"I-I don't know what you mean," she said. She was starting to break, George thought. In another minute she'd be blurting out all her fears to him. Well, for Christ's sake, he he didn't know where Goodman was. didn't know where Goodman was.

"Look," he said sharply, pushing back against the flow of emotion coming through to him, "if you hear from Inspector Goodman, tell him if he wants to know more about the Bavarian Illuminati he should call George Dorn at the Hotel Tudor. That's D-O-R-N, Hotel Tudor Tudor. Have you got that?"

"The Illuminati! Look, uh, Mr. Dorn, whatever you want to tell, you can tell me. I'll pa.s.s it on to him."

"I can't do that, Mrs. Goodman. Thank you, now. Good-bye."

"Wait! Don't hang up."

"I can't help you, Mrs. Goodman. I don't know where he is, either." George dropped the phone into its cradle with a sigh. His hands were cold and moist. Well, he'd have to tell Hagbard he couldn't reach Inspector Goodman. But he had learned something-that Saul Goodman, who was supposed to be investigating Joe Malik's disappearance, had himself disappeared, and the words "Bavarian Illuminati" meant something to his wife. George crossed the small room and turned on the TV. The noon news would be on. He went back to his bed, lay down and lit a cigarette. He was still exhausted, from his s.e.xual bout of the night before with Tarantella Serpentine.

The announcer said, "The Attorney General has announced that he will speak at six this evening on the early morning epidemic of gangland-style a.s.sa.s.sinations at widely separated locations all over the country. The death toll from killings of this type has reached twenty-seven, though local officials refuse to say whether all-or any-of these deaths are connected. Among those shot are Senator Edward c.o.ke Bacon; two high-ranking Los Angeles police officers; the mayor of a town called Mad Dog, Texas; a New York fight promoter; a Boston pharmacist; a Detroit ceramicist; a Chicago Communist; three New Mexico hippie leaders; a New Orleans restaurateur; a barber in Yorba Linda, California; and a sausage manufacturer in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. There were bomb explosions at fifteen locations, killing thirteen more people. Six persons around the country have disappeared, and four of these were seen being forced into cars at different times last night and this morning. The Attorney General today called this 'a reign of terror perpetrated by organized crime,' pointing out that though the motives for the widely scattered slayings is obscure they bear the earmarks of gangster killings. However, new FBI director George Wallace, who has ordered FBI agents around the country into action, issued a written statement declaring-quote-'Once again the Attorney General has treed the wrong c.o.o.n, proving that law enforcement should be left to the experienced professionals. We have reason to think that these murders are the work of Negro Communists directed from Peking.'-end of quote. Meanwhile, the office of the Vice President has issued an apology to the Italian-American Anti-Defaoation League for his reference to 'Mafioso rubouts' and the League has withdrawn its picket line from the White House. Remember, the Attorney General will address the nation at 6 p.m. tonight." The announcer suddenly changed his facial expression from neutral newscaster to pugnacious patriot. "Certain dissident elements keep complaining that people don't get a chance to partic.i.p.ate in decisions made by their government. Yet, at a time like this, when the whole nation has an opportunity to hear the Attorney General, the ratings are not always as good as they should be. So let's do everything we can to build up those ratings tonight, and let the whole world know that this is still a democracy."

"f.u.c.k!" George shouted at the screen. He didn't recall TV newscasters being that obnoxious. Must be a fairly recent development, something that had happened after he left for Mad Dog-maybe a late outgrowth of the Fernando Poo crisis. It was in this very hotel, George remembered, just after the b.l.o.o.d.y Fernando Poo demonstrations at the UN that Joe Malik had first broached the subject of Mad Dog. Now Joe had disappeared, not unlike those people who, as George knew, the Syndicate had snuffed in earnest of their good intentions, having accepted Hagbard's gift of objets d'art. Not unlike Inspector Saul Goodman who perhaps had gone down the same rabbit hole as Joe, There was a knock at the door. George went to it, turning off the TV set in pa.s.sing. It was Stella Maris.

"Well, glad to see you, baby. Strip off that dress and come over to the bed, so we can reaffirm my initiation rites."

Stella put her hands on his shoulders. "Never mind that now, George. We've got things to worry about. Robert Putney Drake and Banana Nose Maldonado are dead. Come on. We've got to get back to Hagbard right away."

Traveling first by helicopter, then by executive jet and finally by motorboat to Hagbard's Chesapeake Bay submarine base, George was exhausted and dazed in terror's aftermath. He rallied when he saw Hagbard again.

"You motherf.u.c.ker! You sent me to get G.o.ddam killed!"

"And that has given you the courage to tell me off," said Hagbard with an indulgent smile. "Fear is a funny thing, isn't it, George? If we weren't afraid of dying of diseases, we'd never develop the science of microbiology. That science in turn creates the possibility of germ warfare. And each superpower is so afraid that the others may wage germ warfare against it, each develops its own plagues to wipe out the human race."

"Your mind is wandering, you stupid old fart," said Stella. "George isn't kidding about nearly being killed."

"The fear of death is the beginning of slavery," Hagbard said simply.

Even though it was early, George found himself on the verge of collapse, ready to sleep for twenty-four hours or more. The submarine's engines vibrated under his feet as he trudged to his cabin, but he wasn't even curious about where they were going. He lay down on his bed, and picked a book off the headpost bookshelf, part of his getting-ready-for-sleep ritual. s.e.xuality, Magic and Perversion s.e.xuality, Magic and Perversion said the binder. Well, that sounded juicy and promising. Author named Francis King, whoever that is. Citadel Press, 1972. Only a few years ago. said the binder. Well, that sounded juicy and promising. Author named Francis King, whoever that is. Citadel Press, 1972. Only a few years ago.

Well, then. George opened at random: Within a few years Frater Paragra.n.u.s had become Chief of the Swiss section of the OTO, had entered into friendly relationships with the disciples of Aleister Crowley-notably Karl Germer -and had established a magazine. Subsequently Frater Paragra.n.u.s inherited the chieftainship of Krumm-h.e.l.ler's Ancient Rosicrucian Fraternity and the Patriarchate of the Gnostic Catholic Church-this latter dignity he derived from Chevillon, murdered by the Gestapo in 1944, who was himself the successor of Johnny Bricaud. Frater Paragra.n.u.s is also the head of one of the several groups who claim to be the true heirs and successors of the Illuminati of Weishaupt as revived (circa 1895) by Leopold Engel.

George blinked. Several Several Illuminati? He had to ask Hagbard about this. But he was already beginning to visualize into hypnogogic revery and sleep was coming. Illuminati? He had to ask Hagbard about this. But he was already beginning to visualize into hypnogogic revery and sleep was coming.

In less than a half-hour, Joe had distributed ninety-two paper cups of tomato juice containing AUM, the drug that promised to turn neophobes into neophiles. He stood in Pioneer Court, just north of the Michigan Avenue Bridge, at a table from which hung a poster reading free tomato juice. Each person who took a cupful was invited to fill out a short questionnaire and leave it in a box on Joe's table. However, Joe explained, the questionnaire was optional, and anyone who wanted to drink the tomato juice and run was welcome to do so.

AUM would work just as well either way, but the questionnaire would give ELF an opportunity to trace its effect on some of the subjects.

A tall black policeman was suddenly standing in front of the table. "You got a permit for this?"

"You bet," said Joe with a quick smile. "I'm with the General Services Corporation, and we're running a test on a new brand of tomato juice. Care to try some, officer?"

"No thanks," said the cop unsmilingly. "We had a bunch of yippies threatening to put LSD in the city's water supply two years ago. Let's just see your credentials." There was something cold, hard and homicidal in this cop's eyes, Joe thought. Something beyond the ordinary. This would be a unique guy, and the stuff would affect him uniquely. Joe looked down at the nameplate on the policeman's jacket, which read waterhouse. The line behind Patrolman Waterhouse was getting longer.

Joe found the paper Malaclypse had given him. He handed it to Waterhouse, who glanced at it and said, "This isn't enough. You apparently didn't tell them you were going to set up your stand in Pioneer Court You're blocking pedestrian traffic here. This is a busy area. You'll have to move."

Joe looked out at the street where crowds walked back and forth, at the bridge across the green, greasy Chicago river and at the buildings surrounding Pioneer Court. The brick-paved area was an ample public square, and there was clearly room for everyone. Joe smiled at Waterhouse. He was in Chicago and knew what to do. He took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, folded it twice lengthwise and wrapped it around a cup of the tomato juice, which he deftly filled from the plastic jug on his table. Waterhouse drained the tomato juice without comment, and when he tossed the cup into the wastebasket the ten-dollar bill was gone.

A bunch of baldheaded, cackling small-town businessman types was lined up in front of the table. Each one wore an acetate-covered badge bearing a red Crusaders' cross, the letters KCUF and the words, "Dominus Vobisc.u.m! My name is -." Joe smilingly handed them cups of tomato juice, noting that the lapels of several bore an additional decoration, a square white plastic cross with the letters CL printed across it. Any of these men, Joe knew, would love to put him in jail for the rest of his life because he was the publisher of a radical magazine that occasionally got very explicit about s.e.x and several times had published what Joe considered very beautiful erotica. The Knights of Christianity United for the Faith were rumored to be behind the firebombing of two theaters in the Midwest and the lynching of a news dealer in Alabama. And, of course, they had close ties with Atlanta Hope's G.o.d's Lightning Party.

AUM would be strong medicine for this bunch, Joe thought. He wondered if it would get them off their censorship kick or just make them more formidable. In either case, they would be bound to bust loose from Illuminati control for a time. If only there were a way he and Simon could get into their convention and administer AUM to more of them ...

Behind the KCUF contingent there was a small man who looked like a rooster with a gray comb. When Joe read the questionnaire later, he found out that he had administered AUM to Judge Caligula Bushmanra shining ornament of the Chicago judiciary.

There followed a succession of faces Joe did not find memorable. They all had that complex, stupid, shrewd, angry, defeated, cynical, gullible look characteristic of Chicago, New York and other big cities. Then he found himself confronting a tall redhead whose features seemed to combine the best of Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe. "Any vodka in that?" she asked him.

"No, ma'am, just straight tomato juice," said Joe.

"Too bad," she said as she tossed it down." "I could use one."

Caligula Bushman, known as the toughest judge on the Chicago bench, was trying six people who were charged with attacking a draft board, destroying all its furniture, ruining its files and dumping a wheelbarrow full of cow manure on the floor. Suddenly Bushman interrupted the trial about halfway through the prosecution's presentation of its case with the announcement that he was going to hold a sanity hearing. To the bewilderment of all, he then asked State's Attorney Milo A. Flanagan a series of rather odd questions: "What would you think of a man who not only kept an a.r.s.enal in his home, but was collecting at enormous financial sacrifice a second a.r.s.enal to protect the first one? What would you say if this man so frightened his neighbors that they in turn were collecting weapons to protect themselves from him? What if this man spent ten times as much money on his expensive weapons as he did on the education of his children? What if one of his children criticized his hobby and he called that child a traitor and a b.u.m and disowned it? And he took another child who had obeyed him faithfully and armed that child and sent it out into the world to attack neighbors? What would you say about a man who introduces poisons into the water he drinks and the air he breathes? What if this man not only is feuding with the people on his block but involves himself in the quarrels of others in distant parts of the city and even in the suburbs? Such a man would clearly be a paranoid schizophrenic, Mr. Flanagan, with homicidal tendencies. This is the man who should be on trial, though under our modern, enlightened system of jurisprudence we would attempt to cure and rehabilitate him rather than merely punish.

"Speaking as a judge," he continued, "I dismiss this case on several grounds. The State is clinically insane as a corporate ent.i.ty and is absolutely unfit to arrest, try and incarcerate those who disagree with its policies. But I doubt that this judgment, though obvious to any man of common sense, quite fits into the rules of our American jurisprudential game. I also rule, therefore, that the right to destroy government property is protected by the First Amendment to the U.S. Const.i.tution and therefore the crime with which these people are charged is not a crime under the Const.i.tution. Government property belongs to all of the people, and the right of any of the people to express displeasure with their government by destroying government property is precious and shall not be infringed." This doctrine had come to Judge Bushman suddenly while he was speaking without his robe. It startled him, but he had noticed that his mind was working better and faster this afternoon.

He went on, "The State does not exist as a person or thing exists, but is a legal fiction. A fiction is a form of communication. Anything said to be owned by a form of communication must also thereby be itself a form of communication. Government is a map and government paper is a map of the map. The medium, in this case, is definitely the message, as any semanticist would agree. Furthermore, any physical act directed against a communication is itself a communication, a map of the map of the map. Thus, destruction of government property is protected by the First Amendment. I will issue a more ample written opinion on this point, but I feel now that the defendants need suffer in durance no longer. Case dismissed."

Many spectators trooped out of the courtroom sullenly, while those who loved the defendants surrounded them with tears, laughter and hugs. Judge Bushman, who stepped down from the bench but remained in the courtroom, was the benign center of a cl.u.s.ter of reporters. (He was thinking that his opinion would be a map of the map of the map of the map, or a fourth-order map. How many potential further orders of symbolism were there? He barely heard the praises showered on him. Of course, he knew his decision would be overturned; but the judge business already bored him. It would be interesting to get into mathematics, really deep.) deep.) Harold Canvera had not bothered to fill out a questionnaire and therefore was not under observation and was not protected. He returned to his home, and his job as an accountant, and his avocation, which was recording telephone spiels against the Illuminati, the Communists, the Socialists, the Liberals, the Middle-of-the-Roaders and all insufficiently conservative Republicans. (Mr. Canvera also mailed out similar pamphlets whenever anybody was intrigued enough by his phone messages to send him twenty-five cents for additional information. He performed these worthy educational services for a group calling itself White Heroes Opposing Red Extremism, which was a splinter off Taxpayers Warring Against Tyranny, which was a splinter off G.o.d's Lightning.) In the following weeks, however, strange new ideas began to appear in Canvera's taped phone messages.

"Lower taxes aren't enough," he said, for instance. "When you hear some so-called conservative Bircher or some follower of William Buckley Jr. call for lower taxes, taxes aren't enough," he said, for instance. "When you hear some so-called conservative Bircher or some follower of William Buckley Jr. call for lower taxes, beware beware. There's a man who's squishy soft squishy soft on Illuminism. All taxes are robbery. Instead of attacking Joan Baez, a real American should support her for refusing to pay any more money into the Illuminati treasury in Washington." on Illuminism. All taxes are robbery. Instead of attacking Joan Baez, a real American should support her for refusing to pay any more money into the Illuminati treasury in Washington."

The next week was even more interesting: "White Heroes Opposing Red Extremism has often told you that there's no real difference between the Democrats and Republicans. Both are p.a.w.ns of the Illuminati scheme to destroy private property and make everybody a slave of the State, so the International Bankers of a certain minority group of a certain minority group can run everything. Now it's time for all thinking patriots to take an even more skeptical look than ever before at the so-called anti-Illuminati John Birch Society. Why are they always putting up those stickers saying, 'Support Your Local Police'? Ever wonder about that? What's the most important thing to a police state? Isn't it police? And if we got rid of the police, how could we ever have a police state? Think about it, fellow Americans, and Remember the Alamo!" can run everything. Now it's time for all thinking patriots to take an even more skeptical look than ever before at the so-called anti-Illuminati John Birch Society. Why are they always putting up those stickers saying, 'Support Your Local Police'? Ever wonder about that? What's the most important thing to a police state? Isn't it police? And if we got rid of the police, how could we ever have a police state? Think about it, fellow Americans, and Remember the Alamo!"

A few of these new strange ideas had come from various right-wing anarchist periodicals (all secretly subsidized by Hagbard Celine) that Canvera had mysteriously received three months earlier and hadn't glanced at until swallowing the AUM. The periodicals had been mailed by Simon Moon, as a joke, in an envelope with the return address Illuminati International, 34 East 68th Street, New York City-the headquarters of the Council on Foreign Relations, long regarded by the Birchers as an Illuminati hotbed. "Remember the Alamo," Canvera had picked up from Bowie Knife Bowie Knife, a publication of the Davy Crockett Society, a paramilitary right-wing fascist group which had splintered off G.o.d's Lightning when their leader, a Texas oil millionaire of gigantic paranoias, became convinced that many apparent Mexicans were actually Red Chinese agents in slight disguise. Later, the dogma became retroactive and he claimed that the Chinese had always been Communists, all all Mexicans had always been Chinese, and the attack on the Alamo was the first Communist a.s.sault against American capitalism. Mexicans had always been Chinese, and the attack on the Alamo was the first Communist a.s.sault against American capitalism.

The third week was quite remarkable. Evidently, AUM, like LSD, changed some personality traits but left others fairly intact; in any event, in Canvera's irregular evolution from right-wing authoritarianism to right-wing libertarianism, he had somehow managed to arrive at a thesis never before enunciated except by Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade. What this rare man did was to give a three-minute spiel in favor of the right of any person, of either s.e.x, to use any other person, of either s.e.x, with or without with or without their consent, for s.e.xual gratification of any sort needed or at least their consent, for s.e.xual gratification of any sort needed or at least desired desired. The only option he granted the recipients of these intimate invasions was the reciprocal right to use the initiator for their own needs or desires. Now, most of the people who regularly called Canvera's phone service were not offended by any of this; they were Lincoln Avenue hippies and dialed him only when stoned, for what they called "a really weird and far-out head trip," and they were bored that he was no longer as funky as in his old Negro-baiting, Jew-hating and Illuminati-castigating days. However, there were a few members of White Heroes Opposing Red Extremism who called occasionally to check that their contributions were still financing the dissemination of true Americanism, and these people were severely puzzled and finally disturbed. Some of them even wrote to Wh.o.r.e headquarters in Mad Dog, Texas, to complain that there was something a little bit peculiar in the Americanism lately. However, the president of Wh.o.r.e, Dr. Horace Naismith, who also ran the John Dillinger Died for You Society, Veterans of the s.e.xual Revolution, and the Colossus of Yorba Linda Foundation, was in it only for the money, sad to say, and had no time for such petty complaints. He was too busy implementing his newest fund-raising scheme, the Male Chauvinist Organization (MACHO), which he hoped would milk mucho mucho denaros from Russ Meyers, illegal abortionists, pimps, industrialists who regularly paid female workers thirty percent of the salaries of men doing the same jobs, and all others threatened by the Women's Liberation Movement. denaros from Russ Meyers, illegal abortionists, pimps, industrialists who regularly paid female workers thirty percent of the salaries of men doing the same jobs, and all others threatened by the Women's Liberation Movement.

The fourth week was, to be frank about it, definitely bizarre. Canvera discoursed at length on the lost civilization that once existed in the Gobi Desert and denounced those, such as Brion Gysin, who believed it had destroyed itself in atomic war. Rather, he a.s.serted, it had been obliterated when the Illuminati arrived from the planet Vulcan in flying saucers. "Remember the Alamo" was now replaced by "Remember Carcosa," Canvera having discerned that both Ambrose Bierce and H. P. Lovecraft were describing this tragic Gobian society in their fiction. The hippies were again delighted-this was the funky kind of trip that had originally made Canvera a mock folk hero among them-and they especially appreciated his call for the U.S. to abandon the next moon shot and launch a punitive expedition to Vulcan both to wipe out Illuminism at its source and to avenge poor Carcosa. The Wh.o.r.e regulars, however, were again upset; all that concern with Carcosa struck them as creeping one-worldism.

The fifth week, Canvera took a new turn, denouncing the ma.s.ses for their stupidity and proclaiming that the b.o.o.bs probably deserved being governed by the Illuminati since most of them were too dumb to find their own behinds in a dark room even using both hands. He had been browsing through a volume of H. L. Mencken (sent to him over a year earlier by El Haj Stackerlee Mohammed, ne Pearson, after one of his put-prayers-back-in-the-public-schools tirades); but he had also been pondering an invitation to join join the Illuminati. This doc.u.ment, which came in an envelope with no return address, informed him that he was too smart to stay with the losers all his life and ought to climb on the winning side before it was too late. It added that membership dues were $3125, which should be put in a cigar box and buried in his back yard, after which it promised "one of our underground agents will contact you." At first, Canvera had considered this a hoax-he received many put-ons in the mail, together with p.o.r.nography, Rosicrucian pamphlets, ill.u.s.trated with the eye-and-pyramid design, and pretended fan letters signed by such names as the Illuminati. This doc.u.ment, which came in an envelope with no return address, informed him that he was too smart to stay with the losers all his life and ought to climb on the winning side before it was too late. It added that membership dues were $3125, which should be put in a cigar box and buried in his back yard, after which it promised "one of our underground agents will contact you." At first, Canvera had considered this a hoax-he received many put-ons in the mail, together with p.o.r.nography, Rosicrucian pamphlets, ill.u.s.trated with the eye-and-pyramid design, and pretended fan letters signed by such names as Eldridge Cleaver, Fidel Castro, Anton Szandor Levay Eldridge Cleaver, Fidel Castro, Anton Szandor Levay or or Judge Crater Judge Crater, all of course cooked up by his Lincoln Avenue audience. Later, however, it struck him that 3125 was five to the fifth power five to the fifth power and that convinced him a True Illuminatus was indeed communicating with him. He took the $3125 out of his savings account, buried it as instructed, made a pro-Illuminati recording as a gesture of good faith and waited. The next day he was shot, several times, in the head and shoulders, dying of natural causes as a result. and that convinced him a True Illuminatus was indeed communicating with him. He took the $3125 out of his savings account, buried it as instructed, made a pro-Illuminati recording as a gesture of good faith and waited. The next day he was shot, several times, in the head and shoulders, dying of natural causes as a result.

(In present time again, Rebecca Goodman enters the Hotel Tudor lobby in answer to the second mysterious phone call of the day, while Hagbard decides George Dorn needs to be illuminized further before Ingolstadt, and Esperando Despond clears his throat and says, "I want to explain the mathematics of plague to you men and says, "I want to explain the mathematics of plague to you men...") Actually, poor old Canvera's death had nothing to do with the Illuminati or with his former compatriots in Wh.o.r.e. The man had been practicing the libertine philosophy of his post-AUM phone editorials and had tampered with Ca.s.sandra Acconci, the beloved daughter of Ronald Acconci, Chicago Regional Commander of G.o.d's Lightning and a long-time contributor to KCUF. Acconci arranged, via State's Attorney Milo A. Flanagan, for the local Maf to do a hit on Canvera. But there are no endings, any more than there are any beginnings; it next developed that Canvera's seed lived on in wedlock with Ca.s.sandra's ovum and was in danger of becoming a human being within her previously trim abdomen.

Saul Goodman had no idea that the room he was in had last been rented to George Dorn; he was conscious only of his impatience, not knowing that Rebecca was at that moment on an elevator approaching his floor ... And a mile north, Peter Jackson, still trying to put together the July issue of ... And a mile north, Peter Jackson, still trying to put together the July issue of Confrontation Confrontation virtually singlehanded, dives into the slush pile (which is the magazine industry's elegant name for unsolicited ma.n.u.scripts) and comes up with more fallout from the Moon-Malik AUM project of 1970. "Orthodox Science: The New Religion," he reads. virtually singlehanded, dives into the slush pile (which is the magazine industry's elegant name for unsolicited ma.n.u.scripts) and comes up with more fallout from the Moon-Malik AUM project of 1970. "Orthodox Science: The New Religion," he reads. Well, let's sample it, what the h.e.l.l Well, let's sample it, what the h.e.l.l. Opening at random he finds: Einstein's concept of spherical s.p.a.ce, furthermore, suffers from the same defect as the concept of a smoothly or perfectly spherical earth: it rests upon the use of the irrational number, . This number has no operational definition; there is no place on any engineer's scale to which one can point and say "This is exactly ," although these scales are misleadingly marked with such a spot. , in fact, can never be found in the real world, and there are historical and archeological reasons to believe it was created by a Greek mathematician under the influence of the mind-warping hallucinogenic mushroom Amanita muscaria Amanita muscaria. It is pure surrealism. You cannot write as a real number; you can only approximate it, as 3.1417 ... etc. Chemistry knows no such units: three atoms of an element may combine with four atoms of another element, but you will never find atoms combining with anything. Quantum physics reveals that an electron may jump three units or four units, but it will not jump units. Nor is necessary to geometry, as is sometimes claimed; R. Buckminster Fuller has created an entire geometric system, at least as reliable as that of the ancient Greek dope fiends, in which does not appear at all. s.p.a.ce, then, may be slanted or kiltered in various ways, but it cannot be smoothly spherical ...

"What the ring-tailed rambling h.e.l.l?" Peter Jackson said aloud. He flipped to the end: In conclusion, I want to thank a strange and uncommon man, James Mallison, who provided the spark which set me thinking about these matters. In fact, it was due to my meeting with Mr. Mallison that I sold my hardware business, returned to college and majored in cartography and topology. Although he was a religious fanatic (as I was at the time of our meeting) and would, therefore, not appreciate many of my discoveries, it is due to this man's perverse, peculiar and yet brilliant prodding that I embarked on the search which has lead to this new theory of a Pentahedroidal Universe.W. Clement Cotex, Ph.D "Far f.u.c.king out," out," Peter muttered. James Mallison was a pen name Joe Malik sometimes used, and here was another James Mallison inspiring this guy to become a Ph.D. and invent a new cosmological theory. What was the word Joe used for such coincidences? Synch-something ... Peter muttered. James Mallison was a pen name Joe Malik sometimes used, and here was another James Mallison inspiring this guy to become a Ph.D. and invent a new cosmological theory. What was the word Joe used for such coincidences? Synch-something ...

("1472," Esperando Despond concludes his gloomy mathematical calculations. "That's the number of plague cases we might have right now, at noon, if the girl had only two contacts after leaving Dr. Mocenigo. Now, if she had three contacts ..." The a.s.sembled FBI agents are gradually turning a pale greenish color from the neck up. Carmel, the only actual contact, is busy two blocks away stuffing money into a briefcase.) "That's him!" Mrs. Edward c.o.ke Bacon cried excitedly, addressing Basil Banghart, another FBI agent, in an office in Washington. She is pointing at a photo of Albert "the Teacher" Stern. "Ma'am" Banghart says kindly, "that can't be him. I don't even know why his picture's still in the file. That's a no-account junkie who once got on our most-wanted list because he confessed to a murder he didn't even commit." In Cincinnati, an FBI artist is completing a portrait under the direction of the widow of a slain TV repairman: the face of the killer, gradually emerging, combines various features of Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll, George Dorn and the lead vocalist of the American Medical a.s.sociation, which group was at that moment boarding a plane at Kennedy International Airport for the Ingolstadt gig. Rebecca Goodman, rising in the Hotel Tudor elevator, has a flash memory of a nightmare of the night before: Saul being shot by the same vocalist, dressed as a monk, in red-and-white robes, while a Playboy bunny danced in front of some kind of giant pyramid. In Princeton, New Jersey, a nuclear physicist named Nils Nosferatu-one of the few survivors of the early morning shootings-babbles to the detective and police stenographer at his bedside, "Tlaloc sucks. You can't trust them. The midget is the one to watch. We'll be moved, all right, when the tear gas. .h.i.ts. Fun is fun, Omega. George's brother met the dolphins first, and that was the psychic hook that brought George in. She's at the door. She's buried in the desert. Any deviation will result in termination. Unify the forces. You hold the hose. I'll get Mark." In Cincinnati, an FBI artist is completing a portrait under the direction of the widow of a slain TV repairman: the face of the killer, gradually emerging, combines various features of Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll, George Dorn and the lead vocalist of the American Medical a.s.sociation, which group was at that moment boarding a plane at Kennedy International Airport for the Ingolstadt gig. Rebecca Goodman, rising in the Hotel Tudor elevator, has a flash memory of a nightmare of the night before: Saul being shot by the same vocalist, dressed as a monk, in red-and-white robes, while a Playboy bunny danced in front of some kind of giant pyramid. In Princeton, New Jersey, a nuclear physicist named Nils Nosferatu-one of the few survivors of the early morning shootings-babbles to the detective and police stenographer at his bedside, "Tlaloc sucks. You can't trust them. The midget is the one to watch. We'll be moved, all right, when the tear gas. .h.i.ts. Fun is fun, Omega. George's brother met the dolphins first, and that was the psychic hook that brought George in. She's at the door. She's buried in the desert. Any deviation will result in termination. Unify the forces. You hold the hose. I'll get Mark."

"I've got to start telling you the truth, George," Hagbard began hesitantly, as the Midget, Carmel and Dr. Horace Naismith collided in front of the door of the Sands Hotel ("Watch the f.u.c.k where you're going" Carmel growled) as the Midget, Carmel and Dr. Horace Naismith collided in front of the door of the Sands Hotel ("Watch the f.u.c.k where you're going" Carmel growled), and she was at the door, her heart was pounding, an intuition was forming in her mind, and she knocked (and Peter Jackson began dialing Epicene Wildeblood) (and Peter Jackson began dialing Epicene Wildeblood), and she was sure of it, and she was afraid of being sure because she might be wrong, and the Midget said to Dr. Naismith "Rude b.a.s.t.a.r.d, wasn't he?" and the Midget said to Dr. Naismith "Rude b.a.s.t.a.r.d, wasn't he?" and the door opened, and the door opened, and the door of Milo O. Flanagan's office opened to admit Ca.s.sandra Acconci and the door of Milo O. Flanagan's office opened to admit Ca.s.sandra Acconci, and her heart stopped, and Dr. Nosferatu screamed, "The door. She's in the door. The door in the desert. He eats Carmels," and Dr. Nosferatu screamed, "The door. She's in the door. The door in the desert. He eats Carmels," and it was him and she was in his arms and she was weeping and laughing and asking, "Where have you and it was him and she was in his arms and she was weeping and laughing and asking, "Where have you been been, baby?" And Saul closed the door behind her and drew her further into the room. "I'm not a cop anymore," he said, "I'm on the other side."

"What?" Rebecca noticed there was a new thing in his eyes, a thing for which she had no word. Rebecca noticed there was a new thing in his eyes, a thing for which she had no word.

"You can stop worrying that you'll get back on horse," he went on gaily. "And if you've ever been afraid of your s.e.xual fantasies, don't be. We've all got them. Saint Bernards!"

But even that wasn't as weird as the new thing in his eyes.

"Baby," she said, "baby "baby. What the h.e.l.l is this?"

"I wanted s.e.x with my father, when I was two years old. When did you have that thing about the Saint Bernard?"

"When I was eleven or twelve, I think. Just before my first period. My G.o.d, you must have been a lot further away than I ever imagined." She was beginning to recognize the new thing. It wasn't intelligence; he had always had that. With awe, she realized it was what the ancients called wisdom.

"I've always had a thing about black women, just like your thing about black men," he went on. "I think everybody in this country has a touch of it. The blacks have it about us us, too. I was in one head, a brilliant black guy, musician, scientist, poet, a million talents, and white women were like the Holy Grail to him. And your fantasy about Spiro Agnew-I had one just like that about Use Koch, a n.a.z.i b.i.t.c.h from before your time. It was the same thing in both cases, revenge. Not real s.e.x, hate-s.e.x. Oh, we're all so crazy-in-the-head."

Rebecca backed up and sat down on the bed. "It's too much, too fast, I'm scared. I can see you don't have any contempt for me, but, Lord, can I live live knowing that somebody else knows every single repressed desire I have?" knowing that somebody else knows every single repressed desire I have?"

"Yes," Saul said calmly. "And you're mistaken about Time. I can't know every secret, darling. I've only had a smattering of them. A handful. There are a dozen people right now who've been through my head the same way, and I can look any one of them in the eye. The things I know about them!" them!" He laughed. He laughed.

"It's still too fast," Rebecca said. "You disappear, and then you come back knowing things about me that I only half know myself, and you're not a cop anymore ... What do you mean, you've joined 'the other side'? The Mafia? The Morituri groups?"

"No," Saul answered happily. "Much further out than that. Darling, I've been driven mad by the world's best brainwashers and put back together again by a computer that does psychotherapy, predicts the future and steers a submarine all at once. On the way, I learned things about humanity and the universe that it would take a year to tell you. And I don't have much time right now, because I've got to fly to Las Vegas. In two or three days, if everything works out, I'll be able to show you, not just tell you-"

"Are you reading my mind right now?" Rebecca asked, still awed and nervous.

Saul laughed again. "It isn't that simple. It takes years of training, and even then it's like an old radio full of static. If I 'tune in' right now, I'll get a flash of whatever's in your head, but it will be so jumbled with other things that relate to my resonance in one way or another that I won't know for sure which part is you."

"Do it," Rebecca said. "I'll be more comfortable with you if I see a sample of whatever-it-is that you've become."

Saul sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand. "Okay," he said thoughtfully, "I'll do it aloud, and don't be afraid. I'm the same man, darling, there's just more of me now." He inhaled deeply. "Here goes ... Five million bucks. Never find her where I buried her. 1472. George, don't make no bull moves. Unify the forces. One helping hand deserves another. New York Jew doctors. Remember Carcosa! In quick and out quick, a cowboy. They're all coming back. Lie down on the floor and keep calm. It's a League of Nations, a young people's League of Nations. One was for fighting, the other for fun ... Good Lord," Good Lord," he broke off and closed his eyes. "I've got a whole street and I can see them. They're still singing. 'We rose up in arms and none failed to come, we're the Vets of the s.e.x Revoloooootion!' he broke off and closed his eyes. "I've got a whole street and I can see them. They're still singing. 'We rose up in arms and none failed to come, we're the Vets of the s.e.x Revoloooootion!' What the h.e.l.l?" What the h.e.l.l?" He turned to her and explained, "It's like a split-screen movie, but split a thousand ways, and with a thousand soundtracks. I only pick up a few random bits. When one jumps out like that last one, it's important; I'll bet that street is in Las Vegas and I'll be walking on it myself in a few hours. Anyway," he added, "none of that seemed to come from you. Did it?" He turned to her and explained, "It's like a split-screen movie, but split a thousand ways, and with a thousand soundtracks. I only pick up a few random bits. When one jumps out like that last one, it's important; I'll bet that street is in Las Vegas and I'll be walking on it myself in a few hours. Anyway," he added, "none of that seemed to come from you. Did it?"

"No," she said, "and I'm glad. This takes some reorientation. When you said you're going to show me in a few days, did you mean show me how to do it?"

"You are are doing it. Everybody is. All the time." doing it. Everybody is. All the time."

"But?"

"But most of the time it's just background noise. I can teach you to become more aware of it. Learning to focus-to pick out one person and one time-that takes years, decades."

Rebecca finally smiled. "You sure did go a long way in a day and a half."

"If it were a year and a half," Saul said simply, "or a century and a half-I'd still be trying to find my way back to you all through it"

She kissed him. "Yes, it's still you," she said, "just more more of you. Tell me: if we both studied it for years and years could we get to the point where we were reading each other's minds constantly, tuned in on each other completely?" of you. Tell me: if we both studied it for years and years could we get to the point where we were reading each other's minds constantly, tuned in on each other completely?"

"Yes," Saul said, "there are couples like that."

"Mm. That's even more intimate than s.e.x."

"No. It is is s.e.x." s.e.x."

An intimation came to Rebecca, like a voice whispering far down at the end of a dark hall, and she knew that some part of her already knew, and had always known, what Saul was about to explain. "Your new friends who taught all this," she said quietly. "They're way ahead of Freud, aren't they?"

"Way ahead. For instance, what am I thinking now?"

"You're feeling h.o.r.n.y," Rebecca grinned. "But that's not my background noise, or telepathy, that picked that up. It's your breathing and the kind of light in your eyes and all sorts of other small cues that a woman learns to recognize. The way you moved a little closer after I kissed you. Things like that."

Saul took her hand again. "How "How h.o.r.n.y am I?" he asked. h.o.r.n.y am I?" he asked.

"Very h.o.r.n.y. In fact, you've already decided that you've got time enough and h.o.r.n.y. In fact, you've already decided that you've got time enough and that's that's more important than talking ..." more important than talking ..."

Saul touched her cheek gently. "Did you read that from kinesic cues, or was it the background noise or telepathy?"

"I guess the background noise helped me to read the cues ..."

Saul glanced at his watch. "I have to meet Barney Muldoon in the lobby in exactly fifty minutes. How would you like to hear a scientific lecture while you're being laid? That's a perversion we've never tried before." His hand moved down from her cheek to her neck and then began unb.u.t.toning her blouse.

("There's a Morituri bomb factory in your building," Ca.s.sandra Acconci said flatly. "On the seventeenth floor. The name on the buzzer is the same as yours."

"My brother!" Milo O. Flanagan bellowed. "Right under my nose! That freaking f.a.ggot!") "Oh, Saul. Oh, Saul, Saul," Rebecca closed her eyes as the mouth tightened on her nipple ... and Dr. Horace Naismith crossed the lobby of the Sands, affixing the VSR badge to his lapel, and pa.s.sed the Midget again and Dr. Horace Naismith crossed the lobby of the Sands, affixing the VSR badge to his lapel, and pa.s.sed the Midget again ... "Well," the Attorney General told the President, "one solution, of course, is to ... "Well," the Attorney General told the President, "one solution, of course, is to nuke nuke Las Vegas. But that wouldn't solve the problem of the possible carriers who could have hopped a plane already and might be anywhere in the country now, or anywhere in the world." While the President washes down three Librium, a Tofranil and an Elavil, the Vice President asks thoughtfully, "Suppose we just distribute the antidote to party workers and ride this thing out?" He is feeling more than usually misanthropic, having had an appalling evening in New York due to his impulsiveness in answering a personal ad which had touched his heart ... Las Vegas. But that wouldn't solve the problem of the possible carriers who could have hopped a plane already and might be anywhere in the country now, or anywhere in the world." While the President washes down three Librium, a Tofranil and an Elavil, the Vice President asks thoughtfully, "Suppose we just distribute the antidote to party workers and ride this thing out?" He is feeling more than usually misanthropic, having had an appalling evening in New York due to his impulsiveness in answering a personal ad which had touched his heart ...

("Thank you Ca.s.sandra," Milo A. Flanagan said fervently. "I'm eternally grateful to you."

"One helping hand deserves another," Ca.s.sandra replied; she remembered how Milo and Smiling Jim Trepomena had helped her get the abortion the time she was knocked up by that Canvera character. Her father had wanted to send her to New York for a legal D & C, but Milo had pointed out that it would look kind of funny to some people for the daughter of a high KCUF spokesman to have an official official abortion. "Besides," Smiling Jim had added, "you don't want to fool around with them New York Jew doctors. They might do dirty things to you. Just trust me, child; we've got the country's best-qualified criminal abortionists in Cincinnati." Actually, though, the real reason Ca.s.sandra was blowing the whistle on Padre Pederastia's bomb emporium was to annoy Simon Moon, whom she had been trying to get into her bed ever since she met him at the Friendly Stranger Coffee House six months before. Simon hadn't been interested, due to his obsession with black women, who represented the Holy Grail to him.) abortion. "Besides," Smiling Jim had added, "you don't want to fool around with them New York Jew doctors. They might do dirty things to you. Just trust me, child; we've got the country's best-qualified criminal abortionists in Cincinnati." Actually, though, the real reason Ca.s.sandra was blowing the whistle on Padre Pederastia's bomb emporium was to annoy Simon Moon, whom she had been trying to get into her bed ever since she met him at the Friendly Stranger Coffee House six months before. Simon hadn't been interested, due to his obsession with black women, who represented the Holy Grail to him.) "Wildeblood here," the cultured drawl came over the wire.

"Have you finished your review yet?" Peter Jackson asked, crushing another cigarette b.u.t.t in his ashtray and worrying about lung cancer.

"Yes, and you'll love it. I really tear these two smart-a.s.ses apart." Wildeblood was enthusiastic. "Listen to this: 'a pair of nursery Nietzsches dreaming of a psychedelic Superman.' And this: 'a plot that is only a put-on, characters who are cardboard, and a pretense of scholarship that amounts to sheer bluff.' But this this is the crusher; listen: 'a constant use of obscene language for shock effect until the reader begins to feel as depressed as an unwilling spectator at a quarrel between a fishwife and a lobster-pot pirate.' Don't you think that will get quoted at all the best c.o.c.ktail parties this season?" is the crusher; listen: 'a constant use of obscene language for shock effect until the reader begins to feel as depressed as an unwilling spectator at a quarrel between a fishwife and a lobster-pot pirate.' Don't you think that will get quoted at all the best c.o.c.ktail parties this season?"

"I suppose so. The book's a real stinker, eh?"

"Heavens, I wouldn't know for sure. I told you yesterday, it's absurdly long long. Three volumes, in fact. Boring as h.e.l.l. I only had time to skim it. But listen to this, dear boy: 'If The Lord of the Rings The Lord of the Rings is a fairy tale for adults, sophisticated readers will quickly recognize this monumental miscarriage as a fairy tale for paranoids.' That refers to the ridiculous conspiracy theory that the plot, if there is one, seems to revolve around. Nicely worded, wouldn't you say?" is a fairy tale for adults, sophisticated readers will quickly recognize this monumental miscarriage as a fairy tale for paranoids.' That refers to the ridiculous conspiracy theory that the plot, if there is one, seems to revolve around. Nicely worded, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, sure," Peter said, crossing off book review book review on his pad. "Send it over. I'll pay the messenger." on his pad. "Send it over. I'll pay the messenger."

Epicene Wildeblood, hanging up, crossed off Confrontation Confrontation on his own pad, found on his own pad, found Time Time next on the list, and picked up another book to be immortalized by his devastating witticisms. He was feeling more than usually misanthropic, having had a disastrous evening the night before. Somebody had answered his personal ad about his "interest in Greek Culture" and he had thrilled at the thought of a new a.s.shole to conquer; the a.s.shole, unfortunately, had turned out to be the Vice President of the United States, who was interested only in declaiming about the glorious achievements of the military junta that had ruled in Athens, When Eppy, despairing of s.e.x, had tried to steer the conversation to Plato at least, the VP asked, "Are you sure he was a Greek? That sounds like a wop name to me." next on the list, and picked up another book to be immortalized by his devastating witticisms. He was feeling more than usually misanthropic, having had a disastrous evening the night before. Somebody had answered his personal ad about his "interest in Greek Culture" and he had thrilled at the thought of a new a.s.shole to conquer; the a.s.shole, unfortunately, had turned out to be the Vice President of the United States, who was interested only in declaiming about the glorious achievements of the military junta that had ruled in Athens, When Eppy, despairing of s.e.x, had tried to steer the conversation to Plato at least, the VP asked, "Are you sure he was a Greek? That sounds like a wop name to me."

(Tobias Knight and two other FBI agents elbow past the Midget searching for wh.o.r.es who might have been with Dr. Mocenigo the night before, while outside the VSR's first contingent, the Hugh M. Hefner Brigade, led by Dr. Horace Naismith himself, marches by singing: "We're Vet'rans of the s.e.xule s.e.xule Revolution/ Our rifles were issued, we had our own guns/ One was for fighting, the other for fun/ We rose up in arms and none failed to come,/ We're Vets of the s.e.x Revoloooooooooootion!") Revolution/ Our rifles were issued, we had our own guns/ One was for fighting, the other for fun/ We rose up in arms and none failed to come,/ We're Vets of the s.e.x Revoloooooooooootion!") You see, darling, it all revolves around s.e.x, but not in the sense that Freud thought. Freud never understood s.e.x. Hardly anybody understands s.e.x, in fact, except a few poets here and there. Any scientist who starts to get an inkling keeps his mouth shut because he knows he'd be drammed out of the profession if he said what he knew. Here, I'll help you unhook that. What we're feeling now is supposed to be tension, and what we'll feel after o.r.g.a.s.m is supposed to be relaxation. Oh, they're so pretty. Yes, I know I always say that. But they are pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Mmmm. Mmmm. Oh, yes, yes. Just hold it like that a moment. Yes. Tension? Lord, yes that's what I mean. How can this be tension? What's it got in common with worry or anxiety or anything else that we call tension? It's a strain, but not a tension. It's a drive to break out, and a tension is a drive to hold in. Those are the two polarities. Oh, stop for a minute. Let me do this. You like that? Oh, darling, yes, darling, I like it, too. It makes me happy to make you happy. You see, we're trying to break through our skins into each other. We're trying to break the walls, walls, walls. Yes, Yes. Break the walls. Tension is trying to hold up the walls, to keep the outside from getting in. It's the opposite. Oh, Rebecca. Let me kiss them again. They're so pretty. Pretty pretty t.i.tties. Mmm. Mmm. Pretty. And so big and round. Oh, you've got two hard-ons and I've only got one. And this, this, ah, you like it, don't you, that's three hard-ons. You want me to take my finger away and kiss it? Oh, darling, pretty belly, pretty. Mmm. Mmm. Darling, Mmm. MMMMM. Mmm. Lord, Lord. You never came so fast before, oh, I love you. Are you happy? I'm so happy. That's right, just for a minute. Oh, G.o.d, I love watching you do that. I love to see it go into your mouth. Lord, G.o.d, Rebecca, I love it. Yes, now I'll put him in. Little Saul, there, coming up inside you, there. Does little Rebecca like him? I know, I know. They love each other, don't they? The way we love each other. She's so warm, she welcomes him so nicely. You're inside me, too. That's what I'm trying to say. My field. You're inside my field, just like I'm inside yours. It's the fields, not the physical act. That's what people are afraid of. That's why they're tense during s.e.x. They're afraid of letting the fields merge. It's a unifying of the forces. G.o.d, I can't keep talking. Well, if we slow way down, yes, this is nicer, isn't it? That's why it's so fast for most people. They rush, complete the physical act, before the fields are charged. They never experience the fields. They think it's poetry, fiction, when somebody who's had it describes it. One scientist knew. He died in prison. I'll tell you about him later. It's the big taboo, the one all the others grow out of. It isn't s.e.x itself they're trying to stop. That's too strong, they can't stop it. It's this. Darling, yes. This. The unifying. It happens at death, but they try to steal it even then. They've taken it out of s.e.x. That's why the fantasies. And the promiscuity. The search. Blacks, h.o.m.os.e.xuality, our parents, people we know we hate, Saint Bernards. Everything. It's not neuroses or perversion. It's a search. A desperate search. Everybody wants s.e.x with an enemy. Hate mobilizes the field, too, you see. And hate. Is safer. Safer than love. Love too dangerous. Lord, Lord, I love you. I love you. Let me more. Get the weight on my elbows, hold your a.s.s with my hands. Yes. Poetry isn't poetry. I mean it doesn't lie. It's true when I say I worship you. Can't say it outside bed. Can only say love then, usually. Worship too scary. Some people can't even say love in bed. Searching, partner to partner. Never able to say love. Never able to feel it. Under control. They can't let us learn, or the game is up. Their name? They got a million names. Monopolize it. Keep it to themselves. They had to stamp it out in the rest of us, to control. To control us. Drove it underground, into background noise. Mustn't break through. That's how. How it happened. Darling. First they repressed telepathy, then s.e.x. That's why schizos. Darling. Why schizos break into crazy s.e.x things first. Why h.o.m.os.e.xuals dig the occult. Break one taboo, come close to the next. Finally break the wall entirely. Get through. Like we get through, together. They can't have that. Got to keep us apart. Schisms. Always splitting and schisms. White against black, men against women, all the way down the line. Keep us apart. Don't let us merge. Make s.e.x a dirty joke. A few more minutes. A few more. My tongue in your ear. Oh, G.o.d. Soon. So fast. A miracle. Whole society set up to prevent this. To destroy love. Oh, I do love you. Worship you. Adore you. Rebecca. Beautiful, beautiful. Rebecca. They don't want us to. Unify. The. Forces. Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca.

THE SEVENTH TRIP, OR NETZACH.

(THE SNAFU PRINCIPLE).

The most thoroughly and relentlessly d.a.m.ned, banned, excluded, condemned, forbidden, ostracized, ignored, suppressed, repressed, robbed, brutalized and defamed of all d.a.m.ned Things is the individual human being. The social engineers, statisticians, psychologists, sociologists, market researchers, landlords, bureaucrats, captains of industry, bankers, governors, commissars, kings and presidents are perpetually forcing this d.a.m.ned Thing into carefully prepared blueprints and perpetually irritated that the d.a.m.ned Thing will not fit into the slot a.s.signed to it it. The theologians call it a sinner and try to reform it. The governor calls it a criminal and tries to punish it. The psychotherapist calls it a neurotic and tries to cure it. Still, the d.a.m.ned Thing will not fit into their slots.-Never Whistle While You're p.i.s.sing, by Hagbard Celine, H.M., S.H.

The Midget, whose name was Markoff Chaney, was no relative of the famous Chaneys of Hollywood, but people did did keep making jokes about that. It was bad enough to be, by the standards of the gigantic and stupid majority, a freak; how much worse to be so named as to remind these big oversized clods of the cinema's two most famous portrayers of monstro-freaks; by the time the Midget was fifteen, he had built up a detestation for ordinary mankind that dwarfed (he hated that word) the relative misanthropies of Paul of Tarsus, Clement of Alexandria, Swift of Dublin and even Robert Putney Drake. Revenge, for sure, he would have. He would have revenge. keep making jokes about that. It was bad enough to be, by the standards of the gigantic and stupid majority, a freak; how much worse to be so named as to remind these big oversized clods of the cinema's two most famous portrayers of monstro-freaks; by the time the Midget was fifteen, he had built up a detestation for ordinary mankind that dwarfed (he hated that word) the relative misanthropies of Paul of Tarsus, Clement of Alexandria, Swift of Dublin and even Robert Putney Drake. Revenge, for sure, he would have. He would have revenge.

It was in college (Antioch, Yellow Springs, 1962) that Markoff Chaney discovered another hidden joke in his name, and the circ.u.mstances were-considering that he was to become the worst headache the Illuminati ever encountered-appropriately synchronistic. It was in a math cla.s.s, and, since this was Antioch, the two students directly behind the Midget were ignoring the professor and discussing their own intellectual interests; since this was Antioch, they were a good six years ahead of intellectual fads elsewhere. They were discussing ethology.

"So we keep the same instincts as our primate ancestors," one student (he was from Chicago, his name was Moon, and he was crazy even for Antioch) was saying. "But we superimpose culture and law on top of this. So we get split in two, dig? You might say," Moon's voice betrayed pride in the aphorism he was about to unleash, "mankind is a statutory ape."

" ... and," the professor, old Fred "Fidgets" Digits, said at just that moment, "when such a related series appears in a random process, we have what is known as a Markoff Chain. I hope Mr. Chaney won't be tormented by jokes about this for the rest of the term, even if the related series of his appearances in cla.s.s do seem part of a notably random process." The cla.s.s roared; another ton of bile was entered in the Midget's s.h.i.t ledger, the list of people who were going to eat t.u.r.d before he died.

In fact, his cuts were numerous, both in math and in other cla.s.ses. There were times when he could not bear to be with the giants, but hid in his room, Playboy Playboy gatefold open, masturbating and dreaming of millions and millions of nubile young women built like Playmates. Today, however, gatefold open, masturbating and dreaming of millions and millions of nubile young women built like Playmates. Today, however, Playboy Playboy would avail him not; he needed something raunchier. Ignoring his next cla.s.s, Physical Anthropology (always good for a few humiliating moments), he hurried across David Street, pa.s.sing Atlanta Hope without noticing her, and slammed into his room, chain-bolting the door behind him. would avail him not; he needed something raunchier. Ignoring his next cla.s.s, Physical Anthropology (always good for a few humiliating moments), he hurried across David Street, pa.s.sing Atlanta Hope without noticing her, and slammed into his room, chain-bolting the door behind him.

d.a.m.n old Fidgets Digits, and d.a.m.n the science of mathematics itself, the line, the square, the average, the whole measurable world that p.r.o.nounced him a bizarre random factor. Once and for all, beyond fantasy, in the depth of his soul he declared war on the statutory ape, on law and order, on predictability, on negative entropy. He would be a random factor in every equation; from this day forward, unto death, it would be civil war: the Midget versus the Digits.