast with a doll like you would be a primo experience."

"I'm out of the mood." She pulled on a pair of jeans, then threw on a faded flannel shirt without bothering with a bra.

"Come on, Allie, are we going to bicker about art? This may be a very important book."

"I'll bet." She hopped on one foot to slip into a pair of penny loafers. The morning was going all wrong. Why couldn't she hold her tongue and just coast? Give him a chance to make things right. But he looks so smug about sneaking off to write, and what is this silly book he's writing, anyway?

"Here we have the first morning of our new life together and our first fight," Emmet observed with a satyr's grin. A fey mood had overtaken him. He had nothing to lose. The gulf between them was just as wide as it had ever been. This is what ruined the marriage, he knew suddenly. We both talk around each other, never directly at. And why is that? Either we truly don't understand language the same way--or I don't trust her, and she doesn't trust me. What a really obnoxious starting point for a romance.

"If you had one question to ask," he inquired of Alicia, "what would it be?" She was bending over, straightening the contents of her suitcase.

"I was wondering if I should unpack my suitcases?" she said, not looking at him.

"That's a good question, but not exactly what I was talking about," he said.

*

Roberta Weinstein had overslept half an hour, and was now on her way to work. She had one eye on traffic and the other on the cocked rear view mirror as she applied her eye shadow.

Mornings in her dark blue Volvo were spent fighting the crowded surface streets of Hollywood and bitching about her situation. Being an agent was not as glamorous as she'd supposed. The lack of good material was appalling, and the blockheads to whom she attempted to sell the bad stories were worse. All in all, she wasn't very happy, and Mr. Carruthers wasn't overly pleased with her these days. Secretly, she suspected, he was glad she was failing.

The old dragon wasn't helping her one bit, and that made her angry, especially on the ride to and from work. In more rational moments, she realized it was a sink or swim business. Talent and pizzazz notwithstanding, there were only so many shows made per year. So far none of them were hers.

And stingy old Carruthers had his juicy list of top clients that he could have shared with her, but did not. Not even to help Hanson. All he cared about was the stock market. Maybe if I gave him a blow-job, the old miser would loosen up. But even though she considered that course of action every morning in the car, the actuality of it turned her stomach.

And that ass, Emmet Suckerfield, who she had gone way out on a limb for, was as slow as molasses. Why couldn't he get that book done, so she could move on it? Before it's too late.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emmet worried that one of his fish might die before he got them trained well enough to be "Dumb Pets." He knew that ordinary comet goldfish like his, aren't known for their longevity. Ten years is maximum. Of the original nine fish which he and Alicia had bought, only the three survived, so he had endured six passings and the resultant feeling of helplessness. There's nothing quite so dead as a pet goldfish floating on the surface of the tank.

Sadly, the first two deaths had been bridge-jumpers. Their suicide had been discovered by smell. One was found dried out under the couch pillows, the other on the floor behind the couch. For reasons inexplicable to Emmet, they had chosen to commit hara-kiri by leaping out of the tank into the wide world. What magnificent jumpers those two must have been; but alas, neither would pass on their salmon-like characteristics to any offspring. Both had died too young to breed or even have a name for that matter; but they were mourned and missed, non-the-less. After the second burial in the flower box on the front steps--Emmet had wisely decided to fertilize the geraniums with the bodies of the suicidal fish rather than waste them with a too simple toilet flush--after the burial, Emmet bought a Plexiglas lid for the aquarium. The other four had died a more natural aquatic death.

The last to go, Sigmund, had been a male--large, but immature in respect to tail fins. Emmet had watch it foundering one night, and knew that the worst was at hand. Employing all the first aid he could think of, he added fresh water with anti-chlorine drops, cleaned the filter and lavished a pinch of extra food that Achmed, Bertha and Charlie gobbled up. But nothing helped. Poor Sigmund swam in floppy loop the loops an inch off the gravel bed as if trying gallantly to live, but the effort was exhausting.

Finally in desperation, Emmet tried several hours of hand resuscitation, gently holding the fish and helping it swim through the water so it's gills could function with no strain. But all efforts failed and Sigmund was transferred to the flower box in the morning. Sigmund R.I.P.

*

Emmet stopped into the tropical fish store to buy some food flakes after his morning session at Bob's. A week had passed since AliciaÕs arrival, and the sad truth was that the relationship was going downhill. She didn't like him going to Bob's alone, and she wasn't interested in horses, and she had insisted that the fish aquarium be moved behind the couch. It made her nervous in the middle of the room.

And he was distrustful of what she did at night while he was hacking around town all night. Actually, Emmet was disappointed in himself; but once you find someone untrustworthy, it's almost impossible to give them carte blanche with your heart again, even if you want to. Emmet wanted to--sincerely. DidnÕt he?

He walked out of the fish store feeling listless and dispirited. What could he do to act like the person he wanted to be? It was so damned hard. Snap out of it! he urged himself. Stop acting like a baby! Be happy! And that's an order!

The first things Emmet saw when he stepped into the apartment were the green suitcases standing near the door. A gulp caught in his throat. Too late! Disaster was about to happen.

Alicia came out of the bathroom wearing fresh make-up, a skirt and her red sweater. Traveling clothes. "I have to go get Billy," she explained. "I realized this morning that I had to."

"Oh," Emmet replied.

"Can you drive me to the airport? I made a reservation for noon."

"Sure, I guess... This is a little sudden, isn't it?" He glanced at his watch, then looked out the window. Thanks to Alicia's expertise with Windex, the windows sparkled. The tiny patch of ocean view was clearly visible. His bills were tidily arranged in a letter hopper. The fish swam in a clean tank behind the couch. Emmet Suckerfield sat down on the edge of his TV chair. "Pretty good cosmic joke on somebody," he observed.

Alicia listened to him patiently, but her heart was on seeing Billy. Need for the child had dragged at her more and more with each passing day. "I'll call you when I get home," she said, "so you won't worry."

Are you coming back? he wanted to shout. Will you be right back with the kid, or do I have to sweat it out? "I guess I can go to the races," his mouth said instead. Emmet cringed, but the stupid sentence was out. He couldn't get it back.

"Of course you can," she said. "You could have gone all this week. I certainly didn't keep you from it."

"I know. Change the subject. False start."

Alicia's eyes widened fractionally. She didn't want a scene and she didn't want to witness a display of hurt feelings, she just wanted her baby.

"Are you coming back with the boy?"

"I haven't decided yet, Emmet." She picked a piece of lint from her skirt. "This hasn't been a fair test, I know that. I guess the only right thing is to bring Billy to meet you... If that's what you want?"

"His father won't think it's such a hot situation to be half way across the country, especially now that he's lived with the little guy."

Alicia nodded slowly, watching Emmet. What a rotten, creepy creep! He's saying he doesn't want me to come back. I've been absolutely on my best behavior all week, slaving away so the apartment would be clean, and he didn't even notice. What a sickening creep.

"But actually, I don't care about Billy's dad at all," Emmet continued, studying her face. "I don't know him. His emotional problems are his, not mine. If you come back, I'll do my level best to take care of you and the baby. I'll figure out a way to make enough money. I'll just do it." He smiled his best smile. "And we might even have a nice life together." Her face turned soft with gratitude, and was that love, too? "Not a bad salesmanship job, huh?" he said, feeling better than he had for several days. "Well, are we ready to go to the airport?"

Alicia nodded. Tears pooled at the inside corners of her blue eyes. In a minute, Emmet would get to watch them roll down her pretty cheeks.

*

The ride to the airport was quiet and eventful.

"Be sure to tell your Dad and Mom I said hi," Emmet said, as he drove up the hill past Hughes Aircraft, having taken the scenic route. A lump was forming in his throat. Most of the ride was over. Soon they would part.

"I will," Alicia said, softly. She was savoring the last few minutes with Emmet. The future had a solidity to it. She was coming back. If only she could understand the root of her eternal dissatisfaction, life could be good. It wasn't Emmet's problem, exactly; although it certainly kept causing him trouble. She smiled, then froze up at the thought of the airplane ride.

"I suppose you're still frightened of flying?" Emmet asked, apparently picking up on her thought.

"Oh, Em, is any of this going to work out?" she blurted. "I'm so darned scared about everything. That's no way to live! I never used to be scared, did I?"

From the Lincoln Boulevard highlands, they could see the huge jet tails sticking up at the end of a repair runway. "Well, you've always been pretty uncomfortable on planes, since I've known you," he said, grinning over at her. "I used to love holding your hand on take-offs, because it was so damned obvious that you needed me."

"I don't make it obvious other times?" Alicia asked, thinking of the bedroom and of the time several days ago when she'd asked him to scrub her back.

"Not like on a plane," he answered. And it was true. If she needed him like that once a day, there wouldn't be any problem between them. He was sure he'd be able to respond. Why not, he loved her. If she needed him once a day, or a hundred times a day, he'd be there.

"I'm going to straighten out my finances while you're gone," he said to reassure her--to reassure himself. "And we should probably get a bigger place to live."

They drove along the north side of the airport in silence. A jumbo jet took off, banking sharply so that its departure from LAX would be over the ocean. Emmet chuckled and shook his head.

"What?" Alicia asked.

"I was just thinking how silly it is that I let the other apartment go. Good places are harder to find now.

Alicia studied her hands, then asked suddenly, "Are you mad at me about any of this? I know I was pretty dumb, but I don't really see how I could have done anything differently. It all just sort of happened."

"It's a funny world we live in," he agreed, feeling magnanimous. "You're really coming back, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm not exactly sure when. Air fares are ridiculously expensive."

"I'll send you a ticket," he said, feeling the hole in his pocket yawn. Something was going to be done about that. Period. The sick feeling he got whenever he confronted money head-on had to be overcome. He'd learn. He would write the book. He would be a winner!

"And babies are another thing that requires more money than you think," she reminded him. "Shoes and clothes and doctors and going to school someday. I don't know if the public schools are safe anymore."

"We don't have to deal with the school question for a few years, honey," he chuckled, trying to laugh off the lump in his throat before it choked him. He turned into the airport approach road. The time was almost upon them. Impulsively, Alicia unbuckled her seat belt and scooted across the seat to hug him and kiss his cheek.

"I'm so glad I know you, Em," she whispered in his ear.

"Me, too," he said. "I mean, I'm glad I know you."

*

It's so mind-bendingly hard to write a book, Emmet frittered. All these pages and I can't tell if they hang together or not. He'd been writing his fingers off for a week since Alicia went home. Ten hours a day and sometimes more, he sat with his pen poised. The book had to get done. This was his shot and he was taking it. The ponies could wait, and getting a high-paying job working for somebody else was frightfully unappetizing. Driving a cab was a stop-gap, of course, and always had been--so he wrote, and the pages flew by.

How can I get Venus to display some kind of finer quality? he asked himself. She's so miserably shallow. Faith, hope and love, he thought, recalling a few finer qualities. Charity. Christian charity, he mused. Nobody can be really charitable if they're passionate about something. How could Venus be charitable when the only thing she cares about is sex? That's about as passionate as you can get. Through her eyes, life on Torano is one long orgy. But nobody will want to buy a book like that. He chuckled, ironically. That's exactly what people do want--look at the best seller list. So he kept writing, and the fish kept swimming around, training for TV.

The first thing Emmet had done when he got home from the airport was to move the aquarium back into the center of the room. It almost broke his back, even after he'd siphoned half the water off. Twenty gallons of aqua is very heavy; but the little darlings were responding beautifully to the training, especially Achmed. He seemed to know that stardom awaited him. Most of his time was spent lurking near the castle in expectation, waiting for feeding time.

*

After her father's admonition, Venus curtailed her activities with the household servants; but she didn't abandon her theories. Not at all. She merely took them underground. While ostensibly preparing for her field work on a tiny planet called Rhana 1217, she continued the real investigation for her thesis. Her masterwork would be entitled The Seduction of the Lower Classes.

Her first inclination was to advertise for subjects; but she quickly realized that if the dregs of society which she sought answered the ad, she would have to pay them. This, of course, violated the purpose of the experiment. If she hired them and paid them, the poor Garun wretches would act exactly as a body servant did. Boring. Predictable. Doing a job. Part of society. Then she hit on a scintillating idea. She would make them pay her! Where did these brainstorms come from? she marveled.

She rented an unspeakably rundown flat out by the old space port, where the derelicts and space maggots congregated. And she went into business, plying the oldest trade in the galaxy. Blacksmithing? No, whoring.

These luckless vagabonds were not tame Garuns like the University gardener or a porter, far from it. So to the lure of the socially forbidden was added a new element--danger! And how her power swelled! Bringing these hulks to the brink, then stripping their seed and the last shreds of their self-respect. It was gargantuan. What superb research she was doing! What a paper she would write..!

One night, after slipping out of the dorm and taking a ground rail out to the space wharves, Venus got rather a jolt. A guy followed her into a shabby bar. Before she had a chance to pick out her subject for the evening, he corralled her in a corner beside the drevalac machine and propositioned her in a very brusque manner. Something about him frightened her. Although he was obviously a Garun, he had no subservient air, and he was very large and well muscled.

When she hesitated, the bully grabbed her roughly by the arm and practically dragged her outside. She could not resist or call for help without blowing her cover, so with rapidly beating heart, she followed.

Outside the bar, he stuffed a twenty drachma note in her hand and led her across the street to a cheap hotel, where he rented a room. Up in the smelly garret, he lay on the bed and told her to undress. Venus was unaccustomed to being treated quite so piggishly. Her good looks always commanded some respect, but not from this one. She did as she was told.

She removed her clothing. The creep watched closely, then told her he was an undercover class cop. The Social Research Department had heard rumors that something shabby was going on with the dead-beats in this district. He proceeded to outline her own exploits in detail. Obviously, some of the drecks had complained. Venus felt her knees weaken with fear. Breaking social restrictions was a serious offense. It might even get her kicked out of the University. And this cop knew. She was sure of that. Then he asked if she had seen any strange Taark whores working the docks.

"No, sir," she answered, submissively, and asked how she could please him.

For the next three hours, he molested her in every way he could think of, and while he was somewhat limited by his Garun mentality, he did give a credible performance. For the first time ever, Venus felt used. She longed to let her Taark persona out and put this fucker of a Garun cop in his place, but she didn't dare. So she lay there on the mildewed bed, acting timid and grateful.

After that night, her sexual appetites dwindled and hanks of hair came out in her hairbrush. She did not visit the old space port for some time. But, of course, she did return eventually. The research paper was just too important.

*

Alicia had called when she arrived in Indiana. She was happy to be with Billy. He was such a cute baby. She mentioned again that air fare was expensive. Emmet said he'd send her a ticket. He could call her any time he felt lonesome. And she would call him; but so far they'd only made the one call. Maybe he'd ring her tonight before work, but it would be better to wait until tomorrow.

Payday was tomorrow. He'd buy the ticket. Rent and utilities could wait a week, the ticket was more important. Then maybe he'd take his tip money out to the track to make the rent.

Surprisingly, he was enjoying his job these days. The drivers had finally accepted him, and finding that he wasn't a company man, a lot of friendly banter was now crackling over the night air waves. If the FCC ever listened in, they probably wouldn't like it, but Emmet didn't care particularly what some bureaucrat thought. Guys are supposed to have some fun at work. Besides he could see the end of menial jobs. Another few weeks driving and the book ought to be finished, and then things would be a lot different.

*

And as one person gets happier, another jumps deeper in the shit. Apparently the law of nature is very strict with the happiness quota. There must not be enough to go around, so everybody has to take turns in a seemingly random pattern.

Hanson McIvor was on a scandalizingly fast down escalator. No metaphor. He really was on an escalator at Robinson's Department Store, where he was shopping for little Vance's new bed. Vance was about to be decribbed. In any normal chain of events, Hanson would have been happy and proud of this task. His son was growing up and the new baby was coming along. On a shopping trip of this magnitude, Dolly would normally have accompanied him. She loved events like this. But Dolly was feeling sick, so she sent him alone. She probably didn't have enough time while he was at work to call her boyfriend. And now this stupid escalator was out of control. It zipped him and a blue-haired old lady down to the second floor and shot them, stumbling, into the Ladies Lingerie section.

"Somebody ought to tell the manager about that," Hanson griped to the lady, who seemed almost as frightened as he was. She balanced herself against a mannequin and tested both of her high heels to see if they were broken.

What if the thing had eaten him? He'd always worried about that. Not so much lately, but when he was a kid he was frightened of escalators and had to be forced onto them by his mother. He hoped this wouldn't start the dreams again.

"Miss..!!" the old lady squacked, cornering a salesgirl. "That escalator is running much too fast!"

Two teen-age girls came sliding into the lingerie section, laughing delightedly.

Hanson walked away, figuring the lady could handle the reporting. He made it to the Beds and Bedding Department without further mishap, and wandered around looking for the perfect bed for Vance to grow up in. He'd have to put it on his charge card, of course; but he had the card, so why not use it? Anyway, his luck was due to change. Something was in the wind, he knew it.

This morning, he had finally had the courage to tell Sid Ringo, his producer friend at Norm's, that he was an agent. You could have knocked old Sid over with a feather when the news penetrated. Of course, Sid had been doing business with Uncle Walter for years. And the first thing he said was to bring him a hot project. What else would he say? And that put Hanson in the driver's seat, and in the caboose. Because he wanted to bring Sid Ringo a great script, but he didn't know if he had one. What a stupid situation. But he'd opened his big mouth for a reason--he wanted something to change. It was his damned turn to get some good luck!

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There was no possibility of failing this evening. Emmet had the racing card completely wired. Pushing through the turnstile at the far end of Hollywood Park, he felt his wallet bulge comfortably in his front pocket. The large lump looked kind of ridiculous, but he couldn't risk having it snatched from his hip pocket. Inside the wallet was one hundred buckos that he did not plan to lose.

Not wanting to hang around the rail and get touted off of his carefully chosen horses, he wandered upstairs to the second level. After buying a cup of coffee, he looked for a lucky seat. The horses for the later races were out on the track warming up. Harness horses warm up before their races. Emmet assumed that all races horses did the same, but he was wrong. No other kind of race horse warms up, but Emmet had only been to the harness races, so far.

There seemed to be lots of empty reserved box seats in the second level grandstand, and since no usher was in the aisle, Emmet scooted into an empty box right at the rail. He placed his program, the Racing Form and coffee on the aluminum shelf in front of him. The view was magnificent, like being on the bow of a ship looking down on the track, but he kept expecting somebody to come over and say it was their seat.

By post time, the stands were still half empty so Emmet quit worrying, and concentrated on his picks. The secret was money management. Tonight he was going to bet smart and increase his bankroll. Five losers in a row were not going to tap him out before he got some winners.

The first race scoped out to be a very close affair for cheap claimers. On paper there was no clear winner. The thing to do was pass the race. But the horses were parading on the track, and one of them was going to win. He should be able to look at them and tell which one wanted to run. And, in fact, he could. The #6 horse, Meadow Grey, was loose muscled and much stronger looking than any other horse in the field. His driver, Ben Beavorford, a sneaky old pro in green and white silks, was going to bring that big grey horse in. Emmet knew it. Glancing at Meadow Grey's past performance told him very little. He just had a feeling.

Six to one, Emmet considered. If I bet two dollars to win and three to show, my money is covered because the horse is definitely going to show. Look at him! He's practically prancing he wants to run so bad. Is that a good sign or a bad? Sometimes when they prance like that, they go to the front, then run out of steam. Nah, Beavorford will rate him. It's obvious, he's at least going to show. Maybe I should start a show parlay. Screw the win bet.

Hustling up to the window, Emmet dug into his wallet and extracted a twenty dollar bill. "Two win and five to show on 6," he told the sandy haired clerk, tossing the twenty on the pari-mutuel machine. Then with the ticket tucked into his cigarette pocket over his heart, he trucked back down the concrete stairs to his seat. Already the excitement was clutching him. Putting the money down had started a chain reaction in his blood. Emmet wondered how it was for people who could afford to lose. Did they have to keep making bigger and bigger bets in order to get a buzz, or does a five dollar bet get the juices flowing even if you're rich? Maybe he'd find out one of these days.

The horses were fooling around in the back stretch, waiting for the starter to call them. At least he could spot the big grey. All the other horses looked similar across the mile oval, black or brown -- the only distinction was the driver's colors. Meadow Grey wasn't doing anything spectacular, just pacing along lazily while Beavorford chatted with another driver. What Emmet needed was binoculars so he didn't have to strain his eyes.

Finally the starter called the horses. They chugged up to get in line, then they were off. Two horses dashed up for the lead, and Beavorford pulled Meadow Grey into the rail behind them. The garden spot -- the start of a perfect trip. Emmet surged with hope. They cut the quarter in 30.4, which was not quite fast enough to kill off the front runners, but fast enough to maybe keep the race honest. Then they bore down the backstretch and it looked like Beavorford would get boxed in at the rail, but he got the big grey out under cover at the head of the far turn and was once again in perfect position for the stretch drive. That's how a great driver does it, Emmet thought admiringly. His heart

beat rapidly as they drove down the lane toward the wire. The #2 horse was in front by a length, but here came the grey tornado under full head of steam from the outside. He blew past the #2, who was tired from being on the lead, and coasted up for an easy win.

"Hey..!!" Emmet yelled, exuberantly. "Now you're talking, Beavorford..!" It felt good to be on speaking terms with a classy driver, and it felt even better to have a winning ticket in his pocket. He should have bet five and ten, since he knew the grey horse would win easy, or even ten and twenty. But it was a good start for the night. He felt great. Meadow Grey paid 6.40, 3.80 and 3.00. The odds had taken a big dive after Emmet had bet; but he was up five dollars and ninety cents, and he was going to parlay it into big profits.

A parlay is a dangerous item, of course, as well as a very useful betting tool. It allows a person to wager a small (or large) amount of money into a multiplying progression from one horse to another. It can be done in any combination of win, place, and show. The trick, like always, is to pick a horse that finishes on your money. Show parlays are the safest and consequently yield the smallest return. Emmet decided to go that route. He'd come to make money, not burn it.

Okay, fine. Second race coming. Another hard race. Emmet studied the Form. A nine year old gelding named Cool Gay had won the most money lifetime. Actually, he'd won almost ninety thousand more than the next horse. That must mean he likes to win. Marc Aubin, Cool Gay's trainer was also driving him. Surely he'd be trying to win tonight's purse also.

After cashing his winning ticket, Emmet bet six dollars to show on Cool Gay. Back at his seat, he felt foolish for making the bet. It was just the kind of impulse bet that always robbed him. But what the hell, it was a gamble. He'd come to gamble, hadn't he?

*

Back in Indiana, Alicia was in an emotional fix. No, not her emotions exactly--she was beginning to wonder if she had any emotions of her own--the problem was other people's emotions. What a goddamn terrible mistake she'd made by jumping into bed with Martin Fowler. He'd been acting like a lunatic since she returned from California. He phoned her about twenty times a day and found excuses to drop over all the time so he could see Billy, but really he wanted to see her.

And he was making forceful overtures that she didn't want to hear at all. Threats actually. Like one day he was going to kill himself if she didn't marry him, and the next he'd intimate that he would make it impossible for her to be with anybody else. It frightened her. Martin was so big, and he was acting kind of crazy, really.

She didn't want to make a bunch of trouble for him, he'd always been a nice person before. After all, they had gone through twelve years of school together, they knew all the same people. Why did he have to start acting strangely? What did that accomplish? She'd planned to be fair with him about Billy. Obviously, she had caused Martin a certain amount of trouble, it wasn't hard to realize that. But he had this stupid notion that they were a family. Of course, he had a right to see it like that -- why couldn't he see it another way just as easily? And she wasn't even really sure that Martin was the father, although Billy was starting to look like the Fowlers. If she mentioned that to Martin, he would probably really flip out.

Alicia didn't especially want to bother her father with this problem. She'd told him she was going back to Emmet and he seemed content, in his way. He was such a difficult man to truly understand. By seeming to accept everything in his undisturbed manner, she was never completely sure that he accepted anything. As long as he had some land to plant, he seemed happy. Alicia envied and admired that about him, and wondered why his placidity hadn't transferred into her gene pool. Anyway, her father and Mr. Fowler, Martin's father, were good friends. They'd even been partners in the Angus breeding, until they'd each gotten their own bull. And they were still friends, so how could she tell her father that Martin was bothering her? Everyone probably thought he was acting like a good farm boy should.

She couldn't really tell Emmet. What would he do about it, hock his typewriter and fly out? No, it's my problem. I created it and I'm going to deal with it somehow. I just wish everything hadn't gotten so emotional. Why can't it be simple?

*

Swallowing the last mouthful of her hot chocolate, Roberta glanced restlessly around her living room. She had a lot of reading to do and not much desire to do it. She'd already cleaned the bathroom for an hour before starting to read, and then she'd chosen the new pages Suckerfield had given her that morning. Now, she had read them, and still had no idea where he was going with the story. Why did his pages always make her feel so antsy? Did she identify with Venus, was that it? Not hardly. There'd been a time when she was pretty loose, but it had become meaningless, jumping from bed to bed. Body contact was nice, and it certainly wasn't more meaningless than what she was doing now--but she'd decided to make something of herself besides a pincushion, and what she'd become was a hermit. And stupid Emmet Suckerfield keeps writing like he knows the answer, but he doesn't tell me what it is.

Maybe I should take him up on his offer, she thought, kittenishly. I'll bet that would surprise his teeth out. Absorbed in dreams of calling Suckerfield, she paced to the bookcases and straightened a row of hard covers, which had sagged slightly against the unicorn bookend. Maybe if I fucked him silly, he would stop acting so defensive around me. That alone would make it worthwhile. Roberta wondered for the thousandth time if Emmet was good in bed. He certainly wasn't the kind of man she was attracted to, but leather boys weren't the greatest for her career. It was a great injustice that she should be turned on by virtual morons, since they weren't worth a damn to her the next morning.

She would call Suckerfield one of these nights. It would be fun to see if he had a kinky side. The worst that could happen was that she'd ruin a client relationship, which currently had value only as a futurity. And of course, he might spread rumors about her at the office. Men do talk about their love affairs to show off their virility.

Still if there was anybody she could trust, it would be Suckerfield. His book was all about a certain kind of morality, wasn't it? Obviously, he was concerned with living correctly through the vicissitudes of life. And just as obviously he'd been badly crushed by some empty-headed twit like Venus, and was blasting his pain over every page of the book. Does he call that moral? The guy's a total shit, just like all of them.

Detecting a smudge on her glass topped coffee table, Roberta grabbed a can of Windex spray from the kitchen and set to polishing. Annoying nits of paper towel lint clung to the reflective surface. What she needed was a man around so she would have some old T shirts to use for polishing rags. Suckerfield probably had drawers full of junk like that. He seemed the type. Maybe she could ask for some of his torn T shirts without committing herself. She replaced the spray can in the cleaning aids cupboard and sat down at her typing desk. With a flick of her finger, Suckerfield, Emmet appeared on her roll-a-dex. She pressed the buttons of his number and crossed her long legs while the phone rang. And rang.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

While his phone was ringing at home, Emmet was schwacking them at the racetrack. After losing the second, third and forth races and consequently seeing his confidence dissolve, he hit a winning streak. His horse in the fifth race won and paid $7.40. Emmet had a two dollar win ticket, which he parlayed 3+2+2 onto Rustic Scott in the Sixth. The odds on Rustic Scott ran up to 12 to 1 for reasons unknown to Suckerfield. They'd been 5 to 1 when he placed the bet. The brown horse broke out of a tangle at the 7/8 pole and thundered in to win by a neck, paying 28.00, 20.80 and 5.60. Which put Emmet up four dollars on the night.

He liked a horse named Gentle Skipper in the Seventh. How much did he like him was the question. He decided that ten dollars across the board was the right answer. When you're hot, go after them. Gentle Skipper rewarded him with a hair raising rush at the last second to nip the leader at the wire. Emmet's heart just about jumped out of his mouth. The payoff was 6.20, 3.40 and 2.60. So with three races still coming, he had a sixty-one dollar ticket in his pocket, not to mention the other four dollars he was already up--and his hundred dollar bankroll was still intact. Talk about blood singing, Emmet's was doing the marimba dance as he squirmed in his box seat.

Okay, he directed himself, I'm putting thirty bucks away. That leaves thirty-five to play with. Maybe we can find a nice long shot to put some on. He studied the tote board. Alba Autumn! Jesus, they're letting him go at 9 to 1. That's unbelievable. He rechecked the program and found it really was unbelievable. The sucker had run a race last year that was a full second faster than any other horse in this race. And in his last race, he'd had a big stretch gain while being parked out for half the race. But that shithead, Ed Symington, was driving. The guy had Emmet's number. He never won with Suckerfield money on him. But surely 9 to 1 was steep enough odds to make him try. Maybe the owner would buy him a boot full of tickets to keep him honest. Emmet watched the post parade to see that Alba Autumn wasn't limping, then skipped up to the window.

*

Hanson McIvor's cold war was about to turn hot. He'd taken all of the bullshit he was going to. After all, who bought home the paycheck? He did. Who caused all the unrest? Dolly did. Was that fair? Fuck, no! There needs to be a little social justice around here and it might as well start tonight. When she gets home, we're going to have some new rules for living around here, and that's a goddamned certainty.

He fumed and waited, and about 12:30 Dolly came praddling in, looking either fat or marginally pregnant. Since Hanson knew she was pregnant, he didn't worry about that part. What bugged him was that her eyes were red and glazed. And if that wasn't enough, her vibes--not that he was an expert on vibes, but he had known her a long time--her vibes were dull grey, the color of lead. When she'd been pregnant with Vance, she'd been absolutely radiant. Hadn't she? Yes, but had she from the beginning or only later? Well, she was never grey like this, and that's a fact. What the hell was going on with her?

"What's going on with you?" he asked. "Seems like this would be a good time for us to talk about it, before things get completely out of hand."

"I'm so tired," she answered, sloughing off her coat and avoiding his invitation. "I just want to go to bed. Can't we do this another time?"

"You weren't too tired to go out, so you're not too tired to talk now. Who the hell do you think pays the bills around here?"

"Well, actually, I hate to remind you, but it's kind of a group effort. Lest you forget, Uncle Walter is my uncle." Her tone was harsh like a raucous crow. It abraded Hanson's ears. "And besides that," she added, "I take care of your son all day."

"And I want to know why you're acting like somebody I never met, so sit down and start talking."

"I'm going to bed. We can talk sometime when you're not angry." Dolly, dull greyness and all, disappeared into the bathroom. McIvor, of course, followed her.

"Look," he said, "I know you're in a delicate time, but if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm going to do something violent."

"I'd call what you're doing now pretty violent," she said, raising her skirt and sitting on the toilet. "Excuse me while I pee." A tinkling sound followed immediately.

"Look, I know you're Ms. Matter-of-fact these days, but I want to know why your eyes are all fucked up. Why are they? Are you taking dope at your goddamned Lib meetings or just exactly why is your aura so grey?"

"My aura?" she laughed. "Oh, you are a riot, Hanson, you really are." She wiped herself and stood up, hitching up her panty hose.

"Whatever you want to call it, something's screwed up." Before she had a chance to get really balanced, he jostled her back down on the toilet seat. "Now, talk. I'll just sit here on the tub and listen." Pushing aside the shower curtain, he sat on the edge of the tub.

"Don't start shoving me around, Hanson," Dolly warned, standing up self-righteously. But his hand reached out and pushed her knee, overbalancing her so that she sat down again.

"Talk," he said. "I'm finally serious about this."

"God, you're a maddening person," she spat. "If you do that one more time, you're going to be sorry."

"Talk then. I'm a lot stronger than you are."

Dolly lurched to her feet again, and Hanson parried by hitting her knee with a soft, straight jab with his left fist. "Sit there and talk," he ordered.

"I'll talk, allright! You're going to get yourself a divorce!" She grabbed a wooden-handled hairbrush from the vanity and hurled it straight at his face. Hanson ducked. The brush whizzed past to clatter harmlessly against the tiles behind him, before bouncing into the tub. Dolly seized a green bottle of after shave lotion, but strong with anger, Hanson wrenched it from her hand. Still holding her arm, he twisted it enough to put pressure on her elbow. Dolly clenched her jaws in anger, but refrained from screaming--since he wasn't really hurting her. What would the neighbors think?

"This is not the way I want our talk to be," he said, "but if you insist on being a cunt, we'll have it this way. Now, tell me what kind of dope you're using?"

"Dope..?"

"That's right! What else could make your eyes so glazed and your spirit so grey? And for God's sake tell me the truth. How do you expect me to help, if we don't talk about it?"

"Help me..?" she hissed. "Who asked for any help?" She felt his grip loosen and jerked her arm free. "Now, that you've proved what a big, strong man you are, maybe you'll let me go to sleep. I'm still tired." She rubbed her stomach with a concerned frown. "I hope you didn't hurt the baby."

"I hope you didn't hurt the baby with the dope you're taking. And while we're at it, why don't we talk about the paternity of this baby. You don't act toward me at all like you did when Vance was being born."

"Times change. You weren't worried about Vance, why worry now?"

"Because you don't act the same! I'm trying to find out why! Don't you understand, there's a lot at stake."

"What? What exactly do you think is so much at stake? You're not planning to leave are you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know..?" she mocked. "Well, I know. If there's any leaving around here, I'll do it."

Hanson thought that over. So she wanted to leave. Well, that didn't exactly surprise him. "Maybe that would be the best," he agreed, sitting back down on the edge of the tub. "I suppose this guy can take care of you?"

"What?"

"I suppose you want to be with whoever you're pregnant by, since you don't want to be with me."

Knowing that Hanson wouldn't stop her now, Dolly stood up and breezed out of the bathroom, raising her eyes to heaven on the way. As predicted, Hanson let her go.

"Why did I have to marry a moron?" she inquired of the living room ceiling. The ceiling considered the question, but declined comment.

Dolly wheeled around, suddenly, and planted herself in the bathroom doorway, hands on hips. "Allright," she croaked, lividly. "So I smoked a few puffs of pot and sniffed a tiny amount of cocaine! What of it? It's no big deal, you moron. Everybody's doing it!"

"I'm not," Hanson answered, from the tub's edge.

"Maybe you don't know what it's like to have morning sickness all day long, every day!"

"I guess not," he said. "I'm sure that explains everything." He looked at her, but his mind was picturing a bachelor apartment somewhere, with Vance there on the weekends. Would he be able to endure seeing Vance only on the weekends?

*

Alba Autumn ran away from the rest of the field to win by six lengths. Of his thirty-five dollar surplus, Emmet had bet nine dollar across the board and pocketed the extra eleven bucks in case he lost. The big roan gelding was so far ahead down the stretch that Emmet cheered without having to eat his liver. And the sucker paid a fortune - 15.40, 8.80 and 6.40. And Mr. Lucky was up another hundred and thirty-seven dollars. He felt like laughing his head off. It was so sweet when your luck was in. Two races to go. There was no reason to stop now. When you're hot, you're hot.

I'm putting the hundred away, and playing the rest, he thought. Courageous Red is going to win the feature, so how do I bet the forty-eight? Thirty-seven plus eleven. He checked the tote board to see that Courageous Red was currently listed at 2 -5, which meant a payoff of $2.60 -- almost not worth the risk. The next flash took him down to 1 - 5 and Emmet decided to watch the race. `Never bet a lot to make a little' was a betting maxim which seemed in direct opposition to `Better a short price than a long face.' Courageous Red had a mortal lock on the race since it was a race written for California horses only, and Red was the best by far of the Cal Breds. Unless he fell down or broke stride. When the odds get into those ridiculously short positions, lots of funny things tend to happen. If he was going off at even odds, Emmet would have bet him in a second.

The intelligent bet, Emmet decided, would be to wheel Courageous Red in an exacta to all the other horses in the race. Maybe a longshot would come in second and make the bet worthwhile. Eight other horses in the race, three dollars per ticket. Twenty four dollars. Even if Bat Champ, the second favorite came in, it would pay $13.00. The worst that could happen was that he'd lose ten bucks, so he made the bet rather than sit out the race.

Courageous Red surged to the front at the clubhouse turn and held a one length lead down the backstretch. His driver, Rick Kuebler, slowed the pace from the front since nobody was making a run at him. They bunched at the 5/8 pole. Peter Onedin swang to the outside, followed by Bat Champ and Maple Fritz. And they raced around the turn. At the head of the stretch, Courageous Red still had pace and the lead. He stretched the gap to two lengths followed by Peter Onedin, Bat Champ and Maple Fritz. It was all Courageous Red cruising along to an easy victory with Kuebler in the bike. Peter Onedin second, Maple Fritz third. Emmet wasn't even cheering, but he was grinning. Peter Onedin went off as the fourth favorite at 9 - 1. The exacta would be in excess of thirty dollars, he figured. Goddamn, five races in a row. After a few minutes wait, the payoffs flashed on the tote board. The exacta paid $40.40.

I could go home, Emmet thought, feeling splendid, although slightly drained from the excitement. But what the hell, I came here to gamble, now I've got some money to gamble with. The box seat was certainly lucky, but it was lonely. Nobody was there to share his triumph, so he drifted down to see if any of his railbird cronies were standing at the finish line.

The night was cooling off, a few wisps of fog whispered over the duck pond. The crowd had thinned out considerably. Emmet tried not to look at the desperate faces as he rode down the escalator, but of course, he couldn't avoid them. The buoyancy he felt was in stunning contrast to the haunted need for a winner that emanated all around him.

None of his buddies were at the rail. In a way, that was a blessing, since he didn't have anyone to gloat to. He carefully sized up the pacers for the nightcap as they paraded past. Kilts N was by far the strongest looking, on paper and in person, but he was leaving from the crummy eight hole. Gozo Star, a much cheaper horse was racing from the rail, and besides liking to win, Gozo Star had Kuebler up, whereas Kilts N was driven by his overweight trainer, Rick Stemmerman. Emmet thought it over calmly -- then walked in and bought a six dollar exacta box from Kilts N to Gozo Star. Then he started for home. Shuffling his feet and looking at the ground, he dragged along the apron like every other loser. No sense encouraging a robbery in the parking lot by acting bucks up. Suckerfield planned to listen to the results of the 10th Race on the car radio as he drove home.

But it didn't work out quite that way.

*

Dolly was asleep in the bedroom. Hanson McIvor's mind buzzed as he sat in his TV chair with the lights out. He was savoring a twisted daydream of his future life without Dolly. What I'd like to do is bust the creep's teeth out, he thought. Hanson could feel his fist smashing into livery lips and breaking out six or eight front teeth by their bloody roots. There was no clear picture of the asshole's face, but the scenario was set perfectly.

The bitch brought her slime paramour and the kids into a restaurant where Han hung out at night, now that he was a bachelor. Bachelors always hang out, having a hot, exciting social life. Dolly knew this was one of his night spots, because he talked about it when he picked Vance up for the weekends. And she just had to parade onto his turf with the scumbag turd in tow, and put the whole gang in a round booth across from where Han was sitting at the bar. Hanson had decided to shorten his bachelor name to Han, after the hero of Star Wars. His parents must have given him the name Hanson for some reason, might as well take advantage of it.

Han could picture himself stalking over like a short John Wayne and planting himself at the edge of the booth, so the creep couldn't stand up. Han would be required to go over to the table, of course, just like the bitch knew he would. What else could he do, pretend he hadn't seen his own son?

"Hi, kids," he'd say, looking at the kids, avoiding both Dolly and the creep. "Have a nice dinner. I have to leave now." Then he turned to the pudgy-faced dork. "If you let her drag you in here again, asshole, I'll break all your teeth out. This one time we'll call it an accident, but this is my hangout and I don't want you in it. Got that straight?"

Naturally, the bung-hole got huffy. He had to play the role of daddy and protector to Hanson's family. The bitch had calculated the male instinct to a nicety.

"Don't get up, fuck-face," Han growled between clenched teeth, "or I'll bust you now. Your stupid bitch girlfriend put you in a tight spot."

"Oh, Hanson, really..! Stop it," Dolly tweeted, in an exasperated voice. Waitresses and customers were watching the little tableau with alarm.

The clod tried to stand up, but he was at a huge disadvantage in the booth. Before he could hoist himself into a fighting stance, Han drove his right fist with all hundred and fifty-two pounds behind it, right into the fat blubber mouth. Teeth broke inward like chiclets and the clown sat down in shock.

"Are you satisfied, now?" Hanson asked Dolly, noting the horrified expression on her face. Like a mother hen, she sheltered the children under her arms.

Theorem: Every man is at the vertices of forces beyond his knowledge or comprehension.

What makes life alive? What makes blood flow? And what causes an unending romance to dissipate for no reason at all? Well, there may be a reason, but somehow the prime mover never appears close enough to be ask.

For instance, if the cause of a love gone wrong is even one person removed from the probable source, then it takes blind, inspired insight (often through bruised feelings) to come upon the cardinal fate line.

An example to perhaps clarify this obscure conjecture--Dolly McIvor falls for a guy at a meeting, disrupts Hanson's family life and leaves him the lurch. One might assume that the positive action happened to Dolly, whose fate wanted a change of venue, or perhaps the boyfriend's fate lines were strong enough to attract her away from a secure nest. But what if it was Hanson's fate? What if he absolutely needed to get free, so that a year from now he could meet a circus acrobat? That's the sort of remote casual effect that this theorem takes into account.

"We might as well get a divorce, don't you think?" Hanson said, walking into the dark bedroom and speaking to a hump in the bedclothes. "If you want this creep, you may as well go to him. I don't plan to live like this." In the other bedroom, Vance was asleep in the bottom bunk of the bunk beds, which Hanson had brought home and spent two nights assembling.

"Please, Hanson," Dolly's exasperated voice muffled out from under the bedding. "Can't this wait until morning? I'm so tired."

"Call me Han," he said.

"What?"

"Call me Han from now on. That will be my name after we're divorced."

Dolly sat up in bed and stared at him incredulously.

*

"Son of a bitch!" Emmet Suckerfield swore in the parking lot at Hollywood Park. The right front tire of his beloved Dodge was as flat as a flounder. The roll of cash in his pocket made him look and feel like a real stud, so he wasn't really angry. But even on this night of unbelievable luck, something had to go wrong. Oh, well, changing a tire was no big deal, he hoped. A trickle of concern about the air pressure of his spare tire appeared. If the spare happened to be flat too, he'd be in a pickle.

Opening the trunk allayed his fear. The spare was in good shape. He hoisted it out, then rummaged around in the shadowy trunk searching for the jack handle. Thanks to Hollywood Park's arc lights, the jack itself was easily located, but the skinny jack handle with the lug wrench on one end remained hidden. Finally, he found it under a sack of patching plaster that had been in the trunk for two years. He'd bought it to do some home handyman work in the other apartment. Unfortunately, the sack had broken somehow and the lime in the plaster had rusted the jack handle horribly. Besides that, a gob of the stuff had hardened in the lug wrench hole. Really glued in there.

Emmet scraped at the hardened plaster with his mailbox key, unwilling to bend one of his more important keys. Bits of the plaster chipped away, but the main gob stayed put, effectively keeping the wrench hole from fitting over a lug nut on the wheel.

"Shit," Emmet swore, forcing the key into a small crack in the plaster. Naturally, he gave it a slight twist, since that's why he'd shoved it in the crack. And naturally, the thin key broke off in his hand. "Shit..!!" he yelled.

Disgustedly, Emmet unlocked the car and rooted in the glove compartment until he found an old screwdriver. He sat on the front seat with the door open, chiseling plaster out of the lug wrench. In five minutes he had it scraped clean enough to use.

Thinking that his problems were over, he knelt to jack up the car, only to discover that the jacking mechanism of the jack was jammed with plaster, too. While he was cursing, the call of the 10th Race boomed over the public address system, which could be heard clearly in the parking lot. Gozo Star thundered down the stretch to win the race and Kilts N was second. Emmet had won again. The exacta paid thirty-one dollars, so he'd spent twelve dollars to win sixty-two. Six to one. Not bad at all, he thought happily, leaning on the rear fender--scraping away at the jack.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After several weeks of searching, Mandillo Sprut was beginning to lose faith in finding the girl. It was a big planet, after all. She could be anywhere.

He knew with unclouded certainty that this would be a fat black mark on his record. People at home thought the distant off-worlds were barren rocks where the agents were well in control. If they only knew.

Sprut hoped fervently that the half-wit tech, R'Tangele, was in much hotter water than he was. He'd heard of him at the University, a high mucky-muck of supposed science. Those hare-brains are always making trouble for real people.

He chuckled grimly, thinking of how R'Tangele had been forced to beg for help in finding the brat. Mr. Smartypants was scared witless, and with good reason. A mistake of that magnitude could easily land an unconnected technician right in the middle of Garun anonymity. Serves him right. He should have kept his mind on business. Unfortunately, he, Sprut, could take the plunge along with the nitwit -- and that was not part of Mandillo Sprut's game plan.

Grumbling about the loss of sporting goods sales, Sprut hung the "Gone Fishing" sign in the door again and went into the back room. After making sure that his Spal-trans unit was correctly connected to the muting transducer, he called Sarr R'Tangele and suggested that the girl might be unfindable. R'Tangele needed to think up some brainy way to cover their asses.

*

Now that Emmet had experienced the remarkable feeling of a big night at the track, the racing fever took on new proportions. He talked Ted Jones into giving him the phone number of his bookie. This arrangement would be only for sure winners, naturally, when he couldn't get out to the track in person. Emmet was not foolish enough to allow himself to slip financially under the thumb of a bookmaker; but if you've got an absolute winner, isn't it criminal not to win the money? Of course, it is.

Half an hour after making the phone call, Emmet parked his cab outside a dingy little bar somewhat near his house, and moseyed nonchalantly through the back door. He ordered a screwdriver from the rat-faced bartender.

"I'm looking for Reggie," Emmet said, under his breath. "I called for him earlier. I'm Emmet."

"What's that?" the bartender said, unable to hear Emmet's whisper over the juke box and the television set.

"I said, is Reggie here..?"

The bartender eyed Emmet warily. Then glanced up and down the bar as if to make sure he knew all the dozen on so customers quietly nursing their drinks. "I'm Reggie," he said hoarsely, out the side of his mouth. "That'll be two bucks."

"Oh, you're Reggie," Emmet said, with a friendly smile. He dug a five dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it over. He had expected a Mafioso type. The only thing slightly sinister about this Reggie was a gold chain showing at the open neck of his knit polo shirt. Other than that, he was just a skinny rat with an apron around his waist.

"I called earlier," Emmet restated. "Ted Jones sent me."

"Oh, yeah, you're the guy. What's your name?"

"Emmet Suckerfield."

"Nice to meetcha. You'll be RS 15 when you call in."

"Okay," Emmet responded, tentatively.

Reggie scribbled a phone number on a bar napkin and passed it to Emmet. "This is the contact number" he rasped. Emmet was fascinated that only half of Reggie's mouth opened when he talked. "We settle up on Tuesdays. Come in around this time, and get a drink. I'll let you know when the coast is clear to talk."

"Allright," Emmet said, slipping the napkin into his jacket pocket. "Nice to meet you." He stood up.

"The pleasure is mine," Reggie said. "Ain't you going to finish your drink?"

"I'm working," Emmet apologized.

"Oh, yeah? What do you do..?"

"Drive a cab," Emmet fumbled.

"Oh, yeah..? That's a solid job."

"Sure. Lots of mileage. Well, see you next week," he said heading for the back door.

"Sure thing," Reggie replied with a non-committal smile. He poured Emmet's untouched drink down the drain and washed the glass.

Emmet had thought seriously about putting the $230 he won at the track into a racing fund. That much of a cushion could see him into the world of winning big money; but instead he used most of it to pay the phone bill and to reserve a ride for Alicia and the kid. It seemed right that the money for the ticket had appeared as if by magic. It meant that she'd be coming back. The ticket was purchased from a branch travel agency and sent directly to the farm. The future very definitely existed.

One Monday evening, a week after the flat tire, a telephone call interrupted his typing. Eleven PM. Only one person could be calling. Alicia. Smiling, he picked up the receiver on the second ring.

"Hello, Emmet," a soft, female voice cooed. It was Roberta Weinstein, sounding sexier than he ever heard her.

"Roberta!" he shouted. "Hi."

"Hi," she drawled. "I just finished reading your new pages and I wondered if you could come over to talk about them."

He typed the final words of a sentence before he lost them. The words were "everything is fine." The whole sentence read: I feel like I'm drifting in a deep fog, but I know everything is fine. It was a thought of Venus M'Gnapt's. Emmet snapped the typewriter off to deal with Roberta. He had to leave for work in half an hour, but maybe he could tell the dispatcher he'd be an hour late. Let's face it, the book was priority one.

"Sure, Roberta, I'll be right over," he said brightly, and it wasn't until he'd hung up that he realized how out of character it was for her to invite him over to her place.

He called the dispatcher, and told him his battery was dead and he'd be in as soon as the auto club showed up. Then he shaved hurriedly and jumped in his car. It was true that he'd wanted to have a fling with Roberta, but now Alicia was coming back. What a stupid predicament. He was required to be nice to Roberta for the book's sake. She probably got an insight on the new pages and wanted to tell him while it was still hot in her mind. That was undoubtedly it. He was absolutely not going to make a pass of any kind.

*

Roberta opened the door to her apartment, wearing a yellow Chinese dressing gown which hid very little. Emmet noticed right away that there was a lot not to hide. Oh, shit, he thought. In addition to the dressing gown, she wore dark red lipstick and a hint of blue eye shadow. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders, and she looked much different than she did as the prim literary agent.

"Come in," she lilted. "It's so nice of you to stop over, Emmet. Let me take your jacket."

So Emmet walked into a den of iniquity. What else could he do?

"I was drinking a little Chardonay. Would you like some?" Roberta asked, taking a long stemmed wine glass from a wine caddie.

"Sure, I guess so," Emmet answered. He didn't particularly like white wine, but he decided to put up with the headache rather than seem rude. He couldn't actually see Roberta's body through the robe, but he could easily discern the contours of her breasts as they jostled unimpeded under the yellow silk. Now that he didn't seek arousal, here it was in spades.

"So you enjoyed the new pages?" he asked, taking the perspiring wine glass. Her fingers accidentally brushed his in the transfer, then she reclined on an art deco sofa in a Queen of the Nile pose and beckoned him to sit beside her. Emmet sat on the edge of the couch near her knees.

"Do you like my apartment?" she asked.

"Swell." And it was. The living room was sparsely furnished with matching art deco furniture, making it appear larger than it was. Framed foreign movie posters were clustered on two walls. "You must be doing pretty well as an agent," he observed.

"I bought everything on my Bullock's card," Roberta replied, casually. "It seemed like time to be the person I wanted to be, so I plunged."

"I used to work at Bullock's."

"You did..?"

"I was a time keeper. Small world, isn't it?"

"Getting smaller all the time." Roberta touched the outside of his leg with her knee. "You know, Emmet, reading about Venus excites me in a very strange way. I don't know how to explain it."

"How do you mean?" Suckerfield inquired, feeling a little foolish for holding back now that the goodies were offered. After all, Alicia had herself a fine old time in Indiana, and she was still in Indiana. She could have returned to LA twenty times by now, but she hadn't. How did he know what she was doing on the farm?

"I always devour your pages before I look at anything else," Roberta said, licking her lip with the tip of her pink tongue. "They make me feel that you know something special about women. I guess, I want to find out what it is."

"What I know about women would fit into a very small thimble," he laughed. "They're pretty unknowable creatures."

"Do you like my lip gloss?"

"Uh, sure. It looks good on you. Dark red."

"Caramel Apple Red. Do you think it's the right color with my skin?" She arched her neck to show her pale skin, and in doing so the silk robe blossomed open a few inches.

Emmet gave in to the inevitable. Writers need lots of experiences, he told himself. Anyway, this affair had started before Alicia came back. Why shouldn't I go for it? Besides, it might give Roberta incentive to sell the book. "This isn't a convertible sofa, is it?" he asked.

"No," Roberta laughed. "I have a bed. I don't want to rush you into anything, but I'd love to show you the bedroom, if you want. We can talk in there just as comfortably."

"Sure," Emmet agreed, standing up. "I wouldn't mind trying out a Bullock's bed. Did you get one with magic fingers?"

"Don't be silly." She took his hand, allowing herself to be pulled up. "I've been thinking about having you over for several months, so this wasn't a snap decision." She led him into the bedroom, letting go of his hand to light a candle on the high-boy dresser.

"I was a little surprised when you called," Emmet admitted. The king-sized bed was draped with a new satin quilt. Bullock's stock must have jumped several points after Roberta's buying spree. The candle's glow bounced reflections off the dresser mirror giving the white walls an orange cast. Nothing was out of place, even the books on the night table were stacked neatly. How do women manage to keep everything in order?

"I hadn't planned to call you until tomorrow, then I just picked up the phone and started dialing." She came into his arms, offering her caramel red lips to him. "I'm very glad you're here," she said.

The sheets were rumpled and Roberta was exhausted. She lay beside Emmet with her eyes shut, breathing quietly. It was so much better to have a man than her fingers. The man lay next to her, gentle now that passion was spent. She knew he was intelligent, even if he refused to be intellectual. She could talk to him if she wanted to. His tool might not be the longest she'd ever seen, but it was hot and hard inside her, and she'd been so stimulated that it had seemed just like heaven. Actually, everything was working out better than she had hoped. He was a respectable man, and he'd gotten her off. So she could respond to a good person, that was nice to know. And she could talk to him now, or go out to dinner with him or even to a cocktail party. None of those things appealed to her at the moment, all she wanted to do was lie quietly and drift; but she could, that was the important thing.

"I hate to tell you this," Emmet said, without moving, "but I have to go to work."

"Work?"

"I have a night job."

"Impossible," she sighed. "You can't go. Call in sick."

"I already told them I'd be late. Another guy is covering for me. I should go."

Roberta opened her eyes to look at the bedside clock. "It's two o'clock," she said. "What time do you start work?"

"Midnight." He hopped out of bed and started dressing.

"Night desk clerk at a hotel?" she guessed, leaning on her elbow.

"Taxi driver," he said, sitting on the bed to put his socks on.

"How quaint."

"I think so too. Well, hate to eat and run, but I have to catch the bar rush." He grinned at her. "Thanks, Roberta. It was fun. You're really pretty and I'm glad you called. Will the door lock when I shut it?"

"Don't be silly, I'll walk you out."

Naked and rosy with love, Roberta kissed him at the door. "Next time don't hold back," she advised. "I won't let you anyway, so don't bother trying."

"Okay, I appreciate you saying that. It means a lot."

"When will the next time be?"

"I don't know. Whenever you want. How about tomorrow?"

"Fine," she said, with a mischievous smile. "How about eight o'clock? I'll fix dinner."

"Sounds like a winner. I'll be here." He rubbed the smooth skin of her haunch and opened the door.

"Will you have more pages?" she asked.

"Pages are my life," he grinned. "I'll bring some with me." He walked into the hallway. Roberta hung on the door watching him walk down the stairs, then she locked the deadbolt and washed out the wine glasses, humming to herself.

*

At 4:30 AM, Emmet cruised around Hollywood looking for a fare. His meter was still thirty dollars short of the magic number of $77.00 -- which meant he wouldn't make any money tonight, but other than that he felt fine. Roberta had been superb. What a body! What amazing tits with the nipples sticking way out, just waiting to be sucked to death. What an incredible woman! She really hadn't let him hold back, just like she'd said. Her pussy had grabbed him somehow and demanded that he go for broke. How does a person get that tuned into sex? Incredible. And the whole thing left him feeling clean and pure, just like he'd felt as a boy. And he was going back tomorrow night, that was the hot part. He should probably tell her about Alicia. Honesty is always the best policy. But he sure hated to nip this in the bud. That would be silly under the circumstances.

*

A divorce is a mean thing, Han McIvor cried to himself. Jesus Christ, how could she have fallen out of love with me? Wasn't I good to her? Didn't I do everything under the sun that she wanted?

"Apparently not," answered a little voice inside his head.

"What..?"

"Apparently not. Why don't you assume that you were a marriage of convenience for her?"

"How's that?" Hanson was sitting at Norm's coffee shop, lingering over a coffee and sweet roll. The late night customers were like apparitions to him -- but he wasn't able to sleep well in his new bachelor apartment without Dolly's warm body beside him, so he had walked down the street to his Norm's. None of the night waitresses knew him, and none of the customers were beautiful women waiting to be picked up. But this serious voice was talking inside his head.

"If she never loved you," the voice continued, "then isn't it reasonable that she could be swept off her feet by someone else? The fact that you have to suffer is really not her fault. You should try to see it like that."

Han looked over his shoulder, but no one was there. The counter seats on both sides of him were empty. Am I going crazy? Han asked himself, feeling that perhaps he was. He'd heard about people talking to themselves, but this was going one step beyond that.

"What I'd like you to do, Han, is to get a job in the oil business," the voice continued.

"What..?"

"Yes, maybe you could begin in a filling station."

"Filling station?"

"Yes. Pumping gas. And when you learn the business, perhaps you could buy your own station."

"I don't know about that.." Han answered, hesitantly. "I've got a job."

"You don't need to read at a gas station. Do it." The connection broke, and Han once again heard the waitress bickering and the clatter of bus boys moving dishes. What in the hell do they put in this coffee at night? he wondered. It sure doesn't make me this spooky in the daytime.

*

So the perfect opportunity for having a bookie had arisen. The little brown horse, Rustic Scott, was running again tonight against a weak field. He looked like a cinch to win, and Emmet had a date with Roberta which made going to the track inconvenient. The exact scenario that he had imagined when he got the bookie's phone number -- well, not a date with Roberta precisely, but some hot engagement. His heart beat a little rapidly and his hands were sweaty as he dialed the number that Reggie had given him.

The phone rang in his ear -- twice, three times -- then a harried, but pleasant enough male voice answered. "Hello," it said.

"This is RS 15," Emmet blurted. "Reggie told me to call."

"Oh, how you doing..? I was wondering when you'd be calling in. Whatcha got..?"

"Oh, tonight at Hollywood Park. Rustic Scott in the 4th."

"Gotcha. How much?"

"Uh...ten across the board..?"

"Ten, ten and ten. Gotcha. What else..?"

"That's all," Emmet said, feeling like maybe that wasn't enough. He had failed to ask Reggie all kinds of things that he needed to know -- like what was the low limit of bets and the high. Did they pay track odds, and if not, what did they pay? Obviously, the telephone guy was too busy to answer a bunch of dumbshit questions. He'd find out from Reggie on Tuesday, when he would hopefully collect some money.

"Okay, you're down," the voice said. "Rustic Scott in the 4th. Ten, ten and ten. Thirty dollars."

"Right," Emmet said. "Thank you." He hung up feeling his stomach unknot. Great, he thought. He had utmost confidence that Rustic Scott would win. At forty years old, he felt very adult. Having a bookie was a very adult thing to have.

Roberta had dinner waiting when he arrived at eight PM. Candle light, a plate of cherrystone clams on the half shell and a chilled Napa Valley white wine that went perfectly with the shellfish. Then an asparagus salad, followed by French coffee and cigarettes. She cleared the table after each course, chatting about literary things as if she enjoyed his company. Emmet didn't see any reason to mention his nervousness about his bet on Rustic Scott, so he didn't.

For the occasion Roberta had worn a midnight blue silk blouse covered with shooting stars of lighter blue, a baggy pair of black harem pants and black Tai Chi slippers with embroidered flowers on top. Her dark hair was pulled back in a chaste ponytail and she wore no makeup, which somehow accentuated the natural flush of her neck and cheeks. It wasn't until after dinner that Emmet discovered the cause of the flush was artificially induced. She had inserted a set of Ben Hoa balls before he'd arrived. Roberta explained her beauty secret while moving the twin white candles from the dining room table into the bedroom. Being two, they made twice as much light as the single candle had made last night.

Roberta stepped out of her Tai Chi shoes and pants, then removed the shooting star blouse while Emmet sat on the bed watching. "Normally, I wouldn't have worn underwear," she said, explaining the presence of the black, lacy bra and sheer black panties. "But I needed the panties to hold in my Ben Hoa balls, so I thought I might as well wear a bra, too."

Emmet nodded in agreement. "That's a good reason," he said.

She wagged her hips in reply. "Want to take them out for me? I've had about as much titillation as I can stand." She lay on the bed beside him. "First take my little panties down. I can't reach them."

Emmet thought that was a fine idea. He peeled the black lace down her long legs. "Where'd you get these, Frederick's of Hollywood?" He glanced surreptitiously at his wrist watch. It read 10:09. Two hours of freedom left.

"Stop," she said. "First, take your watch off. Then get up and set the alarm. When it rings, you can worry about leaving."

The panties were bunched up halfway down her thighs. A musty aroma of excitement surrounded the bed, heightening his primitive sexual urge. A molecular memory of that smell harkened him back to caveman days or something. Different than Alicia. The instinct was softened by love with Allie. This wasn't love, he was pretty sure of that -- but boy, the attraction sure was potent.

However, being civilized, he denied the impulse to molest her on the spot, and rolled to the side of the bed where he removed his watch and set the alarm clock for 11:30. Half an hour was ample time for getting to work.

"Isn't that better?" she asked.

Being ordered around the bedroom annoyed him, even though the request to remove his watch was reasonable. He lay beside her instead of continuing the undressing routine. Let her worry about not getting her panties off until he was good and ready.

"Oh, are you going to play games?" she asked, delightedly. "I'll bet you're going to lay there pouting until I beg you to start again. Are you..?"

"Maybe."

"Do you think I'm going to beg?"

"I hope so."

"You know I can just rock gently like this..." She pushed rhythmically against the bed. "And these balls respond wonderfully." She caught her breath, theatrically. "Maybe I don't need you after all."

"Our first test of wills," he observed with a smile, "and I start at an unfair disadvantage because of Ben Hoa balls."

"I said you could take them out whenever you're ready to stop pouting. Besides, you might have scraped me with the watch." She thrust her pelvis against the bed several times and squirmed delicately. "God, it must be like an ocean down there, the way it feels."

This stupid, stubborn way of acting has probably ruined billions of nice moments for me, Emmet realized suddenly. Relationships that had never developed past this initial point of confrontation -- potential flings that had stopped before he was even aware that he'd missed out. The wall of dynamic tension springing up, had alerted him to this self-immolating trait.

Here was the real Suckerfield in action. Oh, my God, I'm seeing a flash of a real problem. "Wait a minute," he said to Roberta. "I'm in a trap that I don't want to be in."

"You certainly don't have to stay," she answered, closing her eyes. Misunderstanding. "I told you I don't need you."

See, she's closing off. How can I get back to square one? he asked himself, calculating rapidly. It's already past the point of no return. I need to keep from backing her into a corner. Christ, what possible difference does it make to me who takes the lead as long as I'm getting something good? But it does matter, damnit! That's the pure heartland. I want my scenario or I won't join in. I'd apparently rather have nothing than play someone else's game. And nothing is what I'll get from Roberta unless I straighten this out in a very few seconds.

"Please trust me for a minute," he said. "We have to start over before it goes haywire. Pull your panties back up and open your eyes. See, I'm putting my watch back on."

"I don't want it scratching me."

"Keep quiet a minute." He straddled her and pulled her panties back up her hips, while she offered no help. "Okay, now watch this." Taking his watch off, he tossed it softly onto her harem pants.

"I just had a big insight into myself," Emmet explained. "It knocked me off balance for a second, but I'm fine now. Honestly, I don't care what time it is. I hear you've got some balls stuck in that pretty little nest of yours. Seems like a strange thing to have in there, maybe I'd better take a look."

Roberta studied him carefully. Something had happened to make it a delicate moment, but she wasn't sure what. She did, however, know enough to proceed slowly. These artists had a reputation for being moody, and this one certainly fit the bill. All she'd asked was that he stop looking at his watch. No girl could possibly enjoy that. But he was still in bed, that was a big plus in his favor. Maybe he'd stick it in before she got completely out of the mood. Surely she was woman enough to cause that to happen.

"I'm sorry," Emmet apologized. "Are you allright?"

"I'm fine."

"Do you think we passed though our first conflict?"

"You're so cute when you're serious. Why don't you get undressed so I can see if you're aroused. Then I might beg you to take these panties off."

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The next morning, Emmet drove down to pay his phone bill before going to Bob's Big Boy. This was his first mistake of the day. A police officer in a cruising black and white pulled him over for failing to come to a complete stop at a stop sign, and even though Emmet tried to joke his way out of the ticket by saying he hadn't had his morning coffee yet, the cop ran a make on the driver's license and found that there was a bench warrant for Emmet's arrest issued by a judge in Santa Monica.

"Oh, shit," Emmet swore, still feeling that the cop might be human and let him go. "It's for a jay walking ticket. I knew that ticket was about to go to warrant, but I kept pushing it aside."

"Do you have any weapons, Mr. Suckerfield?" the cop asked, with his hand on his revolver.

"No," Emmet replied, patting his pockets.

"Would you get in the back of the cruiser, sir." Cops always say sir, and never mean it.

"Did they say how much the bail was?"

"One hundred and sixty-two dollars."

How the hell can I get out of this? Emmet demanded of his semi-comatose mind. He had about thirty dollars in his wallet. "I don't have that much on me, officer. Is it possible to stop at my bank? It's just down the street."

"I can't do that, sir. Step into the car." He opened the back door of the cruiser. There was no way out. Suckerfield would have to call Sally from the station and disrupt her day. It was so stupid. He had the money right down the street in the bank. Why hadn't he paid the stupid ticket in the first place? Something like this was bound to happen. "I want to bring my notebook with me," he said, retrieving it from his front seat, feeling like a trapped rat under the cop's intimidating stare.

The ride to the station was uneventful. The cop was not a conversationalist and Emmet didn't try to make friends. Riding in the back of the black and white wasn't bad, all the sights of the town remained normal -- but once inside the basement booking room with its white painted iron bar door, Emmet quickly realized that he was at the mercy of people who felt no qualms about treating him as common scum. He'd broken the law and was in their power.

Two Chicano women officers and a white male sergeant sat inside a wire cage. Emmet had to put all his belongings into a plastic bag, then sign that the bag's contents had been correctly accounted for. The lady cop who counted his money wasn't half bad looking, although she hadn't smiled even a little at his clumsy attempts to explain that he was there by mistake. When he told her that he was in for a jay walking ticket, she showed no interest at all. Maybe a rapist or arsonist would have gotten a nod of recognition from the girl, but incarceration for a minor offense didn't arouse her pity. What a crummy job for a young woman--locked in a basement all day with scum.

"When can I make a call?" Emmet asked.

"I have to check your charges first," his arresting officer informed him coldly. It would take at least an hour for Sally to get there with the bail money after the call was made, and that was an hour too long. Suckerfield had work to do and coffee to drink. And he also didn't really enjoy the claustrophobic atmosphere of the basement with its Lysol smell.

"Step in here, sir," the cop said, indicating an empty holding cell. No one else was in the cell, which Emmet figured was a blessing. He could get some writing done.

"Can I have my notebook?" Emmet requested as the cop girl stapled the bag shut.

"You can have it later," the sergeant answered for her, not caring that great art was being thwarted by society again. The barred door closed on Emmet Suckerfield with a grim crash of finality. Emmet had disliked that sound in the movies, but in person it was even worse. Infinitely more real.

And so there he was, locked in a jail cell. The ultimate in social degradation. He surveyed his prison. It was dark--no light socket where he could electrocute himself--and damp, having recently been hosed down. The cement floor around the drain grating was still wet. For sitting, a steel slab bench painted gray adorned one wall. Emmet sat on it and wondered what he was supposed to learn from this escapade. Maybe he was going to meet somebody important to his life. He looked through the bars at the two police women, musing that perhaps he had a karmic connection with the pretty one; if so, she seemed stubbornly resistant to the idea. Both ladies were immersed in paperwork at their desks and never looked up to catch his eye. They probably knew karate anyway. That wouldn't be much fun in a stormy relationship.

Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets to keep them warm, he discovered a wad of losing pari-mutuel tickets. Knowing that he hadn't surrendered a pencil stub from his shirt pocket, tricky old Emmet Suckerfield smiled a victory smile to himself. He had defeated the Philistine forces of society again. He had pencil and paper. He could keep working, even in jail. There seemed little likelihood that the cop girls would bring him a cup of coffee, even if he asked respectfully, so he began writing without artificial stimulation.

*

Mandillo Sprut took two steps away from the Spal-trans unit as the message from R'Tangele came in. He wanted desperately to say he wouldn't do it; but instead, he stepped back to the unit and typed in the confirm code. It got his goat. Really! Why did R'Tangele have to be such a fuck-up? But what could Sprut do? Nothing. Not a damned thing. The girl was important. As a matter of fact, Senator M'Gnapt was almost his boss in a way--his committee approved the budget for space research. There was talk that planetary agents might have to take a pay cut next year, thanks to the good Senator. Damn the man -- and his daughter, too.

*

While Emmet Suckerfield was scribbling away in jail, Han McIvor walked into Sid Ringo's office at Paramount Studio with his ace under his arm--the original screenplay of SPACE SEX. What other project could he call his own? All the scripts he shuttled around for Uncle Walter were agency property--this one was too, for that matter. But he felt sure that Suckerfield would stick with him if something good happened. Like if Sid loved the script, why shouldn't I open my own agency? Han felt sure he'd be fired soon anyway, now that the divorce was pending.

As for getting a job in a gas station, well, how could he take that seriously?

"You may go in now, sir," Ringo's secretary said, deferentially. For all she knew, he was an important executive. Hanson loved that. If he wore a gas station uniform, he'd never be treated with that kind of respect--not even if somebody's car was broken and they needed him to fix it.

"Hanson! Come in..! Sit down," Sid Ringo boomed, energetically motioning Hanson into a chair beside his modern, glass topped desk. "So you brought me a project."

He held out his hand for the script, then balanced the bound pages on his outstretched palm as if trying to guess their weight. "Yep, I'd say about a hundred thousand," Sid quipped, reenacting the old Hollywood perennial of the studio mogul who bought screenplays by the pound.

"A little too cheap," Han grinned, "but why quibble about details?"

"That's the spirit. So you believe in this one, do you?"

"All the way. You know how hot science fiction is these days."

"Hot as a firecracker! So pitch it to me. I could use a hot property."

"Well," Hanson began, swallowing his heart. It was a stupid idea to come here. Stupid! "Actually, Sid, this could be another blockbuster like Star Wars, except it's in a class by itself. What I'd suggest is that you give it a quick read and then we'll get together with the writer and talk it over."

"That's pretty cagey, you dog," Sid Ringo guffawed. "Throw it back in my corner. Did you learn that trick from Carruthers?"

Han smiled, slyly.

"Yeah, old Walter and I go way back," Ringo reflected, pulling at his double chin. "He's about the sharpest dog in this business. A real bowser. You learn his tricks, kid, and you'll be a millionaire by forty."

"I could stand that," Han admitted, wondering if he should tell Sid Ringo that his name was Han.

*

"Let Suckerfield out of there," the jail girl said, hanging up the phone on her desk. Three hours had elapsed since he was locked in the cell. The sergeant strutted out of the wire cage and pulled the steel bars open. Freedom rushed in the door.

"Can I go?" Emmet asked, making sure to keep the groveling tone in his voice.

"Come this way," the sergeant said, gruffly. Emmet had to complete the formality of signing for his plastic bag of stuff, then the sergeant led him through a solid steel door, out into the world of light. Sally was waiting for him in the police station lobby with a pinched look on her face.

Emmet held up the handful of losing tickets covered with scribbling. "Look at this!" he beamed.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

What a lame-brain mess this supposed "life" had turned out to be, Dolly lamented to herself. She was lying in bed, propped up by three pillows, spuriously reading a People Magazine. Another fluffy pillow supported the small of her back, which had lately begun to ache with the pregnancy. All the glamorous people in People Magazine had interesting, fun things happen (or even sometimes tragedy) but never dull, throbbing nothingness. Life for Dolly these last two weeks could be classified as no fun.

To start things out, the wonderful relationship she thought she had with Jon, had soured with her first mention of the baby. How could he shut off like that after sweeping her off her feet with his talk of endless love? Goddamn him to hell! And all men, too! How could they be such buttfucking shits, just when she needed them? Never, never, never would she trust another of the bastards as long as she lived.

And how could Hanson leave her and Vance alone like this? With all his claiming to love Vance so much, all he really loved was himself. What a son-of-a-bitch. Didn't he promise to stay with her for better or worse? What a spineless, gutless worm. Well, it's his fucking loss, not mine. Narrow ideas, that's Hanson in a nutshell. No attempt to understand my needs, ever! Hell, no, not Mr. Myopic. Only concerned with his teensy, narrow view of how things ought to be in his narrow, tiny world. He can just shove his tiny views, and his tiny dick! Let him try to find somebody else to satisfy with that tiny, little thing. That won't be so easy for him, especially when I'm getting all the money he'll ever earn.

The bedside phone jingled. "Oh, hello, Jon," she cooed in a voice that would have sweetened sugar. He called! Dolly's spirit soared. He wanted her back. "Yes, I can talk....Oh, yes, I'm feeling pretty good. A few slightly amusing things have happened, but I'm feeling allright about everything. How are you...?" She listened while he inquired about the baby and made a half-assed apology for the way he'd acted at their last meeting. "Why don't you stop by if you'd like to," she said. "Vance is asleep.... No, I don't think he'll be here," she chuckled harshly. "No, I wouldn't rather meet you! If you're any kind of a man, you'll come over here! The coast is about as clear as it's ever going to get.... Allright, then.... Of course. Just ring the bell and I'll let you in. Bye-bye."

Her mood changed to one of sunshine. She got up and started straightening the bedclothes, thinking of what she'd wear.

*

Sid Ringo, the producer, sat in his office at Paramount, skimming SPACE SEX while he waited for somebody important to call him. "What kind of bull crap is this..?" he asked aloud.

"I don't know, sir," he secretary answered from the other room, through the intercom. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said. Somehow he couldn't quite visualize this script as being prime fare for American teenagers.

*

Their third evening together gave a new dimension to Suckerfield's expectations of sex. Gads, what a woman! He'd been on top like any good missionary would be, except in this case there wasn't any other position to be in. Roberta's wrists were handcuffed to the headboard. That's right, handcuffed. Being in jail had apparently made him capable of anything.

After another great dinner, they'd made love by candlelight, then Roberta got up and pranced into the bathroom. When she came back, she was dangling a pair of black leather bracelets joined by a chrome chain from her pinkie finger.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" she asked, letting the bracelets swing in front of Emmet's eyes. "I wonder what a person does with them? Somebody must have left them in the bathroom."

Emmet responded with a non-committal shrug, hoping Roberta wasn't intending to turn into a dominatrix. She slipped the chain around the bed post and fastened the cuffs snugly around her wrists with the help of velcro fasteners. "I guess this is how you do it," she said, lying on the bed with her arms stretched over her head. Roberta tugged at the chain, but it held her securely. "I hope you won't do anything terrible to me, Emmet, while I'm helpless like this." She squirmed sensuously on the bed, eyes wide with mock fright. "Please don't slap my titties. They're so sensitive. I know it would hurt too much."

God, Emmet marveled, feeling tremendously excited. I've hooked up with a Hollywood weirdo. I can do anything I want. This is carte blanche, except for one thing. She's my agent.

"I hope you'll take pity on me. I don't know how much more I can stand in one evening," she whispered.

"This is certainly an attractive situation," he said, tugging on one of her nipples, harder than he normally would have. The hiss of breath that escaped through her teeth betrayed her enjoyment of the pain. "But you being my agent makes me wonder how far we should get into this." He tugged harder, stretching the distended nipple. Roberta writhed deliciously. "I'd hate to compromise our future relationship," he said.

"I haven't been such a good agent, Emmet. I haven't even tried to sell your book. That's so bad of me! I hope you're not angry."

"Very bad," Emmet responded. He pinched her nipple until he felt her pull at the wristcuffs. "If you don't sell the book first thing next week, you're going to be a very sorry girl."

"Do the other one," she whispered urgently, arching her torso toward him, giving access to the other breast. "Please..."

"Why should I? You haven't gotten me an advance, so I can work. Why should I do anything for you?"

"I will," she begged. "I'll do anything you say."

He slapped the breast with his open hand and felt the quivering flesh tingle under his hand. Strangely, he could feel what the slap felt like to her, somehow, through his palm. Roberta moaned and her mouth went slack. "Why don't you try licking on this, if you're so eager to please me?" he said, straddling her shoulders. Her mouth opened obediently, hungrily.

Somewhat later in the evening, he got around to entering her in the missionary position, and the orgasm with her helpless and twisting under him, rocked his pleasure mechanism so powerfully that fireworks and alarm bells went off inside his head.

Emmet lay beside her, breathing through his mouth, wondering if he should tell her how wonderful he was beginning to think she was. And obviously, he should mention that Alicia was coming back. The telling of that story now, after the exploding fireworks, was fraught with unhappy endings.

As for the enchanting Alicia, she had fallen into a trap, not exactly of her own making, but a trap none-the-less. Both sets of Billy's grandparents were insisting that he be baptized at the little Methodist parish church which they all attended. Alicia didn't really see how she could deny them that simple request. Having a church upbringing herself, she agreed that baptism was at worst harmless; but it meant staying in Indiana an additional few weeks. She supposed Emmet would be bent out of shape by this news, but what could she do? After all, even a month was a short sacrifice if one looked at the whole rest of their life together.

She considered calling him, but didn't want to hear his displeasure. Instead, she rubbed Corn Husker's Lotion into her hands, knowing it wouldn't really help the diaper pail roughness that was beginning to develop again. Then, thinking of California and how nice her hands had always been in the mild climate, she picked up the phone and dialed Emmet's number.

*

Maybe I died one of those days when I was so burned out about Alicia. Maybe I did, and it was such a smooth transmutation to here, that I never noticed. Maybe this is hell, and it's so much like the world I used to live in that the difference is indistinguishable.

Emmet Suckerfield had that unlooked-for thought while walking home from Bob's Big Boy with his notebook under his arm--walking along the street of bottle brush and palm trees, still in the warm noon windlessness. The same stucco cottages and apartment buildings. The same blue sky, now that the morning haze had burned off. Complete with a drifting seagull. The same mailman. The same mellow sunshine. Was he alive walking up the street, or was it a hellish treadmill? There was no way of knowing except to keep on chugging. He chugged up the three concrete steps and unlocked the door. The smallness of the apartment was beginning to cramp him, and with the kid coming it would be worse, but realistically how could he move? The novelization was taking forever--much longer than he had imagined it would. And besides that he owed the bookie again.

Disgusting, he thought, walking into the dump. I make Reggie's rent payments, but I can't afford a decent place for myself. The bookie business had gone bad from the start. Now and then, Emmet won a race, of course; but somehow he ended up paying fifty or sixty dollars to good old Reggie every week. Reggie smiled his sideways grin every Tuesday night, glad to see Emmet.

Hell, yes, he was glad. Why not, there's a sucker born every minute. But not this week! Emmet was down forty-five bucks already, due to an Australian pacer named Roibuck, who'd had a mortal lock on the 6th Race Friday night, but had somehow fouled his equipment and had broken stride badly down the stretch. But Courageous Red was running tonight and he always won. Emmet figured the big roan would only pay about 2.60 to win, but a two hundred dollar bet would put him even, and Reggie would owe him five bucks. Then he was quitting illegal gambling. And that was final!

On the other hand, if he bet four hundred, then old Reggie could pay him some of his money back. Good idea! Good plan... Then he would stop betting. Emmet picked up the phone and made the bet. Four hundred big ones! The biggest bet he'd ever made. Jim, the guy on the phone, was a little surprised, but he took the bet. Of course, he took it! Fair is fair. It's their chance to let me win a few bucks without getting burned too badly. Emmet wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and reached for the fish food.

During the last few days, Emmet had casually asked a few people if they'd ever seen goldfish on the Letterman Show. Nobody had. The mailman and the check-out girl at Lucky Market had seemed intrigued that somebody would think of training a goldfish. They thought it couldn't be done. That's how much they knew.

Emmet's latest brain storm was to buy a old dentist's drill at a yard sale. With the drill he had no problem enlarging the hole in the castle, and now the fish could easily glide through on cue, or anytime they wanted to.

He could see it now. National TV. Letterman was lucky to get such an intriguing act. And exposure on national TV certainly couldn't be bad publicity for the book.

David Letterman - And what do you do for a living, Mr.Suckerfield?

Suckerfield - (modest) I'm a science fiction writer.

Letterman - Really..? Do you have a book out?

Suckerfield - Yes. Almost. My new book is called "Space Sex."

Letterman smiles his zany smile.

If the goldfish made a big enough splash, somebody would surely notice and be interested in publishing the book. A big splash, ha, ha.

Suddenly, he laughed aloud, remembering his last conversation with Alicia, wherein she informed him that she couldn't return for three more weeks. How mirthful. It had been a month before the call, and now three more weeks. A christening for the kid. How could he argue with that? The funny part was that the night before Alicia had called, he'd been on the verge of leveling with Roberta. What a mistake that would have been.

Boy, good old Roberta. There was a piece fit for a king. He felt a fullness growing in his groin as he turned on the typewriter. Maybe she would enjoy an afternoon quickie. She could tell old man Carruthers that she was going out to Twentieth Century Fox to meet with a hot producer. He picked up the phone to dial her number. The goldfish swam lazily in their tank, drifting on the currents of the filter pump which was doing its unfortunately best to keep the water clean.

But wait..! Something was wrong with Achmed. He was swimming funny! Making lazy spirals in the corner of the tank, and the end of the last spiral landed him on the gravel -- upside down! Flailing around, Achmed finally righted himself, but by then Emmet's alarm button had been pushed hard. Not Achmed! This can't be happening!

Kneeling down to fish level, Emmet stared anxiously. There was no doubt, Achmed was sick. While his trainer watched, the fish slipped over on its back again and lay exhausted on the gravel. The unasked for picture of Achmed with his magnificent fins and tail moldering into fertilizer for the geraniums was too much for Emmet. He had to save the star of the Letterman Show!

Grabbing his empty checkbook, Emmet sprinted out the door and jogged five blocks down San Mateo Boulevard to the aquarium store. Pet trainers don't worry about how much it costs, he kept telling himself. They have to act!

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

When a technical public servant gets jangled, his specific little mind is thrown out of kilter, and the results can be alarming or highly amusing. For himself, Sarr R'Tangele found nothing amusing about the young girl's body lying suspended in the University's cold tank. Worry caused him to check her vital signs read-out way too often. He knew the junior technicians in his section were starting to laugh behind his back--thinking he had fallen in love with the flaxen haired coldbody--assuming he was sneaking into cold storage all the time so he could jerk off over the thermopane like they sometimes did.

The truth was, Sarr detested the sight of Venus. She lay there mocking him, lying to him. The lie was that her vital signs were consistently perfect, moving just enough from day to day to show that she was the paragon of health on Rhana 1217--but not one bitching twitch on the emotional/sexual graph. He railed alternately at her to get with it, and cursed himself for being a blundering fool.

Of course, now that he had contacted the liaison on Rhana 1217 and had absorbed the rotten news that the girl was indeed lost, he'd been able to take some precautionary steps to protect himself. But Venus lay there in the dream tank with her eyes closed and that sweet smile on her lips. Sweet smile, my ass, R'Tangele thought. I've never seen a more sinister twist on any lips in my life. Every time he checked the meters, those cruel lips seem to say that he'd better get used to the thought of being a janitor or a garbage man.

His own reflection in the bright chrome surface of the tank bore out that sickening prediction. His hair was falling out. He was getting weaker and greener as every week went by. If Senator M'Gnapt ever caught wind of this little fiasco, Sarr would be a has-been forever. And the Senator surely would find out. Inevitably. Venus was due back here no later than a year from today. Even if he could hatch out a plan for an extension, his career was doomed. Unless she was found. On the other hand, if she came back, his career was ruined, too--but at least he wouldn't be jailed for murder. Yes, Sarr R'Tangele was one unhappy guy, and he had no thought of jacking off on Venus's face. He wished fervently that he'd never seen her.

*

Achmed was recovering nicely. Amazingly, the guy at the tropical fish store knew exactly what was wrong. Swim bladder problems. He sold Emmet a bottle of liquid anti-fungal stuff called Mar-oxy. It wasn't even expensive. Emmet spooned the colorless guck into the tank for five days, and now Achmed was sort of fine. He was even swimming through the doorway in the castle again.

Emmet looked up from his typewriter and watched Achmed careening around the aquarium, very glad that the fish act was still viable. And now that he had cleaned the debt up with Reggie, today felt like a good day to do something constructive about the rest of his finances. Yes, Courageous Red had won on Saturday night and Reggie had paid off, twisted smile and green dollars.

He put on a clean shirt and walked across the street to the bank. After waiting twenty minutes for a lady customers to finish her loan interview, he sat down at the desk of Mr. Jordan, the loan manager--this was the same jerk who had canceled his Master Charge when he was two (2) dollars over the limit and late with his payment for only the third month in a row.

The problem was that although he was a Doctor of Philosophy, Suckerfield had never understood the American banking system which he'd already been using for over twenty years. He found it hard to believe that he was dumber than the average factory worker, who could keep a bank account squared away. Did every person in the country with a low bank stupidity quotient have a fucked up account? If so, why? Do the banks want us to be fucked up? I can't believe they do--but I can believe that a credit organization like TRW loves it when I fail. Their whole job is reporting bad credit. No bad credit, no stranglehold. Also collection agencies want me to fuck up. Same reason.

Let's call it the credit fulcrum, he continued with his inner banking dialogue. At the apex, for the sum of two dollars, I can slip to either side of the greased mountain. A two dollar deposit on the right day, and knowingly or unknowingly I'm safe. One day late and down you go.

Why the rules weren't explained by my parents or by a bank official, or even in school, remained an unanswered question. Maybe somebody even tried, but I swear I didn't hear them. I thought, like most people, that as long as the bill gets paid sometime, everything's fine. It just ain't so. It has to be paid on a given date, or an unforgiving naughty black mark appears on a computer. Normal, good people, without whose intelligent support the banking system goes to hell in a bucket, don't understand that. When people can't figure out what's going on with their money, everything gets shaky.

Of course, his credit card misunderstanding was due mostly to the onset of computers. Computer operators gained a whole lot of control, just because they knew how to run the machines. Computer operators deal in black and white. No two dollar gray areas. But I guess any rapidly developing technology has a certain number of pains in the ass tagging along with it.

"May I help you?" Mr. Jordan asked, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve SuckerfieldÕs name from his memory.

"I'm getting back on my feet financially, and I'd like to start reestablishing my credit," Emmet said, boldly.

"Good," the loan officer answered, parsimoniously, peering through pink tinted glasses. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I've been making payments on my delinquent Master Charge account, and since it's way under my limit now, I thought it might be possible to get it activated."

"Uh-huh..?"

"And I thought I'd open a checking account, so I could put an automatic payment on my Master Card." Emmet's current account was at a bank blocks away. He'd changed banks in anger after the Master Card shuffle.

"The checking account would be fine, of course. We're pleased you're getting back on your feet, Mr....?"

"Suckerfield. Emmet." Emmet smiled to show there were no hard feelings about being forgotten.

"Oh, yes. Let me check your records, Mr. Suckerfield, to see what we can do for you."

Mr. Jordan crossed the room to twiddle a computer behind the cashier's window. With a starched frown on his face, he wended his way back across the carpeted floor to his desk.

"Ahem, well, Mr. Suckerfield, your account is not in very good shape."

"It should be pretty favorable by now. I've been making payments right along, even though there's a depression out there. I expect a lot of people allowed things to slide when their jobs went down the drain; but I told you I'd pay, and I have. Now that I'm getting on my feet, I should get some preferred treatment."

"Are you working?"

"Right. At Yellow Cab. I'm making about six hundred a week including tips." Which, of course, was a lie. Some of the old timers made that much by humping their cab seven nights a week.

"I see," said Mr. Jordan.

Maybe if I puke all over his desk, he'll have an even better reason to turn his nose, Emmet thought.

"Well, I'll be frank with you, Mr. Suckerfield, you have a rather poor history of payments. You're a likable person, but banks demand a level of responsibility. My hands are tied."

"Look, Mr. Jordan, I know this is a tough decision for you, but I need someone to take a chance on me. I didn't like this depression any better than anybody else did. But my wife is coming back to me and I want to become a solid citizen. What could I do to make you comfortable about reactivating my account? Really, I'm serious about this."

"Couldn't you get a better job? That's one thing which would certainly help. You seem like an educated man."

"Not right now. This job is perfect for me until I get my novel finished."

"Oh, you're writing a novel..?"

"Yes. I know bankers don't necessarily trust writers, but it takes all kinds of people to make up a community. Besides that, I'm sort of honest, and I pay my bills eventually. How about it?"

"Fill out the form," Mr. Jordan said, in resignation. He handed a credit application to Emmet. "I'll see if I can put through a minimum account for you, but don't cause me any late payment trouble or I'll shut it off immediately."

"You'll do it? That's great, Mr. Jordan! You'll see, I'll be a valued customer one of these days."

"I'm sure. Just make your payments on time."

"Count on it," Emmet promised. "My wife is really good at paying bills." Walking away with the application in his hand, he winked at a pretty teller, who fluttered like she'd never been winked at before.

Three weeks later, Emmet received a new Master Charge card in the mail, the only reason was because bank policy had changed the very day he'd gone in. A contest was in progress for new customers. The contest prize was a trip to Hawaii for the winning bank officers. Mr. Jordan wanted that trip.

*

Mandillo Sprut sat at his Spal-trans unit, transmitting the third edition of his odious, faked report about Venus. It made his skin crawl to imagine the consequences of such an act, but he was much too deeply implicated to quit now.

Tomorrow, he decided, I'll put exercise bikes on sale. There was an excellent chance that he wouldn't be working for the Foreign Service Agency much longer. He might as well have all the fun he could, while the pickings were easy.

*

"I guess you're serious about this supposed divorce, are you, boy?" Walter Carruthers wasn't in the mood to mince words. He would have much preferred to mince his nephew-in-law. Literally. "SheÕs finally had it with you?" he asked, affably.

"Yes, sir. It certainly looks that way," Hanson answered.

"Divorce is stupid. One broad, to coin a word, is about as good as another. My advice is to stick with it."

"I'm sure Dolly has her reasons, but I'm not quite clear enough about them to make a full report to her family." The old goat isn't going to bluff me into spilling the dirty laundry. It's none of his business anyway.

"Don't think that my marriage has been such a picnic, boy. But I didn't bail out when the going got rough."

"No, sir. I'm sure you didn't. Are you planning to fire me?"

"You are rotten at this business, Hanson. Truthfully, I can't imagine what you'd be good at. I thought you were a half-way decent father, but I guess even that was too difficult for you."

"We can leave that part out of the discussion, if you don't mind," Han said, feeling his eyes narrow. "You're a taker, Uncle Walter. Very much like my former wife. Takers have a hard time knowing what I'd feel like about anything, let alone what I feel about my son. So leave Vance out."

"My, my, a little spunk surfaces. Why don't you tell me, Spunky, about some of the deals you've been attempting. I just had a phone call from my old chum, Sid Ringo. He said you brought him a script."

"Did he like it?" Hanson's hopes took a mighty leap.

"Actually, he loathed it. He thought it was slime."

"Oh."

"Yes, he wanted me to explain what I found cinegraphic about garbage like that. Pretty funny situation for a septuagenarian to have to face. Sid thinks I'm losing my touch. He'll probably blab that tidbit of information all over town. But you and I both know that I had shelved that project. So you're fired."

"You can't fire me," Han cheeped, having rehearsed his lines a hundred times. "I quit."

"Good. You quit. How soon can you clear out your desk? Ten minutes? Or sooner? And send your partner, Miss Sand, in. I may as well make a clean sweep while I'm at it. This isn't Goodwill Industries, boy. It never was."

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Alicia stood beside the baptismal font for an interminable time holding Billy on her hip. He squirmed more than was necessary, wrinkling her pink taffeta dress in the process. The young, pasty-faced Reverend felt called upon to recite the whole long history of the Methodist baptism ceremony. Why couldn't Reverend Brown have lived long enough for Billy's ceremony? That, at least, would have made sense in a time-continuum sort of way, since he had baptized her. But this Reverend Ainsley was a complete stranger.

The afternoon was hot and Indiana muggy. Her family and all the Fowler clan, except Martin, were gathered around her as the Reverend droned on. She thanked her stars that Martin had found the good sense to stay away, rather than turn this into a community spectacle. As it was, about a third of the farmers in the county sat on the hard pews, watching uncomfortably in starched collars and knotted ties. Farm wives in Sunday dresses listened attentively to the empty words, honing their bird-like beaks for enough juicy gossip to tide them over the sweaty summer nights. Well, she had provided a minor thrill for the community, now she could go back to LA. God, it would be wonderful to get back to the ocean breeze, where neighbors believed in live and let live.

Reverend Ainsley reached his white, bony hands out for Billy and without hesitation dunked him in the tank of ice cold water, freshly pumped from the church's well. Then with the baby held high, sputtering and choking, he recited a never-ending prayer. Billy found his breath and cried piteously. The crowd murmured its approval.

Alicia supposed her ordeal was nearly finished; but once again Indiana fooled her. When the family had, at last, piled into her father's car, sweet Mother informed her that the Fowlers had made a baptismal lunch at their home.

"Do we have to go?" the young woman pleaded, knowing that indeed they did. Her parents would never offend their friends in such a crude way, even to please her.

"I think it will be real nice," her mother said, with a suppressed smile. "You know Etta Fowler is such a good cook." Her father cleared his throat non-committally and drove past his farm toward the Fowler place.

Wilting from the heat, Alicia's heart climbed into her mouth and stuck there as she saw the monstrosity standing on the knoll of catalpa trees to the left of the Fowler house. Everyone had evidently known except her, and now she knew. A skeleton of a ranch style house stood nakedly on the hill with its two by four framing holding up a peaked roof of plywood sheeting. Not a shred of doubt entered her mind as she watched the small crew of carpenters hammering away. This was Martin Fowler's dream house. His big surprise for her and Billy, and she didn't want it! She loathed every cloying thing about Indiana and Martin Fowler.

A tiny figure in overalls stood up on the roof and waved his arms to them. "Oh, there's Martin..!" her mother chirped, charmingly surprised. She waved to Martin. "Why, what's he building, Gerald..?"

Gerald Wilson scowled at his wife, but turned into the driveway, anyway. Ripples of nausea undulated in Alicia's stomach. She reached over and brushed a cowlick of hair off of Billy's forehead.

"There's your daddy, Billy..!!" Grandma Wilson bubbled. "Wave at him..!"

*

Roberta opened the door to Emmet's lighthearted tapping. She wore a shapeless grey sweatshirt over old bermuda shorts. On her feet were ratty pink angora slippers. Her dark hair was braided into two braids and tied with rubber bands.

"Hi," Emmet said, suppressing his elation. He had a secret to share, but wanted the timing to be right. "Am I early?"

"You're late, and I'm bummed out. This is how I dress when I don't feel good."

"Should I leave so you can rest?" he asked, considerately. When he was sick he generally preferred to be alone.

For a brief second Roberta thought about letting him go. If that was his best sympathetic response to disaster, he could screw himself. She needed somebody to lean on, not to carry. But instead she replied, "You can stay, but don't expect much. I just got the ax at work."

"You're kidding? Carruthers let you go? That's a big mistake."

"I don't want to talk about it," Roberta said. Her mind flashed to a picture of Walter Carruthers' wrinkled cock hanging between his blue veined thighs. Black garters held up his black socks, but his baggy pinstriped trousers were in a pile over his shoes. She, herself, was on her knees with her blouse open, breathing the repugnant smells of old man flesh. Begging for her job, she had guided the shriveled organ to her mouth. It came to life then, gagging her with its flatulence. She wished she had the powers of Venus M'Gnapt so she could make Carruthers grovel, but she didn't. For hours, it seemed, she tried to bring him off. Her jaws ached from pumping up and down, sucking on it--until she raised her eyes to see his disgusting smirk.

"You can't even do that right, Miss Sand," he gloated. "I'd say you're a dead weight in this office. Maybe you can get a job in a talent agency."

She did her best to glare at him from her position on the floor. "You're a real shit, Mister Carruthers." Roberta loaded the statement with her best loathing. "You never wanted me to succeed--even with your limp prick."

"All too true," he rasped expressionlessly, and buttoned his fly. "See the girl on your way out. I'll give you two weeks severance pay for the effort. I don't believe you've managed to sell anything, so we won't have to worry about any percentages carrying over."

Roberta shivered with self-disgust and willed the mental image away, but it came right back. "Would you open a bottle of wine, please," she said to Emmet. "I have to take another shower. I'll be out in a few minutes." So saying, she walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Women are strange creatures, Emmet repeated several times to himself while drifting into the kitchenette. Finding a bottle of Liebframilche in the refrigerator, he trimmed a circle of foil away from the cork. I won't make any snap judgments about how she acts, and I will remember how stupid I felt when I needed a job. He found a corkscrew in a neatly arranged silverware drawer and concentrated on opening the bottle without breaking the cork.

Ten minutes later, Roberta emerged from the bathroom, wearing the sweatshirt and an orange towel wrapped around her head. As she walked, Emmet caught a white flash under the long sweatshirt. Presumably, if she was wearing panties, she wasn't feeling seductive yet.

"That's better," she said, taking the braids out of her hair. Forcing a smile, she walked into the kitchenette.

He poured two glasses of wine, and raised his in a toast. "To changes."

"Fuck the prick," Roberta responded, and swallowed half of her wine. "A person can drink a lot of this, that's why I bought it. I suppose you have to go to work, so I'll drink more than my share, okay?"

He smiled indulgently. "There's a good and bad side to everything. The good is that we don't have to worry about mixing business with pleasure anymore."

"I'll get another job," she snapped, looking sharply at him. "Maybe I'll go into business for myself. Why not?"

"What about my contract with Hanson McIvor? That's the bad part I was talking about."

"More wine," Roberta ordered, holding out her glass. After he had poured and she had sipped delicately, she raised her eyes as if relishing a private thought. "The immortal Han McIvor was fired an hour before I was. That was the best thing that happened to me today, even though I was beginning to like him. He's very similar to a brain-damaged puppy. Unfortunately, he's out on the street." She did a little dance step to show how sad she was about Hanson. "But you're still under contract to Carruthers. You can get out of it, if you'd care to, since I haven't done anything for you in six months." She took another sip of wine. "And how was your day, my darling?"

Emmet leaned against the kitchenette counter. "Oh, I had a normal day. I took a couple of naps and walked over to chat with my banker."

"That's interesting."

"Oh, yes. It was..."

"Get any writing done?" she asked, walking into the living room to lie on the couch.

"Oh, a few pages. Actually, I finished it, now that you ask." He grinned. Triumph at last. Time to celebrate.

Roberta didn't answer for a long moment. Then she covered her eyes with her forearm and started giggling. "I should have tried harder to keep my job..!" she gasped, convulsing with ebullient giggling. Laughing harder, she slid off the couch to the floor, unable to stop.

"That's how the book ended," Emmet said, smiling at her antics.

"How..?!" she yowled from where she was wedged between the coffee table and the couch.

"Venus discovered her true identity and laughed herself silly. Then she started humping every Earthling in sight, to make up for lost time. I decided to give it a happy ending. You can read the whole sad story, when I get it typed."

"A toast..!" she yelled, jumping up from the floor. "That's what we need!" She hopped to the kitchen like she was a pogo stick, and returned with the pale green bottle. After filling their glasses in a completely dignified manner, she looked deeply into his eyes and wondered why she'd never found them so beautiful before. "A toast," she said. "Here's to your book, Emmet Suckerfield. And fuck the pricks if they don't like it. We'll sell it anyway."

"I'll drink to that," he said. "I think I can afford a couple of steaks somewhere. Why don't you get dressed?"

"I am dressed," she said. "What's wrong with this?"

*

They found a steak house in the harbor of Marina Del Rey, and after a quiet dinner, strolled down to the foggy jetty, arm in arm. The Marina channel and the sailboat slips were romantic at night. The calm water bobbed wetly with reflected lights under a whispering of fog. Emmet found that he had grown really fond of Roberta. She was just about everything he needed in one package.

"You're not such bad company," he said, sliding his arm around her waist.

"I try my best to be accommodating," Roberta answered, nuzzling up to him. "And I can be very accommodating with steak protein sizzling in my veins."

Emmet smiled. It was wonderful to have a genuinely quick-witted woman, who besides being quick, liked him. "If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to be angry with me?" he asked, leaning against a chain link fence and pulling her to him until their pelvic bones fitted nicely together.

"If the secret's too rotten, I can't be sure how I'll react," she answered. "It's been a crummy day until you came over. Now, I suppose you're going to crumb up this part of it, too. But let's hear it."

"We used to have a saying, 'If the truth's not good enough, fuck 'em.' It's not such a bad rule to live by."

"Fine. I agree. Tell me the truth. I promise to screw you at least once more, no matter how bad it is." She primped her hair, which was getting damp in the fog, and waited for Emmet to speak.

"I wish I'd told you earlier," he began, looking over the channel, at the dark masts of the sailboats. "I've known since the first time that I came to your place, but I didn't tell you because I thought it might screw things up between us," he said. He pursed his lips. "My wife is coming back."

There was a long silence, filled with the blinking of her eyes. "You were right about that, it does screw things up," Roberta said at last, lessening the pressure of her hips against him.

"But unfortunately, I'm starting to fall for you," Emmet continued, tightening his hands around her waist. Not allowing her to pull away. "As far as I know, she's still coming back in a week or so, and for the first time in my life I'm caught in what I suppose is a fairly common situation."

"Yes. Triangles are very common," she said, airily.

"It doesn't seem very common to me. In fact, I can't get a handle on how I'm supposed to deal with this kind of emotional mess. I'd prefer that no one gets hurt. Is there any good method that you've heard about?"

"Is she bisexual?" Roberta asked, after a moment of deliberation.

"I don't know," he laughed. "What an utterly great answer!" He kissed her forehead in delight.

"And you're an unadorned shit," she said, "for not telling me before I got hooked on you--not that I am hooked, of course. I suppose she's great looking...and I suppose you've got kids whom you love and all that?" Arm in arm, hip to hip, they strolled on down the jetty. "Oh, and I suppose you wrote your stupid book about her? Right..?" she chided, as they walked into the fog and the night.

*

The next night, Emmet was sitting at home at the typewriter, listening to the Dodger game. The rookie players had unanimously decided to blow up, and the Blue had slid three games out of first place, which was typical of the Dodgers. It made Emmet slightly nauseous; but he had problems of his own, and a book to retype. And a job to go to in another hour.

He hadn't called Roberta. She'd said that she would call him in a day or two, when she'd had time to decide how to play it. So he typed. Retyping is largely idiot work, and the Dodgers continued to throw the ball away on practically every easy play.

When the phone rang, he smiled to himself. So, she couldn't make it through even one day without calling! That's good. He picked up the phone, oozing with confidence.

But it was Alicia, not Roberta. "Hi, Em," she said, trying to sound happy.

"Hi," he answered. "Where are you, here or Indiana..?"

"I'm still here. At home."

"Still got the ticket?"

"Yes, I have it." she said. He detected a forlorn note in her voice and wondered what was wrong.

"Is something wrong? You sound really depressed."

"I'm getting married. I thought I'd better tell you."

"You're what..?"

"Yes. I'm marrying Billy's father. Sorry, Em. I guess it had to be like this. I don't know what else to say. Maybe someday I'll get a divorce, but right now it's this way."

"Well," he said, after an eternity had elapsed. "Cash the tickets as a wedding present. I don't want them back." He cleared his throat. "I don't know what else to say. Good luck and everything like that. Don't bother to send an announcement." He hung up the phone gently, shrugged his shoulders, and switched the radio over to a country and western station. Then instead of continuing at the typewriter, he stepped out into the front yard to look up at the moon. It was riding high in the summer sky, jibing past palm trees and a few clouds, communing with Mars and Venus and the billions of stars.

* * * * *

BOOK TWO

VISITORS

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

13 MONTHS LATER

Eventually the book sold to Biberling Press, an obscure paper back publisher in Boston. Emmet was unconditionally happy with the one thousand dollar advance, except when he was burned up about how small it was in comparison with other publishing deals he read about in Daily Variety. A thousand bucks was almost an insult--besides not being enough to enable him to go to Boston to work with his editor. On the other hand, any publishing contract was terrific after the eternity of rejection slips that he and Roberta had sweated out.

Emmet's editor was named Gridley Shumacher. As well as being editor-in-chief, Gridley was also the owner of Biberling Press. There was no Mr. Biberling--the company was named after Gridley Shumacher's deceased aunt who had left him a modest inheritance. When Roberta Weinstein had phoned from Boston with the good news, Emmet had an immediate intuition that his agent had slept with Shumacher in order to get the deal. But a week later, after receiving a letter from the publisher which waxed enthusiastic about "Venus", he concluded that maybe the book had impressed Shumacher on its own merits, after all.

Emmet's self respect soared, even though he kept hacking at the taxi company. Long distance phone calls to Gridley Shumacher took up most mornings as they fought tooth and nail over sentence construction and story points; but at length, compromises were reached, the book was deemed edited, and off it went to the typesetter. Emmet decided to give himself a short holiday while he waited for the galley proofs to arrive. No sense plunging into a new book while he was on edge. Not that he was nervous exactly, but the only other book that Biberling Press had published was a tongue-in-cheek weight loss book called, "Eat Your Way To Nirvana." Nirvana had only sold modestly, partly because its format was amateurish, and partly because Biberling's distribution network left a lot to be desired.

Roberta told him not to worry. The important thing was to get it published anywhere. Once that was done, she could get a reprint deal, sell the foreign rights and maybe shoot it to the movies. So far her commission for two years work was a hundred dollars--ten percent of Emmet's advance. Naturally, she planned to make some moves with the book, now that it was alive.

Emmet hadn't told the guys at work, figuring it would alienate them. In fact, other than a few waitresses, the only person he had told was Sally, his sister. Sally was thrilled out of her mind, as one might expect, and Joe Balducci had eased off on calling him Sucker, at least to his face. Joe had started talking, instead, about opening his own construction business, no doubt expecting Emmet to finance him when the money rolled in.

The other person who Emmet wanted to mention the good news to was Alicia, but it seemed premature. Better to wait until there was a first edition. He could send her a copy. That would frost her. He chuckled at the thought of her unwrapping the book. SPACE SEX by Emmet Suckerfield. Yep, that would frost her allright.

The advance money was long since spent on rent, bills and one pair of slacks. An author needed a decent pair of tan baggy slacks for meetings.

As for Emmet's affair with Roberta Weinstein--it had tapered off to a cross between good friends and strictly business. Although they tried, it had never really blossomed correctly after the night he told her about Alicia. The news of an errant wife had blunted something in Roberta and she hadn't been able to get it back. Emmet took the loss philosophically--actually, he blamed Alicia. But as the months passes, he kind of stopped blaming anybody for anything. This was such a bizarre world--so many uncanny things happened in a seemingless random pattern. Blame didn't seem to fit very well.

Yes, he was over any possible bitterness, except when he found himself watching a movie about love or marriage or children. Or when he listened to love songs, sad or happy. Or when he happened to see cuddly couples in public--or at other strange inconsequential times like while he was driving home from work every morning. Generally, now, he didn't wake up bitter, and he seldom fell asleep on bitterness.

And people were being pleasant to him, not that they hadn't always been, but he was noticing it. There was no big mystery -- Suckerfield had surfaced from the depths, and people do find it easy to be nice to a smiling person.

Of women there were none, if you don't count the once a month massage at Okidan Massage Parlor down the street past Bob's Big Boy. Emmet didn't count it, although some of the Korean girls were very pretty and they all undressed when he requested them to and rubbed their little boobs on his back. But there was no emotional involvement. It was true that the intimate contact with the massage girl rejuvenated his physical well-being. Some sort of feeding process took place that had nothing to do with a back rub. It was like the electrolytes in male and female cells recharged each other by osmosis. In brief, after each half hour encounter, his battery was charged enough to last for several days.

Soon the book would enter the world--and, Lord knew, that event was expected to be superb for the Suckerfieldian ego. Maybe he could buy a new car when the residuals started to roll. Hell, he could sell 10,000 copies himself by autographing them in book stores and super markets. Surely Biberling would be able to get rid of at least that many on the East Coast. Selling for $4.95, his eight percent royalty would make...46 cents a book. Times twenty thousand was..9,440 dollars. Almost ten grand. Boy, what he couldn't do with ten thousand smackerolas! Oh, less the advance...nine thousand. Still nine grand of free money, less ten percent for Roberta, was a very healthy start on financial freedom. And the royalty went up to ten percent after 50,000 books. Fifty thousand, or a hundred thousand, was not out of the question, not at all--even though most first books didn't run to nearly that many copies sold.

And to really get sales off to a galloping start, he had taken the bull by the horns and had sent a letter off to the Letterman Show avowing his goldfish's availability for Dumb Pet Tricks. Transporting the aquarium to the studio would be a trial, but some things can't be helped. It was unlikely that Letterman would come to his apartment.

On a Wednesday in February, the galley proofs and several garish, full color covers, featuring an artist's rendering of Venus in a diaphanous gown, arrived airmail from Boston. An accompanying letter from Gridley Shumacher requested that Emmet please hurry with any final corrections, since he was aiming at a publication date of June 1st.

Emmet took the rest of the week off from work, and by Saturday afternoon had found all the errors. His eyes were red and blurry from sleeplessness, but the galleys were done. There'd only been a thousand or so typos and misnumbered pages. Shumacher, being the editor, hadn't hired a copy editor to check the mechanical errors.

Emmet sent the galleys back by overnight mail, and then called Shumacher. They chatted amiably about the changes and Gridley said he'd be sending copies of the corrected proofs out to get some reviews. Good reviews, of course, would mean that the initial press run could be larger since bookstores order more it the review is good. Emmet had slightly longer than three months to wait.

*

Lest anyone think that Emmet had quit playing the ponies and the bookie, he hadn't. By the first week in May, he was up to his ears in bookie paranoia again--the kind that made his palms sweat even on cool evenings and made him tense about leaving the safety of his double locked apartment. He dismissed the sweating and the tenseness as inconsequential, assuming it would go away as soon as he hit a big night at the track, or became a star on the Letterman Show.

Yes, a return letter had arrived from a Meg Osborne at Network office in New York, saying she thought trained goldfish were a must-see item for late night viewers. Meg was so enthusiastic that she wanted to book Emmet and the goldfish on the first open date, which was September 25th. Could he please confirm by signing the enclosed waiver and returning it? Emmet signed gleefully, and added a note of thanks. Then he went to the pet store to buy the fish a treat--a pack of frozen brine shrimp.

But the bitter truth was, after a two hundred dollar payment, he still owed Reggie six hundred dollars. And the creep wasn't being too nice about it. He cut off Emmet's betting privileges until the debt was squared--and he wanted the whole six hundred by the first of the month, which was only three weeks away. Emmet hated to borrow money; but he certainly wasn't going to earn that much and still pay the rent, unless some of his horses started to run for him. Lord, it was disgusting. Prime bets, leading down the stretch, then slamming on the brakes for no apparent reason. But how far would Reggie go for a measly six hundred bucks. Would he send goons around to break arms? Surely not. If Emmet had a broken arm, who would make his weekly payments on Reggie's ostentatious silver Cadillac?

You might ask, how a semi-enlightened guy like Suckerfield could keep throwing his money down the rat-hole at the racetrack? He didn't know, he just kept on. Occasionally, he stopped betting for a few days; but he'd start missing the juice and the entertainment of reading the Form--of testing his intellect against the odds. Recreation, he called it. But sliding six hundred bucks on the bad side of a bookie wasn't entertaining when he didn't have the cash to cover it. Running down a dark, stinking alley to escape from a goon could be considered recreational, Emmet supposed; however, he wasn't sweating it too much. Something would turn up.

*

The 1st of June dawned pink and cloudy. Emmet had been driving fares around town all night. Soon he'd shuttle a few executives to the airport, and then at eight o'clock, he would flee to start his new life as a published author. Hot damn. A happy feeling swelled inside him. He grinned to himself, unable to contain the delight.

At eight o'clock, and turned in the meter receipts and climbed in his own car. Marvelous. Driving home--a person at last. The streets were no longer desolate, far from it -- so many things were going on! A pretty mother pushed a baby carriage. Kids walked to school dressed in little designer jeans, carrying Ninja Turtles lunch pails. Girls waited for buses with their short skirts flaring in the breeze. Mexican day laborers slouched on a street corner hoping for fortune to smile in the form of a boss man with a ditch digging job.

Just a normal day, Emmet reminded himself. No use breaking any routines. Back at home, he fed the fish, watching critically as they completed the castle swim, then hopped into a hot shower. The phone rang while he was stepping into his new tan slacks.

"Congratulations, Emmet," Gridley Shumacher's deep voice boomed across the country. "You're published! Books are on their way to citizens. You lucky prick!"

When somebody calls you a lucky prick, they generally mean it. Shumacher evidently feels he's doing Emmet a big favor. But hell, he is. The guy took a chance on me when no one else would. And if there's any glory, the author would get it, not Shumacher. The world will think of him as a businessman, crass or enlightened, depending on how much money he makes.

"I guess I am a lucky prick," Emmet admitted, seeking to put Shumacher at ease.

"Aah, you're not a prick. Sorry I said that; but goddamn, did I tell you how good these reviews are coming back? I can't believe it! The science fiction guy on the Globe gave you a fantastic review! He thinks you're brilliant, I guess. I ordered a five thousand overrun, just in case he's right. We might have a seller here, Emmet."

"Great," Emmet replied, feeling that a good review was his due, but pleased none-the-less. "The LA reviews haven't come in yet?"

"Small potatoes," Shumacher informed him, typically East Coast in his bearing. The publishing world seemed blithely unaware that Los Angeles and the West had a huge market potential. "I'm going to move straight into foreign rights and reprints. It sure looks like a home run from here. Get ready for some talk shows. Say, when am I going to get a new book from you?"

"I'm working on one," Emmet lied.

"Good, keep at it. Have a great day, Mr. Author. Got to run, the other line is flashing."

The connection broke at the same moment that Emmet's doorbell rang. Emmet cracked the door, ready to slam it shut if Reggie's goons were waiting with ballbats. He saw instead two strange looking men. Nearest the door, a pudgy man in a baggy suit was smiling tensely. Beside him stood a midget dressed in an Ivy League blazer and cream colored slacks. Both held identical plaid overnight bags.

"Congratulations, Mr. Suckerfield," the midget said in a slightly crystallized voice. "We are proud of you. You performed very admirably."

"Good heavens," Emmet replied, sloughing off the somewhat backhanded compliment. "The world is beating a path to my door." But he smiled, relishing the fame even if it was from a neighborhood committee. "You're not from a newspaper or something, are you?" Emmet asked, suddenly wondering if the plaid cases were camera cases.

"May we come in?" the full-sized one asked. "There is much to discuss."

"Oh, well sure. Come in." Emmet stepped back into the living room. The newsmen followed him, looking around the apartment. Emmet noted that the little fellow wasn't a midget at all, but simply a very tiny young man. About the size of a jockey, actually. Maybe they were from the Hollywood Park literary wing.

"I am Sarr R'Tangele," the tike said, formally. The little fellow was standing at attention. "This is my associate, Mandillo Sprut." Sprut nodded uncomfortably, shifting his weight. R'Tangele bowed from the waist.

"You're who..?!" Emmet blurted. A smile started to form on his lips. He'd heard about the raft of science fiction fans who followed their favorite authors around. Some of them were pretty weird. This must be a budding fan club. It was kind of charming, but how had they gotten a copy of the book?

"Yes, I am Sarr R'Tangele--the transfer programmer." The little man seemed totally serious. "Is Venus here, or may we see her soon?"

"Venus..?" Suckerfield asked, feeling a bit apprehensive.

The kid was completely deadpan, but his eyes flicked compulsively around the apartment, searching everywhere. Emmet wished he would ease up a little.

Mandillo Sprut pulled a bottle of Martel cognac from his bag. "One should always have a drink to success," he said. "And the book cover, by the way, looks absolutely gorgeous."

"Venus is, perhaps, a bit too thin," Sarr remarked, sitting on the couch. He eyed the aquarium, where the goldfish swam lazily. "Oh, they keep shigits here, too. Wonderful." He took a step toward the fish tank.

"I believe they're pets," Mandillo Spurt suggested, hastily.

"Oh," Sarr said.

Emmet looked suspiciously at the fellows. He'd been up all night. They were obviously putting him on, but he was too tired to appreciate it. He was, however, very sure that he didn't like the invasion of privacy. "Who are you?" Emmet asked. "I think maybe I should see some credentials if you're from the press."

"You're a bit non-plused by our sudden arrival, I expect," Sarr said, soothingly. "But I assure you that I understand English very admirably. Please have no fear. I can only state that we are inexorably twisted into one another's fate. I am indeed the Sarr R'Tangele whom you wrote of, hailing from the Gangamma Tornando, which you have mistakenly called Torano. We've come to retrieve Venus M'Gnapt."

Mercifully, the phone rang. Emmet excused himself to pick it up.

"Well, well, so the day has finally arrived..!" Roberta Weinstein's sultry voice came over the wire.

"So it seems," Emmet replied, hesitantly. His head was spinning uncomfortably.

"Did I wake you..?"

"Maybe I am dreaming..."

"It does seem like a dream come true, doesn't it? All that work finally paid off."

"Are you home? Could I call you back in a few minutes?" He hung up and turned back to the midget and his henchman.

"What exactly made you fellows stop at my house?" he asked. "If this is a cute sales pitch, or a fan club, I'm extremely busy this morning. If you wouldn't mind leaving, I'd like to get on with my work." He opened the door.

"But, Emmet, didn't you understand..? We really are here to find Venus. By the way, where is she?" Sarr inquired. "Is she in the next room by some happy coincidence?" The little fellow's neck muscles stretched in anticipation.

Mandillo Sprut, too, seemed anxious. His eyes strayed toward the bedroom.

"Venus..?" Emmet marveled. "Of course, she's not here! She's a book character, just like Sarr is! What are you, nut cases..?"

"Told you," Mandillo Sprut muttered to Sarr. "Mr. Suckerfield, please bear with us. We are in the gravest of situations. Obviously, you met a girl somewhere, who related this story to you. It is critical that we find her. Can you please tell us where she is, now, if you know. Or where you saw her. She has amnesia and is in desperate danger."

"We don't know that she's in danger," Sarr corrected.

"If she doesn't know who she is, what would you call it, mild discomfort?" Sprut glowered down at the little man. "And while we're at it, why are you so little? It makes me nervous."

Sarr reddened. "I must have looked up the wrong planet. I know I set the dials for total normalcy. And don't attack me again! I'm this way while I'm here and there's nothing to do about it. I can't pop back from an emergency leave to change my body!"

Emmet rubbed his chin. "I think I'll just make a quick phone call," he said, backing toward the phone.

"Please don't call the police..!" Mandillo Sprut begged. "See what you've done," he snipped at Sarr. "I told you we should write a letter first."

"Time is critical..! What if he didn't respond to a stupid letter? How much longer do you think the Senator will be fooled by your poorly written reports..?"

Mandillo Sprut hissed though his clenched teeth. "I saved the transcript of you ordering me to fake those reports. And I don't think we're making a very good impression on Mr. Suckerfield." He turned to Emmet and smiled tiredly. "Please forgive me," he said. "We really are from another civilization. I, myself, have been on your planet for nine years. I like it very much and I have never had a speck of trouble until I ran into this fellow, who I'm afraid is my superior. We really are in serious, personal trouble due to his blundering. Fortunately, we have found you--the only person on Earth who is able to help us. As a science fiction writer, I'm hoping you can view this as a great opportunities for research. Please, please, help us find Venus..!" Sprut held up the Cognac bottle. "Do you have glasses? We really should celebrate the publication of your book."

"I haven't had any sleep," Emmet explained, stalling--hoping this would start to make sense. "And frankly, this is all seeming very strange to me. What was your name again..?"

"Sprut. Mandillo Sprut."

Emmet sized up the duo, supposing he could bodily throw them out, if it came to that. But what if they knew karate, or what if they were escaped loonies? Nah, too strange for loonies. Maybe they really are space men.

"Are you saying you're space men, and you just happened to land at my door?"

"Yes, yes, you would say we are space men; although to us, everyone is a space man," Sarr answered, soberly.

"Except space women," Mandillo Sprut chuckled, trying to be light and amusing. Sarr smirked at him.

"I don't want to appear too stodgy, Mr. Sprut, but I'm afraid I'll have to have some proof..or something. Your story is rather far fetched, to say the least. I suppose you came down in a flying saucer or some space craft? I'd like to see it, and I don't mean a photograph."

Sarr shrugged good-naturedly. "Of course. It's not as complicated as you think." The little guy led Emmet to the front window and pointed out a tan Buick with California license plates. He smiled. Obviously, the guy was some kind of low level joker.

Emmet chuckled, hoping he'd get the joke pretty soon.

"I believe Mandillo has a hover craft moored in a neutral density field on the dark side of your Moon. Would you be interested in seeing that..?"

"I guess so..." Emmet answered.

"Good. We'll take you up, if you agree to help us find the girl."

Emmet backed up a step, his body language communicating that he wasn't ready for a space voyage. "I just want to see it," Emmet tweeted.

"You can't. It's at neutral density. I told you that."

"How very convenient," Emmet said, trying to regain the advantage.

"Ground locked," Sarr commented sourly to Mandillo Sprut. "It's the very worst aspect of this culture, all the reports say so. No imagination. No joie de vivre."

"What..?" Emmet glared.

"He means that the people of Earth are very stable," Sprut said, soothingly. "Most cultures of your age have long since gone spacing. I find your land-lockedness a charming trait, myself, and there have been some sound historical reasons for it, I might add."

"Fine. I'll go see your space ship, if you have one. I'm taking a chance on being abducted into outer space, I suppose." Emmet discovered that calling the midget's bluff was kind of exhilarating. "And what are you going to do for me in return?"

"We've already done quite a lot, Mr. Suckerfield."

"Like what..?

"Well, a member of our race wrote your book, for one thing." Sarr smiled a condescending smile.

Emmet's mouth fell open. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he stammered. "I talked to no one about those ideas. They just came into my head."

"Oh, dear," Sarr R'Tangele said. He wrung his little hands in a worried manner.

*

Han McIvor was having a normal day at Pauli's 76 Station on San Mateo Boulevard across from Bob's Big Boy. Pumping gas was quite within his ability; in fact, he was good at it. And he had a natural talent for washing windows. Not a car escaped from the gas bay with spotty windows when he was on duty. He could squeegee any car, front and back, before five dollars had pumped in. Then while the tank was topping off, he polished the streaks off with a paper towel.

Pauli didn't like the added expense of the paper towels, but Han got several cars out of each one--and Pauli got lots of return customers, so he kept buying them. Han liked the blue towels because they were more professional looking and they deposited no lint.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The hovercraft befuddled Emmet's Earthbound brain, naturally, as did the method employed by the weird duo to beam up to their ship. R'Tangele and Sprut joined hands in his living room, and invited Emmet to complete the circle. When he did, they were all sort of instantly inside a round-walled space craft parked in the air. There wasn't even a puff of smoke, or a sizzling dissolvement like Captain Kirk had when he beamed up to the Enterprise. And it was no trick, because Sarr led Emmet over to a football shaped window and pointed out a green and brown ball lying below the ship. Sure enough, Emmet could make out the continental masses of the good old Earth. Much closer was a huge black disk, which Sprut said was the backside of the Moon.

Emmet felt nauseated, and the top of his head itched unbearably. He reached up to scratch his bald spot. Sarr tittered and slapped Emmet good-naturedly on his lower back. "That is actually the worst part of space travel," he said.

"Itches like the devil, doesn't it?" Mandillo Sprut added, jovially. "Everyone in the Universe hates jumping aboard, but how else could we have gotten here? I couldn't land without creating a panic, and Earth doesn't have a taxi service."

Emmet nodded.

"I was sure you'd throw up immediately," Sarr informed him. "Would you say you're an abnormally strong native?"

"I don't know," Emmet replied. "Could we go down now, before I get sick?" He reached out his hands to remake the circle and instantly they were in his apartment again.

"It's much better coming down, don't you think?" Sarr asked. "Everyone seems to agree that the up-jump is more difficult."

Emmet clutched his stomach with both hands and wobbled toward the bedroom without answering.

"Is it allright if I try to find some cognac glasses?" Sprut asked. Receiving no answer, he waddled into the kitchen in search of suitable vessels. He opened the refrigerator and checked out Emmet's meager food cache, then uncorked the cognac.

Lying on his bed, Suckerfield felt his digestion system return to normal. Good God, what a disorienting experience. He wondered if anyone else in the USA, or in the world for that matter, had first-hand knowledge of an alien space craft. Maybe he was the only one. Of course, crackpots popped up every year or so, claiming to have met aliens. Oh shit...! No one will believe me, either! I'll be just another crackpot. He chuckled at that, but it wasn't really funny. The government would be glad to make his life miserable, if he started spouting about these oddballs aliens. Rolling over, Emmet found he would love to regard this whole sequence as a dream--after all, he was lying on his own bed, maybe he did dream it. Except that he heard Sarr's little voice tittering out in the living room.

How bizarre..! He'd been singled out for a visit from aliens. Why me, he wondered -- and suddenly knew that every man of destiny had been faced with those two words. Why me? Emmet couldn't think of a single solid reason why it was him; but it didn't seem like a random choice. R'Tangele and the other one had come to see him specifically. He would obviously have to humor them--no telling what damage they could do if he didn't.

And he would absolutely, definitely, have to report this to somebody, but to whom? Maybe the immigration service..? He chuckled at that one. What an uproarious spoof. He could get them to wear serapes and say they were migrant aliens and insist on getting them green cards. Oh, boy, he could see the bored face of the immigration worker, not even getting the joke. But really now, why had these creeps picked him out? Was there any chance that they'd tell him the truth if he asked? And mainly what I want to avoid is being teleported again. That's about the weirdest I've ever felt. Thank God, the effects don't seem to be permanent.

*

Alicia Wilson Fowler was feeling bla. It had been months and months since she'd felt anything but bla. She was beginning to wonder if she'd ever feel any other way. Probably not. The life of a woman is misery. From one misery to another with bla in between. Which meant that she wasn't happily miserable, just stuck in dorky old Indiana to a dork husband with whom she had no dreams in common, and with a son who would probably grow up to be a carbon copy of his father. She had thought that Billy would be a sensitive, delightful child; but already he was showing the genetic poverty of his dork heritage. The boy wasn't responsive to potty training, and was always getting into stuff. And he hated vegetables.

Oh, God, why couldn't she have a positive attitude even about her own kid? It wasn't fair to have this curse. Why did she always have to look on the dark side of everything?

*

Emmet sat up slowly, making sure his stomach had quit rebounding before heading into the living room. He found the spacers unpacking their suitcases into his coat closet. The bags were suitcases, after all.

"What are you doing?" he asked, avoiding the obvious.

"Feeling better?" Sarr inquired, turning his head to look at Emmet. Both he and Mandillo Sprut were in the closet, which made it a little crowded. They seemed to have built erector set shelving under Emmet's winter coats. How very ingenious.

"The stomach is better, but my ears are plugged," Emmet replied.

"Very normal," Sprut said from inside the closet.

"I guess you're here to stay..?"

"Oh, yes," Sarr answered. "But we hope you can find Venus very soon. Today if possible. It may be easy for you."

"For me..?"

"Well, yes.." Sarr stood and brushed a little closet dust from his knees. "You're the one who knows her."

"I promise you that I don't know anyone named Venus." Emmet walked emphatically over to stare out the window at a palm tree. "I don't recall ever knowing a Venus. I made that name up."

"Don't be hasty in your judgment," Mandillo Sprut suggested. "We're sure you know her, Mr. Suckerfield. Your book details the whole experiment perfectly. You even named R'Tangele by his own name. Who else would know that, but Venus? She must have found your receiving apparatus very open. If she didn't tell you in words, she obviously transmitted the story directly into your mind."

"I'm glad you think so," Emmet said.

"It's possible that I know the name she might have been using," Sprut said, hopefully. "The name I had imprinted on all of her Earth identification papers was Emira Spain. She may not have kept that ID, but is that any help..?"

"Why didn't you say so?" Emmet said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I know her. She sold me a broom. Now, that I think of it, she was pretty weird." Emira Spain was an actual space cadet. A real one. He chuckled. That might explain a lot of things.

Sarr and Mandillo Sprut were suddenly very agitated. "You know her..?! Where is she..?" they both yipped at once.

"How would I know?" Emmet said. "She sold me a broom, door to door." He left out the part about screwing her, figuring that it might not make her friends too happy. "I haven't seen her for a year or more."

"That's not good," Sprut mumbled. "She could be anywhere by now. But she's using the name. That's good! She was working for a kind of broom company?"

When Emmet finished giving them a very abbreviated history of Emira, the three of them stood in the center of the living room looking at each other.

"Well, that's fine," Mandillo Sprut said at length, taking the initiative. "We have a place to start. Fuller Brush. Where is the company?" His eyes turned to Emmet. "You'll go with us, of course, to identify her."

"Look," Emmet sputtered. "I don't know where it is, and I'm busy. I'm a busy guy, like I told you before. Writers need their privacy."

Suckerfield drove the tan Buick off the freeway at the Centennial off ramp in West Los Angeles. Mandillo Sprut sat glumly beside him in front. Little Sarr R'Tangele rode in back. They were fresh from an afternoon of sniffing Emira's trail and Emmet's nose was tired. In fact, he was exhausted and had to work at midnight.

"Isn't it illegal to fake identification documents," he asked Mandillo Sprut. He'd been thinking about Emira running around with false documents, and realized that Sprut could get him in a lot of trouble by association.

"We should go to her new address," Sprut announced, dismissing the false ID question.

"I'm totally beat," Emmet said. "I mean it."

"It couldnÕt take long to see if she's there..?"

"Please, Emmet," Sarr begged from the back seat.

"If you guys hadn't insisted on hanging around to interview all the salesmen, we could have already been there. Drive over yourselves. I have to work tonight."

Within the first three minutes at The Fuller Brush Company, Emmet had sweet-talked Mrs. Lester, the office manager, into looking up Emira's file. Unfortunately, there was no documentation of where she went when she left Fuller Brush, but there was a year old home address. 312 Linnie Canal, down in Marina Del Rey. Emmet wrote down the address on a sheet of Fuller Brush paper. Mandillo Sprut had given him a Social Security number which matched the one in the file.

"Oh," Mrs. Lester said, with surprised delight. She had continued reading Emira's file while Emmet was writing. "Your friend was an excellent salesman! My, my, look at this..! She did fourteen hundred dollars one week. Mr. Rankin must have been sorry to lose her. Gee, I'm sorry I never met her. She must be really special."

"She is," Emmet said. He noticed that Mandillo Sprut had jotted the address down, too.

"Did you know that your friend was salesperson of the month, two consecutive months. My, this is an interesting file..!"

Then Sprut and R'Tangele consulted and decided to hang around to interview any salespeople who might remember Emira. Emmet sat in the car, catnapping. None of the salesmen or women had known Emira's whereabouts, of course. And they wouldn't have told two weirdos if they had.

"Let's get some of the drug you call coffee," Sarr said, as the car rolled onto San Mateo Boulevard. "I'm sure that would make you feel better. I should have remembered it before."

The little guy was alarmed when Emmet trod on the accelerator. The Buick surged forward and virtually flew past a bar and grill on the south side of the street. Emmet expelled a whistle of air between his teeth, and slowed down when they were safely past Reggie's bar. He saw no purpose in explaining his gambling debts to a couple of aliens, so he didn't.

"Coffee is very beneficial at calming the nerves after a jump into space," Sarr reiterated. "I strongly suggest we get some." He leaned forward, pulling on Emmet's head rest. "Don't forget, Emmet made a space jump today," he said seriously to Mandillo Sprut.

"Earthlings enjoy a light narcotic called Scotch at this time of day," Sprut countered. "As I do myself."

"I recommend coffee," Sarr said, firmly.

"Coffee is fine," Emmet said, cordially. He pointed the car at Bob's Big Boy, realizing that he hadn't had any coffee all day. His schedule was shot to shit.

Emmet walked into Bob's Big Boy behind the space dorks. If the waitresses and customers only knew, he thought, there would be mass hysteria. What an odd trio they made--a midget, a gangly chump writer and a pudgy old man--yet no one turned to pay them the slightest attention. The reason why, Emmet deduced, was because they looked like the male half of a family group, grandpa, dad and runty kid. Maybe I'll get Sarr a booster seat, he thought snidely. That would be pretty funny. Actually, he could pass for my kid, if nobody studies us too closely. I could probably take them anywhere and no one would notice. Emmet felt justifiably proud of that bit of deduction--delayed culture shock was starting to unhinge the poor boy.

The familiar sights and sounds at Bob's triggered a deep-seated fear that Emmet had been suppressing. Down inside lurked a scaly, scardy-cat dragon. Emmet had been bottling it up for hours. Now that it had reached his attention, he saw that it was practically choking off his breathing. No wonder, he thought. I'm trying to handle a national emergency all alone. Alone suddenly didn't seem either brave or strong. I won't be able to keep making light of this. I'll have to do something.

The trio reached an empty window booth looking out on San Mateo Boulevard. Sarr struggled into the plastic booth exactly like a kid would, and studied the various implements on the table with interest.

A one cylinder waitress dragged herself to the table. "Can I take you order?" she asked, leaning her forearm on her order pad for support.

"Three coffees," Emmet said.

"Children shouldn't drink coffee," she said, mildly. "It stunts their growth."

"He's already addicted," Emmet explained. "He was born in Columbia."

She raised her eyebrows at the news. "Anything else," she asked.

"No," Emmet said. The question of who would pay for food had to be clarified before he did any ordering.

"Neither Mandillo nor I are precisely in the "missing persons" business, as I'm sure you know, Emmet," Sarr said, as soon as the waitress departed. "There are some terribly sophisticated devices at the University for finding people, but I couldn't arouse suspicion by requisitioning them for a vacation. The equipment that Mandillo has, won't be much help, I'm afraid. You don't think she would have changed her body form, so that Emmet won't recognize her, do you?" he asked Mandillo Sprut.

"I don't see why she would," Sprut answered, nervously. "She could have bleached her hair or gotten fat, I suppose."

"Well, Emmet says in the book that she's a master of disguises, at least she was at home--down at the old Spaceport and so forth."

"Wait a minute," Emmet interrupted. "I want to get a couple of practical things organized. First off, do you guys have any money or am I expected to pay for your food and everything?"

Mandillo Sprut cast his eyes down on the table. "Actually, R'Tangele failed to visit the currency exchange before he arrived. This will put a severe strain on my budget, but naturally we don't expect you to spend your resources on us."

"Just send an expense chit," Sarr said acidly to his chunky subordinate. "I'll sign it when I get back. I told you that."

"Fine," Sprut said. "I was simply explaining to Emmet."

"Good," Emmet said. "Secondly, I don't love the idea of you moving into my apartment. I'm a writer. I value my privacy, as I said before. Why don't you stay at a motel?"

"Sorry, I'm afraid not," Sarr squeaked. "We can't lose contact with you."

"I see. Then, I need the bedroom for myself, and that's final. I might have a girl stop over sometime."

"What about us?" Sarr said, sitting straight so he could see over the table top. "We might get some girls."

"I don't think there are any pigmies in the neighborhood," Emmet reflected.

"Very funny. Actually, any number of ladies might decide to know me better. They often do on my vacations."

Emmet thought about that and concluded it was very likely true. "Like that lab assistant on Torano or whatever it's called? What's her real name, out of curiosity? Since I'm your biographer, I may as well know the facts.."

Sarr squirmed. "You have a grim humor, Mr. Suckerfield. I'm attempting to be very nice to you." Sarr turned to Mandillo Sprut, who was watching a waitress.

"I rather wish that Venus hadn't been so vocal. If that book gets back to The Tornando, my career is ruined. Do you suppose we could suppress the document?" he asked Sprut, seriously.

Mandillo Sprut looked away from the waitress in time to see Emmet's jaw clench. "No, I wouldn't think so," he said, wishing that he was drinking Scotch instead of coffee. "Too many copies have already been shipped. Besides, without the book, we still wouldn't be on her trail. Maybe she'll read a copy and contact Mr. Suckerfield herself."

"Don't fool with the book or I won't help you at all," Emmet hissed.

"Just a joke," Sarr replied, with a pinched expression. "But seriously, don't be stingy with your apartment. I would enjoy landing several Rhana 1217 women before I'm sent to the outskirts of the galaxy. Mandillo tells me your women are quite willing."

Emmet pictured a parade of fresh nooky through his apartment. Maybe he'd get the spin off. "I'm sure you guys are real studs, but I don't think it's a good idea to go around telling American women that you're space men. I don't need a bunch of authorities poking around."

Mandillo Sprut nodded sadly, like he'd lost something valuable. "R'Tangele can tell them he's a jockey," he said. "That should work for him. Women love horses, I've been told."

The waitress returned with three cups in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. She poured the coffees with a distasteful shake of her head. "Would you like a booster seat for the boy?" she asked.

"Yes," Emmet said, with a straight face. "Could you..? And we'd like three Big Boy Burgers."

She nodded and came back with a pink plastic booster seat. Mandillo Sprut helped Sarr climb onto it. Emmet laughed at the absurdity. What a stupid situation.

"Why would you laugh?" Sarr asked, burning. "This is really much better. Please pass the cream. In The Tornando, I am normal sized, and even taller than average. Nevertheless, I am here now." He sipped his coffee.

"Take some coffee, Emmet," Mandillo Sprut suggested. "It's the best thing."

Emmet sipped. Actually, it did taste sensationally good. His head started to clear.

"Her father is a senator, of course," Sarr said, with only a slight edge of bitterness in his voice.

"I wanted to be a stand-up comic," Mandillo Sprut muttered. "I should have stuck with it, but I opted for being safe."

"The R'Tangele men have been scientists for seventeen generations," Sarr went on, disregarding his companion. "We must find the girl or my whole family will lose face, you must understand that, Emmet."

"As long as you're breathing, they're in jeopardy," Sprut commented. "To say nothing of my family."

Sarr smiled thinly and made a strange bird-like whistle through his teeth. "Drink up, Emmet," he said. "This could go on for hours. Mandillo's favorite topic is how funny he is. Actually, he is one of the least humorous people I know. Putting up with him has become unbearable in only one short day."

"Thank you," Sprut said. "Since we've established that, maybe we can get back to Venus."

"Just how did you lose contact with her?" Emmet asked. "It seems like you should have a policy that would take accidents into account."

"Please don't act the fool, Mr. Suckerfield," Sprut said. "You know as much about this as we do. Your book reflects the situation quite accurately."

"I just meant you should have a better policy.."

"One would assume we will have in the future."

Emmet looked carefully at Mandillo Sprut for the first time. "There is no mention of you in the book," he said, casually. He tried to get his mind to agree that this was some elaborate hoax, but it kept coming back to the space ship.

"Thankfully I was spared that blight on my good name," Sprut sighed, making a finger gesture across his brow.

"Only because you never saw Venus!" R'Tangele spat. "If you'd been doing your job, none of this would have happened!"

"I was doing my job! And look who's talking!"

Sarr jutted his little jaw. "Why isn't this coffee sweet?!" he bitched.

Without answering, Sprut tore a packet of sugar open and dumped it in Sarr's cup. "Stir it up," he said, handing Sarr a spoon.

"I'm not a child," Sarr snapped.

"That's news from space," Sprut said, and chuckled to himself.

"Tell me," Emmet asked, "did I describe your culture accurately as being lion/toads?"

"Blast..!!" R'Tangele swore suddenly. "This is so demeaning..!! Why couldn't she have been at your house?! Why aren't you sexy enough to be a good subject, instead of a bald writer?!"

"I'm not bald," Emmet said, quietly. "Male pattern baldness is a sign of high testosterone, which is a male sex hormone." He thought about springing the news that he had been sexy enough, while Emira hadn't, but decided that sounded a little arrogant. "I just wondered what you look like in real life. The mental picture I got wasn't exactly like a toad. It was sort of more like a lizard, and the lion manes were as much like a hyena as a lion."

Sarr hung his head. "It's close enough," he mumbled. "Thanks to you, I'll probably be banished."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Emmet had first moved to LA, the Venice Canals were a hippie haven, rundown and funky. Not anymore. Real Estate Man had run amok in the area. White ducks and tame mallards still swam placidly in the canals, but the little clapboard beach shacks were now the cutest cottages you ever saw. Precious, Emmet thought darkly as he stopped the Buick outside a white picket fence at 312 Linnie Canal. The cottage had a fresh, pale pink paint job and color coordinated bougainvillea dripped carefully off the small front porch. A young guy in a pair of swimming trunks sat in a beach chair on the sunny porch, watching the ducks swimming and nursing a can of beer.

"I'm sure she's here," Sarr chirped from the back seat. "I have a precognition that she is. We'll talk to her when you signal us."

"Perfect," Emmet said, stepping out of the car into the rutted dirt alley. The alleys behind the Canals had remained unpaved, he was happy to see. "One hour from now, I'm going to be in my bed sleeping," he informed the space fuck-ups. "No matter what happens."

Mandillo Sprut said nothing. He seemed concerned with picking a string off his trouser leg.

"Fine, Emmet," Sarr answered. "Call in sick to work so you can sleep all night. We'll defray your wages."

Disregarding Sarr's offer as ridiculous, Emmet waved to the guy on the porch. "Hello!" he called. "Mind if I come up for a second..?"

The young man motioned with his beer can. "Come on," he slurred, "but whatever you're selling I don't want any."

Emmet opened the white gate and walked in. He stopped a few paces from the porch. "My name is Emmet Smith. I was told by the Fuller Brush Company that Emira Spain lives here. I'm an agent for an attorney representing the estate of her late uncle, Ned N. Spain. It seems that Ms. Spain is a very wealthy young woman."

"Lucky for her," the guy said, in a half sneer. He brushed his dark hair back with one hand, then adjusted the gold chain around his neck. "Too bad. You missed her by six or eight months. Fuller Brush is a little out of date."

"Oh..? But she did live here?"

The guy nodded.

"Do you perhaps have her current address or a phone number? It's a rather substantial amount of money."

The young drunk laughed harshly. "Some smoothie talked her into the telegram business, that's all I know. Nude telegrams. She's a party girl. Do you know how painful that is, Mister, to fall for a party animal..?" He laughed again and polished off his beer. "First some writer with a twelve inch cock, then nude telegrams. I think the writer bastard talked her into it. He's her pimp or something." He launched to his feet, menacingly. "Tell you what, Mister, if you see her, tell her Jeffery is doing fine without her. Just fine..!" He turned and wove into the pink cottage, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.

"She's not there," Emmet said, sliding back under the wheel. He started the engine and drove down the bumpy alley. "She's doing nude telegrams."

Sarr pursed his lips in consternation. "But where is she..? Didn't you find out where..?"

"She could be anywhere. When a person gets into the seamy life, they tend to move around quite a lot."

"But is it a company?"

"It's a company, allright. Maybe you can do some research into the field while I'm sleeping. Get a swinger's newspaper. Maybe her picture is in it." He barreled onto a main crosstown street and pointed the car toward home.

"We don't know what she looks like," Sarr reminded the Earthling.

*

Little Vance was spending a lot of time in his bedroom. Dolly had lately been putting him to bed at 7:30, because Jon didn't like being terrorized by a small boy. The terror consisted of barked shins caused by Vance's little sandals. Vance wouldn't quit kicking dear Jon--apparently he didn't like him. Spankings didn't dissuade him from the disgusting trait, and Dolly couldn't talk him out of it; so she sent him to bed. She supposed Vance would stop kicking sometime on his own--in the meantime, he could sleep if he couldn't behave. Jon was part of their life now, and Vance would have to adjust.

*

Suckerfield couldn't sleep. He lay quietly in his bed with the bedroom door shut, but his mind ricocheted back and forth between Emira Spain, a space ship behind the moon and two aliens in his living room. He could hear their muffled voices making polite inquiries about Emira as they phoned one party service after another.

He turned on his side and put the pillow over his head. Like a pinball in a pinball game, his thoughts bounced to Indiana and Alicia, then rebounded to his book--which shot him right back to the space ship. Sleep was impossible.

Oh, my God, he thought. I forgot to call Roberta back! He bolted upright in bed, threw the sheets back and jumped up. How could I possibly have forgotten that?

The phone, of course, was in the breakfast nook and was in use. He opened the door and padded into the living room in his pajamas and bare feet.

Sarr looked up from the yellow pages. "Can't sleep?" he inquired politely. "Maybe too much coffee?"

"Have some cognac," Mandillo Sprut suggested, dialing a number. The cognac bottle was open on the table, already a quarter down.

"I need to call somebody," Emmet said.

Scowling, Mandillo Sprut hung up the phone before his party answered and stood up, offering the chair to Emmet. "We're not trying to disrupt you life, Mr. Suckerfield. Really, we're not. You may call anyone you want to." He picked up his drink and waddled into the living room to watch the fish swimming lazily.

Emmet sat down and picked up the telephone receiver. "Any luck with Emira?" he asked Sarr.

"We don't think so, but it's hard to tell. Are you reporting sick to your work..?"

"Good idea," Emmet responded. He'd probably get in a wreck if he drove tonight in this condition. He dialed the Yellow Cab number and told them he'd had an attack of the flu and was too weak to come in.

Sarr watched him hang up. "So you see that lying is necessary under the right circumstances. Hopefully you will not judge me so harshly in the future."

Emmet snorted. His nasty retort was preempted by an insistent, high pitched bleating which seemed to emanate from the closet. Sarr and Mandillo Sprut looked ashenly at each other.

"A call," Sprut said.

"Must be," the little Ivy Leaguer answered. Whatever the bleeping was, it caused Sarr to start wringing his hands again. He hadn't done that since early in the afternoon.

"Should we answer it?" Sprut asked.

"Heavens, we have to, don't we? What if it's important?"

"It is important. My normal contact time is 10:23 AM Tuesday morning."

"Well, answer it..!"

The insistent bleating kept up. It abraded Emmet's ears like the loud crying of an infant. "Is that sound something of yours?" he demanded. "If it is, please make it stop. My neighbors won't appreciate hearing it."

"I'll have to set up the unit," Mandillo Sprut said to Sarr.

"Well, we have to answer." Both of them were rooted to the carpet, and the bleeping kept on.

Emmet barged across the living room and jerked the closet door open.

Mandillo Sprut scuttled in front of him and pulled one of the plaid suitcases out. "Don't touch," he scolded Emmet, and opened the plaid case on the couch. Emmet was not exactly shocked that it was filled with electronic equipment, the likes of which he had never seen.

Sprut pulled a long, thin cord from the side of the case and plugged it into the same electrical outlet that the fish filter pump was plugged into. "Forgot the transducer," he mumbled, pushing several buttons inside the case. The lights in the apartment dimmed for an instant, then returned to their normal luminosity. The bleating stopped.

Words started appearing on a tiny video monitor in the lid of the case. "Oh, my Lord," Sprut said, through constricted vocal cords. "It's Rem L'Mtali..!"

"Who's that?" Sarr whispered.

"The head of my division." Sprut stared, pasty-faced at the monitor. "He wants my location. This is terrible." he spat at Sarr. "Your stupid blundering has ruined my life! I knew it the first time you called!"

"Is he a Taark?" R'Tangele asked, his voice quavering and his hands working like crazy.

"Of course, he is, you fool! I have to give it to him! He's sending somebody through." Sprut knelt down and typed on a minuscule keyboard, using a tiny plastic pointer. "Not the Raak Force..!" he beseeched the monitor screen. "Please not the Raak Force. I've always done my job to the letter..!"

"Does he say who?" Sarr dithered. The monitor screen went blank.

"They found out! I know they did. What happens when the Raak Force arrests someone..?"

"I don't know," Sarr whimpered. "My father will die of embarrassment."

They both sank onto the couch, one on either side of the plaid case, and sat staring at the empty screen.

Emmet had no clear idea of what was going on, but at least the bleeping had stopped. He drifted over to the telephone, sat down and dialed the digits of Roberta's number. Her line was ringing, when sparks of electricity started leaping off the phone and out of all the light switches and electrical fixtures in the room.

"Oh, no.!" Sarr cried in alarm, leaping to his feet. Mandillo Sprut bounced off the couch and turned in a full circle, raising his arms in what appeared to be a self-defense stance.

"What's going on here..?!" Emmet yelled.

"Hello..?" Roberta Weinstein's sexy voice answered the phone.

"I'll call you right back!!" Emmet squacked. "Emergency here!"

"Emmet, is that you..?" Roberta asked in surprise, as he hung up on her.

"What the hell..?!" Emmet yelped. He jumped to the kitchen and threw off the circuit breakers in the electrical switch box beside the refrigerator. But sparks continued to leap from all the outlets, and now big sizzles of static electricity bounced around the living room.

"Who is it..?!" Sarr squeaked at Mandillo Sprut.

"How should I know?! Somebody! Get ready..!"

A body materialized behind a gauze of electrical energy. It was a head taller then Mandillo Sprut and its mane of hair stood straight out in the static charge. Emmet looked around for a weapon and snatched up the telephone to protect himself with.

"Good Heavens, it's the Senator," Sarr whinnied. The electricity vanished suddenly, and Senator Chad M'Gnapt stood dazed and snarling in the middle of Emmet's living room. He looked much as Suckerfield had described him, except that a thick erection stood boldly out from his hairy body--the result of intense electrical stimulation. His Tornandoan clothing was not designed for concealment.

"Welcome Senator," Sarr chirped, bowing submissively from the waist. Mandillo Sprut was also bowing.

"Where's R'Tangele..?!" Senator M'Gnapt roared. "Who are you..?"

Emmet backed up a step or two, clutching the telephone. He stopped backing when his shoulder blade hit a book case.

"I am Sarr R'Tangele," the midget apologized, continuing to bow. "At your service."

"You moron!!" the Senator exploded, jerking Sarr off his feet and holding the cringing midget at arms lengths. "You miserable worm!! Where's my daughter..?!"

"We're searching for her, sir. We are very close to finding her, if you could only be patient."

The doorbell rang.

"That may be her, right now, sir." Sarr squeaked.

"By your leave, sir, I'll answer the door." Mandillo Sprut said, an octave higher than his usual voice. He waddled to the door, still bowing slightly, and opened it.

"Happy birthday to you!" a young blonde girl sang, dancing right past Mandillo Sprut and throwing open the dark cape she wore to reveal that she was stark naked. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you..! Happy birthday..dear Emmet...Happy birthday to you...." Her theatrical happiness trailed off as she saw the Senator's erection. It looked as if she might scream, but then a wisp of a smile crossed her lips. "It's a masquerade party..?" she asked.

"Yes...that's right," Mandillo Sprut gasped. "A masquerade party." He looked over at Emmet. "Is this her?" he asked, hopefully.

"No," Emmet said, eyeing the girl's protuberances, then turning his attention back to the Senator, who still held Sarr R'Tangele aloft.

"That is the most realistic costume I ever saw," the girl said to Senator M'Gnapt. "Totally awesome. Where did you get it?"

"It's a secret," Sprut answered for the Senator, handing the girl a crisp hundred dollar bill and a twenty dollar tip. "Thank you for stopping over. You may go now."

"I usually stay for half an hour," the girl said, focusing on the erection, which seemed to be receding.

"That's fine, dear. We just wanted the song." He held the door open for her. "Thank you."

"Well, thank you, sir." She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and ran out the door. "Incredible costume..!" she yelled to someone outside. "You should see it..!"

Mandillo Sprut closed the door and made a warding off gesture again over his brow.

Senator M'Gnapt placed R'Tangele back on the carpet. "Have I ever met you?" he asked.

"No, sir," Sarr said, meekly. "And this is Mandillo Sprut, the planetary agent for Rhana 1217."

"The other fuck up!" The Senator's lips drew back in a snarl.

"This is the first time that something like this has happened in my area of control, sir," Sprut apologized, feebly. "We are trying to rectify the problem."

"I didn't come here to bullshit or hear lame excuses! I want that girl, now..!" The Senator inclined his massive head toward Suckerfield, who was still backed up against the bookcase, holding the telephone. "Who is that?" he hissed.

"He's the native writer who had contact with your daughter, sir. His name is Emmet Suckerfield. He has agreed to help us..." Sarr's voice trailed off. "Most graciously..." he added.

"Is that his true form?"

"Yes, it is, sir," R'Tangele said.

"Please introduce me in an appropriate way," Senator M'Gnapt ordered. The smile he turned toward Emmet showed long, sharp fangs and did little to dispel Emmet's apprehension.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"This is Senator M'Gnapt," R'Tangele whimpered to Emmet. "He brings greetings from the people of The Gangamma Tornando." Sarr turned his head to the Senator. "They shake hands here, sir."

"I know the customs and the language. And I saw no reason to change my body form, so I didn't."

"I can understand that, sir," Sarr said, self-effacingly. "You were right not to."

"All peoples should know each other in their true bodies."

"Yes, sir."

The Senator stuck out his reptilian hand to Emmet. "Nice to meet you, Emmet Suckerfield. I hope we have a long and prosperous friendship."

Emmet shook hands, hesitantly. The Senator's hand was dry and rough, but not unpleasant.

"Does my appearance frighten you?"

"A little," Emmet admitted. "I've seen you before in or I'd probably be scared to death." He chuckled half-heartedly. "I hope you won't be going outside. My neighbors would probably have heart attacks or something."

"Nonsense. We are a peaceable race... You say you saw me before? How was that? I thought your planet was land locked."

"Your daughter apparently transmitted a book about her life into his mind," Mandillo Sprut offered. "We've only just discovered the book, but you are described in magnificent detail, sir."

"Is that so..? Transmitted it, did she?" Senator M'Gnapt seemed very interested.

"She sent it somehow, sir. Mr. Suckerfield says she didn't tell it to him with words. The account is too accurate to be accidental."

"Hmmmm... Very interesting. Where is Venus now, Emmet Suckerfield?"

"We're trying to locate her, sir," Sprut continued. "He has lost track of her."

"I am talking to Emmet Suckerfield," the Senator said sharply, looking down on Mandillo Sprut.

"Of course, sir," Sprut said, bowing humbly. "I'm only trying to help."

"Do you know where my daughter is, Emmet Suckerfield?"

"No, I don't, Senator. But I thought that if we put an ad in all the newspapers in the country, we could probably find her."

"Excellent. See to that right away, R'Tangele. How many newspapers are there?"

"I don't know, exactly," Emmet replied. "Quite a few."

Senator M'Gnapt looked questioningly at Mandillo Sprut.

"Probably thousands," Sprut answered, dispiritedly. "Maybe tens of thousands."

"I meant the major ones," Emmet said. "She's not likely to be doing telegrams in North Dakota."

"Telegrams?" the Senator asked.

A loud knocking on the door interrupted him.

"There's one now," R'Tangele piped up. "You see, we are trying to find her, sir."

Too weird, Emmet thought, stepping to the door. This is like a private burlesque. "How many of these services did you call?" he asked Mandillo Sprut as he opened the door.

Two burly muscle goons in bulging T shirts stood on the doormat. They grabbed Emmet's arms and jerked him outside. Emmet let out a squawk.

"Are you Suckerfield?" the biggest one said. He was wearing a blue Dodgers cap. "We know you're him, so don't bother saying you ain't. We're here to collect for Reggie."

Emmet had come to that conclusion by himself. In the excitement of the day, he'd forgotten to borrow the money to pay up. This was the 1st of June. The due date. "I don't have it," Emmet apologized. His mouth felt like it was full of marbles. "I'm sure I can get it by tomorrow."

"That's too bad," the goon said. "Reggie don't like dead beats. And he don't like to be made a fool. He told us to break your left arm. We hate to, but you should have got the cash." He applied pressure on Emmet's elbow. "This will remind you."

"I'll get it..!!" Emmet screamed, blinded by pain. "Don't break it..!"

The pain ceased suddenly and Emmet slumped to the cement floor. Both goons slammed against the far wall of the hallway, jarring the building like an earthquake. Senator Chad M'Gnapt leaped over Emmet with a roar and rammed his scaly fist into the nearest man's well developed pectoral muscle. As the muscle-head doubled over, the Senator picked the two hundred pound bully up and threw him at the other guy. Both heavy bodies tumbled down the porch steps onto the sidewalk.

"Don't come back here," the Senator advised them, as they ran off into the night. He turned back to Emmet. "I'm not sure I understand these telegrams," he said, with a baffled look. He helped Emmet to his feet. "Is Venus mixed up with people like that? I know she has some strange notions, but that's carrying things a step too far."

"Thank you," Emmet said, regaining his voice. In a daze, he walked inside and sank into his television chair. The telephone jangled. "Could you bring the phone over here?" he asked Sarr.

The little person dutifully retrieved the telephone and handed it to Emmet. "Who is it?" he asked.

Emmet raised his eyebrows and picked up the receiver.

"Emmet, are you allright..?! Should I call the police..?" It was Nancy, the girl upstairs.

"No, fine! Everything's under control, now. Please, don't call the police."

"What is going on down there?" she asked. "It sounds like somebody's being murdered!"

"No, it's a...science fiction convention, sort of. You know I got my book published..?"

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. Congratulations. Will you autograph a copy for me?"

"Of course, Nancy. Whenever they get as far west as Los Angeles."

"Oh, the books aren't here yet?"

"Not yet. In a few days."

"But the groupies are already there..?"

"Yes. Strange, isn't it. They're not exactly groupies," he added not knowing what else to say.

"Well, I'm glad you're allright. Sometimes I worry about you."

"You do..? That's nice of you."

"Not really," she said. "I'll be going to bed soon. If you could tell them to keep it down a little...."

"Oh, sure. No problem. And thanks for calling."

Emmet recradled the phone and looked at the aliens. "Thank you, Senator. I'd have a broken arm, if you hadn't stepped in." He flexed his arm, marveling that the elbow still worked. "My own fault, of course. I owe them some money from gambling."

"Was that Venus on the audio unit?" the Senator asked. He apparently had one-pointed concentration when he was on a mission.

"No, I'm afraid not. It was my neighbor upstairs, asking if we could keep the noise down." He gestured toward Nancy's apartment.

"What kind of gambling do you engage in, Emmet?" Sarr asked.

"Horses, unfortunately."

"Oh," the little man said.

The phone on Emmet's lap rang again, and immediately thereafter the doorbell chimed. Emmet answered the telephone and motioned Sprut to get the door.

"Emmet, are you allright?" Roberta Weinstein, said with a worried catch in her voice. "What is going on with you..?"

"Yes, fine now, Roberta. Thanks for calling back."

Mandillo Sprut opened the door gingerly. A chubby bleached blonde Oriental girl stepped through the door and threw her wrap off. "Happy bilthday to you. Happy bilthday to you..!!" she bellowed. "Happy bilthday, deal Emmet! Happy bilthday to you..!!" Grabbing Mandillo Sprut by the shoulders of his baggy jacket, the girl planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek. A red lipstick flower blossomed on his cheek as he turned awkwardly to Emmet. "I guess that's not her?" he said.

Emmet shook his head no, finding that naked chubby girls could be quite fetching. Roberta Weinstein squealed in his ear, demanding to know what was going on. "There are several people here, who would love to meet you, Roberta. ...Actually, you'd get a kick out of this, and I could use your advice. Why don't you come over for breakfast? Say about 9:30? ...Great. See you then." He recradled the phone, watching Mandillo Sprut cough up another hundred dollar bill for the Oriental girl and send her on her way.

"How many of these girls did you call?" he asked Sarr.

"We have a few more coming. They're quite strangely hairless on their bodies, aren't they? They must be very submissive."

"Some are, some aren't," Emmet said. "It's not a question of hair. It's psychological."

"Aah... Interesting culture," Sarr answered, vacantly. "Well, Senator, what can we do to make you comfortable? Would you like coffee or perhaps alcohol? The relief facilities are in that little room off the hallway."

"Find the girl," Senator M'Gnapt said stiffly. "I left very important work behind, and I don't have the time nor inclination to dally."

"Yes, of course not. Do you have any suggestions on how to proceed, sir?"

The Senator's hand flicked out, removed the aquarium cover and dipped a goldfish from the water--all in one fluid motion. Without a thought, he popped Bertha in his mouth, chewed once and swallowed.

"Stop..!!" Emmet gasped, bounding out of the TV chair. He wedged himself between the Senator and the aquarium, protecting the remaining fish with his body. "My God," he quailed, "you ate Bertha..!"

Mandillo Sprut touched Emmet's arm sympathetically, stuttering condolences.

The Senator looked questioningly at Emmet, then burped.

Awaking shortly after dawn, Emmet found that his hipbone and shoulder ached from sleeping on the floor. Senator M'Gnapt made it clear that he needed a private room for his communications back to the Senate. Emmet had seen the unprofitability of disagreeing with a mercurial character like the Senator. Knowing from experience that the couch was a back-breaker, he opted for the floor, feeling that he'd get used to it in a day or so. After all, there was a carpet and a carpet pad, and his old sleeping bag provided even more cushioning. Many people in the world made due with much less comfort than that. Including Mandillo Sprut, who had the couch.

The bedroom door was open, so Emmet glanced in. He saw the Senator sitting on his bed, hairy and naked, typing something onto the transmitter suitcase, which was open on a small night table. I'll have to find him some clothes, Emmet thought, stepping into the bathroom. Maybe there's a pro football outfitter in the neighborhood. But could he be persuaded to get a haircut..?

When Emmet finished shaving, both R'Tangele and Mandillo Sprut were pacing around the living room.

"If we want to go out with the Senator," Emmet asked, tactfully, "do we dress him as a hippie or what..?"

"What..?" R'Tangele asked, breaking stride.

"My agent is coming over for breakfast. It's usual to go out for breakfast, and Senator M'Gnapt is very strange looking. I think we'll need to disguise him, but I wondered if you'd like to broach the subject to him?"

"Uh, yes," Sarr said. He was developing a nervous tick in his left eye. The eye winked rhythmically. "We were talking about that. If he would dress like a woman, we could appear to be a family. Do you think he realizes he doesn't look right for this planet..? I mean, it would be improper for us to insult him."

"He's somewhat inflexible," Mandillo Sprut said, amplifying their feelings.

"Would he wear a dress..?" Emmet asked.

"He might, if we could reach his sense of fun," Sprut theorized. "Why don't I slip out and find him some suitable articles to choose from."

*

Roberta Weinstein had rediscovered Hanson McIvor purely by accident. One her way to the beach one day, she had pulled into a 76 gas station. When she looked up at the guy polishing her window, there he was.

"My God..! Hanson..?!" she had screamed.

Hanson smiled a boyish smile, having, of course, recognized his nemesis. He bore her no ill will. In the reshuffling of his life, she had been a minor player. "Hi, Roberta," he said.

"My God, you're pumping gas..."

"I'm good at it. What's with you..?"

Roberta was much less sure of her future than Hanson was at present--less sure, but still certain that things would eventually work in her favor.

"I got kicked out of Carruthers' the same day you did," she said. "But do you remember Emmet Suckerfield?"

"Sure," Hanson said.

"Well, I sold his book. I'll bring you a copy after it's published."

"Hey, that's swell! That same book we were trying to sell? The one with the great title, what was it...?"

"Space Sex."

"Right. Space Sex On Venus..!" He smiled a slow smile. "That was a really good title. Congratulations."

Roberta handed Hanson her credit card, feeling a little strange that he was pumping gas. After all, if it weren't for Hanson, she would never have met Suckerfield. "Are things allright with you..?" she asked. He did look awfully virile with the sunburn on his face and arms. He was a cute guy, but wow, hopelessly dumb.

"Things are allright," Hanson said, running her charge card through the machine. "I'm learning to fix cars."

"That's good. Maybe I'll have you work on mine if something goes wrong."

"Sure," Hanson said. "Why not?"

"Well, see you, Hanson. I'll bring you a copy of the book."

"Sure," he grinned. "I'd like to read it." He waved as she drove off toward Hollywood.

*

Walter Carruthers was slightly pissed off when he came upon the one paragraph blurb in Variety stating that "Space Sex" had been published by Biberling Press in Boston. He hated to make an error in business judgment, and worse than that he hated to let a fish get away--no matter how small.

And that Weinstein tart had succeeded without him. Of course, success like that was a spit in the ocean. They hadn't even reported the size of the advance in Variety, which meant it was barely visible. For some reason, there was no mention in the blurb that she'd gotten her training from Carruthers, and that rankled. No damned gratitude, that's what was wrong with the world. And no continuity either. Marker, his dog, had died last week, while Walter had looked helplessly on. One minute the old bulldog had been sleeping peacefully in his place beside the hearth--then he farted loudly. The fart woke him up. He tried to stand and a heart attack hit him. He rolled over and died with his feet kicked in the air, while Walter sat in his chair watching. Carruthers had poured himself another two fingers of Scotch, knocked it back neat, then had toddled upstairs in search of his wife, leaving old Marker to face his maker alone.

The fart had been hideously smelly. The smell of it hadn't left Walter's nostrils, a week later. What a stupid goddamned way to remember a true and trusty friend.

*

When Emmet invited Roberta to breakfast, he had fully intended to spill the whole, astounding story to her; but the longer he thought about it, the less inclined he was to do so. Things might work out by themselves in a day or two. No sense in alarming her.

Roberta arrived at 9:30 dressed for the beach in white short shorts and a red polka dot halter top. Emmet introduced the visitors as his Aunt Chadwick and Uncle Manny from Iowa, and their son, Sardine. He decided to keep the names simple, so that at least there would be no foul up there.

Earlier, after the most circumspect prodding, the Senator had agreed to hide his godlike Taark form in a woman's weightlifter sweat suit, tennis shoes and a stylish pink tennis visor. Mandillo Sprut had brought a selection of these items from his sporting goods shop, which was the only place open at 7:30 in the morning. Senator M'Gnapt was the ugliest woman that Suckerfield had ever seen. The addition of red lipstick did little to improve his appearance, but it added an authentic touch of color to the greenish face. Ugly women often wear garish make-up.

Roberta was enthusiastic about breakfast and suggested that they drive down to Bob's Big Boy. That surprised Emmet, since Bob's had always been too low-brow for her to set foot in.

Emmet was also surprised that Roberta would flaunt her charms in the tight shorts and halter. Maybe she had the hots for him again. More likely, she considered the outfit proper beach attire -- who can figure a woman. In any case, the shimmying breasts were not lost on the alien trio, who paid close attention on the way into Bob's. The polka dot top did nothing to constrain her breasts from jiggling, and the jiggling caused her nipples to poke the thin fabric out in the middle of a red polka dot on each side. Maybe Roberta had a subconscious yen for visitors from out of town, he thought. If so, these three just might surprise her. For kinky thrills, a space ship gang-bang ought to just about put the icing on her cake.

Emmet was kind of glad that he felt no lingering possessiveness toward Roberta's sex life. She was his friend and agent. That was enough.

"I have a secret for you," Roberta bubbled, scooting into a booth. Emmet sat beside her. The family group from Iowa sat across the table.

"What is it?" he said, picking up the menu.

"I'll tell you after we eat," she said, signaling a waitress. The waitress was a little unprepared for customers to expect snappy service at Bob's, but she tottered over to get the order.

After they had ordered, Roberta broke the ice. "How do you like Los Angeles, Sardine?" she asked. Looking closely at him for the first time, she noted that Sarr was sprouting a small mustache. "Doesn't he have another name?" she asked Emmet. "Nicknames can be so cruel."

Emmet nodded his agreement. He had never enjoyed being called Sucker.

"You can call me Sarr," Sarr said. "Everyone else does."

She smiled compassionately. "How old are you?"

"I'm only eleven," he replied. "And how old are you?"

"He would be about four hundred by your calculation," Aunt Chadwick interrupted, ogling Roberta's bosom.

"Please don't be a wise guy, Aunt Chadwick," Emmet said, hoping to shut down any weirdness. "This is an important lady to my career."

"The four hundred year old boy," Roberta remarked, with a wink at Sarr. "What an interesting concept. Maybe I should pitch that idea for your new book, Emmet. What do you think?"

"Why not?"

"You're one of the sexiest women I've ever seen," Senator Aunt Chadwick said, brashly. "I'm glad I came here. I had no idea the females were so gorgeous in this sector."

Sarr nudged him in the ribs with an elbow, and said something quickly in a strange language.

"We usually don't talk about things like that before breakfast, Auntie," Emmet said. He knew that he had no control over his guests. If they chose to act like stud lion/toads, there wasn't much he could do about it.

"Pardon me," the Senator said. He adjusted his pink visor, and smiled, showing his sharp teeth. "I merely find you attractive."

"Thank you," Roberta said, somewhat taken aback. Was Emmet's aunt a lesbian? "Now that I look at you, Sarr," she said, "you don't seem like a little boy. Are you a midget?"

"Yes," Emmet said.

"Of course, he's not," the Senator countered. "It should be perfectly evident that we're in disguise. The prevalent policy suggests that we go incognito on distant planets. It's a rubbish policy. My thinking on the matter is quite the opposite, but I have never been able to turn a majority of the Senate to my point of view."

Roberta listened attentively, but made no sense of it. Aunt Chadwick must be a nut case. Why had Emmet invited her to meet his family, if they were nuts?

"My real father was small," Sarr explained, sticking to the story he had invented earlier.

The waitress arrived with the juice and coffee.

"Did I miss something?" Roberta asked, turning to Emmet. She did not wish to be made a fool of.

"In the interest of inter-planetary harmony," Mandillo Sprut began with a disarming smile. "I should confess that we're here from a different galaxy, trying to recover a lost member of our expedition."

"Oh, you're space men?" Roberta chuckled.

"Well, actually, their daughter got lost and I'm kind of helping them to find her," Emmet mumbled.

"Lost..?" Roberta exclaimed, still believing she was the butt of a family joke. Emmet was weird. It probably ran in the family. She smiled charmingly. "How fascinating."

"Yes, she's extremely lost. It might make a good science fiction yarn, at that. I'll tell you about it sometime." Emmet looked deep into the menu, although he'd already ordered.

"I can hardly wait," she said, cattily. "Honesty makes good bedfellows."

"I'll be honest with you, Roberta," Sarr said.

"I will, too," echoed the Senator.

"I will, too," said Mandillo Sprut, unwilling to be lost in the shuffle. "Actually, it's Senator M'Gnapt's daughter, Venus, who we're searching for."

"What..?" Roberta inquired, finding that her brain was unable to process that information.

"Yes," Emmet mumbled. "They think Venus transmitted the book to me."

"She did, Miss Roberta," Sarr assured her. "We're looking for her."

Roberta was dumbfounded.

"These are all characters in the book," said Suckerfield. "Sarr and the Senator, here. Except for Manny. He's not in it, as you know. He's the planetary representative for Earth."

"Oh," she replied, lightly.

"Pretty amazing, isn't it?" Emmet said, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.

"Faintly," she answered.

"I thought you might want to know that the book is non-fiction, instead of fiction."

"Thank you," she said with a shallow smile. Roberta glanced at the odd trio across the table, alarmed that they were all ogling her. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then a gleam twinkled her eyes as the erotic possibilities reached her sex center. "It's rather astounding that you can be so blas` about this, Emmet darling."

"Well, I've known about it for a day, now. As far as I can tell, they're the real McCoy. There's nothing really to be upset about. I always thought that life existed on other planets. And it certainly does. I'll fill you in when we get a minute."

"You certainly dress negligently, Roberta," Sarr tweeted, eyeing her halter. "It makes us travelers break into antsiness. Of course, you didn't know we would react so well."

"Negligently..?" Roberta asked with a strange smile.

"He means something else," Mandillo Sprut said. "I think your beach attire is quite stylish. And you wear it so well."

Emmet stared at Mandillo Sprut, marveling at his glib tongue.

"She neglected to wear more," Sarr said, in defense of his grammar. "Negligently is correct."

"We certainly want to thank you for getting Emmet's book published, Miss Roberta," Sprut said, redirecting the traffic. "How is it selling, by the way?"

Emmet was beginning to feel an affinity with Sprut. He did try to herd the others toward normalcy. Actually, the trio was pretty interesting. Their unpredictable behavior was keeping him on his toes. In point of fact, the last two days had undoubtedly been the most intriguing period of his life. I really ought to take better advantage of their visit, he thought. He remembered the Senator picking that huge goon up and tossing him through the air. They must be capable of amazing feats. And I keep treating them as unwelcome guests, as children. I'd kick myself forever if I let them get away without making a sincere effort toward inter-galactic communication. Maybe they know the secret of the universe.

"Actually," Roberta said to Sprut, "the publisher shipped six thousand books as of yesterday."

"Wonderful," Sarr said, sickly. "I'd surely love to have a copy. We've only seen the advance proofs."

Roberta turned sideways to look at Emmet. His eyes met hers, imploring her to stick with him. "Be sure to let me know when your books do arrive," she said, levelly, "so I can start working on a movie deal."

"Am I getting some books?" Emmet asked, pleased at the prospect. He had decided to buy as many copies as he could afford to get circulation going.

"Of course. All authors get complimentary copies."

"Well, aren't you getting your own?" he asked her.

"I told Gridley to ship mine with yours."

"Oh..."

"That's not too confusing for you, is it, dear?"

"No. I just didn't know I'd be getting any free books. ...I was thinking about something else."

Roberta smiled indulgently. All writers were absent minded. She knew he wasn't lying about being distracted, she could practically see his brain spinning.

"When Emmet gets paid," Sprut interjected out of the blue, "he's taking us to Disneyland."

"I'm not." Emmet was adamant. "And I won't be getting paid for six months or so. You won't be here."

"You promised..!" Sprut whined.

The Senator nodded his agreement. "Disneyland has a four star rating in the inter-galactic tour guide book," he said, pointedly. "The only four star on Rhana 1217."

"All out-of-towners want to visit Disneyland," Roberta chided. "Give them something to remember you by, Emmet."

"I'm boycotting," said Emmet.

"Why on Earth would you boycott Disneyland?" Roberta snickered. "You really are a weird guy."

"He is," Sarr agreed. "And we really want to go."

Emmet's boycott was an old story, which he didn't feel like repeating. Before he'd met Alicia back during the hippie days, on a trip to California he'd been refused admittance to Disneyland on the grounds that he had long hair and a beard. He swore that if they didn't let him in instantly, he would never return. The redneck security guard smirked that they were certainly sorry to lose his business. The cocksure cock-sucker. Of course, times and dress codes at Disneyland had changed, but Emmet's resolve hadn't.

"I'll go along with you," Roberta said, suddenly. "I'd like to take the river boat ride again. I haven't been out there for years."

"You're welcome to go with them, but I'm not," Emmet said, firmly. "And just for the record, I never said I would."

"He doesn't want us to have any fun during the short time we're here," Sarr said.

Emmet shook his head in dismay. "My opinion is that visitors can take care of their own sightseeing."

They ate breakfast, while the guys chattered about where they'd like to go sightseeing, and how splendid it would be for Roberta to go along with them. Then over coffee, Roberta announced the big surprise she'd been saving.

"Do you know who works right across the street..?" she asked.

"Who..?" Emmet asked, feigning delight.

"Hanson McIvor..!"

Emmet looked out the window, trying to locate an office building. All he saw was a cheap motel and a gas station. Presumably, McIvor had an office in the motel. That was about his speed.

"He opened his own agency..?" Emmet inquired.

"Not exactly," Roberta said, smirking ear to ear.

The space invaders didn't know Hanson, and contented themselves with ogling waitresses and Roberta.

"You and McIvor are opening an office together in the motel?" Emmet guessed.

"You're so smart, Emmet..!" Roberta squealed, theatrically. "Hanson's working at that gas station, right there..!" She pointed her elegant finger at Pauli's 76.

Emmet's eyes followed her finger, and there was a guy who resembled his former agent. In fact, he was a spitting image. "Wow," Emmet said, ironically. "That a sad sight."

"Well, that's my surprise," Roberta beamed. "Do you think we could talk privately," she asked, sweetly.

*

Suckerfield woke with a start as some sort of power company truck with a parabolic dish on top rumbled down the alley. He had gone out to sit on the old couch in the alley, in order to rest his brain. Senator M'Gnapt was using his room again, so the couch seemed appealing. He hadn't intended to fall asleep when he lay down, he just wanted to rest his eyes while he soaked up a few rays. Emmet looked groggily at his watch. It was afternoon. He'd been asleep for several hours. He licked his lips. They felt leathery and his face was hot and dry.

The truck stopped at an electric pole down the alley and two repairmen with badges clipped to their gray coveralls got out. Emmet sat up, not wanting them to mistake him for a drunken bum. His eye caught sight of Sarr R'Tangele bounding past the garages, in search of him.

"Emmet, come inside right away," Sarr prattled, urgently.

"What's up?" Emmet asked.

"We have some telegram persons we'd like you to identify."

"That's a waste of time," Emmet growled. "Why don't you ask for Emira Spain by name?"

"We do, but we can't take a chance. She might have changed her name. We have to try every blonde."

"What if she dyed her hair?"

"Oh, Stars in Heaven!!" Sarr yelped. "You said that before, but I forgot. Do you think she would? ...Your face is very crimson colored, Emmet."

"I was afraid of that," Emmet said, standing up. "Sunburn. How red is it?"

"Quite," Sarr replied, nudging him toward the apartment. "You should be careful. Your sun is quite bright."

"Thanks for the warning," responded Emmet.

There were two nude blondes in the apartment. They were done singing and stood looking at each other, professionally appraising thighs and hair styles, wondering what to do next.

"No and no," Emmet said, smiling. "Lovely, but no. Pay them," he said to Mandillo Sprut. "We need to get serious. Your hit and miss method could take forever and still not turn her up."

Sprut shooed the girls out the door. "I'm sorry, but I can't think of an alternate approach. We put advertisements in twelve newspapers. All we can do is wait for a reply. In the meantime, I'm sure we're open to any brilliant suggestions you might have."

"How about sky writing?" Emmet asked. "That might get some immediate results. Emira didn't strike me as the kind of girl who reads newspapers."

"But you said to try newspapers..!" Mandillo Sprut set his jowls indignantly.

"It's worth a try," Emmet shrugged. "This is an overwhelming problem, that's all. What's he doing in there?"

"The Senator is a very important man," R'Tangele chimed into the conversation. "You have no idea how influential he is."

"He looks pretty strange in drag," Emmet laughed. The laugh hurt his face. He got a jar of Alicia's old cold cream from the bathroom, and applied it to his burning face. "Do you guy's control a lot of planets, or how does it work up there..?" he called out to Sprut, angling sagely for some information.

"I forgot to bring the damned transducer, again..!!" Mandillo Sprut erupted. He let out such an amazing string of curses, that Emmet stepped out of the bathroom with cold cream on his face to observe him.

"I have to get the spttshting pvord right away..!" Sprut swore, fumbling for his car keys.

"Were you making fun of the way Senator M'Gnapt is dressed?" Sarr asked Emmet, disregarding Sprut's railing.

"Kind of," Emmet replied. "He does look pretty comical."

"It's hardly nice to make fun of someone who protected you last night. By the way, those large men will probably be back, if you owe them a gambling debt. Hadn't you better pay it?"

Suckerfield grimaced. "Say, you wouldn't be able to loan me six hundred dollars, would you?"

Mandillo Sprut had put on his baggy suit jacket. He opened the door.

"Where are you going?" Sarr snipped.

"I told you, I have to get the muffling transducer from my shop. He's been on the Spal-trans all day. Don't you know what that does?"

"What..?"

"I thought you were a scientist? The Spal-trans screws up all the radio and TV reception in the area when it boosts the signal out. Everyone knows that. I meant to get the transducer when I got the clothes, but I forgot."

Sarr stared at him. It was hard for Emmet to decipher the look.

"I forgot, okay!" Sprut snapped. "I'm not used to being a valet. If you hadn't fucked up in the first place, none of this would be happening."

Sarr smirked and the color rose in his cheeks.

"I have to go!" Sprut sputtered. "The TV customers are probably raising hell all over this area. Keep Emmet looking at the girls." He shut the door behind him, and immediately popped back in. "Too late..!" he yelped. "The FCC is already here! Get him to stop broadcasting right away!"

"You tell him," Sarr whimpered. "You're the Planetary Agent. It's your job to keep things running smoothly."

"There's a weird truck out in the alley," Emmet said, remembering the truck he'd seen. "With a radar thing."

"Shit," Mandillo Sprut swore. "They're triangulating!" He darted out the door again. "Tell him..!!" he yelled and was gone.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Emmet got the idea that he might be in big trouble when a very worried FCC man pounded on his door.

"Would you mind if I inspect your electrical appliances, sir?" the young fellow asked, politely. "There's a bunch of interference coming from somewhere around here, and we think it's in your building. I'll just cruise through. Won't take a minute."

"Sure, I guess so," Emmet replied, opening the door wide, as if he had nothing to hide. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Don't know, sir. You don't have any heavy equipment or short wave transmitters, do you..?"

"Sure don't," Emmet lied boldfaced.

The guy passed a volt meter across the first outlet he came to. Then he checked out the electric refrigerator and headed for the bedroom. "Somewhere in this neighborhood we've got some very strange behavior. It shows up like a TV broadcast or something. Now, who would broadcast around here..? I think it must be an major electrical ground making a grid..or something." He checked an outlet in the bedroom and shook his head. "All normal here," he said.

"Can't you just read the meters?" Emmet asked, helpfully.

"I wish," the young fellow said, scratching his head. "Nope, it's some kind of interference. The TV's were going crazy, both cable and regular. But now we're not getting any reading. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

"I hope we won't be charged for extra electricity," Emmet replied, testily.

"Oh, no, sir. No way. It's not like that. Well, thanks for your help."

Emmet shut the door and sat down heavily in his TV chair. He puffed his cheeks out and expelled the air. That was close. Saved by luck. Sudden inspiration coupled with paranoia had caused him to shove Sarr and the Senator out the back door to take a mother and son walk with the plaid suitcases, barely seconds before the FCC man had knocked. He hoped it would be a long walk and they wouldn't come back for several hours. It was heavenly to be alone in his own apartment.

If the FCC guy had found Senator M'Gnapt transmitting to the Milky Way, Emmet had a sneaky suspicion that the upshot would have been tragic. What he'd better do, just to be safe, was slip over to the UCLA Law library and check up on extraterrestrial law. He chuckled. Pretty funny. Extraterrestrial law.

*

Some years before, Suckerfield had made it his business to learn his way around the excellent library facilities at UCLA. An inquiry at the University Research Library, near the sculpture garden, led him down to the first level basement, where he asked a spinsterish librarian where he might try to find something pertaining to extraterrestrial law. She suggested that he try the NASA regulations and aimed him into a cubicle with an index of the Space Agency guidelines. A brief flip through the index gave him Extraterrestrial Exposure Part 1211 14CFR Ch.V (1-1-86 edition).

He jotted down the reference code, returned the index book to the librarian and asked for the volume he wanted. With a tiny gesture of impatience, the white-haired woman whisked away from the desk into the stacks. Emmet hoped she wasn't calling the NASA authorities to report an unusual researcher. But he waited, and in a few minutes she returned with a thick, hard bound manual. Emmet thanked her effusively, and clutched the olive drab binding with perspiring hands. Why should he be so drenched with nervous perspiration? Hell, he was only sitting on the lid of a national emergency. And why was he sitting on it, instead of turning the aliens in? Get this! He felt a responsibility for the plight of the characters in his book. Hell, he knew their trials and tribulations--they weren't bad guys at heart. Actually, they were almost family to him. He knew them better than he knew almost anybody on his own planet. Was he supposed to simply turn them over?

Back in the cubicle, he opened the book to page 100 and ran his eyes over the document. Oh shit, there it was. Extraterrestrial exposure!

Part 1211 - EXTRATERRESTRIAL EXPOSURE

1211.100 Scope

This part establishes:

(a) NASA policy, responsibility and authority to guard the Earth against any harmful contamination or adverse changes in its environment resulting from personnel, spacecraft and other property returning to the Earth after landing on or coming within the atmospheric envelope of a celestial body;

and

(b) Security requirements, restrictions and safeguards that are necessary in the interest of the national security.

Suckerfield read on, really sweating it, now.

1211.102 Definitions.

(b) "Extraterrestrially exposed" means the state or condition of any person, property, animal or other form of life or matter whatever, who or which has:

(1) Touched directly or come within the atmospheric envelope of any other celestial body; or

(2) Touched directly or been in close proximity to (or been exposed indirectly to) any person, property, animal or other form of matter whatever who or which has been extraterrestrially exposed by virtue of paragraph (b) (1) of this section.

(c) "Quarantine" means the detention, examination and decontamination of any person, animal..etc..etc..

1211.104 Policy.

(b) Quarantine. (1) During any period of announced quarantine, the property within the posted perimeter of the Lunar Receiving Laboratory at the Manned Spacecraft Center, Houston, Tex., is designated as the NASA Lunar Receiving Laboratory Quarantine Station.

1211.105 Relationship with Departments

(b) If neither the Departments of Health, Education and Welfare or the Department of Agriculture exercises its quarantine authority, NASA shall exercise the authority to quarantine an extraterrestrially exposed person, property, animal or other form of life or matter whatever. In such cases NASA will inform these departments of such quarantine action and, in addition, may request the use of such services, equipment, personnel and facilities of other Federal departments to ensure an effective quarantine.

1211.108 Violations.

Whoever, willfully violates, attempts to violate, or conspires to violate any provision of this part of any regulation or order issued under this part or who enters or departs from the limit of any quarantine station in disregard of the quarantine rules or regulations or without permission of the NASA quarantine officer shall be fined not more than $5,000 or imprisoned not more than 1 year, or both (18 U.S.C. 799)

Holy shit..! Emmet launched himself out of the chair. Extraterrestrially exposed! If anybody fits that damning title, it's certainly me. And everybody at Bob's Big Boy, and at Fuller Brush--and those nude girls. Christ, it's an epidemic..! He wasn't surprised to find that he could be quarantined at the Lunar Receiving Laboratory in Houston, Texas. And if he willfully violated quarantine or conspired to, he could be sent to jail and/or fined. Shit..!

Now that he knew the law, he was willfully violating it. He was putting the safety of his country at risk from space bugs, if nothing else.

Emmet found three dimes in his pocket and copied the telltale documents on a Xerox machine in the cubicle. Then, feeling like a criminal, he returned the manual, thanked the librarian for her help and went outside.

Once out in the fresh air and sunshine, he felt better. He sat under a sycamore tree and looked around the sculpture garden. This is really nice, he thought. There's something about superb bronze statues that make things feel solid and meaningful. Nice of UCLA to have this garden. A young Chinese co-ed sat on the grass near a brass torso, sketching it, presumably for her art class. Emmet was charmed by the peacefulness of it all.

Being on campus reminded him of his carefree college days. Why hadn't he pursued an academic career, he wondered. His life would be totally different if he had. Peaceful. He'd be tenured by now. Secure. Right, he scoffed, I'd be a secure, tenured cardboard cut-out, kowtowing to University policy. That's why he had avoided academia. Yes, being a cab driver was so much better. He felt like crying suddenly. Life was too bitter. Any path you take extracts its payment in blood. The intellectual and personal freedom that had been so much in vogue in his college days just didn't exist now. Most of the students here were after careers and money--and they would soon be disillusioned. But, hey, he thought brightening, since I'm published I probably could get a teaching job somewhere. Or maybe I'll go to jail for harboring aliens. Emmet got up and peeked over the Chinese girl's shoulder to see if the drawing was any good. She looked up at him, making sure that he wasn't a rapist, then went back to shading her drawing. He noticed that the torso was by William Zorach. Gee, I used to like Zorach, he thought. Funny how you get away from looking at art. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that no cops were tailing him, then headed toward the parking structure where his car was parked.

Driving past the apartment, he saw that Sprut's Buick was back. I'll just keep driving, Emmet thought in panic. His toe touched the accelerator, but let up immediately. Even his toe realized the cowardice of that policy. For better or worse, his fate had hooked him to those aliens. He would have to find Venus somehow.

He noticed that a neutral gray Plymouth was parked down the block. It looked suspiciously like an Army staff car. Maybe the CIA was here. Why not, they undoubtedly worked hand in hand with the FCC. Instead of parking in front Emmet parked in the bank parking lot, then walked down the street. A middle aged guy sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth, reading a newspaper. He looked up incuriously as Emmet strolled past. The frowziness of the guy reminded Suckerfield of Mandillo Sprut. Maybe he was another extraterrestrial agent from Tornando or even from some other planet. Or maybe he was CIA--or just a guy reading a newspaper. How the hell was Emmet to know?

He turned the corner, planning to go up the alley and in the back door--and there on the side street was the bastard FCC truck, with its radar dish pointed at Emmet's apartment. Cripes..! Suckerfield knew now that he was in deep trouble. He'd thought the FCC had gone away, but no, these guys were going to hang around until an explanation appeared to their mystery. He didn't think the Senator would submit to incarceration in Houston, Texas very gracefully. No, definitely not.

Emmet tried to whistle as he walked past the radar truck, but his mouth was too dry. He turned into the alley, and there sat the other truck, exactly where it had been--zeroed in on Emmet's building. Brain don't fail me now, he implored, feeling a mixture of cotton and Nembutal forming unbidden in his famous thinking apparatus. He smiled at the two technicians in the truck, like a normal person with every right to be walking down his own alley.

Ducking into the back door, he discovered Mandillo Sprut frying bacon and eggs in a large frying pan. Emmet shivered involuntarily from head to toe like a dog shaking water from its coat.

"Where have you been?" Sprut inquired. "We were worried. This is no time to be disappearing."

"Thanks for your concern," Emmet growled, brushing past him. "We have to talk. Now..!"

"Exactly," Sprut agreed. "I purchased some food. Would you care to eat with us?"

"No, thanks. ...Yes, of course, I would," Emmet answered, changing his mind.

He walked into the living room to find Sarr watching a game show on television. A buzz of paranoia shot through him, as he noticed that the bedroom door was closed. "Is he on that damned machine again?! Don't you know the danger we're in?" he yelled at Sarr, then thrust the Xerox copies of the NASA regulations under his nose. "This is serious..!"

"Calm down," Mandillo Sprut said, coming out of the kitchen. "We're in absolutely no danger. I brought the transducer. There is no TV interference, as you can see."

"The trucks are out there pinpointing this house..!!"

"Let them. The out-going signal is completely muffled."

"Why should I trust your technology?" Emmet hissed. "The reason you're here is because of a fuck-up."

Sprut glanced down his nose at R'Tangele. "I've been using this transducer for years," he said. "It's foolproof. Trust me."

"Senator M'Gnapt informed me that he won't hide anymore," Sarr interjected. "He feels it demeans his position. I hope you can see his point, Emmet. He's become most inflexible in that area, I'm afraid. A person in a passing car whistled at him, while we were walking."

"Fine," Emmet responded. "Just fine. I guess I might as well pack my suitcase for the quarantine. Read those papers!"

Mandillo Sprut snatched the Xeroxes from Sarr. "Oh, yes. The NASA prattle," he said, glancing at them. "This is nothing new. Don't worry about these. Just turn your attention back to the girl. That's what's important."

"And I suppose I shouldn't worry about space bugs either? What if you start a new epidemic?"

"Don't trouble yourself," Sprut said, nonchalantly, going back to the kitchen. "Think before you talk. We've been here since 1927."

Emmet closed his eyes, and purposely slowed his breathing. Sprut was right, of course. They were infinitely more experienced in these matters than he was. "What about the guy outside? I'm sure he's FBI or CIA."

Mandillo Sprut came back with four plates balanced in his hands. "Oh, you saw Harold Ford. Very good. You really are observant. Would you mind getting the silverware?" Sprut put the plates on the table and dug his wallet out of his back pocket.

"You know him?" Emmet asked, dumbfounded. "Who is he..?"

"Oh, he's a NASA investigator. Not a very effectual man, really."

"Good God," Emmet exploded. "Don't you know I could go to jail for harboring you?"

Sprut smiled and handed Emmet fifteen hundred dollars in fifty dollars bills. "Since you haven't been going to work, you might need this. I'd suggest that you pay off your gambling debt. That's your most immediate source of danger." He went back to the kitchen and returned with a handful of silverware and napkins. "Shall we eat before it gets cold?" he said to Sarr.

"Do we dare interrupt the Senator..?"

"You're the F-12," Sprut scowled at the shrimp. "You're supposed to know protocol."

R'Tangele seemed totally hesitant. He stood in the middle of the room, wringing his hands for lack of something better to do with them.

"You know, Emmet," Mandillo Sprut said, brightening with an idea. "I just thought of a wonderful plan that you just might be able to set in motion. How is your acting ability?"

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On Thursday morning, Emmet woke up in his sleeping bag on the floor, wondering how his book was selling. And in fact, Space Sex was on the move. Pasteboard cartons of the book had been speeding all over the United States. Several boxes had made it as far west as Los Angeles, but not to book stores. Instead, the cartons cooled their heels in UPS warehouses, waiting delivery.

On the East Coast, a few boxes had been shipped out to stores. One small carton had even been opened in Atlanta, but so far not one copy had been placed on display for sale. If a natural, or unnatural disaster occurred today to destroy the world, no one would ever purchase the book. Emmet's wonderings about sales were premature. He crawled out of the sleeping bag, noting that his bone structure was getting used to the hard floor.

*

Roberta Weinstein had been far from idle the week of Emmet's publication. Besides planning a trip to Disneyland, she had a live project now, and she damned well intended to run with it. Her ten percent was going to mean something.

She had sent copies of the galleys to an agent in France and to another one in Spain, with whom she hoped to place the foreign rights. There was a fortune to be made in translations. Roberta had elected to contact the foreign agents herself, because she wasn't sure that Biberling would do it forcefully.

In addition, she had mapped out a campaign to sell the book to the movies. She was definitely going to get an option for a screenplay out of it, or die trying. The rest would depend on a number of things, including how well the book actually sold.

*

About noon, a UPS box from Boston arrived at the apartment. Emmet signed the release for the driver and carried the heavy box inside. With a big grin and tingling hands, he opened his complimentary box of thirty books

The Senator and Mandillo Sprut seemed delighted to fondle the books, and kept congratulating him and chatting about how lifelike the illustration of Venus and the University of Sidap was. Sarr R'Tangele was sullen, and could not be drawn into their discussion.

"Buck up, R'Tangele," the Senator growled at him. "You're a famous interplanetary fuck-up, now. That's almost as good for a career as being outstanding at something. Of course," he glowered sharply, "your career was washed up before you got infamous, because you messed with me." He laughed loudly, relishing Sarr's discomfiture.

Senator M'Gnapt had recanted his position on wearing a disguise. It seemed he actually wanted to go to Disneyland with Roberta. Disneyland, according to him, was known throughout the Spiral Nebula. It seemed a shame to miss the chance to see it, since he didn't know when he'd have another opportunity. He mentioned, as he stepped into the jogging suit and applied the red lipstick, that it would make a tourist story to tell his grandchildren about.

The FCC had gone away about midnight last night and hadn't returned this morning. Emmet's TV was on constantly with the sound turned off. The picture had remained consistently perfect. And the plan with Harold Ford was in motion. Suckerfield had stuck his neck way out on Mandillo Sprut's advice. There was no going back, and it seemed totally likely that he'd get reamed. Well, hell, he could write in jail--he'd already proven that. It seemed unreasonable that NASA would react with brutish strength. Movies like E.T. were probably overplayed. But even if the NASA guys were ramrods, the rockets wouldn't be aimed at him. That last was a direct quote from Mandillo Sprut -- "The rockets won't be aimed at you, Emmet, and besides that, it will be excellent publicity for the sale of your book." Sprut counted on the Space Agency being a lot more gullible than Emmet did.

Time would tell, now. In the meantime, Harold Ford was on duty outside in his Plymouth and the space armada was getting ready to go to Disneyland.

*

Han McIvor had retained the habit of eating breakfast at Norm's more because it gave him a sense of family than for any culinary reason. He like to chat with the waitresses about their inconsequential life dramas; and he did drum up a bit of repair business for Pauli's, not that he got paid extra for it. Sid Ringo and he didn't intentionally fraternize anymore, but sometimes counter luck placed them side by side. On those occasions they exchanged pleasantries.

So McIvor was surprised to feel Ringo's heavy hand on his shoulder one morning, and even more surprised to be invited to join the movie producer at a booth. And what the mogul had to say tweaked his nascent ego right out of joint.

"You know, Mac," Sid Ringo boomed at him. Sid always called him Mac, as did many people at the gas station. "I always thought you were a pretty sharp kid."

Han nodded, unsure of what this could be about. He'd brought his plate with him to the booth and now dipped a corner of his toast into a yellow egg yoke.

"Yes sir, Mac, that's why I always went out of my way to pay special attention to the projects you brought me."

Han ate a forkful of home fried potatoes. He started work at nine, which was twenty minutes away. Not much time to chit-chat. However, his mind wasn't so far gone from smelling gas fumes that he'd forgotten that the only project he'd taken to Ringo had gotten him drummed out of the agent's corps.

"I was thinking about you the other day."

"Really..?" Han said.

"Naturally. I don't forget projects that come across my desk, and I don't forget who brought them to me." He didn't bother to mention that his secretary did the project remembering, and that she'd read a semi-rave book review on Space Sex in the Boston Globe, which had sparked her memory. "And I was thinking I might be ready to do a sci-fi story. We're talking low - low budget here, but if you're still representing that fellow, Suckerfield, I might be interested in spending a dollar or two on an option. What do you say?"

"Gosh, Sid," Han stammered. "You know I'm out of the business."

"Temporarily. Only temporarily," Sid laughed.

"Well, I don't know what to say."

"As a matter of interest, there might be a spot for a bright, young assistant producer on this project if you can land it, at the right price, of course."

"Oh, sure. At the right price." He chewed his potatoes. "What would the right price be? You know he wrote a novel about the central character and got it published."

"Is that right?" Sid seemed pleased by that piece of information. "How's it selling?"

"I don't know. I guess I could find out."

"Do that. It's sure to help his sales to have a movie deal."

"Sure," Han said. "What kind of figure should I mention to him, if he's amenable?"

"Well, he's a virtual unknown. I wouldn't get any mileage out of his name, so we need to be slightly cautious. I'd say about five." Sid Ringo held up four porky fingers and a thumb.

"Five thousand?" Han gulped. That was a very respectable option deal for an unknown book. Sid must be serious.

"Hundred," Ringo said. "It's a high risk project, and we'd have to spend a bundle on development."

Han's face fell.

"That would be a six month option, naturally. Renewable and negotiable." He watched Hanson's reaction, seeing that the offer had been a little cheap. "Ah, hell, let's make that a three month option. Give the writer a break for a change. And don't forget a sweet little job for you when we get the project off the ground."

"I'll give him a call, Sid. That's the best I can say right now. I'll get back to you later today. Sorry, but I have to go now." Han stood and left a fifty cent tip beside his plate. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"Hey, that's what makes the business work, Mac," Sid replied affably. He stuck out his hand to shake. Sid Ringo knew from experience that once he had an option on a novel, there was an excellent chance that somebody would believe he was sitting on a hot project when they read about the deal in Variety. Then if a foolhardy production company actually attempted to make the film, a very nice chunk of change would fall into his pocket. There would be no job for Mac, of course; but what the hell, the kid was bright enough to realize that.

*

At about 3:30 in the afternoon, the doorbell rang. Emmet bounced out of his chair, nervous as a springbok at a waterhole in lion country. The Disneyland party had slipped out the back door with Roberta hours ago. Emmet was going to beard the bear alone. He turned down the volume on the brainless afternoon game show he'd been watching, and opened the door. There stood Harold Ford in double knit slacks and a white polo shirt over his beer belly. A smile of success tinged with greed lit up his pudgy face. In his hand was a large manila envelope. Standing beside him was a steely, legal type in skiing sunglasses and an expensive suit. The weasel had FBI written all over him. Two other men in suits waited on the porch steps.

"I have your information, Mr. Suckerfield," Ford said, looking over Emmet's shoulder into the apartment. The hunger showed more clearly with each passing second.

"They're not here," Emmet said, through gritted teeth. "I told you that! Why in God's hell did you bring all these people?! Are you purposely trying to endanger me?"

"Of course not," Harold Ford replied with a flustered, oily grin. He was not used to being called to account by anyone except his superiors and his wife.

"I told you the plan..!" Emmet spat.

"I know you did, sir," Ford stammered. Emmet's anger discombobulated him, as Mandillo Sprut had said it would.

"Then give me the stuff on my girlfriend and get them out of sight. Jesus Katie Christ..! I thought we had this all worked out!"

Mr. Sunglasses brushed past Emmet and did a quick inventory of the apartment. His hand was buried under his opposite armpit. Obviously, he had a gun. "Nobody here," he announced.

Emmet glowered and tapped his toe impatiently. "Are you purposely trying to tip them off, so you won't have to apprehend them?" he badgered Harold Ford. "They could be back at any second."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Suckerfield, but I don't run the Agency. This is Dr. Hazelton, my bureau chief."

"Doctor of what..?" Emmet inquired, nodding to the gray weasel.

"Uh, Sociology," Dr. Hazelton replied.

Emmet frowned a superior frown. "Mr. Ford and I agreed that when his men were in place--and when the "visitors" return from Beverly Hills--I will leave on some pretext and you can sweep in. I'm sure a great deal of force is not needed. I've been with them for several days, and they appear quite harmless. They are here on a cultural mission."

"So he said," Dr. Hazelton agreed, with the compassion of a brake shoe. "I thought the element of surprise was called for."

"If they see you on their way back, they'll probably go somewhere else, and you'll never find them."

"Quite so," the good doctor said. "Well, then, I'll position my men."

"Quite so," Emmet echoed. "Could I have the information on Emira as we agreed," he said acidly to Ford.

Harold Ford handed him the manila envelope. The seal was damp with perspiration where Ford's pudgy fingers had been holding it. Emmet opened large manila envelope and read the enclosed fax:

SUBJECT - MS. EMIRA SPAIN

SS#9935 - 555 - 7170

LAST KNOWN ADDRESS TELEPHONE NO.

22790 West Broad Street (614) 555 - 8801

COLUMBUS, OHIO 43312

He folded the fax and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "Thank you very much," he said, holding the door open for Dr. Hazelton.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Just like a charm, Emmet thought gleefully. He tipped an imaginary hat to Mandillo Sprut. The guy was brilliant. It takes a bureaucrat to know one. Sprut had said that Harry Ford would bend over backwards to get a juicy feather in his cap. "We all need someone we can leave on," Emmet sang to himself, paraphrasing the Rolling Stones tune. "And if you want to - you can leave on me..!!" His problems with aliens were as good as gone already. He dropped a five day food tab into the goldfish tank and drifted purposefully into the bedroom, where he pulled his long unused overnight bag out of the closet and started packing for a trip. As an afterthought, he stuffed six shiny new copies of the book under his socks, then closed the suitcase.

The phone jangled at 5:15. In the meantime, Emmet had showered, shaved and put on a shirt and tie. And made a thermos of black coffee. It was Mandillo Sprut on the phone, asking if he needed anything for dinner.

"Bring home some fish," Emmet said, happily. Sprut said he would.

It was their secret code in case the phone was tapped, as it surely was. "Fish" meant that Ford had fallen for it--hook, line and sinker. The negative sign was to have been, "Let's go out to dinner." Hearing the negative sign, Sprut would have hung up and called back in two hours.

Five minutes later, Sarr, Mandillo and the Senator tumbled into the living room on top of Roberta Weinstein. Roberta's dress was unbuttoned and both her lovely breasts were hanging proudly out.

"Where is Venus..?!" Mandillo Sprut gasped, disentangling himself.

"Columbus, Ohio," Emmet replied, watching the bodies on the floor. Both the Senator and R'Tangele seemed to be groping at Roberta's breasts, instead of making serious efforts to get up. "I've got her address and phone number."

"Excellent work," Sprut said, shaking hands with Emmet. "Let's leave at once."

"Ready when you are," Emmet quipped, picking up his suitcase. "Roberta," he said. "Go upstairs to Apartment 4. The girl's name is Nancy. Knock on the door, tell her you're a friend of mine and invite yourself in to look at her jewelry. She sells jewelry. Stay there as long as you can. If anything goes wrong, like NASA agents wanting to interview you about me, feel free to tell whatever you want to."

Roberta sat up, pulling her dress together. "I feel very sick," she said. Her eyes slid out of focus.

Emmet quickly uncapped the thermos bottle and poured the cup lid full of coffee. "Drink this," he said, holding it under her nose. Roberta took a sip of the coffee, then passed out.

"She's not as strong as you are, apparently," Mandillo Sprut observed. "That's odd. I had the impression that your women might be better at dealing with jump stress."

"Roberta seemed fine in the skimmer, didn't she?" Sarr said, showing deep concern.

"She was not, but you and His Excellency were too busy pawing her to notice," Sprut said. He scowled.

"She definitely invited our advances, Mr. Sprut," the Senator growled, self-righteously. He patted Roberta's hand, solicitously.

"I didn't say she didn't, sir," Sprut agreed, back peddling like mad.

"You implied that we were trying to rape her."

"No, sir. Nothing of the kind, sir. It was clear that Roberta encouraged your advances and enjoyed them, even though she was getting sick."

"She wasn't sick," Sarr sputtered. "The up-jump didn't affect her. I agree with the Senator."

Senator M'Gnapt sneered at the toadying midget. "Yes," he said, passionately. "In this one case, you are correct, R'Tangele. If you hadn't joined hands and pulled us away, Mr. Sprut, we would still be there, and she would be fine."

"I felt that Emmet's safety and your daughter's return were more important than casual fraternization. Perhaps I was wrong, but I made that decision, since I'm the agent in charge."

"Not for long," Senator M'Gnapt said, fanning Roberta with a Disneyland tour brochure.

"I expect not," Sprut retorted, envisioning the instant demise of his career as soon as the Senator got home. Taking charge when a Taark is around can only cause trouble. But damnit, I am in charge.

"Well," he said, "we can't leave her here like this. We'll have to take her with us." He looked at Emmet for approval.

Roberta's eyes flickered open. Color came back to her face. "Are you allright, Roberta..?" Emmet asked, kneeling beside her. "This weakness passes. Take my word. Can you sit up? We have to leave here before the cops come in."

The note of panic in Emmet's voice found its way into her consciousness. She sat up in alarm. Sarr grabbed one of her hands, the Senator took the other. Emmet stuck his arm through the suitcase handle. He and Mandillo Sprut completed the circle. They were gone from the living room like a breath.

Emmet contemplated the round walls of the space skimmer, and felt mild vertigo. He uncorked the thermos again. "Do you have a cup?" he asked Mandillo Sprut. "I left the top of this in the apartment." The coffee aroma had a soothing affect on him. He watched the Senator and R'Tangele help Roberta to a crescent couch in the wall.

Mandillo Sprut waddled to a recessed cupboard and removed several plastek cups. He took the thermos from Emmet and poured coffee into the cups, then he sat in front of a complex computer console. He typed a few stokes, and the space craft came to life. Lights came on.

Emmet sipped coffee and risked a glance at the football shaped window. Although he hadn't felt any acceleration, and there was no shimmying whatsoever under his feet, the large, dark bulk of the Moon was moving swiftly.

"How long will it take to get there," he inquired.

Sprut was deeply involved in the computer screen. "Get where..?" he asked.

"To Ohio."

"We'll jump down from here, of course," the planetary agent said. "Unfortunately, the nearest rental apartment is in Chicago. That's too far, isn't it..?" he asked Emmet.

"Five hundred miles, at least."

"Too far," Sprut said. "We'll jump into a park and hope no one sees us. It's night there. Is there a big park near where she lives?"

"No idea. There's a university. And it's farm country around the city."

Sprut opened a thick, narrow book on the console and flipped through a few pages. "Look at this," he said.

Emmet stepped closer and looked down at an Auto Club Guidebook to the Cities of North America. "Clever," he said. "You're a Triple A member, of course."

"Of course," Sprut admitted, pointing his finger at Columbus, Ohio, a sprawling city with a river, the Scioto, winding through it. There were a number of small parks, and the campus of Ohio State University. And at the edge of town, a large park with the legend: O'Shaughnessy Dam Park and Columbus Zoo.

"How about that one?" Mandillo asked. "It's after nine o'clock there, now. It's surely deserted, except for some fishermen, perhaps."

"It's a long way from the center of town. Here's Broad Street. It looks like a main drag."

"We'll hire a taxi. Like a busman's holiday to you," he commiserated, with a sick chuckle.

"Okay," Emmet said. "But what if we land in the zoo?

"Nonsense," Sprut replied, huffily. He removed a calculator gadget from a drawer and bent to check the grid lines on the map of Columbus.

They landed immediately adjacent to the Elephant House on a wet, dark night in the Columbus Zoo. The zoo was closed. Pools of light from overhead flood bulbs reflected on the wet pavement and peanut shells. Rain pelted down.

"Nice," Emmet said, loosening his tie.

"Drat..!" Mandillo Sprut exploded, looking up at the dark hulk of an elephant. The elephant looked back from behind the stout wall of his prison. He seemed dimly astonished to see visitors.

"That Finder is unreliable, that's all there is to it," Sprut complained. "This is what your famous budget cuts have done to the foreign services, Senator M'Gnapt. We're supposed to be able to operate efficiently, but sometimes equipment wears out. I requisitioned a new Finder months ago, but did I get it..?"

The Senator harumphed and led Roberta to the shelter of a miniature tram station. "I'm going to be sick," she cried piteously, just before she barfed. Senator M'Gnapt leaped away in surprise.

Emmet felt sick too, but not that sick. Spatial disorientation was becoming a way of life to him.

All five of them soon huddled in the tram station beside Roberta, watching the rain. "There must be a guard here," Emmet suggested. "We'll be arrested in Columbus, instead of Los Angeles."

"Nonsense," Mandillo Sprut said.

The elephant trumpeted ear-splittingly in the night. Senator M'Gnapt and R'Tangele jumped a mile. "What's that..?!" they both yelped. Emmet noticed that the Senator seemed by be losing hanks of his hair. Baldish patches had appeared where once was billows of mane. He thought about pointing this out, but refrained. Why make an issue of a sensitive biological embarrassment.

"It's just an elephant," Sprut explained, gently. "They're harmless. Just beasts of burden."

"They wouldn't seem so harmless, if you had dumped us in their pen," Emmet pointed out. He was finding it more and more rewarding to belittle the superhuman feats that the spacemen kept performing. Three thousand miles in the bat of an eye, but off calculation by a few hundred yards. Quite amusing. But not funny. They were stuck inside the zoo.

"We didn't land in the pen," Sprut corrected, pragmatically, taking credit for the lucky accident.

"Twenty feet to the right and we would now be trampled to a bloody mass."

"Please don't be antagonistic, Emmet," Sarr chirped. "We didn't think you were like that."

"I am," Emmet said. "I've been on my best behavior until now."

"Can't you do something to get us out of here?" Roberta whimpered, clutching his arm.

"Feeling better," he asked. Her slutish performance hadn't impressed him much. In fact, he felt cold toward her. That's kind of a double standard, pal, he reminded himself. He had more or less thrown her to the aliens--knowing how they were, and knowing how she was. She helped him out, and now he thought she was a whore? No way! He reformulated his thinking and put his arm around her cold shoulders. She hadn't worn a jacket.

Opening his suitcase, he found a warm sweater for her and told the others to help themselves if they saw anything they'd like to wear. The aliens decided to brave it, since none of his stuff fit them. Feeling that it made no sense for him to catch a cold, he pulled on an ancient Ball State sweatshirt.

"Well," he said, "we can find an outside fence and climb over, or find a gate and break the lock maybe, or we can find a guard."

"We'll simply jump back up and come down at a more appropriate place," Senator M'Gnapt said, taking charge. Sarr held out his hands at once to make a circle.

"I'm not going through that again," Roberta said, firmly. "Never."

"But Roberta, it will only take a few seconds," Sarr reminded her. He seemed positively radiant at the idea.

"Never, never!!" She ran a few steps off the platform and stood in the rain, hugging herself. "I'm going straight to the airport and flying home. ...Or maybe the train station," she said, changing her mind about flying. "Damn!" she shouted, hysterically, "I don't have my purse..!" The elephant trumpeted once more and she ran back to the shelter of the tram station. "Emmet," she cried. "I left my purse somewhere! I'm stranded here!"

"Of course, you're not stranded. Don't even think about it. I've got a charge card." He patted his wallet to make sure it was there. Yes. Good. Fifteen hundred bucks and a Master Card. No problem.

"Where are we..?"

"We're in Columbus, Ohio, home of the Buckeyes."

"I want to go home," she whimpered. Her bottom lip quivered.

Emmet put his arm around her again. "Don't worry," he said. "This isn't as bad as it seems. I'll take you home in a couple of hours. Look at it as an adventure." The Senator nodded his enthusiastic approval.

"Jumping out of here is a very good plan, Senator," continued Emmet. "You three guys jump back up and get to Broad Street." He paused to make sure that Mandillo Sprut was paying attention. "Go to where Broad Street intersects with the other main street in the middle of town. Stay there. There must be a restaurant or a hotel coffee shop. Stay someplace obvious, and we'll find you."

Through the falling rain, the headlights of a vehicle flashed down the wet zoo street. "Got that?" he asked Sprut.

"Check," Mandillo Sprut answered. "Broad Street on the corner." Sprut held out his hands to the other two, and they disappeared.

Roberta and Emmet watched the headlights approaching through the downpour. "Who's that?" Roberta asked. He put his arm around her waist.

A four wheel drive truck came to a stop beside the Elephant House and played a strong spotlight on the lovebirds. Roberta looked fairly bedraggled and Emmet assumed he did too, but he waved at the truck. Stepping off the platform, he shielded his eyes from the light. "Hello..!" he shouted. "Glad to see someone is here!"

"What the hell are you folks doing here?!" the guard shouted back behind the glare of his spotlight. "The Park's been closed for hours!"

"This is so embarrassing," Emmet admitted truthfully, approaching the driver's window. "We thought we were stuck here all night." He saw that the guard was a kid of twenty-five, wearing a green Park Ranger's uniform. "You won't believe how this happened... We're out here on vacation." Emmet pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver's license to the kid, making sure the Master Card was also in evidence. "We found this place over that way," Emmet gestured, vaguely. "Nobody was around..and you know how it is on a vacation. There was a pile of dry hay to lay in. We thought it would be a good idea to fool around a little. It's kind of embarrassing."

The guard played his spotlight over Roberta as she stood hugging herself under the protective shelter. The light paid special attention to her long legs in the shortish dress and nylons. She waved, coyly.

"Anyway," Emmet said, "we fell asleep and didn't wake up until it started raining.... Do you think we can call a taxi at the front gate? What time is it, anyway..?"

"9:15," the guard said. "It's been raining all day."

"Of course, it has. I meant it started raining harder. Hard enough to wake us up."

"Well, hop in, I guess," the guard said. "You can't stay here, that's for sure."

Emmet gestured to Roberta. "Bring the suitcase, honey!" he yelled. He hopped through the puddles around the truck and opened the passenger's door. "Boy, it's raining out there!" he yipped, happily climbing in.

"What were you doing to the elephants..?" the Ranger asked, suspiciously.

"Nothing. Not a thing," Emmet vowed. "They scared us to death. Do they always bugle like that, or don't they like strangers?" Emmet laughed briskly and rubbed his cold hands together.

"You weren't poking at them with a stick or nothing?"

"No way! Never even saw them until they started bellowing." Roberta jumped into the cab beside Emmet, stuffing the suitcase in at their feet. "Thank you," she said gratefully to the guard.

"No problem, ma'am." He played the searchlight over the elephant pen. "I could have sworn that was a challenge trumpeting. Mighty mysterious. They never do that to a person."

"Is that so..?" Emmet probed.

"I thought maybe one of the big cats got loose. And elephant might trumpet that way if a cat was near."

Emmet thought instantly of Senator M'Gnapt. How fortunate that the space aces were able to leave so quickly.

"Maybe it was a mouse?" Roberta said, innocently. "Elephants are afraid of mice, aren't they?"

"No ma'am, they're not," the guard said, with a lack of humor. "That's a fable."

"Oh, really? I thought they were. Now that you say so, it makes sense. An elephant is so big. He wouldn't even notice a mouse."

"No, ma'am. Mighty peculiar."

"Hmmmm," Emmet said.

"Well, sir, where's your car? In the lot?"

"We came on the bus. If you could drop us near a phone, we'll call a taxi."

"It's twenty miles into town," the guard said, incredulously. He thought if over, then snapped the truck into gear. "If you'd want to wait till I get off, I'll run you in."

"That's extremely nice of you," Roberta said.

"What time do you get off?" asked Emmet.

"Morning," the guard apologized.

"I think we better get a taxi, don't you, honey?" Emmet said, judiciously.

"Whatever you think is best, dear," she answered, stepping hard on his toe.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Just as the State Capitol Building clock down the block stuck midnight, Roberta and Emmet arrived in a taxi to downtown Columbus, at the corner of Broad and High Streets. Bong, bong it went twelve times. Emmet counted subconsciously as he scouted the intersection. How about that, he'd been right. On one corner was an all night deli named Izzy's. Since there was no weird family group hanging out on the corner, he presumed the geeks were in the deli. He paid the driver and they got out. The rain had very nearly stopped. Emmet put his suitcase down and looked up and down Broad Street. 22790 W. Broad was about two hundred blocks to the left.

"Shall we try the deli first?" he asked. He'd already decided to do so, but soliciting Roberta's opinion kept her talking. Even though she'd been helpful at diverting the Park Ranger, he wasn't sure that she was completely back in Earth's time zone. But he was sure that they both needed a cup of coffee.

"This is the strangest night of my life," she answered, glancing around at the government buildings. She'd said that five or six times on the taxi ride in from the zoo. "By far," she added.

"Don't spring a leak," he advised, taking her elbow. "Let's go in here and get a coffee." He opened the deli's door for her and they entered the dim, warm red atmosphere. All the booths and fixtures were dull red. Glowing coals in a charcoal steak grill behind the counter gave off a red glow, and the lamp shades at the little booths were red. Dante's Inferno, he thought. He looked around for the Tornandoans and didn't immediately see them.

"They don't really need me," he said soberly to Roberta. "They know where Venus is. They can find her perfectly well without us. We could just go home."

"Oh, yes..!" Roberta blurted, gratefully. "Let's go. I need my own bedroom."

A voice squeaked Emmet's name several times. He looked through the red dimness to see Sarr R'Tangele squeaking and waving his tiny arms from a table at the extreme rear of the long, narrow dining room.

"There they are," he told Roberta. He felt her sag as a few more sinews of her will unraveled. "This won't take long," he reassured her. "Maybe we'll find her tonight."

"I'm fine," she said, weakly. "Don't worry about me. As long as we don't have to fly."

Emmet waved to Sarr, so the squeaking would stop, and they made their way back the narrow aisle. He was careful not to bonk any customer's knees with his suitcase.

"Nice, visible table you picked," he chided, by way of greeting the group. He had to admit, he was glad to see them. If Roberta would stop acting so wacky, this would be fun.

"I kept constant watch on the door, so I'd be sure to see you," Sarr chirped as the soggy pair sat down. Roberta jerked her hand away from Senator M'Gnapt, who had instantly tried to console her with his hairy paws.

"No touching!" she said, stridently. "No more space trips." The Senator withdrew his hands and lost a few more hairs on the spot.

Mandillo Sprut studied Roberta's face for a few seconds, then flagged a passing waiter with a ten dollar bill. "Get us a full pot of coffee and two more cups," he said, handing him the ten spot.

"Yes, sir!" the waiter responded, quickening his step into the kitchen. He returned in a flash with a pot of coffee on a heating candle and the cups. "Anything else, sir?" he fawned.

"Not just yet," Sprut said, smiling. He poured coffee for Emmet and Roberta. When she had swallowed several mouthfuls, Mandillo reached across the table and quickly squeezed both of Roberta's ear lobes.

"Ouch..!!" she yipped, jerking with surprise and pain.

Emmet was about to protest, but Sprut let go of the ears immediately and sat down. He smiled to Emmet and the Senator. "She'll feel better now, I expect," he said, offhandedly.

"What did you do?" Roberta exclaimed. "I feel like I just came out of a fog bank. My God, thank you..!" She glowed at Mandillo Sprut.

"Another thing the budget money is spent for is training agents," Sprut said directly to the Senator. "Emergencies do arise. We're not born knowing these little maneuvers."

"Yes," the Senator said, clearing his throat. "What exactly did you do?"

"The ear lobe trick. We, of course, don't have ear lobes, but they do."

"I see. And you feel better, Roberta?"

"Much," she replied, still smiling at Mandillo Sprut. "Maybe you should do that to Emmet."

"It's the surprise," Sprut said, modestly. "Besides, Emmet is an old space hand. He's fine."

"Well," the old space hand said, "what do you say we call Venus up? I'm sure she's anxious to see us."

The Senator's lionine eyes grew misty. "Shall we have her meet us here?" He sniffed back a tear. "This is a friendly place. I'm sure she'd like to see it." Sarr and Mandillo Sprut looked tactfully away. Emmet was about to speak, but the Senator added. "Actually, this is quite a nice planet. I can't remember when I've felt so rested. It's quite wonderful not to be dragged around by sex urges all the time, wouldn't you say, R'Tangele?"

"Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing," he said, eyeing Roberta's breasts which were at his eye level, even though concealed by Emmet's baggy sweater.

"We really should rent a hotel room," Emmet said. "I don't think we want a disappearing act in front of everybody."

"Precisely, I'll rent a suite down the street," Sprut said, standing up. "I imagine it's not too late for her telegram service."

"You're right, of course," the Senator apologized. "I wasn't planning too well. I guess I hadn't considered leaving immediately," he said. "Do you think Venus will recognize us, Mr. Sprut?"

"It's not really my area of expertise," Mandillo Sprut said, passing the hot potato to R'Tangele, who after all should pay for fucking up Sprut's pension and seniority. Let him take some heat.

The Senator's moist eyes rested on little Sarr R'Tangele. The midget said a silent prayer and blurted, "Yes, sir. I think there's a good chance that she'll recognize you, since you had the forethought not to come in disguise."

"I'm pretty sure she'll remember me," Emmet said, quietly. "That should be enough to get us all into a meaningful dialogue."

Senator M'Gnapt looked gratefully at Emmet, as did Sarr, as did Mandillo Sprut.

*

Everyone, except Roberta waited in the large living room of the hotel suite at the Great Southern Hotel, three blocks away from Izzy's deli. The first phone call was a fiasco.

Mandillo Sprut called the number that Harold Ford gave Emmet. Emira answered, and was incensed when Sprut requested a nude telegram. "I most certainly don't!" she sputtered and slammed down the phone.

Sprut held the buzzing receiver aloft. "She hung up," he said in shock. "What do we do, now? She won't do a nude telegram." Part of him was very disappointed that he wasn't going to see Venus/Emira nude. He'd been supposing that he would, at least, get that treat. His joints were suddenly paralyzed as he realized that they'd have to kidnap her. It could backfire. Everything else had.

"I'll call her," Emmet said, reluctantly. He took the phone from Sprut and dialed the number from the fax. While he listened to the phone ringing, he looked at Roberta lying on the king-sized bed in the adjoining room. He had to send her back to LA tomorrow. She was an absolutely gorgeous woman, but she wasn't part of his plans.

Emira answered the phone. He recognized her voice, or thought he did. "Hello..?" she said.

"Hello, Emira..?"

"Yes..?"

"This is Emmet Suckerfield from Los Angeles. Remember me? The writer with the red broom..?"

"Mr. Suckerfield..?" My gosh, how did you get my number? Are you calling from LA?"

"No, actually, I'm here in Columbus. I'm on a book promotion tour for my new book, the one I was working on when I knew you. Have you seen it?"

"You're kidding..! No, I haven't. I had no idea! What was the title again..?" A man said something to her from the background. "It's a friend of mine from LA," she responded to the voice's apparent question. "So are you going to be signing books somewhere in Columbus, Mr. Suckerfield? Where can I get a copy? I'd love to be able to say I know a famous writer."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I was thinking you could come over to the Great Southern, where I'm staying. I have some extra copies. I'd be happy to give you one and sign it, of course. After all, you were instrumental in the book's writing."

"I was..?"

"Well, of course. I told you how important you were to me. And I'm not forgetting your wild streak. Do you still have it?"

"Yes, I do," she said, softly. "Well, fine. When could I come over? Tomorrow for breakfast, before I go to work?"

"I was thinking about tonight, right now. I'm so busy tomorrow with TV and radio interviews. We could get a bite to eat. I've only just got in from Philadelphia."

"Well, Emmet, you know I have a serious boyfriend. I don't think I could come over now."

"Don't be silly, Emira," he said, persuasively. "Bring him with you, of course. I really would love to see you, with or without him. Only for a half hour or so. I'll tell you what, I'll pay for your taxi and the snack. How's that for a deal you can't pass up."

"Well, I don't know..."

"Please, Emira," he beseeched, hoping he didn't sound too desperate. "You're right down the street from the Great Southern, aren't you? I really want you to have a copy of the book, and I really don't know if I can fit you in tomorrow. Wouldn't this be something you'd want to tell your children..?"

"I guess so... Well, okay. What's your address?"

Emmet expelled a sigh of relief. "Suite 412," he said, checking the tab on the telephone.

"Well, okay then, but just for a very short time. I don't know if Henry will get up or not. Maybe he will. And we have a car, so you won't need to pay for a taxi."

"Oh, great!" he exclaimed. "How soon can you be here? I'm starved." He was keenly aware of the jubilant smiles on the faces of the alien assembly. Maybe I should have been an actor, he thought--or a telephone shill.

"It's several miles," Emira said. "So maybe fifteen minutes. Could you meet me in the lobby? That would make it much better for me."

"Of course. Love to. Just ring the room when you get here. Hey, this is great! See you in a few minutes. Bye..." He replaced the receiver and raised his eyebrows at the three eager alien faces.

"She wants to meet us in the lobby," Emmet reported,. "I presume you will want to jump up to the hover craft with her..?"

"Yes, I would say as soon as possible," Mandillo Sprut said, seeking tentative approval from Senator M'Gnapt.

"There's a transfer unit in the craft, Senator," Sarr added. "I've checked it out and it seems in perfect order."

"It has been up to now," Sprut said. "How do you think people get back from here?"

"Exactly," Sarr said, giving Sprut a look to shut him up. "I would suggest that we get her back to The Tornando as soon as possible. If we can reunite her consciousness with her body, I have high expectations that the missing parts will come flying back."

The Senator snarled at R'Tangele, evidently remembering whose scientific blunder was responsible for his daughter's current dysfunction.

"Yes, yes, Senator. The whole of her, being back together, should create a magnetic effect and simply pull whatever is missing back from where it is now. I'm sure it will. It's not gone, you know. Just misplaced..." Sarr pressed his lips together tightly to keep from blabbering on, and sat on his dithering hands. And I can get out of this midget's body that won't allow the Senator to take me seriously. "After all," he couldn't help adding, "I am the head of the transfer department. I do know more about this process than anyone else."

"You were..." Senator M'Gnapt said, coldly.

"Roberta and I won't be going with you," Emmet interposed, to clear the air on that point. "We'll find our way back to Los Angeles from here."

Mandillo Sprut seemed saddened by the news. "As you wish, Mr. Suckerfield. You've been a great help to us. I and my government are duly grateful. Perhaps we can return the favor someday."

Emmet smiled at the concept of help from Tornando. How could he contact them? But was it really ridiculous? No. And I might need some help someday, who knows.

"And don't worry about Harry Ford," Sprut continued. "When he finds out that you're a science fiction writer, he'll chalk it off to a prank. I'm sure you could tell NASA that you were doing research, and make it stick. Say that you wondered what they would do in a real situation. Of course, you'll want to write this episode in your next book, I expect."

"Maybe," Emmet agreed.

"You will certainly need my help," Sarr insisted sweetly to the Senator, still obstinately jockeying for position. He didn't have much time.

"And we better get it!" Senator M'Gnapt growled, showing his fangs.

"Yes, sir... Of course..! I was just suggesting that I can still be of great assistance to you and the program."

"I don't trust your puny ass. You faked those reports to me."

"Yes, sir. That was a terrible mistake. It absolutely won't happen again."

"I agree."

The telephone rang. All four of them jumped up. The aliens waited for Emmet to answer it. He picked up the receiver. "Hello," he said. "Oh, hello, Emira! Are you in the lobby?"

*

The elevator opened. Emmet stepped into the hotel lobby. There beside the row of telephones stood Emira Spain with her blonde streak braided as he remembered it. Behind him in the elevator, Sarr R'Tangele and Mandillo Sprut stood holding hands--like a father and young son. If Emmet was unable to lure Emira up to the suite, the two of them would perform a bureaucratic high-jacking rather than lose her. They were primed to grab her lovely hands and vanish with her from the lobby--leaving Emmet as astonished as everyone else. That was the secondary plan. Sprut would return for the Senator, who did not have volitional control of space jumping himself, and Sarr would stay with Emira in the space craft.

"That's her," Emmet whispered out the side of his mouth.

"Very good," Mandillo Sprut answered. "Now, Ralphy, you be on your best behavior in the lobby while we wait for Aunt Roberta."

"Yes, papa," Sarr answered, smiling benignly.

"Emira..!" Emmet shouted across the lobby.

Emira Spain waved happily and smiled back. He walked quickly up to the prodigal researcher and gave her a big hug. "Gosh, it's good to see somebody I know."

"Hello, Mr. Suckerfield," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "I'd like you to meet my fianc, Henry Jacopo." A muscular Italian with a heavy black beard and wads of chest hair poking out the open collar of his shirt put his arm possessively around Emira. "Henry, this is Emmet Suckerfield, the writer I was telling you about."

Rats, thought Emmet. "Nice to meet you, Henry," he said, shaking hands with the dark giant. "Did you say fianc?"

"Yes," Emira bubbled. "I've finally found someone who is right for me. We have our own business together, and we're so compatible that we thought, why not get married?"

"What business are you in?" Emmet inquired.

"Smoke alarms," said Henry Jacopo. "Mira makes the sales, and I do the follow up installation."

"We are making so much money, Mr. Suckerfield!"

"Really..?"

They both grinned widely. "But here I am talking about myself as usual. What about your book? That's just wonderful. I'm so impressed!"

"Let's run up to my room to get your copy," Emmet said. "Stupid of me to forget it. Then we can get a bite to eat. I hope it's not too late for you. I'm ravenous."

"No, it's not too late," she said, giving Henry's arm a hug. "We're self employed."

"Of course," Emmet laughed. He led them across the lobby and pushed the elevator button. Sarr and Mandillo Sprut followed along behind, chatting about the fun they recently had at Disneyland with Aunt Roberta.

Emmet held the door wide for Emira and Henry, then entered the suite behind them--leaving the door open for Sprut and R'Tangele. He picked up two copies of the book from a table where the copies he'd brought with him were stacked.

"Nice room," Emira said, visibly impressed.

Emmet autographed the first book and handed it to Henry. The kid grinned at him. Emmet felt sorry for Henry already. He'd given him a book, hoping it would help explain the trauma he was about to have. Then he signed the other book -- Love to Venus -- and gave it to Emira.

Before she had a chance to wonder much about the dedication "to Venus," Senator Chad M'Gnapt came out of the bedroom. The smile on the Senator's face would have curdled ice cream; but he obviously imagined it was a fitting paternal welcome for the lost fledgling. Emira and Henry stared at him, and did not notice Sprut and Sarr hovering at the open hall door.

"This is Senator M'Gnapt," Emmet said, by way of introduction.

"They're engaged to be married," he mentioned to the Senator. He thought that was worthy of note, and he didn't know what else to say. The Senator just stood in the bedroom doorway, smiling hideously. And he was big--way bigger than Henry.

"Hello," Emira said politely, taking hold of Henry's arm. She didn't like the looks of this Senator, that was clear. Now that she remembered, Emmet had always been very weird. She expected as much from his friends. "Well," she said to Emmet, "shall we go eat?"

"Aren't you wondering why I signed your book to Venus?" Emmet asked her. He was winging it like mad. This was going to be very awkward. She hadn't recognized her own father--not even a flicker. What if these guys were pulling a hoax on him? Nah, the space ship was real, of that he was positive. Roberta had seen it, too. The aliens were real. The book was real. They had known her name. Reassured, he went on.

"Have you ever been curious, Emira, why your dreams at night are always about an alien planet?" he asked, reasonably. "Has she mentioned that to you, Henry?"

Henry looked non-plused. "Once or twice," he said, falteringly. This guy was talking about some pretty intimate stuff, and Emira had assured him that there had been nothing between them. He wasn't sure he liked this at all.

"Science fiction writers are a little strange, honey," Emira said to Henry. "Well, let's go downstairs, Mr. Suckerfield. You must be starving." She turned and saw Mandillo Sprut and R'Tangele smiling foolishly at her.

"Please don't be alarmed," Sprut said, soothingly. "We're friends of Emmet's and have your very best interests at heart."

"That's nice," Emira blurted. She pulled demandingly on Henry's arm. The Senator stepped deftly in front of Emmet and placed two fingers on the back of Henry's skull, catching him neatly under the arms as he slumped. Emira screamed just as Sarr shut the door.

"What are you doing to him..!!" Emira screeched, pounding on her father. "Leave him alone!!"

Disregarding the young woman's blows, Senator M'Gnapt dragged Henry to the couch and laid him gently on it. "Venus, dear," he said, dodging her fists. "We're here to take you home. Don't you remember me? I'm your father..."

"You're not my father! Emmet, aren't you going to help me?! Call the police or something!!"

Roberta Weinstein picked that moment to walk out of the bedroom, wearing one of Emmet's damp white shirts and nothing else that Emmet could see. So the Senator had made good use of the time alone with her, after all. Roberta smiled glowingly. What a nutty world.

"I'm sorry," Emmet said to Emira. "Your real name is Venus M'Gnapt. You've had a case of amnesia for several years. This really is your father. He's gone to a lot of trouble to find you. You're from another planet. If you can believe me, this will start making more sense to you."

"Believe you..?!!" the girl shrieked. "You're a sex maniac!" That bit of information brought a smile to Roberta's lips.

"They want to take you home to your planet and restore your memory. I'm begging you to trust me. I promise you it's the truth. This midget is a highly trained technician named Sarr R'Tangele, who is here to help you. I know this sounds far fetched, but it's true."

"Do you remember me, Venus?" Sarr said, idiotically. She would have no memory of a midget in any case. "Please join hands with me and your father."

"Don't touch me," she hissed, crouching like a wild cat with the book held like a shield in her left hand. The painted fingernails of her right hand were poised to strike.

"See, her body remembers a fighting stance," the Senator said, proudly.

"How sadly unfortunate," Mandillo Sprut observed. "We're not going to hurt you, Venus," he said, modulating his voice to sing-song phrasing.

"DonÕt touch!" she screamed, backing into a corner. She eyed the closed window. There were four floors of empty space below it. "Stop them, Emmet!" she begged. "I'll scratch if I have to, and I can do it, too!"

"Will her friend be allright?" Emmet inquired of the Senator. He would have to deal with Henry later, by himself. Well, Roberta would still be here. Maybe she could help.

"He'll be fine in an hour of so," Senator M'Gnapt said. "He seemed fond of her, didn't you think?"

"Yes," Emmet agreed. "He was."

"We should repay him for keeping her safe." The Senator was turning out to be a caring, perceptive parent. Emmet was surprised for the millionth time that week.

"I'll take care of it, sir," Mandillo Sprut volunteered.

"Good, do that. Come along, now, Venus," the Senator said, having reached the end of his patience. "I have a busy day tomorrow, and I'm sure your teachers are anxious to see you." He darted sideways like a panther, grabbed both her hand in one of his big paws and held out the other arm to Mandillo Sprut.

"Let's go," he ordered. "Good-bye, Mr. Suckerfield. Thank you. Good-bye, Roberta. Best of luck." Mandillo Sprut took his hand.

Sarr leaped at the last instant to snatch Sprut's other hand. "Bye, Emmet," Sarr yipped, and they were gone. Emmet Suckerfield was alone with Roberta and Henry Jacopo.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It don't come any flatter than Ohio. On the forth of June, the corn was not yet knee high; consequently, the farm landscape was a pancake patchwork of oat stubble, uncut spring wheat and ankle high corn sprouts rippling gently in the slipstream of passing semi trucks. Tame maple and oak trees were plentiful. They served to anchor the landscape, like the border on a grandma quilt.

After putting Roberta on a TWA jet to Los Angeles, Emmet had rented an old, but supposedly reliable Conejo hatchback at a cheapie car rental outside the Columbus airport. Getting that Master Card had been a stroke of good timing as it turned out. Sitting happily in the little car, he cruised through the Ohio farmlands on his way to Terre Haute, Indiana, and the Wilson farm.

Emmet had decided last night to take Fred Jacopo home before we woke up and caused a scene in the hotel. It wasn't easy to drag his limp form through the hotel, even with Roberta's help. Halfway across the lobby, they were both well aware of why people let drunks sleep it off wherever they happen to pass out. Fred was unable to assist them at all, since he was out cold. Finally, they put him in a lobby chair, and Roberta stood guard while Emmet went outside to flag a taxi.

With the cabby's help, and an advance tip of twenty bucks, they got Fred negotiated into the cab and up Broad Street to his apartment. Finding the right key on Fred's key chain, Emmet unlocked the door, and they poured the luckless giant onto his own cheap, new couch to sleep it off.

Poor old Fred, Emmet thought, watching the corn fields roll by in the morning sun. He's probably making a police report right now, trying to get someone to believe him. Another victim of love. And Emmet hadn't left the book for him. If he remembers my name, he'll buy a copy, and then I'll be implicated; but I don't need the cops right now. A signed book would force them to follow up the lead. But Emmet did feel bad. Waking up and knowing your girlfriend was probably kidnapped, but not being able to prove it or even do anything, could put a guy on the funny farm. He'd call Fred when he got back to LA and explain. He owed Emira that much.

*

So why was he driving across the flatlands to see Alicia? Actually, it wasn't a social call. The plan was to bust up her stupid marriage and get her back. Or at least make her damned sure that she'd picked wrong.

He marveled at the shabbiness of his intentions; but it was no great surprise to find continents of submerged bitterness. He, after all, had done the submerging. Emmet felt certain that he would fit in like a sore thumb at the Wilson homestead. What of it..? They raised the girl he loved, and they could help him get her back.

The five remaining copies of the book were lying in the hatchback window. He hadn't wanted to put them back in the damp suitcase. He smiled. They ought to create a stir.

Driving the cheap hatchback was pleasurable, even though the brakes were a little soggy and the shifter kept popping out of forth gear. When he got home, maybe he'd treat himself to a new car. Presumably, he could finance one now.

By noon, Emmet had crossed the Indiana state line. More corn fields and almost as flat. He enjoyed the feeling of being in a hot house. Southern California was nothing like this--no unbearable humidity for one thing. Because the heat was dry there, one seldom sweltered. Of course, as long as all the windows were rolled down, here in Indiana, the sweat bath wasn't a factor--except for the back of his shirt, which stuck damply to the seat. For no apparent reason, the little car popped out of forth gear again, causing the engine to rev hysterically.

Lost in thought, Emmet shifted it back into gear. Very curious, he thought. The part of me who loves Alicia doesn't seem to care about any of the bad things. It only wants to see her. And the hurt part is only concerned with getting even and being righteously angry. It's absurd. The two sides never meet. They're both stuck records yammering on the same stuck groves, and I'm sick of hearing it. It was a bad idea to come here.

But he kept driving. With an irritated flick of his wrist, he snapped the radio on. A twangy-voiced announcer was giving the rules to a pizza contest. The winner would win dinner for two at Antonio's Pizza in Muncie. The guyÕs voice grated on and on.

He switched the radio off and the plastic knob came off in his hand. "Shit," Emmet swore, disgustedly sticking the knob into the glove compartment for safe keeping. After that, he drove in silence, watching the countryside slide away. Relax, he told himself. He had been very tightly wound up the last few days. So many things had changed in his life. He was published and.... Well, he knew totally and crystal clearly that there was other intelligent life in the cosmos. That was something incredible to know. On the other hand, he'd had a golden opportunity to do some in-depth research, and had learned nothing at all, basically. What a stupid fool, he thought, beating himself over the head with an imaginary baseball bat. I could have asked them anything, but I was so busy protecting myself that I didn't get around to it. I blew a mind-boggling chance, no wonder I'm wound up. Fine. This is the perfect therapy. Driving in the country.

He willed himself to relax further--and, in fact, he did achieve a degree of evenness. After all, he had written a book which turns out to be a true document. He could write another one about spiriting Emira away. And he had slept with an alien woman. No one else on Earth could say that. No wonder I couldn't get it on with her. She probably aced me out because our sex energies were too different. That must be it.

Wait a minute..! Henry Jacopo could make the same claim, of course. And probably others too, like that beer drinking kid down in the Venice Canals. He wondered idly if Henry and the beach boy had found exciting sex with Emira? He assumed that she had shown them a good time. Both of them had certainly acted protective. But they were young--so young that just sticking it in a good looking woman was a thrill. Emmet laughed aloud.

And, of course, Roberta could go on a national talk show, if she wanted to describe boffing an alien Senator. "That was the biggest salami I ever saw," Roberta had giggled on their drive to the Columbus Airport. "Amazing," she'd reported. Emmet hadn't insisted that she enhance the story. He'd already seen the salami. He was sure it had been amazing to her.

By mid afternoon, he was skirting Muncie, Indiana, on a bypass freeway, when he spotted the Antonio's Pizzeria sign perched on a giant pole beside the highway. Antonio's was where the dinner prize was being awarded to the winner of the radio contest. "How about a pizza for lunch?" he said to himself, driving down an off-ramp with two gas stations and the pizzeria.

"Pepperoni?" he asked.

"Mushrooms and pepperoni," his taste buds countered.

The little car came to a stop at the bottom of the off-ramp. Salivating in anticipation of a Mid-west pizza, Emmet shoved the gear shift into first gear and took off straight backwards--back up the off ramp.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Emmet was outraged as he slammed on the brakes. What happened to the gear shift..? Thank God no cars were zooming down the off-ramp. He would have been smashed for sure. What kind of moron would design a transmission with reverse right next to first? Maybe Commies had taken over the company and were exporting these pieces of shit to destroy American's confidence. German cars had become a byword for dependability, hadn't they? Well, that was certainly a laugh! He searched around for what he hoped was first gear and tried it out gingerly. Sure enough, the little car accelerated dutifully forward. He parked in an empty space in front of Antonio's trash dumpster and went inside.

After eating most of a large pepperoni and mushroom pizza and feeling mortally stuffed, Emmet got back behind the wheel and started the ignition. Warily, he shifted the gear stick into reverse and smashed, straight ahead, into the blue painted steel dumpster. Breaking both headlights out. Glass shards tinkled merrily. Emmet stared straight ahead at the dumpster, seething. "Son of a bitch..!" he swore, impotently.

*

At eight-thirty that night, Emmet pulled onto the two lane road that led to the Wilson farm--Vigo County Route #7. The headlights had been fixed thanks to his charge card, but the front end was rather battered. He figured the rental insurance would cover it; but unfortunately, he'd gotten one hundred dollar deductible instead of fifty. Oh, well. Another business expense.

Over the bridge on the Wabash River, down into a familiar hollow and around a big curve. Then left turn at the mailbox marked Wilson, and down the short farm lane bordered with catalpa trees, which had been used for fence posts when Dad Wilson was a boy. Emmet's new headlights lit up the white, two story house, then the out-buildings and the big red barn. A cat squirted across the lane to dive under a parked pick-up truck. Elaine's little yellow Chevy, the one she had driven to Indiana in, was parked in front of the truck--with a baby seat on the passenger side. Alicia was there. What luck.

Emmet tooted the horn a couple of times. That's what one does in the country. It alerts the folks inside or in the barn that they've got a visitor. A light went on in the living room. Then a yellow bug-proof porch light flicked on. Almost as an afterthought, a halogen flood light from the top of the barn bathed the driveway and barn yard in virtual daylight. Just like Hollywood Park, Emmet thought, opening his door.

Gerald Wilson stepped onto the porch, wearing work pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Hi, Gerry. It's Emmet Suckerfield." Emmet shouted. "Just stopped by on my way to the Hambletonian." The Hambletonian is a very big race on the Grand Circuit of harness racing. Emmet hadn't been expecting to say that, it just popped into his mouth. He didn't, in fact, know when the Hambletonian was or where--someplace in Ohio, sometime in the summer.

"Emmet..?" the old farmer questioned, peering out at Emmet.

"How are you, Dad?" Emmet said, getting out of the car and stretching his tired back. "I just stopped by for a minute, since I was so close."

"Glad you did... Glad you did. How have you been, son? Still as skinny as ever, I see."

"Well, not quite. You're looking good, yourself."

Dad Wilson turned his head and called into the house. "Allie, come on outside..! Emmet's here!" He squinted at his former son-in-law. "Can you beat that? We were just talking about you the other night, Emmet."

Alicia stepped onto the porch, pushing back a stray wisp of straw colored hair. Mother Wilson scooted behind her, holding a sleeping boy. The boy looked too big for her to carry much farther.

"Hi, Em..." Alicia said, tentatively.

"Hi. I was just passing through... Is that your boy?"

Alicia glanced at the sleeping three year old. "Yes," she said. "That's Billy."

"Fine looking boy."

"Well, this is a surprise," Gerald Wilson said. "Come on in and sit a spell. Have you had supper?" He stared out at Emmet's car. "Anybody with you?"

"Nope. All alone. Taking a trip around the country."

Alicia frowned, remembering that Emmet hated tourism.

"Well, I expect we could bed you down for the night," Dad Wilson said. He walked out to the rental car.

"Thanks, but I can't stay," Emmet protested.

"It's late," Mother Wilson stated. "We still have the spare room. I'm sure you remember." Alicia made a slight negative gesture at her mother, which Emmet saw.

"No, thanks, Faye. Honestly. I want to get to Indianapolis tonight."

"At least you can come in for a glass of lemonade," Faye Wilson said, firmly. "Everybody needs lemonade on a summer night." She turned, lugging the baby inside. "I'm making a fresh batch."

"Seems like you had a little tussle," Gerald Wilson said, studying the mashed fenders of the car. He opened the door and took Emmet's suitcase out. "I'll just put this in the spare room," he said, carrying the suitcase inside the house.

So Emmet and Alicia were left alone in the ascerbic light streaming from the barn top. Emmet shifted his feet a few times. They had visited the farm together many weekends before their marriage. "Kind of a bright light, isn't it," he said.

"Everyone has them. Daddy had to buy one or they were going to take away his farming license."

Emmet looked away over the corn fields, not wishing to chance looking directly at her, yet. Did he really want her? Decide now!

Yes, he answered himself.

"Well," she said. "What are you doing out here?"

"Just passing through. I didn't know you'd be here."

"The Hambletonian isn't until August or sometime..."

"Mrs. Racing," Emmet commented.

"Yes, I am Mrs. Racing," Alicia said, pensively. She bit at the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, then continued. "I really did mean to come back to you, but I got stuck here or something... My life isn't too good, anymore. I lost some of the resiliency I used to have..."

"Hmmmm," Emmet said, studying a dark cloud formation. Maybe it would rain before morning.

"I always thought I was strong and adventuresome, and you were weak. I guess we can see that wasn't true."

"We're all landlocked," Emmet answered, realizing the ultimate truth of R'Tangele's observation. It even sounded profound, gazing as he was over a rippling ocean of ankle-high corn. The spacer's philosopher--maybe that's how I'll be remembered in the history books.

"Anyway, I'm sorry," Alicia said.

Emmet let her words hang on the night air. The arc light diminished the poignancy of the moment, but it was the only moment occurring just then. He didn't feel particularly like cutting her, now that they were together--on the other hand, he might never get another chance.

"I could be graceful and say that's it didn't matter," he said. "But it did matter to me. So I don't really accept your apology." He paused, thinking of how to phrase the next thing he wanted to say. He took a deep breath and began, "I was wondering how you'd feel about getting a divorce and marrying me again?" He turned to look at her. "That's why I stopped by."

"I see," Alicia replied, trying not to show her astonishment. "I guess that's as good a reason as the Hambletonian."

Emmet strangled inside, but he tried not to show it. "Actually, that's only one of the reasons I was out here," he said. "I was also on my way back to Los Angeles after helping some spacemen find a girl that was lost. They took off to the planet they were from, so I thought that marrying you again would be my next adventure. But if you've got a better offer, don't worry about it."

"If I were worried, I'd worry about you. That's a very outlandish proposal. Even worse than the first time."

"I haven't told anyone except you about the spacemen, and I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself." He smiled. "Have you been thinking about me?"

"God, Emmet...! What's happened to you? You're so direct."

"Well, have you..?"

"I suppose I have, now and then. Mainly, I don't think about anything. ...But at least, I don't have space fantasies."

"Spacemen exist. I rode in their flying saucer, twice. As a matter of fact, that's how I got out here."

"Very clever," Alicia said. "You disguised a flying saucer as a wrecked Conejo hatchback."

"Lemonade's ready..!" Mom Wilson called out the door. "Should I turn the light off?"

"Yes," Alicia said. The light went out, leaving the crickets and the fresh farm smells, and the night.

"I should give you one of my weighty tomes," Emmet said, after they had stood silently for a minute. "Then I really should be going, unless you accept my offer."

He walked over to the car, opened the hatchback and took a book out of the back window. He presented a copy of Space Sex to Alicia, bowing formally. "I'm a published author," he reported. "You're the second person to get a copy."

"Well, that's wonderful, Emmet..!" she stammered. He was right again, she was blown away. She couldn't stop smiling. "That's wonderful! You really did it..!" Alicia took the book from him and studied the cover. "Who's the girl?" she inquired of the cover painting.

"The girl I gave the first copy to. The one who went back to outer space. Here, let me inscribe it for you." He took out a ball point pen and wrote on the fly sheet:

To Alicia,

The best wife I've had yet.

E.S.

"So you really did it," she repeated, reading the inscription.

"Yep. Let me know how you like it. I've got the same phone number. Well, I'll get a glass of lemonade so your folks will think I'm a normal guy, then I'll go. Your husband's not in there, is he?"

"No. He doesn't live here."

"Good," he said.

Alicia watched Emmet shut the hatchback and step onto the porch. "Don't go in yet," she said, softly.

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Emmet flew back from Indianapolis and took a cab to his apartment. He felt superb. The Los Angeles sun was shining, and he was ready to start on the new book for Gridley Shumacher. And Alicia was coming back! She was filing for a divorce this morning. With Dad Wilson's support and his Terre Haute lawyer, Emmet felt certain the divorce was going to happen. She would come back to marry him when the ordeal was over.

He unlocked the door and walked into the apartment to find a manila envelope lying on top of his typewriter. There was no evidence of FBI, CIA or NASA agents -- just the yellow envelope addressed to him. No postmark or return address. No stamps. Opening it, he found a computer print-out.

Thank you, Mr. Suckerfield, so, so much!

It's so astounding how this all worked out. I think I have most of the story pieced together now, thanks to your book. Love it! I think, perhaps, I'll write a forward to it for my Master's thesis. Would that be allright? Then you'd be famous here, too! Well, sorry for all the trouble I caused you, and thanks again for everything.

Your friend always,

V.

A note was typed across the bottom of Venus' intergalactic note.

Thanks for me, too. Looks like I'll be here for

awhile. Let me know if you need anything.

M.S.

Emmet smiled to himself. Venus and Mandillo Sprut. He wasn't abandoned after all. Maybe Roberta would know if his contract with Biberling covered intergalactic sales. He wanted to check on her anyway, so he picked up the telephone and dialed her number.

"Do you know what..?" Roberta blurted immediately. "That older one, Mandillo Sprut, brought my purse back! Can you believe that?! It was laying on my couch when I got back. He must have come right into my apartment! I guess he used the key that was in my purse, but that's a little weird, isn't it..?"

"I don't think so," Emmet said. "I like him a lot."

"Well, of course. I like him too. Do you know he owns a sporting goods store on San Vicente Boulevard..?"

"Is that right..?" Emmet asked.

"He does. He called the other day and invited me to stop over. He's having a sale on exercise bikes. He said he'd sell me one at his wholesale price."

"That's nice of him..."

"Emmet," Roberta implored. "Do you think I need an exercise bike..? Tell me the truth."

Emmet Suckerfield laughed. My God, this is a nutty fish bowl we live in, he thought. He glanced over at his two remaining goldfish. They seemed to have survived the ordeal of the five day food tab quite nicely. Achmed glided through the doorhole in the castle, indifferent to his astounding gracefulness, and Charlie swam behind him. Both fish wagged their tails frantically, in hopes that Emmet would hurry up with their reward.

T H E E N D