from these destructive habits. Simply, this man was more useful sober than stoned.
The movie star would soon be used in a dangerous game that would have enormous historical consequences; therefore, when the time came for him to be put into play, there must be no possibility that he’d be parked in a jail cell, awaiting bail for narcotics possession. He must remain free and ready for his appointment with destiny.
“You move in elite circles,” said the doctor. “In particular, I’m thinking of an event you’re scheduled to attend ten days from now, Saturday night of next week. Please describe the event to which I refer.”
“It’s a reception for the president,” the actor said.
“The President of the United States.”
“Yes.”
In fact, the event was a major fund-raiser for the president’s political party, to be held at the Bel Air estate of a director who had earned more money, garnered more Oscars, and risked contracting a sexually transmitted disease with more would-be actresses than had even the late Josh Ahriman, King of Tears. Two hundred of Hollywood’s glitterati would pay twenty thousand dollars apiece for the privilege of fawning over this ultimate politico as they themselves were daily fawned over by everyone from famous talk-show hosts to riffraff in the streets. For their money, they would get, alternately throughout the evening, both an ego rush so tremendous it induced spontaneous orgasms and a deliciously perverse feeling that they were nothing more than servile pop- culture scum in the presence of greatness.
“Nothing whatsoever will deter you from attending this party for the president,” the doctor instructed.
“Nothing.”
“Illness, injury, earthquakes, nubile teenage fans of either sex — neither those distractions nor any others will prevent you from being on time for this event.”
“I understand.”
“I believe that the president is a particular fan of yours.”
“Yes.”
“On that evening, when you come face-to-face with the president, you’ll use your charm and manipulative skills to put him instantly at ease. Then, induce him to lean especially close, as if you intend to impart an irresistible bit of gossip about one of the most beautiful actresses present. When he is very close and most vulnerable, you will seize his head in both hands and bite off his nose.”
“I understand.”
The trailer was indeed humming, as Skeet had noted, but Martie found the hum more annoying than nice. In fact, an auditory tapestry of electronic buzzes and purrs and sighs and tiny tweets wove through the air, some constant in tone and volume, others intermittent, still others oscillating. All of these sounds were quite soft, whispery, never shrill, and the combined effect was not dissimilar to sitting in a meadow on a summer night, surrounded by cicadas and crickets and other insect troubadours as they sang of bug romance. Maybe that was why the hum made Martie itchy and gave her the feeling that things were crawling up her legs.
Two walls of the living room, of which this dining area was an open extension, were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves holding computer monitors and ordinary televisions, most aglow and streaming with pictures, numerical data, flow charts, and abstract patterns of shifting forms and colors that made no sense to Martie. Also on these shelves was a large quantity of mysterious equipment featuring oscilloscopes, radar-display units, gauges, light- snake tracking graphs, and digital readouts in six different colors.
When everyone had been served juice, Fig Newton sat at the table, too. Behind him was a wall papered with star charts, Northern and Southern Hemisphere skyscapes. He looked like a hillbilly cousin of Captain James Kirk, skippering a bargain-basement version of the starship
The mascot of the space command, Valet, lapped water from a bowl the captain had provided for him. Judging by his happy attitude, the dog was not bothered by the trailer’s hum.
Martie wondered if Fig’s perpetually flushed face and cherry-bright nose resulted from the radiation emitted by his collection of electronic gear, rather than from exposure to the sun during his day job as a housepainter.
“So?” Fig asked.
Dusty said, “Martie and I have to go to Santa Fe, and we need—”
“To be energized?”
“What?”
“It’s an energy locus,” Fig said solemnly.
“What is? Santa Fe? What kind of energy locus?”
“Mystic.”
“Really? Well, no, we’re just going to talk to some people who might be witnesses in…a criminal case. We need somewhere for Skeet to stay for a couple days, where no one would think to look for him. If you could—”
“Gonna jump?” Fig asked Skeet.
“Jump where?”
“Off my roof.”
“No offense,” Skeet said, “but it’s not high enough.”
“Shoot yourself?”
“No, nothing like that,” Skeet promised.
“Okay,” Fig said, sipping his prune juice.
This had been easier than Martie expected. She said, “We know it’s an imposition, Fig, but could you make room for Valet, too?”
“The dog?”
“Yeah. He’s really a sweetheart, doesn’t bark, doesn’t bite, and he’s great company if—”
“He dump?”
“What?”
“In the house?” Fig asked.
“Oh, no, never.”
“Okay.”
Martie locked eyes with Dusty, and apparently his conscience was as guilty as hers, because he said, “Fig, I’ve got to be really straight with you. I think there’s going to be someone looking for Skeet, maybe more than one someone. I don’t believe they’re likely to show up here, but if they do…they’re dangerous.”
“Drugs?” Fig asked.
“No. It has nothing to do with that. It’s…”
When Dusty hesitated, struggling to capsulize their bizarre plight in words that wouldn’t strain Fig’s credulity to the breaking point, Martie took over: “Crazy as this might sound, we’re caught up in some mind-control experiment, brainwashing, a conspiracy of some—”
“Aliens?” Fig asked.
“No, no. We—”
“Cross-dimensional beings?”
“No. This is—”
“Government?”
“Maybe,” Martie said.
“American Psychological Association?”
Martie was speechless, and Dusty said, “Where’d you come up with that one?”
“Only five possible suspects,” Fig said.
“Who’s the fifth?”
Leaning over the table, his pink pie-round face as close to an expression of solemnity as it could ever get, limpid gray eyes flooded with the sorrow over the human condition that was always with him, Fig said, “Bill Gates.”
“Good juice,” Skeet said.
The naked actor. Frivolous man of movies. Fame and infamy.
Dreadful. If beautiful women did not easily inspire the doctor to reach the heights of poetic composition, this thespian with his surgically sculpted nose and collagen-enhanced lips was not likely to be the subject of immortal
