the planet had a chance to hear about this event. As one of the Lanthanides, I considered myself invited.'

Bunzie nodded impatiently. 'No question about that. You had a story in the jar, too. But listen, the rest of us have agreed to certain business details. Percentages, representation by one agent, rights offered for sale. I hope you're not planning to come in as a maverick and queer the deal!'

Pat Malone's eyes widened in feigned innocence. 'Now I ask you, Erik, would I queer the deal?'

Erik Giles blushed and turned away.

'I did wonder, though, about the wisdom of digging up old sins.'

'What do you mean by that?' Ruben Mistral demanded.

'Oh, you know, Bunzie, little things that were no big deal in the early fifties, but might be now. Now that some of us are Eminent Pros.' His tone was mocking. 'Such as?'

'Remember that phrase that a certain member of the Lanthanides paid me a six-pack for? On one occasion, I happened to remark that when I was a child, I had always been puzzled by the phrase 'for the time being.' I took it literally. I thought there really was someone called the Time Being, and that people did things for him.'

'That's the basis of Peter Deddingfield's Time Traveler Trilogy!' cried Lorien Williams. 'You mean it was your idea?' 'Worth a lot more than a six-pack now, don't you think?' asked Pat Malone. 'What's it in now, its twenty-seventh printing? And then there's that story that Dale Dugger and Brendan Surn collaborated on. It read a lot better when you won the Hugo for it in '65, Brendan, but the original idea was Dale's, wasn't it? And remember how grossed out we all used to be because George Woodard-'

'That's enough, Pat!' Erik Giles shouted above the others' murmuring. His face was red now, and his eyes bulged from their sockets. 'You could be asking for a hell of a libel suit.'

Pat Malone smiled. 'Public figures? Truth is a defense? Right, Jim boy?'

Conyers, the attorney, shrugged and glanced uneasily at the others. 'I wouldn't venture to give you an opinion. But I don't see what you'd gain by embarrassing a bunch of your oldest friends.'

'Gain?' Malone surveyed the scowling group and seemed pleased with the effect of his announcement. 'Didn't The Last Fandango teach you anything? I'm an idealist, folks. And you fat cats have sold out. You all think you're the Founding Fathers of the Genre. Look at old Thomas Jefferson Surn over there in his NASA jacket. I think it's time somebody reminded you of what a bunch of half-assed adolescents you used to be, and how little difference there really is between who made it and who didn't. A lot of luck, maybe, and-' he looked directly at Bunzie-'more than a little ruthlessness.'

'So you came back to screw us, did you, Pat?' asked Erik Giles.

His tormentor surveyed the room again. 'Speaking of matters procreational, I see that Earlene Riley and Jazzy Holt aren't here. I'll bet no one has even mentioned their names.'

George Woodard attempted to muster his dignity. 'My wife was unable to attend.'

Malone whistled. 'Oh, Georgie, Georgie, you didn't.' He turned to Bunzie. 'Which one of 'em?'

Bunzie reddened. 'Earlene.'

'Ah. Succulent nipples.' His grin broadened as he watched the others' discomfort. 'Well, George, I hope you're man enough for the job. Where is Jazzy Holt? Lounging under a lamppost in Bi-loxi? Hello, sailor. No, I suppose not. After all, she's sixty, too, isn't she? Funny how people in our memories don't age.'

Lorien Williams had recognized the name. She leaned over toward Conyers and whispered, 'Does he mean Jasmine Holt, the famous S-F critic?'

Pat Malone overheard the question. 'She was a critic, all right. She once told me that my dick looked like a tadpole sleeping on two apricots. Another expert opinion,' he said, grinning at Jim Conyers. 'Where is the randy bitch? Not still collecting virgins at S-F cons, surely?'

'She lives in London now,' said Bunzie. 'Although she wasn't one of the Lanthanides, I did invite her to attend the reunion, because of her-er-connections with the group, but she declined, telling me to use my own discretion about the disposal of the shares of Curtis Phillips and Peter Deddingfield. She doesn't need the money. Of course, there would have been some legal question about her entitlement anyway.'

'She was married to both of them,' Lorien Williams explained. She was pleased to finally be in the know on a bit of Lanthanides gossip.

'Separately?' smirked Pat Malone. 'Or did you all take Stranger in a Strange Land as a directive from God?'

'I think that's enough, Pat,' said Brendan Surn quietly. 'There is nothing to be gained by rumor-mongering, as you put it a few minutes ago.'

Bunzie looked relieved that order had been restored. 'That's right, Malone. I asked you before, are you going to abide by the business arrangement already established?'

'Certainly, count me in. I'm sure you drove a shrewd bargain, Bundschaft.' He ambled toward the door. 'I may have another little project to pitch to the editors, though. Strictly on my own. Good night, all.' Without waiting for anyone's reply, he was gone.

Bunzie stared dejectedly at the closed door through which Pat Malone had just left. 'What the hell do we do now?'

Chapter 9

Why have you come here

to this place you say

you never liked, where

mockingbirds read your mind…

– DON JOHNSON

'The House in the Woods' from Watauga Drawdown

The reunion was only seven hours away, but no one was sleepy. The full moon shone on the newly resurrected Watauga River, which coursed again in its original channel, a ribbon of light in the muddy wasteland of the valley. In the long grass on the hillsides above the shoreline, crickets chirped in a ceaseless drone. It was a peaceful night in the mountains, but no one forgot that when the sun rose to reveal the barren lake bed, the dead would be back among them. Indeed, one of them had returned already.

After Pat Malone's invasion of the Lanthanides' reunion, no one wanted to talk anymore about old times. Within a space of ten minutes, everyone at the reception in the Laurel Room had pleaded fatigue or the lateness of the hour, and had retired to their own rooms to ponder the evening's events.

Jim Conyers had been unmoved by the encounter, and he felt a thickening in his senses that he knew was a craving for sleep, but Barbara, who was outraged, wanted to discuss it.

She sat on the foot of the bed, staring at herself in the mirror as she did her customary one hundred strokes a night with her hairbrush. Her shoulder-length curls-still a rich shade of chestnut (now obtained from a bottle)-shone in the lamplight, and her face seemed as unlined as a young girl's.

'That certainly was a performance tonight!' she remarked, brushing vigorously.

'Bravado,' said Jim, stifling a yawn. 'The Lanthanides loved to make scenes. They used to remind me of a bunch of Shetland pony stallions: terribly fierce and sincere, but so insignificant as to be comical.'

'Well, it was a revelation to me,' said Barbara, checking out his expression in the mirror. 'I never knew that all those sexual high jinks were going on up at Dale's place.'

Conyers shrugged. 'They weren't, really. Jazzy Holt was somebody the others met at a science fiction convention. She never even visited the farm. They-er-got together at conventions, and spent the rest of the time writing soulful letters to her. She married Curtis after he left Wall Hollow, in '56, I think, and they divorced pretty soon after, about the time of his nervous breakdown.'

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