第2章

1

Most of them were wearing digit costumes. One through nine, completely out of order. Others had on letter costumes, caps or lowercase. Plus-and minus-sign costumes. Greater-than and less-than costumes. Parenthesis and bracket costumes. All milling around the stage like sheep.

He leaned toward Wilson, whispering, "How am I supposed to get them in their proper places?"

"Don't ask me," Wilson answered. "You're the director."

"What?" He gaped at the older man. "I thought you were."

"Not this play," Wilson said.

Chris slumped back with a groan. I'm the director? he thought. How could that be? He didn't even know what play it was.

"Come on," he protested. "This is insane. I'm not a stage director. I'm-"

He broke off, wincing, as Wilson grabbed his arm. "Time's a wastin', Chrissie-boy," he said. He held up his wristwatch but Chris couldn't see what time it was. "Now do it." Wilson looked infuriated.

"I just don't see how-"

Wilson made an angry noise and lurched to his feet. Chris twisted around to watch him striding up the aisle. He wanted to shout, I'm sorry, but I'm out of my depth here!

He didn't though. He looked back at the stage and wondered what he should do. Time's a wastin', Chrissie-boy. The words repeated in his mind. He swallowed nervously. How much time did he have?

For the first time, he noticed an enormous clock on the wall of the abstract set. He tried to see what time it was but couldn't make out the hands. He blinked, attempting to focus his eyes, but couldn't do it.

He looked at the actors again. Were they actors? They had no faces. Just the digits, the letters, the signs, the parenthetical marks. He peered closely at a group of them. Were they forming a phase function of scattering? he wondered. He stood and started down the aisle. Maybe if he got a closer look.

Now those actors were definitely forming the optical thickness of a clearance zone-

"Hey, don't!" he shouted as they began to switch positions. "Stay where you are!"

The actors started laughing as they walked around, changing positions.

"Damn it, stay in place!" he yelled. He started walking more quickly to stop them. He heard the clock on the stage ticking so loudly that the noise oppressed him. "Cut the clock noise!" he demanded. If he was the director, by God he'd enforce some discipline!

Suddenly, amazingly, the actors came together in a formula. "Now that looks promising!" he cried.

The lights went out. "Goddamn it all!" he raged. "Just when they look like they're getting something right, you turn the fucking lights out?!"

"Chris!" somebody shouted to his left.

He jarred to a halt and thought he saw a figure sitting in the shadows. "What?" he asked, impatiently.

"The name of the play," the figure said, "is Damocles."

***

His cheek was pressed against a film of saliva as he slumped across the desk top. He looked as though someone had clubbed him on the back of the head, knocking him forward onto his cluster of papers.

Actually, nothing had struck him but exhaustion. The end result of working seventeen hours after a sleep of five hours following eighteen hours of work after a sleep of three and a half hours following nineteen hours of work…

He was thirty-seven but, sprawled on his sheets of penciled figures, in front of the humming computer screen, he could have passed for fifty. Pale. Dark circles underneath his eyes. Threads of white at his temples. Underweight, his shirt like that of a heavier man. Features pinched and tight, his expression one of anxiety.

"Time," he said and sat up.

His half-shut eyes stared at the figures on the computer screen. Wrong, he thought. As usual. He switched off the computer and stretched, wincing at the crackle of his bones. I'm drying up, he thought.

He looked at the wall clock. "Christ," he muttered. A memory flickered, a clock on a stage set. Then it vanished. He stood with a groan and stretched again. Why didn't he just have a bed and refrigerator installed in the office? Then he'd never have to go home; he could calculate into oblivion.

He shuffled to the coatrack and pulled down his light blue jacket, slid his arms into the sleeves. He tried to close the zipper but couldn't get it started. MATHEMATICAL WHIZ KID UNABLE TO CLOSE ZIPPER; he saw a headline in his mind. He'd like to see Wilson's expression when he read that.

Grunting, Chris pulled open the door of his office. Weighs too much, he thought. His brain began to calculate the weight; he cut it off with a scowl. Enough.

The overhead squares of luminescent light floated back across him as he moved along the hallway. No one else in the department was around. Surprise, he thought. What idiot would work at this time of the morning?

"How do you do," he muttered.

***

He stared at the place where he'd parked his car.

Too much, he thought. I work my noodle to the bone till after three A.M. and when I finally leave to go home, my car is gone.

He turned and looked around the parking lot. Had someone moved his car? A joke? No, he couldn't see it anywhere. None of the few cars visible were his. He sighed. Too much.

Wait a second. His brain automatically sought an explanation. Did he make a mistake, exit into the east lot instead of the west? He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. As always, it felt stiff.

He made a face then. Idiot, he told himself. He looked at the paving, at the slot marks and his name in white: C. Barton.

"Trouble is, C. Barton's wheels are gone," he muttered.

Another weary sigh. Now what? He eyed the distant guard shack. Now you walk a hundred miles to that shack and say, "My car is gone," his brain provided.

"Thanks for the help," he said.

His heels scuffed on the asphalt as he trudged toward the guard shack. He drew in a deep breath of air. He'd never liked the desert by day but at night it wasn't bad. This time of year anyway; the air was cool and fresh. He leaned his head back, looking at the sky. Diamonds flung onto black velvet, he thought. "How friggin' poetic," he mumbled.

He looked back down. Now the guard shack was only fifty miles away. He'd make it by sunrise. "Shit," he muttered. What son of a bitch had taken his car?

The dream was stirred by memory. Actors in number suits? He snickered. How obvious could a dream be? Freud could diagnose it with his brain tied behind his back. Numbers, letters, signs, parentheses and brackets? Kid stuff. And the big clock on the set, Wilson's watch? "Get outta here," he said.

He opened the door of the guard shack and went inside. The uniformed man behind the counter twitched-had he been dozing?-and looked at Chris's badge.

"Yes, Mr. Barton," he said as though he knew Chris.

"My car is gone," Chris told him.

"Hmm."

Chris looked at the man's badge. Number 9939. No surprise. Nines always made trouble. He could smell a problem in the works from F. Crain.

"What kind of car was it?" the guard asked.

Is it, Chris's mind corrected; the car's not dead. "A Mustang convertible; blue," he said.

"Hmm," said the guard.

Don't say that again or I'll get testy, Chris reacted. "Well?" he asked.

"No car like that's been past here during my shift," F. Crain answered.

Chris visualized his bed, the stacks of books on each bedside table. He was dying to be sacked out in the first and reaching for one of the second. He had no desire to be standing in this shack at almost four A.M., discussing his purloined Mustang with F. Crain, 9939.

No help for it though. "Where do you suppose it went then?" he inquired. F. Crain was fifty-seven, two hundred forty pounds, five foot seven inches, he estimated quickly.

"There is the back gate," F. Crain suggested.

"I thought they always kept it locked," Chris said.

"They do."

Oh, well now we're hurtling toward the solution, Chris thought. Any second now, he'd start to froth and F. Crain would be forced to call for an ambulance. "That doesn't help me find my Mustang, does it?" he said.

"Not really," said the guard.

Oh, Jesus, Chris heard his brain moan haplessly. He struggled for composure. "Listen, Mr. Crain," he said. "The problem is, I've been working for seventeen hours and I'm exhausted. I live eighteen miles from here and I have to get home and go to bed. But I can't do that without my blue Mustang or something to replace my blue Mustang."

"Hmm," said F. Crain.

***

Chris glanced at the dashboard clock as he turned onto the highway. It was almost five A.M. "Gawd," he muttered. He could watch the moon go down as he drove. Or the sun come up. He groaned. His eyes felt like a pair of overheated billiard balls. He had to read, to sleep.

F. Crain had not exactly been a whirlwind of efficiency. Chris had finally been compelled to call Wilson's home, apologize for rousting him from sleep, explain his plight. A grumpy Wilson had instructed the guard to find out which of the people working in the plant was going home the latest and see if Chris could borrow his or her car. He'd have the car returned by the time it was needed and, if Chris's Mustang wasn't found by then, he'd be provided with a rental car until he could purchase a new one. All this information had proved excessive to F. Crain's IQ, and, by the time Wilson had imparted clarity to the guard, Chris could hear him screaming on the other end of the line. Better him than me, he'd thought.

A Scotty Tensdale wasn't scheduled to go home until noon so Chris had driven the guard's electric cart to Tensdale's department and gotten the car keys. Crain could not desert his post, of course. National security.

Now he was driving along the highway in Scotty Tensdale's amber Pontiac sedan and hoping that he'd make it to his house before he passed out cold.

The moon was full tonight, casting a silver sheen across the desert. Interesting sight, Chris thought. Stark and oddly menacing, marked by dark outlines and glistening sand. He stared at the highway unraveling ahead, pressing down on the accelerator. Seventy-two. He'd better hold the speed to that; his attention was a little blurry.

Even so, he did briefly try to calculate what might have happened to his car.

He didn't know anyone at the plant well enough for them to play a joke on him. What kind of joke would it be anyway? It couldn't have been stolen. Why bother? It wasn't worth it; there were nicer cars on the lot. Anyway, a car thief wouldn't go to a government plant and try to steal a car from a guarded parking lot.

Some emergency requiring the use of his car? Wouldn't they have told him?

Every possibility seemed blocked by logic. Yet the car was gone.

He had to let it go. His brain was just too muddled. He'd have a go at finding a solution after he'd slept.

Time, he thought. Was that what he'd murmured, waking up? Why? Chronology, that's why. Everything separated by time. Him and his bed. Him and the answer to his project. Him and his car.

"Forget it," he growled. I refuse to bring it home with me…. R2 (x,y,z), his brain tried to slip in. He cut it off. Drop it, he ordered himself. Wetting the end of his right index finger, he rubbed it over his eyelids, the momentary coolness providing him with the illusion of wakefulness.

He looked at the intersection sign as he sped by it. He should have hung a right and headed for Las Vegas. If he was going to stay up day and night, he might as well enjoy it.

"Sure," he muttered. He wouldn't go to Vegas, that was obvious. He'd go home and take a shower as he always did. Get in his pajamas and clamber into bed. Look to his left, suspense and mystery paperbacks; to his right, science, fiction, fantasy and horror-and wonder which one he would gulp down as a sleeping pill this time.

***

He had almost passed the man without noticing him. Then his head turned quickly and an impression flashed by him. Old in age and clothes, a baseball cap on the man's head.

By now the car had sped past him; the man's figure was receding quickly.

"Oh…shit," Chris muttered. He exhaled loudly, fluttering his cheeks. An old guy stuck out in the desert at this time of night. His foot lifted from the gas pedal and the car began to slow.

Or should I? he wondered. He visualized the old man gabbing at him, driving him insane. He visualized the old man reaching for his groin, a toothless grin on his face. He visualized the old man pulling out a hatchet and burying it in his skull.

The vision faded in a recollection of how the old man had lifted his head, hopefully, as though to say, Ah, rescue from this dreadful spot.

Chris groaned and pressed on the brake. All right, all right, he thought. He pulled over to the shoulder, slowed down enough to make a U-turn and twisted the steering wheel to his left. Can't just leave the poor old guy alone out here, he thought.

If only, it would occur to him later, he had never thought that.

2

Chris made another U-turn and pulled up by the old man. Reaching across the other seat, he unlocked the door. The old man opened it, picked up a canvas bag and got inside. "You'll never forget this," he said.

Chris felt a momentary tremor at the words, then shucked it off. The old man looked benign enough. Hell, it could be Howard Hughes, he thought. Hughes didn't really die. And now he's going to give me ninety million dollars for my trouble.

Repressing a smile, Chris pulled back onto the highway and accelerated as the old man put his canvas bag on the floor. "Been here long?" he asked.

"Hours," the old man answered. "No one wanted to pick me up."

I don't blame them, Chris thought. "Well, that's the way things are today," he said.

Now the old galoot will open up his bag, he thought, remove a carving knife and reduce me to giblets. The vision half alarmed and half amused him as the old man responded, "Yeah, nobody trusts anybody these days."

They'll find my remains about a month from now, Chris's vision continued, and Scotty Tensdale's Pontiac in Massachusetts. He frowned away the notion. Maybe he should start reading Barbara Cartland.

"Veering," said the old man. "Albert Veering."

"Hi." Chris nodded. "Chris Barton." He wondered where the old man was going. Not that it mattered. He could only take him as far as the entrance to Oasis Village. Then Albert would be on his own again.

"Nice car," the old man said.

Chris thought about explaining that it wasn't his but decided he was too tired for the explanation; Veering might have a brain like F. Crain. He settled for "Thanks."

"What brings you out this time of night?" asked Veering. "Or should I say, this time of morning?"

Say anything you want, Chris thought. "Coming home from work," he said.

"You must be on the night shift," Veering said, "or on the graveyard shift. Except if you were on the graveyard shift, you'd still be working."

As I dreaded, Chris thought; a blabbermouth. He pressed down on the gas pedal. Let's get this over fast, he thought. "I just worked late," he said.

"At the plant down the highway?" the old man asked.

"Yeah."

"Passed it hours ago," said Veering. "Looks hush-hush."

Chris chuckled at the phrase. "I guess," he said. Obviously, the old man didn't have anything in his canvas bag but dirty underwear and a half-empty bottle of Muscatel.

"All those high fences and gate guards," Veering said. "You in secret government work?"

Chris didn't answer. He couldn't very well believe that this old coot in the baseball cap was a foreign agent. Still, there was the policy. "Nothing secret," he said. "Statistics. Pretty dull."

"How come you have to work so late then?" Veering prodded.

Chris glanced at him. The old man's question grated on him. None of your fucking business, he thought.

He repressed the irritation. Hell, the old guy had been stuck out here for hours. He just wanted a little company, that was all.

"Just bad luck," he said.

"Statistics," Veering said. "A lot of details."

"Yeah."

"You a cost analyst?" the old man asked.

"Something like that."

"Defense program?"

Chris had had enough. "Where you off to?" He changed the subject.

"Off to nowhere," Veering said. "Just wandering."

"Sounds good."

"You wandering too?" the old man asked.

Chris glanced at him. What the hell did that mean? Maybe the old man was a little off.

"Modern man," Veering said.

Oh, Christ, Chris thought. A baseball-capped philosopher. This has really been my night.

"Have any personal life?" the old man asked.

Chris felt like saying What the hell is that to you, you old fart? But he didn't want to hurt the old man's feelings. He was just being garrulous, that's all. "I work a lot," he said.

"Well, there's the shame." The old man nodded. "There's the pity."

"Hmm," Chris said. I sound like F. Crain now. The thought amused him.

"Modern man, so totally absorbed by the mass of details in his existence that he has no time for a personal life."

Jesus Christ, I picked up PBS Al, Chris thought. He didn't have Muscatel in his bag, he had The Story of Philosophy by Will Durant. He'd almost prefer a hatchet. Maybe if he didn't respond, the old man would let it go.

The old man didn't.

"Is your life meaningful?" he asked. "Do you have time for anything of consequence?"

Jesus, I am tired, Chris thought. Why the hell did I pick him up?

"That's the problem, you see," Veering said. "How to differentiate."

What the fuck is he talking about now? Chris wondered.

"Reality," the old man said. "How do you differentiate reality?"

From what? Chris thought. He sighed, politely quiet. Oh, well, he'd be at the Village soon. Then he could dump Baruch Spinoza and go to bed.

"Is your life real or unreal?" the old man continued.

Chris didn't try to hide his sigh this time. "Real, I assume."

"You assume," the old man responded quickly.

Jesus God, he's going to start a seminar, Chris thought. Give me a break.

"You assume your life is real but how do you know it is?"

Oh, God, a shower, a read and a sleep, Chris thought. Maybe he should dump the old guy now, tell him he had to take a left turn into the desert. "I don't know," he muttered, unable to disguise the edge of irritation he felt.

"There's a crying shame," the old man said.

Give me a break! howled Chris's mind.

"An intelligent young man like you not knowing what's real and what isn't?" Veering pressed.

"I s'pose," Chris said. How far to the Village? Couldn't be more than nine, ten miles.

"Do you believe your life is organized?" the old man asked.

"Organized?" Chris glanced at him impatiently.

"Everything in place. All the details settled. No surprises."

Relax, Chris told himself. Let him blather. "Well, sure, I know what to expect each day," he said. A little sleep, a lot of work and no solution to the project, his mind completed.

Veering wouldn't give it up. "But do you know what is and what isn't in your life?" he asked.

You're getting on my nerves, you old bastard, Chris thought. I pick you up out of the goodness of my heart because you look decrepit and alone in the darkness on a desert highway. And what do you do? Attack me with your Mickey Mouse philosophy.

"Well?" demanded Veering.

Be patient, Chris ordered himself. He's old. Let him think he's talking sense. "Well," he said, "to the extent that anyone knows what is or isn't real in their lives-"

"Ah!" the old man interrupted.

Chris waited. Nothing happened. That's it? he thought. Just ah? Not the greatest windup of a philosophical debate he'd ever run across. But what the hell.

"Tell you what," said Veering.

Chris barely managed to control a groan.

"I wager you," the old man said.

Chris looked at him, then back at the highway. "You do," he said.

"I do," said Veering. "I present you with a wager."

To wit? Chris's mind inquired. He felt a gush of pleasure as he saw the distant lights of Oasis Village.

"I wager the security of your existence against your assumption that you know what's real and what's unreal in your life."

Come again? Chris thought. You what?

"Are you game?" asked Veering. "Do you accept the wager?"

Chris almost asked, What wager? I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, you old fool, then decided to let it go. He'd be home in fifteen minutes. "Sure," he said.

"Don't say it casually," the old man cautioned. "Think about it."

Oh, God, why did I pick him up? Chris thought. "Okay," he said. Never pick up hitchhikers; he formed a permanent rule for himself.

"You believe, then, that you know what's real in your life and what's unreal. Correct?"

Chris yawned. "Yeah, right."

"And I maintain that you do not," said Veering. He's beginning to sound like a mid-Victorian attorney, Chris thought. "And I repeat-are you willing to gamble the security of your existence on this wager?"

"Sure," Chris muttered. Up ahead, he saw the gateway to Oasis Village. Thank the good Lord, he thought.

"You're positive," the old man said. "You're not-"

"I'm going to have to let you off here," Chris broke in. "I live here."

"Do you so wager?" Veering insisted.

"Okay. Okay." Chris started steering toward the shoulder.

"Done and done," the old man said. "You can let me off right here."

Bet your ass I will, Chris thought. He steered onto the highway shoulder, braking.

"Thank you for the ride and interesting discussion," Veering said, picking up his canvas bag.

"You're welcome," Chris replied offhandedly. Go, he thought.

Veering opened the door, stepped out onto the shoulder, then leaned back in. In the dimness of the overhead light, Chris saw him smiling.

"à bient?t," the old man said.

He closed the door and started walking, the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder. Chris pulled back onto the highway and drove past him. à bient?t? he thought. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He'd never see the old coot again.

As he was driving through the gateway to Oasis Village, it came to him-the definition of veering.

To change direction.

He would remember that more than once in the days to come.

3

When he turned the corner onto Oasis Drive East, he saw his blue Mustang.

It was parked in front of his garage. Exactly as he always parked it when he was home.

His mind jumped automatically toward explanation. He'd been so distracted by his work, he'd left it at home. The illogic of that was immediately apparent. How had he gotten to work then? No one else had picked him up. There was no shuttle service between Oasis Village and Palladian.

Which left what? The practical joke again. And who at the plant knew him well enough to perpetrate a joke on him? In a word, nobody.

He pulled the Pontiac into the driveway, parking it beside his car. Was it his car? His mind still sought an answer. These houses were similar in appearance. He must have driven onto the wrong street and approached a house that looked like his but wasn't. With a car parked in front of it that looked like his but wasn't. Farfetched but possible.

The notion was short-lived. Lasting long enough for him to leave the Pontiac, walk around it and look at the Mustang. He always left it unlocked at night. Neighbors told him he shouldn't, there were occasional car thefts in the area. He never paid attention.

Opening the door on the driver's side of the Mustang, he looked inside. The cassette and change box was there across the drive-shaft hump. His cassettes: Mahler, Vaughan Williams, Copland, the Smithsonian History of Jazz in three cassettes. Any concept of coincidence was gone. It was his Mustang. And it had been stolen. Taken from the plant and parked in front of his house.

Which made approximately no sense at all.

Still, to be certain-proof and double proof, the only way, he heard Uncle Harry say-he opened the glove compartment and pulled out the papers inside. A repair bill from Desert Ford, his name printed on it. The registration slip, his name on it. "Well, goddamn," he muttered.

What the hell was going on?

Backing out of the Mustang, he straightened up and closed the door. Quietly. Immediately it struck him; why had he done that? What caution had impelled him? He grimaced with a sound of self-reproach. There has to be a simple explanation for this, he thought.

He visualized himself a scientist from a fifties science-fiction film uttering those words. He always scoffed when he heard them. Still, there did have to be a simple explanation for this. He was in no condition to confront a major enigma at this time of the morning.

He looked toward the house. It was dark and quiet. Was the car thief lurking in there, peering out between the shutter slats, a carving knife clutched in his…

"Oh, shit, come on," he berated himself. First, he had imagined Veering with a carving knife, now, some skulker in his house. You're not paranoid, are you? he thought.

He walked to the bedroom window and tried to look inside. The drapes were shut. He tried to remember whether he'd left them closed before leaving for work yesterday afternoon. He didn't, usually. But, of course, he must have.

He listened at the window. There was no sound. Why should there be? his mind challenged. "No reason," he muttered a reply.

He was on the front porch when he realized he didn't have the key; it was on his car ring and-

Chris felt a shiver course his back. Where was the car ring, then? If it was in the house, somebody had to have brought it in.

Reason fought uneasiness. All right, someone took his car and put it in the driveway of his house and put the keys inside and then was driven off by some confederate.

Who? his mind demanded.

The front door was locked. No surprise there; he always locked it when he went to work. Still, how was he to get inside now? He frowned at himself for never having thought of it while getting Tensdale's car and driving here.

He walked across the lawn and opened the alley gate, moving along the sidewalk. The house was totally dark. No surprise there either. It was always dark when he returned from work.

He stepped onto the small cement porch by the kitchen door and tried the knob. Locked. Always was; again, no surprise. He stepped off the porch and walked around to the back of the house, to the sliding glass door of the patio. Locked.

He peered into the darkness of the family room, the kitchen beyond. Now what? He shook the sliding door to see if he could loosen the latch.

A minute later, he was standing on the front lawn again, staring at his dark, locked house. And now? he thought. Sleep in the Mustang? The Pontiac?

"Screw that," he said. He looked around for a rock to break a window. But there were only redwood chips skirting the lawn. Groaning, he walked over to the Mustang and opened the door. Pushing the driver's seat forward, he leaned into the back and felt behind the seat until his fingers closed on the putter in his golf bag. How long had it been since he'd played golf? The question drifted across his mind. Another lifetime, was the answer. Why the hell had he bought them in the first place? Wilson, he remembered. Wilson had told him it would relax his mind. Sure. And Wilson was probably the guy whose family owned the golf-ball business.

He walked back to the bedroom window. If he smashed it in, would the neighbors call the police? Anyway, he shouldn't break a front window. Better the small one in the kitchen door. He turned away, then twisted back. The crank window was slightly open. If he could get through the screen, he might be able to uncrank the window all the way and crawl inside. Better than breaking glass.

He was trying to squeeze his hand through the opening when a light went on in the bedroom.

He twitched and made a startled noise, jerking back his hand. He stepped back, staring at the drapes, felt his heartbeat thudding. Wait a second, wait a second, he thought. Had he gone to the wrong street, the wrong house? It was possible…

He shuddered, remembering his registration slip inside the Mustang, his cassettes. This was his house.

But who was in it?

He felt his muscles tense. Well, he was going to find out, damn it. Striding to the front porch, he pushed the doorbell, hearing the chimes inside playing "Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits." For a moment, his fingers tightened on the putter handle. What if whoever was inside had no desire to see him?

"That's ridiculous," he muttered. He stood impatiently waiting for whoever it was to open the door. This had to be a prank of some sort. A lousy one, but a prank. "Come on," he said.

He heard the sound of a woman's voice on the other side of the door. He couldn't make out what she said. "What?" he asked.

"Who is it?" the woman asked.

He bared his teeth in angry reaction. "Will you open the door, please," he said.

"Why?" the woman asked. She sounded frightened. Frightened?

"Because I want to talk with you," he said. "Because you're in my house."

Silence after that. What was the woman doing? He shivered. Did she have a gun by any chance? She'd sounded genuinely upset.

"Are you still there?" he asked.

"You're mistaken," he heard her say.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "This is my house. That's my car in front of the garage with my registration slip inside it. Don't tell me I'm mistaken."

Silence again. Now what was she doing?

"Look, are you-?" he began.

"You'd better get out of here or I'm going to call the police," the woman interrupted.

"Good," he said. "I wish you would."

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was actually trembling. If he really was making a mistake, he must sound like a maniac to her.

No, goddamn it! There was no mistake! "My name is Chris Barton and I've lived in this house for twenty-seven months and thirteen days!"

Once more, silence. This was maddening. Chris felt like pounding the golf club against the door and ordering her to let him in.

He tensed abruptly as the door was unlocked and opened enough for her to peer out at him. Chris felt his stomach muscles jerking in. There was a chain on the door.

He didn't have a chain on the door.

God, oh, God, he thought. Was he making a mistake?

The woman was in her early thirties, dark-haired, quite attractive. She was looking at him with uneasy disbelief. "You're who?" she asked.

He felt like whipping out his wallet, waving it in her face. But there was no chain on his front door and the woman looked genuinely disturbed. "Look," he said. "I don't know what's going on here but-This is Oasis Drive East, isn't it?" he added suddenly.

She nodded slightly.

"24967?"

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. "Yes," she said.

Chris felt as though his head had just been covered by a vise that was beginning to compress his skull. "This is my house then," he said, alarmed to hear that he sounded pleading.

"No," the woman said.

"What do you mean, 'no'?!" His voice was shaking. "You-!"

"My husband and I have lived here for more than eight years," she said.

He had read about people's jaws dropping, they were so startled by something they had seen or heard. Now he actually felt his jaw drop, as he stood there gaping at the woman. Is this what it's like to go insane? The question whispered in his mind.

His swallow was so dry, he heard a crackling in his throat. "Could I…see the living room?" he asked.

She looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm not going to do anything bad," he told her, appalled by the tremor in his voice. "I just-"

He broke off as he saw her gaze drop to the putter in his hand. "Oh," he said. He leaned the club against the porch wall. "Just…step back and let me look inside. You don't even have to open the chain."

She gazed at him for several moments more, then stepped aside and disappeared. He pressed his face against the opening and looked inside.

Oh, God, he thought. He stared at what he could see of the living room. The sofa, the chair, the bookcase, the TV, the coffee table, the carpeting.

All his.

"Well?" he heard her ask.

He didn't know what to say. I'm sorry, lady, that's my furniture? What the hell are you trying to pull off here, lady? Lady, please telephone for an ambulance because my brain has just dissolved?

The woman began to close the door.

"Wait!" he demanded. But she closed it all the way and locked it. "No!" he cried. He pounded on the wood with the side of a fist. "Open the door!"

"I'm going to call the police!" she threatened.

"Do it then!" he said. He needed outside help, badly.

He heard fast-moving footsteps in the house. "No, don't," the woman said.

Chris drew back quickly as the door was yanked open and a man stood glaring at him. A man about his age, his height, his weight.

Wearing his pajamas.

"Either you get out of here and stay away from us," the man shouted at him, "or you are going to spend the rest of your goddamn life in jail! You understand?!"

4

There was suddenly no gristle in his legs; they felt like rubber. He reached out, clutching, and braced himself against the porch wall. It was redwood and he felt small splinters driving into his fingers and palms. He winced in silence, staring at the man.

"Did you hear what I said?!" the man cried.

"Wait a second," Chris murmured. There had to be an explanation…

"I have a gun in my bedside-table drawer," the man said, threatening. "Either you get in your car and drive away and never show your face to us again or, so help me God, I'll blow your head off!"

"You know this man?" the woman asked, appalled.

"Yes, I know him," the man told her. "I never told you because I never thought he'd have the gall to actually show up at our house."

"Listen-" Chris began.

"I don't want to listen!" the man interrupted. "I've listened to you long enough! I'm sick to death of you!"

"I don't even know you!" Chris's voice broke uncontrollably.

"All right," the man said, nodding once. "That's it." He turned away.

"Chris, what are you doing?" the woman asked.

Chris felt the porch beginning to tilt. "Chris?" he murmured.

"Just stay there," the man said across his shoulder. "You have had it." He disappeared into the back hall.

"What's your name?" Chris asked the woman weakly. She only stared at him, clutching the edge of her robe shut with both hands.

"What's your husband's name?" he asked.

"Chris Barton," she replied.

He had to shake his head; a cloud of darkness flooded upward from the porch at him. He blinked his eyes dazedly. "Now wait-" he said.

He braced himself. This is insane! his mind cried out. He fumbled in his back pocket, almost dropping the wallet as he took it out. He opened it and pointed at his driver's license. "Look," he said.

The man came back, a pistol in his right hand. "All right," he said, "you-"

"Damn it, look at my driver's license!" Chris cut him off, enraged and frightened at the same time.

"You think a phony driver's license is going to-"

Chris cut him off again. "Phony?! This is real! I'm Chris Barton! Who the hell are you?!"

The man extended his arm, pointing the pistol at Chris.

"Chris, don't," the woman said.

"Get in here," said the man. Chris stared at him numbly. "I said get in here!" the man raged.

Chris stumbled in. This is a nightmare, isn't it? he thought; I'm still asleep at the plant. He saw the man gesture curtly toward a chair and, almost gratefully, he sank down on it. The chair he'd sat in hundreds of times, reading, watching television.

"Call Wilson," the man said.

Chris's body spasmed on the chair. Call Wilson? There was a pounding in his ears before he heard the rest of what the man was saying "…send a security man."

The woman left the room and went into the kitchen, turning on the light. Chris heard her tapping the buttons on a phone and felt dizzy again.

He didn't have a phone in the kitchen.

I'm in an alternate universe, he thought. I did something wrong. My work. Veering. The wager. He fought if off. Impossible. This world was real. And there was some explanation for what was happening here. There had to be.

He looked at the man, who was watching him intently. His pajamas. His slippers too, he saw now. A man claiming to be Chris Barton. Why? A plot of some kind?

The notion crumbled instantly. The man was sure enough of himself to have his wife (Was she his wife?) call Wilson, ask for a security man.

Oh, no, he thought then. She's not calling Wilson. That's only a ploy to throw me off some more.

"What is this?" he asked.

"You tell me, you son of a bitch." The man's expression was venomous.

"Listen, no matter what you say," Chris told him, "I've never seen you before in my life and this is my house."

"Jesus Christ, you never let up, do you?" the man said with a humorless smile. "You fucking never give up."

"Damn it-!"

"You're going to jail for a long, long time!" The man refused to let him speak. "No more badgering, no more intimidation. No more terrorizing."

"Terrorizing?" Chris stared at him incredulously. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You'll find out," the man said. He glanced aside as the woman came in. "You reached him?" he asked.

She nodded nervously.

"All right." The man nodded in satisfaction, then smiled at Chris again, a cold, malignant smile. "Just sit there; wait," he said. "Better still, make a run for the door so I can shoot you dead."

Chris stared at him. So I can shoot you dead? he thought. Jesus God Almighty, this was worse than any novel he'd ever read.

This was happening.

***

When the car pulled up outside, Chris felt-despite the insanity of the situation-that something would be settled. For one thing, anyone who looked at it would know his driver's license was authentic. Then again…

"Don't move," the impostor instructed him, walking to the front door and pulling it open.

The man who came in made Chris tighten up involuntarily. There was something about him-his thin, pale features, his black suit and hat. Chris watched as he took a billfold from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open to reveal a badge and identification card. The other man nodded. That you accept, Chris reacted angrily. Not mine though.

He tensed again as the man in the black suit and hat gestured toward the street. "Let's go," he said.

"Not so fast," Chris said.

The man looked at him intently, skin gone taut across his cheekbones. "I can be rough if I have to," he said.

"I'm not leaving until I know what's going on here." Chris wished his voice were stronger.

The impostor made a snickering sound. "He never gives up," he said.

"Listen-" Chris started.

"No, you listen," said the man in the black suit and hat. "You're leaving. Now."

"Goddamn it, this is my house!" Chris shouted. "That's my Mustang out there! I work at Palladian and just came home to get some sleep! Now, damn it, I want some answers!"

The two men and the woman looked at him in silence. The man in Chris's pajamas looked confused. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said. Chris felt a burst of irrational hope at his words. "Maybe he wasn't trying to terrorize my wife and me. Maybe he's just insane."

"I'm not insane!" Chris pushed to his feet, enraged. "Goddamn it-!"

"Stop shouting!" yelled the man in the black suit and hat.

Chris pressed his lips together, shuddering as the man turned to the couple. "You may be right, Mr. Barton," he said.

"He's not Chris Barton! I am!" Chris couldn't seem to stop his voice from shaking now.

He drew back as the man in the black suit moved for him.

"I want to talk to Wilson," Chris told him.

He didn't know what the man did, it happened so fast. Suddenly, his arm was twisted up behind his back, a bolt of pain shooting through his back and shoulder. "Out," the man said through bared teeth.

"Take it easy on him," said the other man. "Maybe he is out of his mind."

"Yes," the woman added sympathetically.

"Goddamn it," Chris said, almost sobbing. "This is-"

He broke off with a hollow cry as the man in the black suit yanked up his arm and shoved him toward the door. "You're hurting me!" he gasped.

"I'll hurt you worse if you don't shut up," said the man.

"Take it easy," the impostor said. He actually sounded sorry now.

The man in the black suit pulled open the front door and pushed Chris out onto the porch.

Somehow, the putter had slipped and fallen and, as Chris stepped on its handle, it rolled under his shoe and made him lose balance. Abruptly, he was pitching forward, pulling the man with him. The grip on his arm was released as they fell, the man crying out in pain as his knee struck the concrete porch. Chris's head snapped up; he twisted around to see the man clutching at his knee, his face a mask of agony. The man inside the house was looking at him blankly. The pistol wasn't in his hand.

Chris lunged to his feet and leaped onto the lawn, running for the Pontiac. "Stop!" yelled the man in the house. Would he grab his gun and take a shot at him? Suddenly, Chris didn't care. No matter what the risk, he had to get away from there.

Jerking open the door of the Pontiac, he slid onto the driver's seat, fumbling in his jacket pocket for the keys. He pulled them out and, fingers shaking, tried to push in the ignition key. He glanced up, seeing the man come out of the house, the pistol in his hand again. The man in the black suit was struggling to his feet, his face still contorted by pain.

The ignition key slipped in and Chris turned it quickly. The motor coughed on and Chris threw the transmission into reverse. Just as the man reached the car, pistol extended, Chris floored the accelerator and the Pontiac shot backwards on the driveway, bumping hard as it hit the street. He spun the steering wheel so fast, he lost control of the car and it skidded in a three-quarter circle, tires shrieking before he could brake. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man running after him.

He gasped as the pistol was fired and the back window exploded inward. "God," he said. He jammed the gas pedal to the floor and the car leaped forward, bouncing across the curb on the opposite side of the street. Grimacing, he spun the steering wheel and turned back toward the street, grunting as the wheels jarred down across the curb again. He heard another shot behind him but this one missed as the car picked up speed, roaring down Oasis Drive East.

Seconds later, he was turning east onto the highway, accelerating to eighty-five miles an hour. In the distance, he could see a faint glow on the mountain rims. Dawn, for Christ's sake, he thought. He had a sudden image-Veering on the shoulder, thumb raised. He felt a surge of fury. If he saw the bastard again, he'd run him down.

He shook his head spasmodically. No, he mustn't think like that. Reality was not that easily manipulated and something very real was happening; he needed time to find its meaning.

He glanced up at the rearview mirror. No sign of another car yet. They'd be coming soon though. He pressed down on the gas pedal, the speedometer needle jumping up to ninety, ninety-two; the Pontiac shot along the highway. Chris shivered uncontrollably. He'd never driven so fast in his life; what if he lost control?

No help for it. He wouldn't let that man catch up to him. His back and arm still ached. You son of a bitch, he thought.

He never passed Veering. Had someone else picked him up? It seemed likely. Who the hell was Veering anyway? Did he have anything at all to do with what he'd just gone through? It was demented to believe that. Still, it had all begun to happen minutes after he'd made that stupid wager. Chris drew in a trembling breath.

Had he already lost the wager?

5

He had to stop and get some rest; he was too exhausted to drive to Tucson. It was better he got off the highway anyway. By now, they'd have phoned ahead. There could be a roadblock waiting. He wondered if he should dump the car and try to get to Tucson some other way. How? Hitchhike? Sure, he thought. Veering and I can ride together in someone else's car. Veering could present him as an example of the inadvisability of accepting wagers on reality.

His head jerked up, eyes flaring open. Jesus Christ, he'd almost gone to sleep. Now. He had to stop now.

Up ahead, he saw a side road and, slowing down, made a left turn onto it. He drove along it very slowly, partly because of the ruts, mostly to avoid raising a telltale cloud of dust. He was heading northward now. To his right, the glow of sunrise was increasing.

Approximately twenty minutes later, he saw a grove of trees and turned into them, hoping it would keep the car out of sight. He braked beside one of them and turned off the engine, pushed in the headlight knob.

Immediately, he slumped back with a groan. Dear God, he was sleepy.

He was amazed that he didn't fall unconscious right away. His brain would not give up its hold though. It turned over slowly in his head, revolving in sluggish circles.

Trying to understand.

Was there a moment when things had begun to go wrong? A single instant he could recapture?

The moment he had picked up Veering seemed to be the one. Still, there had been one before that.

The moment he'd discovered that his car was gone.

Clearly, the man in his house had taken it. But why? And how in God's name had he gotten into the fenced lot and driven it past the guard? Had he used the rear gate? If so, where had he gotten a key for its lock? Or who had let him in, then out?

He looked down at his identity badge and groaned. For Christ's sake, why hadn't he pointed it out to the man and woman in the house, the man in the black suit? But they must have seen it. Probably regarded it as no more authentic than his driver's license.

He made a sound of pained amusement as he visualized Scotty Tensdale waiting for his car to be returned. It was damned unlikely now.

His mind went back to the old man in the baseball cap. He tried to re-create their conversation in his mind. Had it really been as meaningless and stupid as he'd thought? Or was it actually the cause of-

"Come on," he muttered irritably. Shifting across the seat, he lay on his right side, raising his legs and bending them onto the seat. Sleep, he thought. For Christ's sake, sleep.

His brain kept turning like a machine in slow motion.

Could it be because of his work? Had he stumbled onto something? "There are some things man was not meant to tamper with," intoned a Van Dyke-bearded scientist in a sci-fi movie. Oh, come on. He twisted irritably on the seat. Life wasn't some damn sci-fi movie. There were spies, yes, foreign agents. But that was equally hard to accept.

"All right," he mumbled. So it was his work. They wanted to find out how far he'd come along on it. Why take his car then? Why all that crap at the house? The couple, the door chain, the kitchen telephone, the man in the black suit? Why not just force his Mustang off the highway, kidnap him and take him somewhere; pump sodium pentothal or something into his veins, ask him how the project was proceeding?

"Like shit," he heard himself answering.

At which point his brain went dark.

***

He thought he'd managed to drop off for a few minutes. But when he opened his eyes, it was light.

He looked at his watch. Just past eight. "Gotta go," he muttered, sitting up. God, I'm stiff, he thought. He rubbed his eyes and looked out at the grove of trees, then shook himself and opened the door.

It was chilly outside. He stood up clumsily and walked to the tree, urinating on its trunk. He shivered convulsively. Last night, a mathematician in the service of Uncle Sam, he thought. This morning, a homeless fugitive. He tried to find humor in the notion but had difficulty; the best smile he could summon was one of cold irony.

Zipping shut his pants, he looked around. Was that a puddle of water or a mirage? he thought. He walked in toward it.

Bending over, he scooped up a palmful of the cold water, and rubbed it on his face, drying his skin with his handkerchief.

The fingers and palm of his right hand hurt and holding up the hand, he saw that the redwood splinters had infected it. He'd have to find a needle or pin and get them out. Hopefully in Tucson.

Shivering, he returned to the car and got inside. Now he was hungry. He saw an image of a coffee-shop waitress setting down a platter in front of him-sausage, scrambled eggs and rye toast. And a glass of frothy orange juice, a cup of hot black coffee.

"Fat chance," he said. He had to get to Tucson.

He was about to start the motor when he saw a small card on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Leaning over, he picked it up. A single name was printed on it: ALBERT VEERING. Jesus God; a hitchhiker with a calling card? He turned it over.

And shuddered. There were three words written on the card with wavering penmanship.

Are you sure?

He stared at it for almost a minute before reaction set in. Incensed, he tore the card to shreds, shoved open the door and flung the pieces out; they fluttered whitely to the ground.

"You son of a bitch!" he said, his face distorted by rage. "Are you sure?" He made a hissing sound. The old bastard must have had it ready before he'd even been picked up. How many people had he suckered in with that stupid wager, that stupid card?

Chris started the engine and backed out of the grove. Scotty Tensdale certainly kept his car running well, it occurred to him.

He hoped that one day the poor guy would get it back.

***

For the last hour, he had dreaded that when he drove up to his mother's house, there'd be a line of police cars waiting there. Surely, they'd assume that he might go there; it was one of the most likely possibilities. How anxious are they to get me? he wondered.

Then again, it might not be the police at all. Instead, there might be just a single car-a government vehicle with the man in the black suit and hat inside. Chris swallowed apprehensively at the thought of meeting him again. I hope he broke his goddamn knee and had to be hospitalized, he thought.

Maybe he should have gone to Wilson's house, it occurred to him. But the man had told his wife to telephone Wilson. Had she really called him or had it been part of the ploy? Jesus God, if Wilson was involved in all this…

"Come on," he snapped at himself. He was already paranoiac. Now he was approaching certifiable.

He was driving into Tucson when the thought occurred that he might turn himself in to the state police, try to get their assistance. It seemed an obvious thing to do. Why did the idea unnerve him then? Had be really read too many thrillers, seen too many movies? The hero surrenders himself, seeking help, and the authorities he surrenders to promptly turn him over to the bad guys.

"Oh, shit," he muttered. Still, he couldn't make himself accept the notion of giving himself up to the police. He hadn't the remotest idea what was going on but he sensed that it was dangerous, that he had to be careful.

***

There were no cars parked in front of his mother's house. Meaninglessly, his brain reversed itself. They wouldn't show themselves out in the open. They could be blocks down, telescopes directed at his mother's house. He suddenly felt stupid for driving directly toward her house in a car that by now had to be totally identifiable.

"Damn," he muttered.

He repressed the urge to press down hard on the accelerator and speed past his mother's house; that would only call attention to him. For a moment, he thought how stupidly he was behaving if there really wasn't anyone around.

Still, he couldn't take a chance. Driving to the corner, he made a slow right turn, eyes searching for any sign of suspicious vehicles or men. Women, too, his brain reminded him. "Yeah, sure," he said.

Except for a small boy on his tricycle, the street ahead looked empty. It's him, his mind annoyed him. He's the smallest agent in the world, crack shot, beyond suspicion. "Oh, shut up," he told his mind. Pulling over to the curb, he braked and turned off the engine. He had to assume there was no one dangerous around.

Getting out, he locked the doors and started for the alley next to one of the houses. Behind him, he could hear the small boy making motor noises as he rode his tricycle. Now he's taking out his telescopic sight and snapping it onto his long-range pistol. Now-

"Oh, stop," he said, starting down the alley. If they'd been waiting for him, he'd already be in custody.

He climbed over a low picket fence and started across somebody's backyard. Glancing to his right, he saw an old lady looking out through a back window at him, her expression one of offended surprise. Sorry, Grandma, he thought. He hoped to God she didn't get it in her mind to telephone the police. He turned to her and waved, smiling, then pointed toward his mother's house, lips framing the words, I'm going that way. Not that Grandma would get a word of it. Still, maybe his benign expression and wave would reassure her.

She only stared at him, expressionless. She thinks I'm nuts, he thought, a lunatic escaped from some local asylum. Don't call the cops, Granny, he thought. I'm just a harmless mathematician.

Reaching the side of the yard, he climbed another picket fence and crossed another yard. No one in that house was visible. He crossed the yard quickly, climbed another fence and moved across another backyard. He could see the back of his mother's house now. Almost there, he thought. Please let me make it.

He looked in through the back window of her garage, groaning softly to see it empty. She must be teaching; it was a weekday after all. "Damn," he said. How long could he safely wait for her before somebody showed up, checking up on the possibility that he was there? Maybe the old lady was a secret agent too, was already phoning the CIA. Maybe everybody in the world was a secret agent.

What am I going to do? he thought as he turned for the back of her house. He couldn't phone her at the college. They might be watching her; they'd follow her home. He groaned again. He felt so helpless. How could he get out of this predicament?

Whatever it might be.

The key to the kitchen door was under the mat as always. He had to smile. Mom used to keep it there when he was just a boy-and it was still there. Invitation to a burglar, Uncle Harry used to call it. "Oh, come on now, Harry," he recalled his mother's chiding voice as she responded. "You're being paranoiac."

He unlocked the kitchen door, put the key back under its mat and slipped inside the house. Pushing the door shut, he looked at the kitchen and had to smile. Neat as always. Mom was utterly predictable.

He grunted, seeing the coffee pot on the stove. God, let there be a cup left in there, half a cup at least. He moved there, lifting up the pot. There was at least a cup. He turned on the gas beneath the pot and stared at it, smiling again. Somewhere, in a closet or a cabinet, was the automatic coffeemaker he'd given her some Christmases ago. She'd expressed her gratitude for it, then, when he'd left, put it away, preferring this ancient, faithful pot.

In a minute, he got a cup from the cupboard and poured it full of steaming coffee. He drank it slowly, savoring the heavy aromatic flavor. Mom was right. This was the best way to make coffee.

He toasted himself a slice of wheat bread, buttering it and spreading on some strawberry jam. Crunching hungrily on it and sipping the coffee, he walked into the dining room and looked at the photographs on the wall. Pop, Mom, Louise and him. All the dogs they'd had: Kate, Ginger, Bart, Ranger. Photographs of the camping trips, of the university. Of teachers at some of Mom and Pop's weekly get-togethers at the house, him and Louise sitting among them like miniature adults, always welcome. Of Uncle Harry with his perennial bow tie and quizzical smile. Of Louise and him at the university special school.

Good days, he thought. Mom and Pop always concerned for their growth, intellectual and otherwise. Opening their minds to "possibilities." Exposing them to science, to culture, to philosophy, to nature. He sighed, wishing that his father hadn't died in the air crash. How much nicer it would be for Mom if she wasn't alone now, if she had his company and could still have fun with him as she did in the old days when they were all together-Pop, Mom, Louise…

Louise.

His head jerked around and he looked at the telephone. It would be reassuring to hear a word or two of sanity in the midst of all this. He and Louise had always gotten along well, no rivalry of any kind. Maybe that was because she was five years older than him. Not that he thought they'd have been competitors in any case.

He moved to the phone and picked up his mother's tooled leather address book, opening it to Louise Jasper. He glanced at his wristwatch. It would be about 1:30 P.M. in New Hampshire. He hoped she was there as he picked up the handset and tapped in her number. Be home, he thought. I need a kind word, Louise.

The handset on the other end was lifted on the third ring and he heard her voice: "Hello?"

"Thank God," he said.

"Chris?" she asked.

"Yeah." He smiled with relief, licking the last of the strawberry jam from his fingers. "How ya doin', sis?"

"Fine," she said. "How are you?"

"A little rattled."

"Oh, God," she said, "is he back again?"

He was confused. "Is who back again?"

"That man," she said.

"What man?" He felt his stomach muscles pulling in.

"Chris, come on," she said. "Did that man show up at your house again?"

He didn't know what to say.

"Chris, are you all right?" she asked.

He swallowed, tasting the coffee in his throat. "What are you talking about?" he asked uneasily.

She groaned. "Sweetheart," she said. "Did you or did you not call me last night?"

He felt his mouth slipping open.

"Did you or did you not tell me that the man who's been trying to intimidate you and Maureen came to your house last night?"

Chris shuddered and heard the old man's voice repeating in his mind, "Do you so wager?"

6

He tightened. No. He wasn't going to buy this.

"Chris-?" she started.

"You're telling me you got a call last night and-"

"Chris, what is going on?" Louise demanded.

"What time was this?" he asked.

"Uh…about ten-thirty, our time."

The coldness gathering inside him got a little worse. At eight-thirty his time last night, he had been hard at work on the project. Did that mean the man and woman had already been in his house? Speaking to Louise and telling her-?

"Chris, for God's sake," she said.

"Listen to me," he told her. "I don't know who called you last night but it wasn't me."

"What do you mean it wasn't you?" Louise said, exasperated now. "Don't you think I know the sound of your voice?"

"It wasn't me, Louise," he said. "Something very strange is going on. When I got home last night-"

"Are you at home now?" she interrupted.

"No," he said. "That man is, and-" He broke off as what she was saying hit him. "Maureen?" he asked. You said me and Maureen?"

"I think I better talk to her," Louise replied. "Maybe she can make more sense-"

"There's no Maureen in my life!" he cut her off. "What the hell are you talking about?"

There was a heavy silence on the line. Then Louise said quietly, "Who is this?"

The vise was closing on his skull again.

"Oh, my God, you're the man who's terrorizing them," she said.

"Louise, for God's sake-!"

"You listen to me, mister, and you listen good!" she cried. "Get away from them and stay away! There are laws in this country!"

"Louise, for God's sake," he repeated, pleading now. It felt as though the floor was moving under him. "I don't know what's going on but please-"

"I'm calling the police now," she said.

He stood there with the handset to his ear, listening to the dial tone. Reality, he thought. His shiver was convulsive.

"What the hell is going on?!" he cried.

You've been working too hard, you need a rest; another cliché movie line was spoken in his mind. He grimaced in fury. Yes, I have been working too hard, he answered the voice. But I'm not out of my mind.

Something was being done to him.

He nodded jerkily. His work. Someone out to penetrate the project. Simple and direct: a plot. He tried to hold on to that even though he knew it made no sense whatsoever. If anyone wanted to know what he knew, they only had to pick him up, inject him, hypnotize him, whatever. This insanely intricate cabal was totally unnecessary. Which left him with-

He snapped his head around, seeing a movement from the corner of his eye. A dark blue car had just pulled up in front of the house. He picked up the coffee cup and backed into the kitchen, stepping behind the wall and peering out, his heartbeat quickening.

A man in a gray tweed suit was getting out of the car; he had red hair and a dark red mustache. As the man circled the car and started toward the house, Chris pulled back sharply. Jesus God, what now? he thought.

He started as the doorbell rang, drew in a shaking breath. Thank God he'd parked his car around the corner. He leaned against the wall, feeling the thump of his heartbeat, twitched as the doorbell rang again.

He waited in silence, listening for the sound of the man's car starting up again. It didn't come. What was the man doing? Was he-?

Chris caught his breath, looking aside to see the man moving past the kitchen window. Despite the curtains, if the man turned his head, he'd spot Chris. For several moments, Chris stood, frozen, not knowing what to do. Then abruptly, he stepped back into the dining room, turned right, and moving to the corner, sat on the floor and slumped down so his head was below the level of the window sills.

He swallowed, saw the coffee cup still in his hand and set it down. He looked at his right hand, wincing. Have to get those splinters out, he thought. Yeah, that's important right now, his mind snapped back.

He stiffened as he heard the man trying the knob of the kitchen door. What if the man had a ring of keys? What if he could open the door, come in and find him slumping here? Did he have a gun?

Chris pressed his lips together. Steady, he told himself. It occurred to him that maybe the man had nothing whatever to do with what was going on. Maybe, for God's sake, after all these years of Uncle Harry's dire predictions, Mom was about to be burglarized.

He shook his head. He didn't believe that. This had something to do with what was going on.

Silence now. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. What would he do if the man was able to get in somehow? Fight him, try to overcome him? Or just give up? Okay, that's it, let's find out what the hell is going on.

He tensed, eyes opening, as the man walked past the windows he was cowering beneath. He looked toward the front of the house and, through the curtained windows, saw the man moving down the walkway. He heard the car door closing, the sound of the motor switching on. The car drove away.

Chris closed his eyes again. God, I'm tired, he thought. He hadn't really slept that much. And considering what he'd been through…

***

"Chris!"

He jolted awake, an expression of alarm on his face, then, seeing his mother looking at him, he uttered an involuntary groan of relief and reached for her; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.

They embraced and kissed. "What are you doing sleeping on the floor like this?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"

He tried to sound amused but failed. "To say the least," he answered.

They stood and embraced again. Home, he thought. His mother. He sighed; it felt good.

She brushed back his hair with a gentle touch. "You look terrible," she said. "What's going on?"

He started to answer, then hissed in pain. He'd slept in such an awkward position, his neck was stiff. He rotated it, grimacing. "God," he muttered.

Then he smiled and held her again. It felt so good to be home. He had a fleeting image of himself, a boy, crying hard because he'd skinned his knees falling off a skateboard. She was always there to comfort him.

"Chris, what's happened?" she asked, worried.

He looked at her. In her middle sixties, she was still a lovely woman, almost as tall as he without heels; her gray-tinged hair still mostly brunette, her features firmly cut, her brown eyes deeply intelligent as she gazed at him. "Tell me what happened," she said.

"You sound as though you already know something," he told her.

She walked him to the living-room sofa and drew him down. "Tell me," she said.

He pulled in a long breath and told her everything from the time he'd woken up in the plant to the man he'd hidden from before. He didn't mention Veering. He wasn't going to allow himself to believe that the old man had anything to do with what was happening.

"What did the man you hid from look like?" she asked when he was through.

Chris described him. "No," she said. "That wasn't him."

Chris tightened. "Has someone spoken to you?"

"A man came to the university and spoke to me between classes," she said.

"What did he look like?"

"Lean," she answered. "Pale. Wearing a black suit and hat."

He shuddered. "He's the one who came to my house last night."

"Oh, no." His mother gazed at him in concern.

"What's his name?" Chris asked.

His mother got up and walked into the dining room; her purse was lying on the table. Opening it, she took out her wallet and, reaching into it, removed a business card. She brought it into the living room and handed it to Chris.

The man's name was Martin Meehan. There was no indication as to whom he worked for; the only thing on the card other than his name was an Arizona telephone number.

"Did he show you a badge?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head.

"What did he say?"

"That you were in trouble and I should make sure to call him if you tried to get in touch with me."

Chris swallowed dryly. The dogs are closing in, he thought. "That's all he said?"

She nodded. "I tried to find out what was going on but he said he couldn't tell me, it was secret."

"Sure." He slipped the card into his shirt pocket, then kneaded at his neck, grimacing. "I wish I hadn't fallen asleep in that position."

"Turn to the right," she told him.

He did and felt her strong fingers begin to massage gently at the back of his neck. At first, the pressure made him hiss with pain but, little by little, it began to fade.

"The thing I don't understand at all," she said, "is Louise's reaction to your phone call. It doesn't make any sense."

"I know."

"She actually said you and Maureen?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to have to talk with her."

His eyes were closed now, his neck feeling better. "What should I do, Mom?" he asked her.

"I'm not sure," she said.

"I mean, should I give myself up? Let the police figure it out?"

"Well…" She sounded uncertain. "The man said that, above all, you shouldn't contact any authorities. He said it was the worst thing you could do."

"Considering what he did to me, that makes giving myself up to the authorities look pretty good."

She kept working on his neck. "What happened to your hand?" she asked.

"My porch siding is redwood," he told her. "I leaned against it."

"We'll get them out before you go," she said.

He swallowed. "Go where, Mom?"

She didn't reply for several moments. Then she said, "I wouldn't go to the authorities."

He turned in surprise to look at her. "You wouldn't?"

She gazed at him inquiringly. "You think it has something to do with your work?" she asked.

"There's no other answer I can come up with," he answered. "That makes any sense, I mean."

She got up and went to get her sewing box and a bottle of Bactine. Returning with them, she started removing the redwood splinters from his palm and fingers. Chris gritted his teeth as she did.

"Is what you do so crucial that…?" She didn't finish.

"That people would like to know about it? Yes," he answered. He hissed with pain. Then he made an amused sound. "Except if they knew how far I was from an answer, they'd be sorry they started all this."

He watched his mother's face. He knew that expression. She was analyzing.

"There's no other factor in this?" she asked.

"No," he said. He hesitated. "Unless…"

"What?" she asked.

Chris sighed. He was sorry he'd brought it up. What if Mom put too much credence in it?

"What, Chris?" she persisted.

"Well…"

He told her about Veering and their conversation. When he was finished, his mother grunted softly. "Curiouser and curiouser," she said.

"You don't really believe-"

"I believe he could be part of this," she said.

Chris looked startled. He'd never thought of that. He'd vacillated back and forth between two possibilities-a plot against him versus Veering's wager. How very shrewd of his mother to join them together.

"But how?" he asked. "I mean, how would the two fit together?"

"Both of them have made you doubt your sanity," she answered.

"Of course," he said. It was so obvious. He repressed his overriding feeling that none of it actually made sense. On a lower scale of logic, however, it did make sense that all of it was part of one conspiracy-whatever that conspiracy might be and however senseless it seemed at the moment.

"Who would want to do all this?" he asked. "And why make it all-"

"Chris." She clutched at his wrist.

Twisting around, he saw that the car had returned.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His mother decided for him, pulling him to his feet and walking him rapidly to the kitchen. "Go out the back way," she said. "I'll talk to them and give you time. Where are you parked?"

"Around the corner."

"Good." She kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Go right away," she said.

"You don't think-?"

"After the way he treated you?" she cut him off. "All right, give yourself up to the authorities. But not them. Maybe out of Arizona."

He felt hapless and inept as he stared at her. Then she smiled and stroked his cheek. "You're up to anything," she added. "You know that."

He embraced her.

"Be careful now," she said. "Use every skill."

He nodded. "Love you, Mom."

"I love you too. Now hurry."

Their embrace tightened as the front doorbell rang. Chris kissed her on the cheek, crossed to the back door and opened it, glancing back at her. "You'll be all right," she said.

He nodded and went outside, closing the door. He jumped off the porch and ran across the yard, scaled the fence and ran across the next yard. Man in flight, he thought. Was that the title of some book he'd read? He scowled.

This wasn't any book.

He crossed another fence and kept on running. Was Mom talking to them now? Was she up to pretending? Or would they sense that she was nervous? Would the antennae of their trade immediately pick up that she was lying?

The old woman looked at him incredulously from her back window. Yeah, I'm back, he thought, mashing down your back lawn; sorry. He would have been amused by the look on her face if things weren't so grim. This was probably the most thrilling thing to happen to her in a month of Sundays.

He ran around the corner of the old woman's house and started down the alley. Were the men alone or were there teams out searching for him? He kept running, angled across the old woman's front lawn and dashed for the Pontiac. How was Scotty Tensdale going to get home? he wondered. Yeah, like that's important now, he countered irritably.

He unlocked the car as quickly as he could and slid inside. His hands were shaking so badly, he had to use both of them to get the ignition key in its slot. Twisting it, he heard the motor cough to life; thank you, Scotty. He tapped the transmission into gear and pulled away from the curb.

Not too noisy, not too fast, he told himself. He drew in trembling breath and pressed down slowly on the gas pedal. The small boy was still on his tricycle. Now he'd pull a walkie-talkie from his overalls and call for backup. "Thuspect fleeing in maroon Pontiac," he'd lisp. "Agent thixty-thix. Over and out."

"Oh, shut up," he told his brain.

At the corner, he turned left and headed downtown. Now what? he thought. Where was he supposed to go? He'd really considered turning himself in until Mom had told him not to. That frightened him as much as anything that had happened. What made her think he shouldn't, in Arizona anyway? What difference did it make where he did it? This had to be a federal thing; his work was for the government.

And why did Mom suggest that Veering was part of the conspiracy?

He felt a sense of vague amorphous dread building inside him, his mind jumping back again to the start: his missing car, his talk with Veering, the couple in his house, Meehan manhandling him, the call to Louise, Meehan showing up again with the other man. Did it all fit together? And was it all connected to the project? Were they all trying to make him doubt his sanity to prevent him from working on it? If they only knew, he thought.

His brain was already out of sync.

Anyway, he reversed himself once more, why such a complicated plot? Why not just run him off the road and shoot him if they wanted to delay the project?

Is that what they still planned to do?

"God," he muttered. He was really frightened now.

What in the name of God was he going to do?

7

First of all, he needed gas. He'd managed to reach Tucson on the one tankful that Scotty Tensdale had thoughtfully, and unintentionally, provided for him. But now the gauge needle was almost down to zero. There was a Texaco station three blocks ahead; he'd stop there. Should he use his credit card? he wondered. Would it be a clue they could follow?

Hell, they had the only clue they needed, he thought as he turned into the station, a maroon Pontiac with a registered license plate. If he was really going to go on-where, he had no idea-he'd have to dump the car and travel some other way.

He braked by the front pump on the full-service island and got out. Not waiting for the attendant, he unhooked the nozzle on the unleaded pump and pushed down the handle. As the pump started humming, he carried the nozzle to the back of the car.

There he stopped dead, staring blankly at the place where he'd expected to see the gas-tank cover. Then he grunted in disgust at himself. This isn't the Mustang, idiot. Sighing, he returned to the pump and rehung the nozzle as the heavyset attendant came trudging up. "Yessir," he said.

"I thought I had my other car," Chris said. "I'll have to move."

"Yessir," said the attendant.

Chris got back into the car and turned on the motor. Use your skills, he remembered his mother's words. Yes, Mater, right away, he answered silently, smiling without humor.

He moved the car to the other side of the service island and turned the motor off again. "Is your bathroom unlocked?" he asked as the attendant approached, carrying the nozzle.

"Sure is," the attendant said. "Check under your hood?"

"Under Scotty's hood," he mumbled to himself. "No, that's all right," he told the attendant.

He was halfway to the bathroom when it occurred to him that maybe Scotty Tensdale wasn't all that attentive to his Pontiac; it might need oil, transmission fluid, battery water, who knew what else. "Yeah, would you check everything under the hood?" he called back. "And check the tires?"

"Yessir," the attendant said. You and F. Crain should get together for one bang-up conversation, Chris thought as he turned back toward the bathroom.

He went inside the bathroom and locked the door, flicking the light switch. The room remained shadowy, its only illumination coming from the window over the door. Swell, Chris thought. He moved to the urinal and relieved himself, then washed his hands at the sink, wincing slightly at the tenderness in his right palm and fingers. Had his mother gotten all the splinters out? He hoped so, washing off his face. The cold water felt good on his skin.

He dried his face and hands with two paper towels. His cheeks were getting bristly. Going to look like a proper fugitive soon, he thought. This did not amuse him.

"All right, what now?" he asked the man regarding him from the mirror. "Quo fucking vadis?"

"Where can you afford to vadis?" the man responded.

Chris took out his wallet and checked. Two twenties, a ten, a five, his MasterCard and American Express charge cards. He made a pained face. And the Texaco card sitting in the glove compartment of his Mustang.

"Jesus," he muttered. He'd have to use cash for the gas and there was little enough of it.

He stood gazing at his reflection. It had occurred to him that he could drive back to his house. If the presence of the man and woman had been necessary only to throw him off in the beginning, they might be gone now, the door chain and the kitchen telephone with them. Was it worth a try to find out? It had a definite appeal because it wasn't simply flight, it was a move toward finding out what was happening. And it might be the one place they wouldn't think he'd go.

"Yes, good," he said. That's what he'd do.

***

When he unlocked the door and pulled it open, the two men were standing outside, waiting for him.

As insane as the idea was, Chris had an urge to hurl himself at them and break free.

But they frightened him the way they stood, faces impassive, looking at him. For all he knew, they were prepared to draw out guns and open fire on him at any instant.

He swallowed dryly, stepping out into the sunlight. Suddenly, he felt very tired, very drained. "All right," he said. In a way, he was relieved. Whatever happened, he'd find out what was going on.

His sense of relief evaporated as Meehan started for him, limping. His knee, Chris thought, alarmed. Impulsively, he drew back and bumped against the door. "Leave me alone," he said, remembering the agonizing pain he'd felt when Meehan had twisted his arm behind his back.

Meehan didn't reply but kept moving toward him. Knowing what the agent meant to do, Chris ducked away from him so that Meehan's lunge for his arm missed.

The agent made a snarling noise and shouldered him hard, knocking him back against the door, which flew open. Chris fell back into the shadowy bathroom, catching a glimpse of the man in the gray tweed suit who started forward, saying Meehan's name with an urgent tone.

Meehan didn't stop, but bent over Chris and clutched at his jacket. Chris tried to pull away from him, accidentally bumping his right knee against the agent's injured one. Meehan hissed in pain and jerked back. Chris tried to push himself up and the man in the tweed suit grabbed his left arm, pulling him to his feet. "Take it easy now," he said.

A tone of kindness in the man's voice made Chris relax for an instant. Then, seeing Meehan lunge at him, he tensed again. "Wait a second," he snapped, trying to turn from Meehan, pulling the other man around with him.

"Hold it," the other man said.

Then Meehan had his right arm and was starting to pull it up behind him. A bolt of fury struck Chris and he rammed his knee deliberately against Meehan's injured one. With a hoarse cry, Meehan jerked back; Chris turned to the other man. "I'll go with you," he said breathlessly, "but I don't want my arm twisted-"

His voice froze in shock as he saw Meehan reaching under his suit coat. "No," he murmured, shrinking back as Meehan snatched a revolver from a holster underneath his arm.

"Meehan, Jesus!" the other man said. Letting go of Chris, he stepped in front of him. Meehan tried to shove him aside, but the man grabbed Meehan and wouldn't let go. Chris had an impulse to turn and run for his car while the two were struggling but he decided against it. Meehan might shoot him before he reached the car.

He stood, shaken, in front of the bathroom door, watching the two men grapple. "Damn it, Meehan!" the man in the tweed suit said. He glanced across his shoulder at Chris. "Get in your car and wait," he ordered.

Chris needed no further encouragement. Hastily, he walked across the station. "You can't do that," he heard the man say to Meehan, and Meehan's tight, infuriated response: "I want him, Nels."

Chris got into the Pontiac and closed the door, shaking. The attendant came over, looking disturbed. "What's going on?" he asked. "Shall I call the police?"

"They are the police," Chris said. He knew it wasn't true but it was close enough to satisfy the attendant. He swallowed, adding inanely, "What do I owe you?"

"Twenty-seven thirty," the attendant said. "You needed a quart of oil, too."

Chris started to make a groaning sound, then realized it didn't matter; he wasn't going any further anyway. Taking out his wallet, he took out a twenty and the ten and handed them to the attendant. Turning around, he looked toward the rest room. The two men were talking now. Meehan still looked angry but his revolver was put away now. Chris frowned. Wasn't it odd that they were just ignoring him? What was to prevent him from-?

The thought evaporated as he looked at the ignition slot. Of course, what else?

The key was gone.

"Here you go," the attendant said, giving Chris his change.

Chris took it, then turned around again to look at the two men. What were they talking about? And who were they working for? Obviously, they were American. The CIA? Why him? The project was important, yes, but he'd done nothing suspect. Anyway, what was happening was far more complicated than just a security investigation.

He stiffened as he saw the two men start for the car, Meehan's expression menacing. What if he simply took out his revolver again and shot him at point-blank range? Chris shuddered. There was nothing he could do about it.

He felt a chill as Meehan walked over to the side of the car he was sitting in and leaned over. Chris saw how white his face was, how dark and lank his hair, how cold his blue eyes.

"I'll catch up to you," Meehan said.

Then he straightened up and turned away. Chris twitched as he heard the door pulled open on the passenger side of the Pontiac. Turning, he saw the man in the tweed suit getting in. "Let's go," the man said, handing Chris the keys.

"Where?" Chris asked.

"Back to your plant," the man told him.

Chris felt confused. Weren't they going to take him to their headquarters? Why the plant? "I don't-" he started.

"Go. Let's go," the man said. He didn't sound as kind now.

Chris started the engine and pulled out of the station into the street.

"You came pretty close to taking a slug there," the man told him.

Chris swallowed; his throat felt dry. "Do you have some kind of identification?" he asked.

The man removed a billfold from the right inside pocket of his suit coat and flipped it open in front of Chris. Chris looked at the badge, then the identification card. The man's name was Gerald Nelson. He felt a shiver convulse his back.

It was the CIA.

"Turn left at the corner and keep going north," the man told him.

Chris saw him glance across his shoulder and looked up at the rearview mirror. Meehan was following in the dark blue car. "Is he going with us?" he asked.

"Just drive," the man told him.

Chris said no more. They rode in silence until the car was out of Tucson, moving back into the desert. Then, after Chris looked into the rearview mirror again and saw that Meehan was no longer following, the man named Nelson said, "All right."

Chris glanced at him.

"What's going on?" Nelson asked.

"You tell me."

"Don't get smart," Nelson said. "You're in a lot of trouble."

"Why?" Chris asked. "What in God's name have I done?"

"Listen, Barton-" Nelson began.

"Barton?" Chris asked. "You know I'm Barton?"

"What's your point?"

"My point?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There was a man in my house last night claiming that he was Chris Barton but your partner picked up me."

"He's not my partner, Chris," the man said.

Chris felt as though his head were swimming.

"Turn in on that road," Nelson told him. "I want to talk this over with you."

Again, Chris felt a surge of relief at the man's tone; he sounded genuinely concerned. "All right," he said. Slowing down, he turned right into the dirt road and started into the desert. It reminded him of what he'd done early this morning. Would there be another grove of trees? What difference does it make? he thought in aggravation. He was going to find out what everything meant. That was all that mattered.

As he drove, he glanced at Nelson. The man was staring straight ahead, his expression grave.

"This is far enough," Nelson told him when they'd driven a little more than a mile.

Chris braked and, at Nelson's order, turned off the motor.

"All right," Nelson said. "Let's hear it; all of it." He cut off Chris by adding, "I only know what Meehan told me."

Chris told him everything he could remember, every detail of his experience since finding his Mustang missing…how long ago was it? He looked at the dashboard clock. Jesus, not even ten hours ago?

When he was finished, Nelson looked at him in silence, then grunted. "Interesting," he said.

"Not to me," Chris said.

"That's not what I mean," Nelson told him. "This is not-" He hesitated, looking at Chris guardedly. Then he said, "Well, I can tell you this much. It's not the first time it's happened."

Chris started.

"I've heard this story before."

"You mean-?" Chris stared at Nelson in bewilderment. "Men having their cars stolen and finding them at home, with another man in their house who claims to be-"

"Not just men," Nelson interrupted. "Men like you. Advanced scientists, mathematicians."

"How many?" Chris asked.

"That I can't tell you," Nelson said. "Except to say…enough to create an ominous pattern."

"But surely…"

"What?"

"I mean…it's all so obvious. If it's being done and you know it's a plot of some kind-"

"That we don't know," Nelson responded. He gazed at Chris intently, making him nervous. "You haven't told me everything, have you?" he said.

Chris didn't know what to say. He had told Nelson everything.

"You didn't mention Veering," Nelson said. The kindness was gone from his voice now; his tone was coldly hostile. "You didn't mention the wager."

Chris stared at him dumbly, aware of his heartbeat thudding laboredly. His brain felt muddled. How could Veering be a part of all this? He remembered suddenly that his mother had suggested the same thing. He'd decided against it though. Now-

He started, gasping, as Nelson clamped the fingers of his left hand on Chris's jacket and yanked him close. "Did you?" he shouted.

"I didn't think-"

"That's right, you didn't think!" Nelson snarled at him.

Chris saw him reaching underneath his coat with his right hand and a jolt of horror stiffened him. "My God," he gasped.

"You have to die, of course. You understand that," Nelson said.

8

In some demented way, Chris did understand. In a moment of total clarity, he knew it was the only thing that made it all comprehensible-that he was valuable to the project and someone wanted the project to fail.

Self-preservation made him grab at Nelson's wrist, pinning it beneath his coat. "Let go," Nelson ordered. "You have to die."

They rocked slowly on the seat, muscles straining. Chris saw Nelson's face getting red as they struggled. He knew that the agent was stronger; soon enough, he'd pull free, snatch out his gun and fire.

"No," Chris muttered, fighting for his life. They wrestled on the seat in a quiet frenzy, almost motionless except for their heaving chests.

The sound of the shot was so loud it made Chris jump back, gasping, releasing his grip on Nelson's wrist.

Nelson was staring at him, looking dazed. Then, very slowly, he looked down at his chest, making a faint sound of disbelief. After a while, his eyes moved up at Chris again. "You…bastard," he said in a feeble voice.

Chris flinched as Nelson twisted to the right and pushed open the door. Groaning, the agent tried to stand but collapsed instead. Chris stared at him in mute shock as the agent struggled to his feet and began to weave around, left palm pressed against his side, right hand reaching out as though to signal someone.

Chris couldn't move. He kept staring at the blood on Nelson's coat and shirt, oozing from between the fingers of the agent's left hand as he stumbled around outside, his eyes like those of a blind man. Chris heard the agent's shoes scuffling over the gritty sand. Then, suddenly, the man cried out, pitching forward.

And disappeared into the ground.

***

The vise was on his skull again, his heart pounding so violently it felt as though it would beat its way out of his chest. Chris was sure he was about to pass out. Dark waves pulsed across him. He gulped at the warm air, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

He didn't know how long it had been, but eventually he realized that he wasn't going to lose consciousness. He shook his head and got out of the car, knowing that if it was really true-if Nelson had literally been swallowed by the earth-then Veering would have won the wager and reality, for Chris, would be undone.

Moving on rubbery legs, he circled the car and walked across the sand to where Nelson had disappeared.

He stared down into a shallow arroyo, looking at Nelson's back, praying that there'd be a sign of movement. There wasn't any movement though and, underneath the agent's body, Chris saw blood soaking into more and more dry sand.

"Jesus," he murmured. A killing now. A killing.

He jerked up his head and looked around, expecting to see someone rushing at him to arrest him for the murder of the agent. I didn't murder him, his mind pleaded with the unseen man. He was trying to kill me; it was an accident.

Chris covered his eyes with his left palm. Deeper and deeper, he thought. Dear God. Every minute that passed was driving him deeper into this inexplicable nightmare.

After a while, he drew down his hand and looked at Nelson's body again. What was he going to do now? Drive away, try to escape? Take Nelson's body back to Tucson, give himself up to the police?

"No," he muttered. The man had tried to kill him, which meant that the CIA wanted him dead. The thought was chilling. How could he escape the CIA? No matter where he went, they'd find him. He shuddered, terrified. Goddamn it, what have I done to deserve this?!

He had to know more.

Bracing himself, he slid down the wall of the shallow arroyo and stopped beside Nelson's motionless body.

He hesitated; then, pulling in a deep, tremulous breath, squatted down. Placing his hand on the agent's body, he tried to turn it over. He could scarcely budge it. Dead weight. Grimacing, he bent over and reached under Nelson's body, trying to slide his hand under Nelson's coat to reach his billfold.

He couldn't do it; the man's weight made it impossible. With a faint groan, he straightened up, hissing, teeth bared, as he saw blood on his fingers. "God," he muttered, shuddering.

Just get out of here, he thought. He shook his head. If he did that, he'd be as much in the dark as ever. He simply had to get some answers. Drawing in a quiet breath, he put both hands on the agent's right shoulder and used all his strength to turn over the inert body.

He jerked back with a wince of sickened dread as he saw that Nelson's eyes were open, staring. He couldn't take his gaze off the agent's eyes. They seemed to be made of glass. The stare of a dead man, he thought, lowering his gaze with a convulsive shiver. Reaching down without looking, he felt under the tweed jacket until his fingers touched the top edge of Nelson's billfold.

A hollow cry of shock wrenched back his lips as Nelson's fingers clamped onto his wrist.

Snapping his head up, he saw that Nelson's eyes were looking at him, that his chest was moving faintly with labored breath. He stared at the agent's pain-twisted face. He hadn't seen Nelson reach beneath his coat; he stiffened as the red-haired man raised a .45 and pointed it between his eyes. I'm dead, he thought. He closed his eyes abruptly, waiting for the muzzle blast, the blinding pain and darkness.

When they didn't come, he opened his eyes a little, looking at the agent apprehensively. Nelson was trying to say something. His breath was thin and ragged. "Take me…Tucson," he whispered. The grip on Chris's wrist tightened slowly and the agent pushed the gun so close to Chris's eyes it made him blink uneasily.

"Now," Nelson ordered in a weak, hoarse voice.

Chris nodded. All right, all right, he thought. Let it be. He couldn't go on anymore; he was too tired and confused. At least he wasn't going to be killed. Nelson needed his help now.

"I'll help you up," he said.

"No," Nelson muttered. He released Chris's wrist and waved Chris back with his bloody hand. Chris stood up, wavering, almost falling back against the arroyo wall, then regained his balance. He stood, breathing with effort, as Nelson started to get up. The agent made sounds of agony in his throat as he struggled to rise. Chris glanced down at the man's shirt. The left side of it was soaked with blood.

It took Nelson three minutes to get on his feet, shifting the .45 to his left hand and pushing the right one under his jacket to press against the wound; he cried out softly as he did. How badly was the agent hurt? Chris wondered. Would he make it to Tucson? He visualized himself driving up to a hospital with a dead man in his car and a fantastic explanation no one could verify.

"Car," Nelson mumbled.

Chris turned and, leaning forward, clambered up the arroyo wall, shoes crunching on the hard soil. Standing up, he looked back at Nelson. The agent was trying to climb from the arroyo, head down. He could kick Nelson's head, make a run for the car, escape.

He couldn't make himself do it. The agent was badly hurt. He couldn't just leave him here to die. He had to take him to a hospital. Once again, he felt a kind of barren relief knowing that he had to do it. At least he'd find out what was going on.

And how far could he run anyway before they caught him?

Nelson was having trouble getting up to the surface. Chris hesitated, then asked, "Do you want a hand?" Nelson made an impotent, growling sound and Chris looked down at him almost angrily. I should leave you here, he thought. You deserve to be left, you son of a bitch.

With a final groaning hitch, Nelson got out of the arroyo and pushed himself on his knees, wavering from side to side, his eyes looking as though they were going in and out of focus. Chris felt himself tensing involuntarily. He could kick the gun from Nelson's hand, make a run for the car.

He waited too long. Nelson had struggled to his feet now and was making a feeble gesture toward the Pontiac.

Chris turned and walked to the car, got in and closed the door. He sat motionless, staring out through the windshield as Nelson followed him; he heard the erratic crunching of the agent's shoes as he stumbled to the car. Then he tightened as the passenger door was opened and Nelson dropped down, grunting, on the seat beside him.

Chris looked at him. The agent's expression was frightening, teeth bared, animal-like, dark eyes glaring at Chris. He made a twitching gesture with the .45 which Chris took to mean he wanted to be driven to Tucson now.

"You'd better close the door," he said.

With a moan of pain, Nelson reached out and pulled in the door. It clicked in its frame, barely closing. Chris was going to tell him that it wasn't properly shut, but said nothing as the agent pushed his right hand under his coat again to apply pressure against his wound. "Go," Nelson muttered.

"I have to turn around," Chris said.

"Well, turn then," the agent snapped.

"I'm afraid the wheels might get caught in the sand."

"Then look for a pullout," Nelson said through clenched teeth, twisting on the seat in agony.

"All right." Chris started the engine and pulled back onto the dirt road, looking for a place ahead where he could turn around. There was nothing in sight, the narrow road flanked by sand as far as he could see. Was he going to have to drive all the way into the desert with the wounded man? Sooner or later, he'd have to try a turn regardless, or time would run out on Nelson.

"All right, dammit, all right," Nelson said in a pain-thickened voice and Chris looked at him quickly. The agent's breathing was thin and labored. It was like the panting of a dying dog. His eyes had a glaze to them that frightened Chris. "If I'm going," he muttered, barely able to speak, "you're going too."

Chris stared at him in shock. No! he thought. He looked blankly at the barrel of the .45 as the agent shakily raised it to point at Chris's head.

***

His body moved before his mind did.

His right foot jumped from the gas pedal to the brake and jammed it down. The car jolted to a yawing stop and, with a cry of agony, Nelson was flung against the dashboard.

Again, Chris moved without thinking, lunging to his right and shouldering the red-haired man as hard as he could, throwing him against the door. Barely shut, the door popped open and Nelson was thrown out onto the sandy shoulder.

Instantly, Chris straightened up and threw the transmission into reverse, pressing down on the accelerator. He saw the agent briefly through the open door, raising his automatic. Chris floored the pedal, panicked eyes looking across his shoulder at the road. He jerked his head down as a pair of shots rang out. He looked to the front and saw the agent falling back into a twisted heap. Oh, God, he is dead now, he thought.

So what?! raged his mind. He tried to kill you twice, are you sorry for him?!

He looked back at the road again, slowing down so he could steer more easily. The anger of his reaction had already faded. He felt sick to be driving away from Nelson, leaving him dead or dying. Still, what else could he do? He groaned in frustration and suddenly twisted the steering wheel to the right. He couldn't just drive backward all the way to the highway.

The car bumped across the rutted ground, then stopped as its rear wheels sank into the sand. "Oh, no," he said. "Don't do this."

Face set into a mask of pleading, he put the transmission into drive and pressed down slowly on the gas pedal. The back wheels spun in the sand. "No!" Chris shouted. Goddamn it, was this nightmare ever going to end?!

Easy, easy, he told himself. He felt a trickle of perspiration on his right cheek. Just control yourself.

Swallowing, he inched his foot down on the accelerator until the Pontiac began to move. He let it rock back and forth a few times, then pressed down harder on the gas pedal, groaning with relief as the car jumped forward. He turned back onto the dirt road, braked, then put the transmission into neutral and twisted around.

About a hundred yards away, he saw the agent's body still lying in the same twisted posture. He had to be dead now, had to be-Chris swallowed dryly; his throat felt parched. Well, he'd stop at a phone booth anyway and call the nearest hospital. Maybe there was still a chance of saving Nelson's life.

Why bother? his mind demanded cruelly. The bastard tried to murder you twice.

"Oh, shut up; just shut up," he told it angrily.

Putting the transmission into drive again, he started for the highway.

9

When he reached the highway six minutes later, he turned left without thinking. Then he began to wonder why he had. Was he going back to Tucson? His sigh was one of weary defeat. What difference did it make which way he went? They'd find him regardless.

Not yet though, he thought. He wasn't ready to give himself up right now. He had to stop somewhere, rest, try to think. "Use your skills," he remembered his mother's words. Analysis was one of them. He had to get off the road, lie down and rest, then think.

A few miles down the highway, he came to a rest stop and pulled in. He stopped and got out, checking the contents of his right trouser pocket. Eighty cents. Enough for one call? Tucson wasn't that far.

First he went into the men's bathroom and relieved himself, then washed off his face. There were no paper towels so he unrolled a handful of toilet paper to dry his face and hands.

He went outside and walked toward the telephones, feeling a little dizzy in the bright sun. Should he just call the police and wait here for them to pick him up?

No, his mind responded instantly. The way things were? The CIA after him? Nelson probably dead? Heroes didn't surrender themselves anyway. They kept on going until-

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he muttered. How many times do I have to tell you? he demanded of his mind. This isn't a story, it's reality!

Reality, he thought as he reached the telephones. Forget that, he thought. He didn't want to get re-entangled in that web of thinking right now.

Should he tell his mother? he wondered. Let her call an ambulance?

No. He didn't want to involve her any more than she was already.

He pulled up the directory and looked up Hospitals in the yellow section. Picking one out, he memorized the number and let the directory flop back. He slipped two dimes into the phone and dialed the number.

The operator asked for fifty-five cents more (thank God it wasn't more) and he put in sixty. "I can't return the overage," she said.

"It's okay," Chris responded.

"Thank you," said the operator.

"You're welcome," Chris replied. Politeness in the midst of nightmare, he thought. Too much for the heart.

Just as the call was answered, Chris saw a figure walking into the rest stop. "Tucson Memorial," the woman's voice said.

"Emergency, please," Chris said. He squinted, looking at the approaching figure. There was something familiar about-

"Emergency," a man's voice said.

Veering.

Chris shuddered violently. "No," he murmured.

"Beg your pardon?" the man inquired.

Chris's throat felt blocked. He wanted to drop the phone and bolt for his car. But he couldn't do it without-

He cleared his throat spasmodically. "There's a man in the desert, he's been shot," he blurted, "on-"

He broke off, wincing, staring at the old man. Had he seen Chris yet? Recognized him?

Then the sign leaped into his mind, he saw it as clearly as though he were standing beside it. "Mesquite Road," he said. "South of the highway a little more than a mile."

"May I have your name, please?" the man asked.

"The man is dying. Hurry!" Chris slammed the handset onto its cradle and broke into a run for the Pontiac.

He looked at Veering as he ran. The old man had seen him now. He had his hand raised. He was smiling, the bastard! "Hi!" he called.

Chris couldn't seem to breathe. He raced the rest of the way to the car and jumped in, his gaze darting to the rearview mirror. Was Veering going to reach him before he could leave? Get in the car with him?

Chris twisted the ignition key, starting the motor and slapping the transmission indicator to drive in the same moment. He jarred his foot down on the accelerator and, with a squeal of tires, the car jumped forward. Chris twisted the steering wheel around as quickly as he could, just missing a concrete table. The car roared down the exit drive, headed toward the highway.

As he turned onto the highway, he looked into the rearview mirror. The old man was running after him, waving both arms now. No chance, old man, he thought. He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car already going sixty-five.

As he sped along the highway, he kept looking back. It wouldn't surprise him, he thought with a shudder, to see Veering racing after him, so fast that he would overtake the Pontiac and, running beside it, pull open the door and jump in.

"Cut it out," he snarled at his mind.

For a while, he actually wondered if he should turn back and pick up Veering, question him. Was the old man part of this? How could he be? A transient hitchhiker?

Still, Nelson had mentioned him. That was the maddening part. What could the CIA have to do with a man like Veering?

Anyway, he thought, he didn't have the nerve to speak to the old man. What if Veering said something else, making the nightmare even worse?

He realized now that he was driving too fast. For God's sake, he didn't want to be picked up by a highway patrol officer. He eased up on the accelerator, reducing the car's speed to sixty. He'd keep it at that. He had to stop soon though. Mind and body were exhausted.

He had to rest before he could begin to analyze what everything might mean. He trusted his mind to come up with answers if he applied himself to the problem. It always had before.

But first he had to rest.

***

He drove as long as he could but, by two o'clock that afternoon, he could barely keep his eyes open. He was headed for Los Angeles now. He didn't know why, except that any direction seemed as good as another; he just wanted to put distance between himself and Arizona. He tried not to think about his problem; it wasn't time yet. Anyway, his brain felt progressively more stultified by the hour.

At 2:14 P.M., he pulled up to the office of the Bide-A-While Motel. That's what I intend to do, he thought. He went inside and used his MasterCard to pay for a back cabin. It was probably a mistake. The CIA might well have a monitor on every credit card company. By now, surely they had to know that he had only the MasterCard and the American Express. It would be simplicity itself to run him to earth.

Still, what else could he do? He didn't have enough cash; he was exhausted. Let them find me then, he thought as he signed the slip.

The woman in the office-tall, lean and as severe-looking as some character in a Dickens novel-made no comment throughout the check-in process, handed him a key, then went back into her apartment. Only later did Chris realize that his unshaven face and the state of his clothes hardly qualified him as a candidate for Guest of the Year at the Bide-A-While.

He drove to the back cabin and parked the car behind it so it couldn't be seen from the highway. This struck him as a little stupid since the credit card would give him away if they were on the lookout for its use, as they must be. Still, one must do the logical thing-hide the car. That's what heroes always do, he thought as he unlocked the door of the cabin and went inside. Except you're not a hero, his mind responded. You're a dumb-ass mathematician in flight.

Inside, he closed all the drapes, then turned on the table lamp beside the bed. The room was hot and stuffy. He switched on the window air conditioner and stood in front of it until a rush of cool air began. Then, with a heavy sigh, he laid down on the bed and closed his eyes.

***

Fifteen minutes later, he opened his eyes. It seemed incredible that he hadn't fallen asleep yet. He felt exhausted. Yet every time his brain started to do a slow backward somersault into blackness, it seemed to right itself again like some enervated but determined acrobat.

He looked at the small TV set on the bureau across from the bed. Maybe there was something on the news, he thought. He labored to a sitting position and dropped his legs across the edge of the mattress. Pushing to his feet with a tired groan, he walked over to the bureau and pulled the power button on the TV set. It took almost fifteen seconds for the picture to appear. He twisted the channel selector to see what was available.

What was available-clear enough to be seen, at any rate-was Channel 8. There was a quiz show in progress. He moved back to the bed and stretched out on it, nudged off his shoes and heard them thump on the carpeting.

"No help from the audience, please," the quiz show host requested.

I could use some help from the audience, Chris thought. The audience or anybody else. Wasn't there a single person he could turn to for-?

Gene, his mind interrupted itself.

He opened his eyes. Yeah, he thought. Of course. They'd gone to college together, been friends for eleven years. Good, he'd call Gene later; after he got some sleep.

No, call now, his mind insisted. Oh, for Christ's sake, give me a break, he pleaded. His mind was a pursed-lipped pedant staring him down. Now, it demanded.

With a groan of surrender, Chris sat up again and reached for the telephone on the bedside table. Actually, it made sense to call now, he allowed. If he slept too long, he'd miss Gene at the paper and he didn't remember his home number, nor was it listed.

It seemed to take the stony-faced woman in the office half an hour before she gave him a surly "Yes?" on the line.

"I want to call The Tucson Herald," he told her. "I don't know the number."

"How can I call it then?" she asked.

Jesus, was her life that bad? he wondered. "Information," he replied as politely as he could.

"I'll get you Information," she said.

God, she sounded truculent. Well, he could almost posit her life: alone, no strokes, lonely in this godforsaken spot. His smile was humorless. Instant fantasy, he thought. He was good at that. But he couldn't be that far from the truth, considering.

"What city?" asked Information.

"Tucson," he said. "The Tucson Herald."

The woman gave him the number and he memorized it. Thank God his mind possessed that ability, tired or not.

After a while, the office-woman's voice said, "Yes?" again. Jesus, lady, I am sorry I am ruining your afternoon, he thought. He gave her the number and she grunted.

"The Tucson Herald, good afternoon," a young woman's voice answered. About a thousand percent more cheerful than mine hostess, Chris thought. "Gene Wyskart, please," he said.

"Thank you," the young woman said. She sounded as though she was on the verge of breaking into laughter. It must be great to enjoy life that much, he thought. Obviously, the fabric of her existence was not unraveling like his.

"Newsroom," a man's voice said.

"Gene Wyskart, please," he said.

"Who's calling?" the man asked.

"Chris Barton."

"Right," the man said in much the same tone as the quiz-show host. Now he'd take what was behind the second door and Veering would step out, chortling.

Chris closed his eyes and groaned softly. His brain was out of control again. It drifted and babbled when that happened. It had been drifting and babbling for some time now. Was it possible he was going insane? Insanity, no doubt, seemed very logical when it actually took place.

Silence on the line. It disturbed him. He could imagine anyone answering his call now. Gene. Veering. Wilson. The other Chris Barton. His mother.

"Chris?" said Gene's familiar voice.

Chris shuddered with relief. "Yeah," he said.

"You shouldn't be calling me," Gene said.

Oh, that I do not understand, Chris thought. He felt a groan coming on. That I absolutely do not understand.

"You hear me?" Gene asked.

"Yes, but why?" he demanded.

"Because they can trace a telephone call, what else?" Gene told him, sounding almost angry.

Oh, God, not him as well, Chris thought. Was there anybody not involved in this?

"Look," Gene said, "the best thing for you to do is get out of the country."

"Out of the country?" Chris felt as though the walls were closing in on him. "What are you-?"

"Listen, Chris," Gene cut him off, "there's no time to explain; they could put a tap on this line at any moment if it isn't on already. Just do what I say. Get out of the country. I mean it, pal. This is serious."

"Gene, for Christ's sake, what are you talking about?!" Chris demanded.

"Not now," Gene said. "Do you have enough money to-?"

"I don't have any money at all," Chris broke in.

"Where are you then?"

Chris hesitated.

"Damn it, hurry," Gene told him.

"The Bide-A-While Motel on Highway Eight."

"All right," Gene said.

"Now, will you please-?"

His mouth fell open. Gene had hung up on him.

"Good God," he murmured. He put down the handset and fell on his side on the bed, drawing up his legs. He sobbed now. He was afraid and confused and lost. What was happening? Each new shock was like a needle jabbing at his brain. Please, he thought. Some answers. Some meaning. Please.

With that, his brain turned off like a bulb and he felt himself tumbling down into a deep, black pit.

He didn't know how long he'd slept when his eyes opened momentarily and he found himself staring groggily at the television set. Disney's Alice in Wonderland was playing on it. He saw the bustling rabbit looking at his watch while he sang, "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date!"

His eyes fell shut and he was falling deep into the pit again.

10

He woke as though drugged.

The TV set was still on. A local talk show. A man in a red ten-gallon hat was talking about his personal barbecue sauce that had bourbon in it.

Chris looked at him with half-opened eyes for almost a minute. Then he stood and weaved into the bathroom. Turning on the cold water in the sink-it was lukewarm at best-he rinsed off his face. It helped to wake him.

He soaped his hands and washed them, then his face, rinsing it off again. He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. He looked haggard, water dripping from his nose and chin. I look fifty, he thought.

He wondered if the hospital had found Nelson; found him in time to save his life. He had enough problems without a death to worry about. Not that it was his fault Nelson got shot. He had only been defending himself.

He shivered and reached for the bath towel, grunting at the size of it. A bath towel for a dwarf, he thought.

He went back into the bedroom and sat on the bed while he finished drying his face and hands. "Yessir," the man in the red cowboy hat was saying, "this sauce will make those ribs of your'n stand up at attention." He chuckled happily.

Chris got up and turned off the set. Alice in Wonderland on a local TV station? The thought occurred to him. I thought the Disney Studio didn't allow that. He yawned. Well, it had to be Veering. Sure, even Disney reality succumbed to him.

Get out of the country, he thought.

He frowned. Goddamn it, that's ridiculous. I'm not going to leave the country.

Still, what could he do?

People were after him. People who wanted his life.

He tried to think. The man in his house. Had that woman really called Wilson? No, that made no sense at all. Wilson would know that something was wrong. He wouldn't cooperate by sending a man to-

Chris's eyes went out of focus, into thought.

Unless Wilson was a coconspirator.

But why? Chris shook his head angrily. That was implausible. Wilson knew nothing about this. They'd done it all by working around Wilson. Around his mother; clearly, she'd been fully as perplexed as he was.

What about Louise then?

Chris shivered. That was something he couldn't fathom. It was an element in the puzzle that didn't fit. That was Louise he'd talked to, wasn't it?

He sat in rigid concentration. Was it possible they-whoever in the screaming hell "they" were-had taken over Louise's house-put someone else on the line with him? Someone who sounded like Louise but-

"Oh…" Chris twisted his shoulders in aggravation. Christ Almighty, I know my own sister's voice, don't I?

Which brought him inevitably back to total confusion again.

"I've got to get out of here," he mumbled. He looked at his watch. 7:21. He'd slept four hours anyway. If there was a cordon closing in, he'd better clear out before it caught him.

He went outside, unlocked the car door and got inside; the interior was hot and close. He switched on the motor and let it run, turning on the air conditioner. Would Scotty Tensdale ever get this car back? he wondered.

He turned on the car lights now, put the transmission into gear and backed out from behind the cabin.

As he drove past the office, he saw the woman in the doorway, looking at him. Was she suspicious? he thought. He tried to drive slowly so she wouldn't think he was trying to make a getaway.

He turned left onto the highway and headed west again. Where was he going? he wondered. Were there authorities anywhere he could safely surrender to? He wasn't sure there were, not now. Which meant flight. Out of the country? Sure, he thought, with what-twelve dollars in my pocket, credit cards as obvious as bombs?

Later, it struck him as bizarre that, precisely as he was thinking that, he drove underneath a highway light and, glancing to his right, saw a large white envelope lying on the other seat.

He cried out hollowly and jammed down so hard on the gas pedal that it made the Pontiac leap forward, throwing him against the steering wheel.

Carefully then, as though it were the action of a calm, collected man, he steered onto the shoulder and braked. Putting the transmission into park, he twisted the light knob so the overhead light went on.

He stared at the envelope, not even wanting to pick it up, much less open it. The car had been locked, all its windows raised. Yet someone had placed the envelope on the passenger's seat.

How?

And who? Veering? Another of his little reality-bending tricks? Chris shook his head angrily. Veering was a wandering mendicant with a crumbling brain, no more. He ignored the fact that Nelson had spoken of Veering. He had to ignore that for now.

Chris sighed and picked up the envelope, turned it over. Blank on both sides, sealed. Letter-size. What was in it? A letter bomb?

He checked the glove compartment and found a flashlight. Turning it on, he held the envelope against the light. No sign of anything suspicious inside. He turned off the flashlight.

Still, he hesitated, sensing, somehow, that whatever was in the envelope was going to change his life even more. Had Gene had it put there while he was asleep? It had to have been Gene. If anyone else had known that he was in the Bide-A-While, they'd have picked him up.

But why not simply slip the envelope underneath the cabin door? Why-?

Fuck it, open it, he told himself. You're going to mull yourself into a coma.

Tearing off one end of the envelope, he pulled out a folder.

United. A one-way ticket from LAX.

To London.

***

Chris stared at the ticket. Simple enough. A one-way ticket from Los Angeles to London. First class. Tomorrow morning. Very simple.

Like the unified field theory.

He had to smile. Not one of amusement, but that of a mountain climber realizing that his rope is just about to shear at twenty thousand feet, and he either screams in mortal dread or remarks, "Aw, shit."

"Aw, shit," Chris said. What more could happen to him?

He picked up the envelope and looked inside. There was something else, a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and a bill fluttered onto his lap. Picking it up, he stared at Benjamin Franklin's face. One hundred dollars.

He looked at the sheet of paper. A note was typed on it.

For God's sake, get out of the country! Now! I'm deadly serious! Gene.

Chris turned off the interior light and slipped the ticket, bill and note back into the envelope. He placed the envelope on the passenger seat, then pulled down the transmission bar and slowly eased back onto the highway, accelerating to fifty-five miles an hour before he set the cruise control.

Here I am, he thought as the car rolled across the now-dark desert. Driving sensibly. A law-abiding citizen. Most commendable.

For a man being swallowed alive by a nightmare.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled. He yelled it three times, each louder than the one before. What in the bloody, goddamn hell was going on?!

He exhaled hard. The situation was becoming more insane all the time. It had started with a missing car. Now-less than twenty-four hours later-he was being told to get out of the country. He didn't know Gene that well. Why would Gene pop for a first-class ticket to London?

Was there really any meaning to all of this or was it hideously simple, a lost wager with Veering? Was his reality changing? No matter how he tried to avoid the idea, his mind insisted on returning to the old man in the baseball cap. He heard the tone in Veering's voice as he said, "I wager the security of your existence against your assumption that you know what's real and what's unreal in your life."

He began to shiver convulsively and couldn't seem to stop.

***

It was when he had driven past a coffee shop and saw a highway patrol car parked in front of it that he knew exactly what he had to do with part of the hundred dollar bill.

He was now sitting in the last row of the Trailways bus, eyes closed. Scotty Tensdale's car was parked by the terminal in Yuma. Hopefully, Scotty would get it back in a few days; by the time Chris was in London.

London, he thought. For God's sake, London. He'd thought of flying there a hundred times but never under these circumstances.

He'd tried to settle down his brain and take a nap. It didn't work. The sleep ritual at home was too entrenched in his system-a long, hot shower, a good, brain-relaxing read and, presently, unconsciousness for several hours.

The back seat of a bus just didn't make it.

He opened his eyes and looked out at the passing desert. Déjà vu, he thought. It was the same view he'd seen from Scotty Tensdale's car early this morning-the silver-cast sand, the dark forms of cactus and desert trees.

Was he really going to get on that plane and fly to London?

He couldn't make up his mind just yet. He was en route to Los Angeles. That was enough for now. Maybe by the time he arrived in Inglewood, he'd have made his decision.

Not that he had a hell of a lot of options. Hand himself in?-that seemed a really bad idea now. Go into hiding-how long would that last if the CIA was onto him?

It had to be the project, he realized.

He found himself nodding. Had to be. It was the only thing that made him special enough to warrant all this attention.

The project was important, there was no doubt of that. To the Pentagon. To national security. If he could solve the problem, God only knows what international ramifications would take place. He'd never really thought about the significance of what he did at Palladian. It had been just a tedious job.

But it was obviously a lot more than that and he was thinking about it now.

Small wonder he'd dreamed about directing numbers in a play. A play whose set had a clock on the wall. Time was running out, Wilson had been clear enough on that. Chris, we need that answer. He sighed and closed his eyes again. Well, you weren't getting that answer from my flagging brain, he thought. And God knows you're not going to get it now.

He opened his eyes as the bus began to slow down.

For a few moments, he stared blankly at the flashing red light ahead.

Then a hand, invisible and cold, slid in between his ribs and got a good hold on his heart. He felt it starting to squeeze, felt his heart straining to beat against the pressure. Dear God, he thought. All his thoughts and plans were pointless now.

He couldn't seem to fill his lungs with air as the bus drew closer to the highway patrol car blocking the lane. They've got me, he thought. It's done.

He looked around in sudden desperation. No way out. He felt sick with fear. Where would they take him? To highway patrol headquarters? CIA headquarters?

Or were they working in league with Meehan? Would they simply drive him into the desert and put a bullet in his brain?

He flinched and stiffened as the bus braked and the front door opened with a hydraulic hiss.

11

A pair of highway patrolmen came on board and spoke softly to the driver. Chris saw the driver start to look back into the bus. One of the patrolmen said something quickly to him and he turned to the front again.

Chris felt himself pressing back against the seat. There was a throbbing sensation in his right temple that felt like the ticking of a clock. Is all of this really happening? he thought. It seemed unreal and dreamlike.

The two patrolmen started moving up the aisle, checking the seats on either side. There were seventeen passengers; Chris's eyes counted them in a glance. How long would it take them to reach him? What would they say? You're under arrest? Would they draw their pistols? He stiffened.

Would they shoot him?

A shiver made his shoulders jerk. They could if they chose to, if they had orders to do it. He killed a government agent in Tucson this morning, he heard one of them report. We had no choice.

He closed his eyes and waited. He was trapped.

A sudden noise up front made his eyes jump open again.

One of the patrolmen was wrestling with a male passenger-a bulky man in a black jacket sitting on the right side of the bus. The other patrolman came to assist him and they yanked the heavyset man into the aisle. None of them spoke, but only hissed and grunted from the effort of their struggle.

Chris saw the flash of handcuffs and heard them clicking shut on the man's wrists. He was surprised at how soundlessly the other passengers were taking all this. Not one of them did anything but watch in silence as the two patrolmen dragged the man down the aisle, his shoes squeaking on the rubberized floor.

The man was pulled out through the door and Chris saw, through the windshield, the two patrolmen forcing him to their car and bending him inside. A few seconds later, the patrol car drove away, starting back for Yuma.

"Well, folks," the driver said loudly-his voice made Chris twitch, "you just saw the capture of a bank robber."

Chris slumped back, eyes falling shut. Jesus God, he thought. His breath shook badly.

Only after the bus had driven on for several miles did he realize that what had happened had made up his mind for him. He couldn't face that kind of pain again, that kind of terror.

He was going to London.

***

The bus arrived in Inglewood at seven in the morning; he had two and a half hours before the flight.

Rising on rubbery legs, Chris walked along the aisle and stepped down to the sidewalk, shivering. It was a cold, foggy morning. He looked up at the dark gray sky, trying not to visualize the airliner taking off into it.

Crossing the floor of the nearly empty terminal, he went into the men's room and relieved himself, then washed his hands and face. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave; he looked too much like a wanted man.

He went outside and bought some shaving cream and disposable blades at the counter. Carrying them back inside the men's room, he shaved as quickly as he could, considering that he hadn't used a blade for more than ten years. Inevitably, he cut himself a few times, forced to press tiny pieces of toilet tissue on the nicks.

Even so, it was an improvement. Not bad-looking for a mathematician on the run, he thought. His clothes didn't look too good but they'd pass. He checked his watch. He may as well get over to the airport before trying to have breakfast.

He tossed the blades and shaving cream into a waste can, then telephoned for a cab. I suppose I should have kept them, he thought as he walked back across the terminal. He couldn't plan that far ahead, though. His brain was stuck in the present.

The cab showed up in fifteen minutes and he got inside, telling the driver that he was flying to London on United and would he take him to the proper terminal. The driver, puffing on a cigar, nodded without a word. A blessing, Chris decided. He was in no condition for a chatty driver.

The ride to the airport took twenty minutes. Chris paid and tipped the driver and walked into the United terminal. Impressive-looking, he thought.

He went directly to the first-class line and placed his ticket on the counter in front of the young woman on duty there. She smiled and said, "Good morning," checked the ticket and asked him if he preferred Smoking or Non-smoking. In first class, what difference does it make? he thought, but told her Non-smoking anyway. She made out a boarding pass and pushed it into the envelope slit.

He was turning away when she said, "Mr. Barton?"

He didn't turn back at first. Was this it? he wondered. Were they going to arrest him now?

Sighing, he turned. "Yes?"

"I have something here for you."

"You do," he murmured.

He watched as she reached beneath the counter and, after a few moments, came up with an envelope. It looked like the one he'd found in the car.

"This was left for you," she said.

"By whom?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "I wasn't on duty when it was left."

"I see." He stared at the envelope. What now? he thought. Ignore previous ticket. You sail to Hong Kong on the morning tide.

"Oh, Jesus," he mumbled and took the envelope from the young woman. "Thank you," he said.

He walked toward one of the chairs. Another jigsaw piece that wouldn't fit? he wondered. Reaching the chair, he sank down on it wearily and tore open the envelope.

There was a piece of cardboard inside, a locker key Scotch-taped to it.

Chris held it in his right hand, staring at it. A locker. Did it have a bomb inside? Turn the key and ka-blooey? The end of C. Barton, Fugitive Mathematician?

He blew out a heavy breath. It was another jigsaw piece. Would the overall picture ever be formed? Right now, he doubted it. He simply couldn't keep up with all the new pieces.

He looked at his watch. Nearing eight. What should he do? Forget the key? Drop it into a waste can, wait to board?

Ten minutes later, he decided. He may as well play this through, use the hand he was being dealt. Standing, he started for the boarding gate. It seemed as though everyone he passed knew who he was and, at any moment, was going to shout, "Hey, stop!" "It's him!" "It's Barton!" "He's the Arizona Agent-Killer!" "Grab him for the CIA!"

The detector buzzed as he went through. He felt himself tighten guiltily, then realized it was the key and dropped it on the plastic tray. This time, he got through without a sound and the man monitoring the machine handed the key back to him.

He rode the escalator to the second floor and walked to the boarding area, then moved around the edge of it until he found the locker. Locker, he thought, a spot you put something in and lock 'er up. Word derivations were a bane to him.

He stood in front of the locker for ten minutes, wondering whether to open it, his brain a swirl of conflicting theories. All right, they wanted him dead. But why a locker bomb? Their last opportunity before he left the country? Didn't it make more sense that Gene would be behind this? In that case, why not mention it in his note? Had he thought of it after the ticket and note had been delivered?

Finally, to stop the swirling contradictions in his mind, Chris slipped the key into the locker slot and turned it, hunching his shoulders and half-closing his eyes at the last instant in case there was an explosion. Much good it would do if there was, he thought.

He released a held-in breath and opened the door. There was an overnight bag inside. He pulled it out and closed the door. Was there a bomb inside the bag? he wondered suddenly. Oh, for Christ's sake, you're bomb-happy! he assailed himself.

He went to the men's room and locked himself inside a booth. Lowering the lid of the toilet he sat down and put the overnight bag on his lap. It was expensive-looking. Nothing but the best for Fugitive Chris, he thought.

He braced himself and pulled open the zipper on top of the bag, thinking, God, I'll really feel dumb if it explodes now.

He looked inside the bag. A change of clothes. A sweater, slacks, shirt, underwear, socks, shoes, a warmer jacket than the one he was wearing. Expensive clothes, too. Whoever his guardian angel was-Gene?-he (or she?) was certainly generous.

He felt down through the neatly folded clothes to see what else there was. Toilet articles. He unzipped the case and looked inside. Everything he needed. He blinked in amazement. Two vials as well, prescription: Calan and Vasotec. Whoever was watching over him knew about his hypertension. Mystery on mystery, he thought.

For several moments, sitting there, he felt almost a glow of pleasure. The clothes, the first-class flight to London. This sure was one hell of a lot more intriguing than his life had been for the past five years. He was almost looking forward to this. All he needed now was a svelte Hitchcockian blonde sitting next to him on the plane.

There was more in the bag; a small package that he opened to find himself looking at a bottle of hair dye and a mustache, a tube of spirit gum. "Aw, now, wait a minute," he said, scowling. Play-acting now? A disguise? Jesus God, that was absurd. Still, why was it in there if Gene (he had to be behind this) didn't think it was important?

Chris sighed and shook his head. Then he saw another package on the bottom of the bag and lifted it out, a plastic envelope. It was heavy and he almost dropped it. Snatching at it clumsily before it could fall, he put the overnight bag on the floor and put the plastic envelope on his lap to unzip it.

He stared blankly at what was in the envelope.

Now the picture seemed complete. His life a maddening enigma. Men chasing him. Mysterious events. A flight to London. A change of clothes. A disguise kit.

A pistol.

He stared at it, an expression of distaste on his face. A clip of bullets was wrapped beside it. He had no idea what caliber it was except that it was smaller than a .45. Probably smaller than a .38 as well.

For what? he thought, unable to repress a shudder. What in God's name was he up against? Did Gene actually think he might have to shoot someone?

He gasped and almost dropped the pistol as someone pounded on the door.

"Come on, there's people waiting!" said an angry man.

Chris swallowed hard. Sweet Jesus, he thought. It's heart-attack time.

Hastily, he put the pistol back into the plastic envelope, zipped it up and pushed it under the clothes inside the overnight bag. He'd dump the damn thing as soon as he could.

He wondered, for a few moments, how the bag had been brought up to the boarding area. How could it have passed the metal-detector? Another mystery. His brain was swollen with puzzles. He could sit in this booth for a year just analyzing all the questions raised since early this morning.

Forget it, he thought. Just…damn, forget it. He unlocked the door and left the booth; there were a lot of men waiting. A fat man wearing a red sport coat pushed by him and entered the booth, slamming the door. Sorry, pal, Chris thought. Have a primo b.m.

He made his way to the exit and left the men's room. As he walked into the boarding area, he wondered if he should have stayed in the booth long enough to put on the mustache.

"Oh, that's ridiculous," he muttered. Forget about breakfast. He was going to down a couple of drinks so fast, they'd vaporize in his throat.

By the time he reached the bar, he'd changed his mind. His stomach was too empty. Except for a small bag of Fritos in Yuma, he'd had nothing since his mother's house. Two drinks might make him reel. He ordered an Irish coffee and sat at the counter; there were no tables open.

A mustache, he thought, making a scoffing noise. He'd look like a Spanish pimp. No, if they were going to pick him up, let it be as himself, and not some character from a spy movie.

Fifteen minutes later, he paid for the Irish coffee and left the bar. He walked over to the gift shop and bought a copy of the Los Angeles Times to read on the plane. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to read about Nelson or not-or about himself for that matter, if there was anything about his situation. But he had to know.

Is this what it feels like to be a fugitive from justice? he thought as he crossed the boarding area to his boarding gate. Fugitive from the law, you mean, he told himself. Justice had no part in this game. Thank God for Gene, he thought. He didn't know why Gene was being so helpful but bless him for it.

He sat in a corner, waiting quietly until they announced the boarding for his flight, first-class passengers first. Drawing in a deep breath, he stood and moved toward the doorway.

As he drew nearer to it, his heartbeat quickened more and more until he could actually hear it thumping in his ears. Was he going to make it? Was someone on the lookout for him? Did he look completely guilty? It was like a bad dream in which no matter where one hid, one was found.

The woman at the doorway checked his boarding pass, tore the stub off his ticket, smiled and said, "Have a nice flight, Mr. Barton." God, don't say my name! he thought in panic.

Anticlimax, he thought next as he walked along the slanting tunnel toward the plane. Entering it, he showed the boarding pass to the stewardess waiting there and she gestured toward the first-class section. "Would you like me to store your bag?" she asked.

"No, thank you, I'll put it under my seat," he told her.

The stewardess in the first-class section showed him to his seat. It was by a window. He slumped down, feeling suddenly exhausted.

"Would you like some champagne?" the stewardess asked.

"Could I have a screwdriver?" he said.

"Of course." She smiled and turned away.

He slid the bag under the seat in front of him, put the folded copy of the Times beside him on the seat, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Was it really over? he thought.

Over? his mind retorted. It's barely begun, you idiot. You're on your way to London. Didn't you notice that the ticket was only one way?

He blew out a long, slow stream of breath. Would he make it to London? Or would the plane explode halfway across the Atlantic? Was that the kind of film this was? Maybe he wasn't the hero at all but some subsidiary character, the poor sap who got it in the first reel.

"Here you are, Mr. Barton," the stewardess said.

Oh, Christ, am I going to be called by my name all the way to England? he thought, opening his eyes. He forced a smile and a "Thank you" as he took the drink.

He took a deep swallow of the screwdriver. He could afford to get a little alcohol inside himself now. He felt at his neck. As usual, stiff as ye boarde, he thought.

Groaning softly, he put down the drink and picked up the newspaper.

Nothing different, conflicts and corruptions as always. Disinterested, Chris ran his gaze across the stories.

Until page five. Then, suddenly, he was having trouble with his breath again, the corners of his eyes were tearing. Oh, my God, my good God, he thought.

REPORTER SHOT

Gene Wyskart, a reporter

on the Tucson Herald, was

killed last night by an

unidentified gunman.

12

Chris put aside the paper and closed his eyes. I can't go on with this, he thought. It's too damn much. It had been bad enough with Nelson and he hadn't even known the man. Gene had been a friend.

"God," he whispered. "Jesus. God."

"May I move this?" said a man's voice.

Chris opened his eyes and looked to his right. The man in the aisle was smiling cordially. Chris didn't understand what he'd meant, then, abruptly, he saw the newspaper lying on the seat beside his and picked it up. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No problem," the man replied. He sat down and extended his hand. "Jim Basy."

Chris almost knocked over his drink, then raised his hand above it. Basy smiled and shook it briefly. Chris wondered if the man was wondering why he hadn't given his name in return.

Jim Basy was in his forties, wearing gray trousers and gray tweed jacket, a white shirt with a black knit tie. He looked like a successful executive, dark hair neatly trimmed, face cleanly shaven, black shoes polished to a gloss.

Chris winced and reached involuntarily to massage the back of his neck. It was really hurting now.

"Stiff neck?" the man asked.

Chris nodded. "Yeah."

"I have problems with my neck too, sometimes," Basy told him. "I hang upside down for it."

Chris looked at him blankly.

"It's like a trapeze," the man explained. "Gravity helps to separate the neck vertebrae."

"Oh." Chris nodded. The part of him responding to the man was minor. Most of him was sick inside, getting ready to stand and leave the plane, surrender himself.

Putting the newspaper beside him, he reached beneath the seat in front of him and slid out the overnight bag. Picking it up, he began to stand. "You leaving?" Basy asked. Chris didn't like his tone and started to edge past him to the aisle, muttering, "Excuse me."

The man's grip on his wrist was like steel.

"I wouldn't do that, Barton," he said.

Chris stared down dumbly at the man. Basy wasn't smiling now. "Sit down," he said.

Chris couldn't move. All he could do was look at the man.

Basy smiled now, a sympathetic smile. "You have to leave the country, Chris," he said.

Chris's legs began to give and Basy braced him up, then helped him back down onto the seat. He took the overnight bag out of Chris's hand and slid it under the seat in front of Chris.

"Now," Basy said. He looked at Chris, his expression one of slight exasperation. "I wasn't supposed to let you know," he said, "but I couldn't let you leave either. Why were you leaving?"

Chris didn't know what to say. After a few moments, he reached to his left and tugged on the folded newspaper. He laid it on Basy's lap, pointing at the article.

Basy winced. "Oh, jeez," he said, "I didn't know that. Poor guy."

"You know about him?" Chris demanded, unable to keep the sound of anger from his voice.

"I know you spoke to him and he said he'd help you."

"He did help me," Chris said tightly. "He got me the ticket for this flight and that bag there."

"No, we got you the bag," Basy said. "We would have gotten you the ticket, too, if he hadn't done it first."

The vise on his head again. I'm losing touch, he thought; I really am.

"I was sent to go with you to London," Basy told him. "Help you after you got there."

Chris drew in a long, wavering breath.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Basy hesitated, then shrugged. "I can't tell you much," he said. He held up his hand to stop Chris from breaking in. "For the simple reason," he continued, "that I haven't been told that much myself."

"Is it the project?" Chris asked quickly.

"Bottom line? Of course," Basy said. "You're a very important part of it."

"Me?" Chris made a scoffing noise. "I'm just a cog."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Basy said grimly. "You know what your contribution means."

Chris shrugged. "Well," he said. "You-" He broke off, looking at Basy with suspicion.

"What?" Basy asked.

"How do I know who you are?" Chris said.

Basy took a billfold from his inside coat pocket and opened it. He pulled out a plastic-covered card and showed it to Chris.

James R. Basy, it read. An operative number. Central Intelligence Agency.

"You know Nelson?" Chris asked uneasily.

"Who?"

Chris told Basy about Meehan and Nelson.

"Well, I never heard of them," Basy said. "But that doesn't mean anything. There are a lot of agents in the CIA."

"All working on my case?" Chris asked edgily.

"No." Basy smiled faintly.

"You don't know then whether-" Chris broke off.

"Whether what?"

"Whether they're really CIA," Chris lied. He'd been about to ask whether Basy knew if Nelson had survived or not. He'd decided, mid-sentence, not to pursue it. If Basy didn't know about Nelson, let it stay that way.

"What about Veering then?" he asked, handing back the card.

"Who?"

Chris couldn't control the groan.

"What's wrong?" Basy asked.

Chris hesitated, then told him about his conversation with Veering. "And Nelson mentioned him," he added.

"Well, since I don't know who Nelson is, that doesn't mean a hell of a lot to me," Basy said. He grunted with amusement. "This Veering sounds like quite a nut case though."

"What about the couple in my house?"

"That I know about," Basy replied. "That's how I got involved." He looked around. "Oh, we're leaving," he said.

They didn't speak as the plane backed away from the terminal, then began to taxi along the airfield. Chris tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing but was unable to do so. Everything seemed wrong to him; distorted, unreal.

After the plane was in the air, Basy spoke to him again. "Okay, we're on our way," he said. "I've been thinking. Those two men you mentioned; I doubt if they really were CIA. Our orders were to keep an eye on what was going on, not move in and get involved."

Chris felt a kind of relief at that. Meehan had been so vicious. Nelson had intended to kill him. He would much prefer to believe that they weren't CIA, that they were-

Were who? Foreign agents? They were obviously American. His brain was starting to reel again.

He started to ask Basy a question when the agent said, "I have to use the rest room, I'll be right back." Standing, he moved away.

Chris sank back against the chair. Noticing the drink, he picked it up and took a long swallow. The stewardess came by and asked him if he wanted another and some hors d'oeuvres. He said he would and she moved away.

Chris closed his eyes and tried to form a brief summation in his mind.

It was the project. That was definite. Some kind of cabal taking place against people working on secret military projects. Meehan and Nelson were probably not CIA. Had they killed Gene? And why did he have to leave the country?

He eliminated the questions from his summation. He didn't want to confuse things. The situation seemed to be falling into some kind of order.

Except for Veering. Would Veering ever fit into what was happening?

The stewardess brought him another screwdriver and a small china plate with some crackers and wedges of cheese on it, a tiny knife. "We'll be starting lunch service in a little while," she told him, setting down a pair of menus on Basy's seat.

Chris finished up the first drink and set it aside. He took a sip of the second screwdriver, then made himself a cracker sandwich with Brie cheese. He felt considerably better now. Some kind of pattern was emerging. He always felt better when patterns emerged. Which was why he'd been so unhappy with, and frustrated by, the project for so many months now.

***

Fifteen minutes later, he twisted around and looked back toward the rest rooms. He'd read part of the Times, finished the crackers, cheese and the second screwdriver and had ordered Chicken Kiev for lunch.

Now he was wondering if something was wrong with Basy.

He looked back at the front and tried to push the feeling away. Goddamn it, don't get started again, he told himself. As soon as things start clearing up, you insist on muddying the waters again. Basy was performing his A.M. ablutions. He had a stomachache and was hunched over on the john. He'd taken a stewardess in there and was bopping her. Who knows? he thought irritably. He's fine though. Fine.

Minutes passed. He finished looking through the Times and put it down. He looked out the window at the clouds, at the land below. He tried to feel calm.

It didn't work. Anxiety was trickling slowly through his thoughts. He tried to resist. Relax, he thought. Take it easy. He closed his eyes. Music, he thought. He'd put on the earphones and listen to some classical music.

He looked at his watch. Almost twenty minutes now. He looked toward the back again. A woman was trying to get into one of the rest rooms but it was locked. Is that where Basy is? he wondered.

He swallowed. Could Basy have gone in back of the plane to consult with some other agent? That didn't make sense. Two agents to escort him? Christ, he was Chris Barton, not Albert Einstein.

He tapped his fingers on the seat arm. He couldn't listen to music. Not until Basy was back. I'm sorry, he addressed his mind. He should be back by now. Call me paranoiac if you want to but he should be back by now.

"Aw, no," he said. It wasn't going to get bad again, was it? It wasn't going to be Veering-time again, was it?

"Mr. Basy?" he imagined the stewardess saying to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton. There's no Mr. Basy booked next to you. You've been sitting alone since you got on the plane."

Chris undid his seat belt and stood abruptly, a hard look on his face. Stepping into the aisle, he walked back to the rest rooms. Both of them will be empty now, he thought. And I'll start screaming.

One of them was still locked. He stared at the word Occupied. By what? he thought.

He stood indecisively. Should he knock on the door and ask Basy how he was? What if that woman answered? You start screaming, answered his mind.

The stewardess came up to him. "This other one is free, Mr. Barton," she said.

"I know. That's not-"

She looked at him inquiringly.

He swallowed. "Did you…see a man go in here before?" he asked, pointing at the locked door.

"Mr. Basy, yes," she answered.

Thank God, he thought. His sound of relief was so obvious that the stewardess looked concerned. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes. Yes," he assured her. I am now, he thought.

She smiled and walked away.

He waited for a few moments, then knocked softly on the door.

There was no answer so he knocked again. He leaned in close to ask, "Are you all right, Basy?"

Silence.

Chris shuddered. Oh, God, now what? he thought. He's had a heart attack? He's been poisoned? He's in there, dead?

He hesitated, then knocked more loudly. "Basy?" he asked.

Some people looked around and the stewardess returned. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "This…Mr. Basy was sitting next to me. Then he went to the rest room." He swallowed again. "This was more than twenty minutes ago. Now…"

"Yes?" she asked.

"He doesn't answer my knock. I've called his name. I-"

"You think something's wrong."

There it was. He didn't want to speak the words. But there was something wrong.

"Do you know if he has any kind of medical condition?" she asked.

"I don't even know the man," he said, aware that he sounded agitated.

"I see," she said.

She turned to the door and knocked on it loudly. "Mr. Basy?"

There was no answer.

"Oh, dear," she said.

"Can't you open the door?" he asked.

"Well…yes; I can, but…I wouldn't want to embarrass him-"

"Embarrass?" he broke in. "He's not answering. There's something wrong."

He tried to open the door but couldn't.

"It's locked," she said.

Oh, bright, he thought angrily. He was starting to feel dizzy. Was the nightmare starting again?

He pounded on the door with the side of a fist. "Basy!" he shouted.

"Please, Mr. Barton," the stewardess said.

"Well, damn it, open it then," he told her.

She stared at him uncertainly. Goddamn it, open the fucking door! he wanted to shout. If you'd been through what I have in the past day, you'd goddamn kick it in!

The stewardess moved quickly to an overhead bin. Reaching in, she took out an odd-looking tool and brought it back. She used it on the door and reached out to open it. She won't be able to do it, he suddenly thought. Basy's dead body will block the way.

The stewardess opened the door.

"Oh, well, this is peculiar," she said.

Chris felt himself weaving back and forth. He'd never fainted in his life. He felt sure that he was going to faint now.

The rest room was empty.

"I don't understand this," the stewardess murmured.

You don't understand it…Chris thought. "You…saw him go in," he said in a shaky voice.

"Yes." She was staring into the empty rest room. "I did."

"Is it possible to lock the door from the outside?"

She looked confused.

"I mean could he have come out, closed the door and locked it from out here?"

"No." She shook her head. "I've never seen it done."

She stepped into the rest room and looked around. She started as though an electric shock had struck her.

Chris stepped in to see what she was looking at. There was something scrawled on the mirror with a Magic Marker. Chris could just make out the writing in the dim light.

7 steps to midnight.