Nick jumped up from his chair with a spurt of energy.  “I’m going for another beer, my good man.  Until just this moment I had thought that I was talking to someone with insight and understanding.  Now I find that I’m talking instead to some stupid black man who thinks ‘asshole’ is a term of endearment.”  He paused briefly on his way to the kitchen to pick up some potato chips.  “By the way,” he shouted at Troy between crunches on his chips, “you said on the phone that you wanted to show me something.  Was that the Angie Leatherwood album or was it something else?”

      Troy met him in the hall as Nick was returning with the beer.  “No,” he said earnestly, “it was something else.  But I wanted to talk to you for a little first to make sure .  .  .  well, I’m not sure why, maybe to give me some confidence that you wouldn’t put me down.”

      “What are you talking about?”  Nick said, a little confused.

      “It’s in here,” Troy replied, knocking on a closed door off the hall in the opposite direction from the living room.  “It’s my baby.  I’ve been working on it for over two years now, alone most of the time — although Angie’s artistic kid brother Lanny has helped me with some of it — and now I want you to try it out.” He smiled.  “You will be my first alpha tester.”

      “What the hell .  .  .  I’m lost.  What’s an alpha tester?”  Nick’s brow furrowed as he tried to follow the conversation.  The two quick beers on an empty stomach had already given him a small and unexpected buzz.

      “My invention,” Troy said slowly, letting each word sink in, “is a computer game.  I’ve been working on it for almost two years.  And you are going to be the first outsider to play it.”

      Nick screwed up his face as if he had just eaten a particularly tart piece of grapefruit.  “Moi?” he exclaimed.  “You want me to play a computer game?  You want me, whose hand-eye coordination is almost nonexistent even when completely sober, to sit down and shoot aliens, or dodge bombs, or roll marbles at a frenzied pace that only neo-adolescents can enjoy?  Jefferson, have you lost your mind?  This is Nick Williams, the guy you call the Professor, the man who sits and reads books for entertainment.”

      “Very, very good,” Troy replied, laughing heartily at Nick’s outburst.  “You’re perfect as an alpha tester.  My game is not one of those arcade games that test your reflexes, although there are a few places in the game where the pace is fairly fast.  My creation is an adventure game.  It’s a little like a novel, except that the player defines the outcome of the game.  I’m aiming at a wide audience and I’m including a lot of unusual technological wrinkles.  I would love to see how you respond.”

      Troy took Nick’s shrug as grudging assent and opened the door to what should have been the master bedroom in the duplex unit.  Instead, what greeted Nick’s eyes was an almost phantasmagoric collection of electronic equipment filling every nook and cranny of a fairly large room.  His first impression was one of total chaos.  But after shaking his head and blinking a couple of times, Nick could make out some order in the jumble of scopes, monitors, cables, computers, and sundry unattached parts.  On one side of the room was a chair about ten feet in front of a giant screen.  Between this chair and the screen was a low table with a keyboard on it.  Troy motioned to Nick to sit down.

      “My game is called Alien Adventure,” Troy said excitedly, “and it will start as soon as I boot the discs and you are ready at the keyboard.  But there are some things that I must tell you first, before you start.” He knelt beside Nick and pointed at the keyboard.  “There are three critical keys for you to remember while you are playing the game.  First, the X key stops the clock.  From the moment you start the game, the clock continues to run.  While the clock is running you are consuming vital resources.  There is only this one way to stop the clock and gather your wits without paying a penalty.  Hitting the X key allows you to stop and think.

      “Even more important than the X is the S key.  The S allows you to checkpoint or, as you would say, save the game.  Right now you can’t understand what I’m telling you, because you haven’t played complicated computer games before, but believe me, you must learn regularly to save the game.  When you hit the S key, all the parameters of the game you are playing are written into a special data base that has a unique identifier.  Then, at any time in the future, you can call that identifier and the game will restart in exactly the place where you saved it.  This feature can be a life saver.  If you take a risky route in the game and your character ends up dying, it’s the save game feature that keeps you from having to start all over again.”

      Nick was amazed.  This was a different Troy than he had ever seen before.  True, he had been a little surprised and considerably impressed by his first mate’s ability to fix virtually any piece of electronic gear on the boat, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that Troy left the boat and went home to work with similar parts in a much more creative way.  Now this same smiling black man had him sitting in a chair in front of a giant screen and was lecturing him patiently like a child.  Nick could hardly wait to see what would happen next.

      “Finally,” Troy said, asking with his eyes if Nick was still following him, “there’s the H or help key.  When you simply have run out of imagination and don’t know what to do, you can push H.  The game will then give you some hints on how you might proceed.  But I must warn you of one thing.  The clock continues to run while you are being helped.  And there are some places in the game, during a battle for instance where pushing the H key can be disastrous, because you are essentially defenseless during the time that the game processes your request for help.  H is most useful when you are in a benign spot and trying to figure out your overall strategy.”

      Still squatting beside him, Troy handed Nick a small spiral notebook and motioned for him to open it.  The first page said “Command Dictionary.” On each page was a separate entry, legibly written by hand, that explained the game command that would result from hitting the key listed at the top of the page.  “Here are the rest of your commands, fifty in all,” Troy said.  “But you don’t need to memorize them.  I’ll help you.  You’ll learn some of them yourself after you play the game for a while.  Most of the important commands are activated by a single stroke on the keyboard, but some of the commands require two entries.”

      Nick flipped through the notebook.  He noted that the key L prompted the command “Look.”  But another entry was necessary to identify what instrument was being used to look.  L followed by a 1, for example, meant to look with your eyes.  L8 meant to look with an ultraviolet spectrometer, whatever that was.  Nick was already overwhelmed.  He looked over at his friend, who was busy making final checks on some equipment.

      Troy came back to the chair and looked down at Nick.  “Now,” he said, “I think you’re ready Any questions?”

      “Just one, my lord and guide,” Nick replied with mock meekness.  “May I please have another beer before I risk my manhood in some weird world of your creation?”

      Actually Nick was not yet ready to play the game.  Even after Troy booted three compact discs, there were more preliminary activities before Nick could begin the game itself.  He had to enter his name, race, age, and sex in response to questions that appeared on the giant screen.  Nick looked at Troy with a curious tilt of his head and a weird expression on his face.  “Don’t ask questions at this point,” Troy told him, “it will all be clear soon enough.”

      The screen next was filled with a beautiful ringed planet that looked like what an artist who favored purple might make out of Saturn.  The perspective was from the pole of the planet; the rings were all displayed like the different sections of a dart target.  Little flecks of light gleamed intermittently from the rings, indicating that the sun or star or whatever was the source for the reflected light was in the vicinity of the viewer.  It was a lovely picture.  A simple credit in block titles, Alien Adventure by Troy Jefferson, was superimposed on the ringed planet for three or four seconds and the sound of soft classical music could be heard in the room.  Nick resisted an urge to chuckle when he heard Troy’s voice, clearly serious and selfconscious, coming from one of the speakers.

      Troy’s recorded voice explained the initial conditions for the game.  The adventurer was on a space station in polar orbit around Gunna, the largest planet belonging to another solar system whose central body was the G-type star that we call Tau Ceti, only ten light years or so away from the Earth.  “Tau Ceti has eight primary bodies in its system,” Troy’s voice said, “including six planets and two moons.

      “Maps of the system are available at the commissary on the space station,” Troy’s voice continued, “although some of the regions have been incompletely mapped.  When your adventure begins, you are sleeping in your cabin onboard the station.  An alarm sounds on your personal receiver .  .  .”

      The voice faded and the sound of an alarm could be heard.  The picture on the giant screen was the inside of a space cabin, almost certainly taken from one of the many successful science fiction movies.  In the upper right hand corner of the screen was a game digital clock that was changing by one unit every four seconds or so.  Nick looked helplessly at Troy.  Troy suggested that he hit the L key.  In a few seconds Nick learned that he could use the direction keys on the board to look at specific items in his cabin.  Each time he hit a direction key, the picture on the screen changed to correspond to a different point of view.  Nick noticed that there was a fuzzy picture on his small television and followed Troy’s suggestion to watch until it became clear.

      When the focus on his cabin television sharpened, Nick could see a young woman wearing a long, full, richly red dress that dropped almost all the way to the floor.  She was standing, somewhat incongruously, in a small, stark room furnished with a single bed, a little desk, and a straight chair.  Some light was entering the room through the solitary window near the ceiling and behind the desk.  Thick vertical bars were imbedded in the window glass.

      The camera zoomed in on her face.  Nick leaned forward in his chair in Troy’s apartment.  “Why .  .  .  why it’s Julianne,” Nick said in astonishment, just as the woman began to speak.

      “Captain Nick Williams,” she said, much to his surprise, “you and I have never met, but your reputation for valor and justice is unequaled in the Federation.  I am Princess Heather of Othen.  While attending the great ball at the inauguration of the Viceroy of Toom, I was kidnapped by willens and taken to their stronghold on the planet Accutar.  They have told my father, King Merson, that they will not release me unless he cedes to them all the ore-rich asteroids in the Endelva region.

      “He must not do that, Nick,” the princess continued earnestly as the camera zoomed in on her face, “or he will deprive our people of their only source of hanna, the key to our immortality.  My sources tell me that already my father wastes away, brooding over his impossible predicament.  My sister Samantha has fled from Othen with a key division of our best soldiers and a huge store of hanna.  It is not clear whether she intends to try to free me or to revolt against my father’s rule in the event that he should decide to give up the Endelva asteroids in exchange for my life.  She has always been completely unpredictable.

      “Yesterday the willens delivered an ultimatum to my father.  He must make his decision in one month, or they will behead me.  Captain Williams, please help me.  I do not want to die.  If you come and rescue me, I will share with you the Othen throne and the secret of our immortality.  We can live forever as king and queen.”

      The transmission stopped suddenly and the picture was gone.  The screen again showed a picture of the inside of Nick’s cabin onboard the space station.  Nick resisted an impulse to applaud and sat without moving.  Somehow Troy had made Julianne into a very believable Princess Heather.  But how did my name get into the script?  he wondered.  He wanted to ask questions but a warning message flashed on the giant screen, indicating that time was passing and the adventurer was not taking any action.  Nick found the X key and the digital clock on the screen stopped.  He turned to Troy.  “So what do I do now?”

      With Troy’s occasional help, Nick equipped himself for a journey, found his way to the spaceport, and climbed in a small shuttle craft.  Despite Troy’s hints that his chances for survival in “open space” were small unless he spent more time examining the other facilities on the space station, Nick blasted off anyway.  It was great fun.  He used the commands on the keyboard to control his speed and direction.  What he saw on the screen was perfectly matched with his commands, giving him the illusion that he was actually flying a vehicle through space.  He saw many other vehicles on the monitor as he maneuvered toward his target, a planet named Gunna, but none of them approached his shuttle.  Just outside the Gunna sphere of influence, however, a needle-nosed craft approached him quickly and then, without warning, blasted him with a battery of missiles.  Nick was unable to escape.  The screen filled with fire from the explosion that ripped through his shuttle.  Then the monitor went blank and black except for the simple message “Game Over” in white letters in the middle of the screen.

      “Time for another beer?  Nick asked, surprised to discover that he was actually disappointed by the death of his character.

      “Right on, Captain,” Troy replied.

      They walked into the kitchen together.  Troy opened the refrigerator and pulled out two more beers.  He handed one to Nick.  The professor was still absorbed in thinking about the game.  “If I remember correctly, there were four sections marked on that map of the space station,” Nick said aloud.  “And I only went in two of them.  Would you mind telling me about the other two sections?”

      “You missed the cafeteria and the library,” Troy said delighted that Nick was still interested.  “The cafeteria is not all that important,” he added, laughing, “although I’ve never known you to go anywhere before without eating first.  But the library — ”

      “Don’t tell me,” Nick said, interrupting him.  “Let me figure it out.  In the library I can learn about willens and the Otheners, or whatever they’re called, who can live forever and what exactly is a Viceroy of Toom.”  He shook his head.  “My, my, Troy.  I must say that I am more than a little impressed.  I have no idea how anyone could create something like this; And I have a feeling that I’ve just scratched the surface.”

      “I take it you’re ready to continue, Professor?”  Troy replied, acknowledging the praise with a huge grin.  “One piece of advice.  While you’re in the library, look in the Encyclopedia of Space Vehicles so you can at least tell a hostile ship when it appears.  Otherwise you’re never going to reach the exciting parts of the game.”

      The afternoon passed quickly Nick found that escape into the imaginative world of Troy’s game was magnificently relaxing, just the tonic that he needed after the morning memories of Monique.  Troy knew that Nick was enjoying the playing and he was thrilled.  He felt a surge of creative pride and his belief that Alien Adventure would be his ticket to success was reborn.

      In his vain search for Princess Heather, Nick died a couple more times.  Once, when he landed on the unmapped planet Thenia, a black man with a lizard head approached him and told him to leave, that there was nothing but trouble on Thenia.  Nick ignored the warning and moved away from his shuttle in a land rover.  He narrowly escaped a volcanic eruption only to be trapped and eaten by a gigantic slime mold that oozed out of the ground in the vicinity of his shuttle landing site.

      In another reincarnation Nick encountered Samantha, Princcss Heather’s sister, played for a couple of scenes by Julianne’s buxom friend Corinne.  Actually, Troy had made Corinne up to look like Susie Q, the famous porn queen of the early nineties, and most of the actual pictures that appeared on the game screen were taken from her ribald classic Pleasure Until Pain.  Deft interleaving of new footage with the borrowed shots gave the illusion of being in the movie with Susie Q while she offered sexual delights beyond refusal.

      Samantha alias Susie Q alias Corinne seduced Nick and then stabbed him to death with a small dagger while he was lying naked and expectant on the bed.  By this point the two men were drinking their final six-pack of beer and the combination of the pornographic scenes and the alcohol had made their conversation coarse and degenerate.  “Shit,” exclaimed Nick, entreating Troy to replay the scene where a naked Samantha/Susie Q comes up to the camera to take his erect penis in her mouth.  “I have never, no never, even heard of a computer game where you almost get a blow job.  Man, you are twisted.  A genius, yes, I’ll agree.  But absolutely fucking twisted.  What on God’s earth induced you to put sex scenes in this game?”

      “Hey, man.”  Troy laughed, putting his arm around Nick as they half staggered into the living room, “the name of the game is sales.  And right here, in Entertainment Software (he picked up a magazine from the table), it says that seventy-two percent, seventy-two fucking percent, my friend, of all the people who buy computer games are 16- to 24-year-old males.  And do you know what that group likes in addition o computer games and science fiction?  Sex, my man.  Can’t you just see some teenage nerd retreating into his room to play this game and whack off?  Eeee yaaa!”  Troy fell down on one of the easy chairs and beat his chest.

      “You’re crazy, Jefferson,” Nick said, watching Troy’s display.  “I don’t know if I can ever again be alone with you on a boat.  You are a certified nut case.  I mean, just imagine the reviews.  Alien Adventure features an encounter with Susie Q the queen of pornography, in an underground castle on the asteroid Vitt.  Which reminds me, how in the world did you get all those movie pieces in there?”

      “Lots of research and hard work, Professor,” Troy answered, starting to calm down a little.  “Lanny and three of his friends have spent maybe a thousand hours watching film for me, trying to find exactly the right clips.  And none of this would be possible, of course, without the new data storage methods.  We can now store an excellent digital version of every movie ever made in the United States in a warehouse not much larger than this duplex.  I’ve just used data base capabilities to the fullest.”

      Nick crushed a beer can in his hands.  “It’s fabulous.  Really.  But I don’t know about the sex business.  And why do you have the player register his race at the beginning of the game?  Don’t you think that will offend some people?  I never saw anything in the game that was based on the racial information.”

      Even though he was drunk, Troy became momentarily serious and almost somber.  “Look, man,” he said firmly, “sex and race are both a part of life.  It may be true that people play computer games primarily for entertainment, and that they would prefer not to be confronted by some topics when they are amusing themselves, but I must be allowed some creative license.  Race is with us every day and ignoring it, it seems to me, only contributes to the problem.”

      Troy brightened up.  “Hey, Professor.  That lizard-man who warned you on Thenia was black.  You went ahead anyway despite his warning.  What if he had been white?  Would you have turned around and gone back to the shuttle?  A black man playing the game encounters a white lizard-man on Thenia.  It’s part of the show, man.  There are twenty or so changes in the scenario that are based on racial input.”

      Nick’s expression was clearly disbelieving.  “Really,” Troy said, standing up to return to the room where they had played his game, “I’ll show you.  Watch how the game starts if you register that you are a black male.”

      Nick followed Troy back into the computer room.  His curiosity was clearly piqued.  Troy turned the game on and Nick entered the biographical data, changing his race to black.  This time, when the television picture in his space station cabin came into focus, Princess Heather was black!  The princess this time was, in fact, Angie Leatherwood.  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Nick said, looking over at a beaming Troy.  “You are one clever dude, Mr. Jefferson.”  Nick walked out of the room whistling and shaking his head again.  Troy turned off the game and followed.

      “Okay,” Nick began, once they were back in Troy’s living room and seated on the couch, “one last question and then let’s forget the game for the time being.  How did you get my name into it?  I thought that was very impressive.”

      “It was originally Lanny’s idea, based on a movie he watched about a speech therapist.  Lanny had all the minor characters spend a day mouthing all the vowel and consonant sounds in a test session.  Then we just put the sounds together with what are called audio analytic continuation techniques.”  Troy laughed.  He was feeling ebullient and basking in the compliments.  “But it does have its drawbacks.  Our interpreter only knows how to read simple English words.  We may have to suppress that feature if we sell the game abroad.”

      Nick stood up.  “Well, I’ve run out of superlatives By the way, are there more of you, brothers, sisters, anything?  I guess I’d like to warn the rest of the world.”

      “Only me now,” Troy replied.  a faraway look fleetingly crossing his face.  “I had a brother, Jamie, six years older than me.  We were very close.  He died in an automobile accident when I was fourteen.”

      There was an awkward silence.  “I’m sorry,” Nick said, again touched by Troy’s openness.  Troy shrugged his shoulders and struggled with the sudden memory.

      Nick changed the subject.  They talked about the boat and then about Homer and his crew for several minutes.  Suddenly Nick looked at his watch.  “Jesus Christ,” he said.  “It’s after four o’clock.  Weren’t we supposed to meet Carol Dawson at four?”

      Troy jumped out of his chair.  “We sure were.  Some partners we turned out to be,” he was grinning again, “spending the entire afternoon drinking beer and playing games.”  The two men shared a small hug, threw the empty beer cans in the trash, and went out the door toward Nick’s car.

7

CAROL was clearly irritated as she sat in the communications room at the Marriott.  She was drumming her fingers on the desk while she listened to the telephone ring.  There was a click and then Nick’s voice said, “I am not at home at the present time.  But if — ”  She flipped the switch off hastily and completed the sentence, her sardonic mimicry releasing some of her frustration, “But if you’ll leave your name, your number, and the time that you called, I’ll get back to you as soon as I return.  S-h-i-t.  Shit.  I knew I should have called before I left Miami.”

      She dialed another number.  Bernice answered and put her right through (on video) to Dr. Dale Michaels.  Carol did not bother with a greeting.  “Can you believe that I can’t even find the stupid bastard?  He’s not on his boat, he’s not at home.  Nobody knows where he is.  I could have stayed in Miami and taken a nap.”

      Carol had not told Dr. Dale much about Nick and Troy.  And what she had said about Nick had not been flattering.

      · ‘Well, what did you expect?”  Dale responded.  “You wanted to go out with amateurs as a cover.  Why would you think that he would be easy to find before your appointment?  That kind usually stays in bed with his dame of the day until he has some reason to greet the world.”  Dale chuckled to himself

      Carol found herself strangely annoyed by Dale’s disdainful comment about Nick’s love life.  She started to say something but decided against it.  “Say, Dale,” she said instead, “is this phone line absolutely secure?  I have a couple of sensitive items to discuss with you.”

      He smiled.  “Nothing to worry about.  I have sensors that flash if there is the slightest unexplained break anywhere in the line.  Even on your end.”

      “Good,” Carol replied.  She pulled out her notebook and scanned a handwritten list.  “ As far as Arnie Webber knows,” she said, looking up at the video camera, “there are no legal prohibitions against salvaging any U. S. government property, provided it is returned to its rightful owner very soon after its retrieval.  So I wouldn’t technically be committing a crime if I pull the missile up.”  She checked the first item off her list.

      “But, Dale, I thought about something else on the flight down here from Miami.  This thing is, after all, some kind of guided missile.  What if it blows up?  Am I crazy to worry about such a thing?  Or is it somehow incapacitated or what-ever by sitting down there in the sand and salt water for several days?”

      Dale laughed.  “Sometimes, Carol, you’re divine.  I am fairly confident that the new missile is designed to operate either in the air or in water.  And I don’t think that the sand would be able to foul up its critical parts in a short period of time.  However, the fact that it hasn’t exploded yet suggests to me that it probably wasn’t armed in the first place, except possibly for a small destruct device that may or may not have already failed.  You are taking a calculated risk in retrieving that missile.  I still strongly suggest that you make your dive, obtain the photographs, and then go public with the story.  Dredging the missile up for display purposes seems to me to be more of a stunt than journalism.  Besides, it’s dangerous.”

      Carol was curt.  “As I said in the car, you are entitled to your opinion.  The Navy could make a case that I faked the pictures somehow.  But they cannot argue with a missile that has physical presence and can clearly be seen by a nationwide television audience.  I want maximum impact for the story.”

      She checked another item off the list in her notebook.  “Oh, yes, I forgot to mention this morning that I met another boat captain down here, a bit of a creep actually, an older fat man named Homer.  He seemed to recognize me almost immediately.  Wealthy, big yacht and all that.  Strange crew — ”

      “Was his last name Ashford?  Homer Ashford?”  Dale interrupted her.

      Carol nodded.  “So you know him?” she asked.

      “Certainly,” Dale replied.  “He was the leader of the expedition that found the Santa Rosa treasure in 1986.  You’ve met him too, although it’s obvious you’ve forgotten.  He and his wife were guests at the MOI awards banquet early in 1993.”  Dale stopped to think.  “That’s right.  I remember now, you were real late coming to the party because of that threat made against you by Juan Salvador.  But I’m surprised you forgot them, the wife especially.  She was a great big fat woman and she thought you were the cat’s pajamas.”

      Slowly but surely it all clicked in Carol’s memory.  She recalled a bizarre evening right after she first started going with Dale.  She had run a piece in the Herald on cocaine trafficking and had suggested that the Cuban city councilman, Juan Salvador, was deliberately inhibiting the police investigations.  At noon that day, a usually reliable source had called her editor at the paper and told him that Senor Salvador had just purchased a contract on Carol’s life.  The Herald had assigned her a bodyguard and recommended that she alter her normal schedule so that her whereabouts would always be uncertain.

      The evening of the MOI banquet Carol was in a fog.  The bodyguard had been with her for only three hours and already she felt confined and restricted.  But Carol had been genuinely frightened by the threat.  At the banquet she had scrutinized every face, looking for an assassin, waiting for someone to make a move.  As she sat in the hotel communications room fourteen months later, she did vaguely remember meeting Homer (he had been dressed in a tux) and some jolly fat woman who had followed her around for twenty minutes or so.  Damnit, Carol thought.  It’s my memory again.  I should have recognized him immediately.  How stupid of me.

      “Okay,” Carol said to Dale, “I remember them now.  But why were they at the MOI awards banquet?”

      “We were honoring our leading benefactors that night,” Dale replied.  “Homer and Ellen have been big supporters of our underwater sentry effort.  In fact, he has field tested many of our prototypes at his facility there in Key West.  Real solid test data too.  Best compilation of sentry/intruder responses that anybody has catalogued.  Why? it was Ashford who showed us how the MQ-6 could be fooled — ”

      “Okay, Okay,” Carol said, realizing that her tolerance threshold was still extremely low.  “Thanks for the information.  It’s now a quarter till four.  I’m going to go down to the marina to meet Nick Williams and make arrangements for tomorrow.  If anything new comes up, I’ll call you at home tonight.”

      “Ciao,” said Dale Michaels.  trying without success to sound sophisticated, “and please be careful.”

      Carol hung up the phone with a sigh.  She wondered if she should spend a minute or two figuring out where she and Dale were going.  Or not going.  As the case may be.  She thought about all the things she needed to do.  She closed her notebook and rose from her chair.  Not right now, she thought I don’t have time now to think about Dale.  But as soon as I have a break in this crazy life of mine.

      Carol was really fuming when she walked back into the marina headquarters the second time.  She approached the information desk with fire in her eyes.  “Miss,” she said nastily to Julianne, “as I told you fifteen minutes ago, I had an appointment here at four o’clock with Nick Williams and Troy Jefferson.  It is now, as you can see, after four-thirty.”

      Carol pointed at the digital clock with an impatient, sweeping gesture that commanded Julianne to look.  “We have both established independently that Mr. Williams is not home,” Carol continued.  “Now ate you going to give me Mr. Jefterson’s phone number, or should I make a scene?”

      Julianne did not like Carol or her obvious attitude of superiority.  She held her ground.  “As I told you, Miss Dawson,” she said politely but with a biting overtone, “marina policy prohibits our giving out the phone numbers of the independent boat owners or their crew members.  It’s a question of privacy.  Now if you had a formal charter through the marina,” Julianne continued, enjoying her moment of glory, “then it would be our job to assist you.  But as I said earlier, we have no record — ”

      “Goddamn it, I know that,” replied Carol furiously.  She slammed the envelope of photos that she was carrying down on Julianne’s counter.  “I’m not an imbecile.  We’ve been through this before.  I told you I was supposed to meet them here at four o’clock.  Now if you won’t help me, I want to talk to your superior, the assistant manager of whatever.”

      “Fine,” said Julianne, her eyes firing darts of contempt at Carol.  “If you will just take a seat over there, I will see if I can locate — ”

      “I will not take a seat,” shouted Carol in exasperation.  “I want to see him now.  This is an issue of extreme urgency.  Now pick up the phone and — ”

      “Is something wrong here?  Perhaps I can help.”  Carol spun around.  Homer Ashford was standing right behind her.  Just to the right, toward the gate in the direction of the jetties, Greta and a big heavy woman (That’s Ellen.  Now I remember her, Carol thought) were talking quietly.  Ellen smiled at Carol.  Greta looked right through her.

      “Well, hello, Captain Homer,” Julianne said sweetly, “it’s nice of you to ask.  But I think everything’s under control.  Miss Dawson here has just indicated that she does not accept my explanation of marina policy.  She is going to wait for — ”

      “Maybe you can help,” Carol interrupted Julianne defiantly.  “I had an appointment here at four o’clock with Nick Williams and Troy Jefferson.  They have not shown up.  Do you by any chance happen to know Troy’s phone number?”

      Captain Homer gave Carol a suspicious look and exchanged a knowing glance with Ellen and Greta.  He turned back to Carol.  “Well, it is certainly a surprise, Miss Dawson, to see you back here again.  Why we were just talking about you this morning, saying that we hoped you had a good time on your free day in Key West.”  He paused for effect.  “Now I wonder why you’ve come back here again, the very next day.  And did I hear correctly, you need to see Williams and Jefferson on an issue of extreme urgency?  It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with all that equipment you brought in here yesterday, could it?  Or the little gray bag that Williams has been guarding since last night?”

      Uh oh, thought Carol, as Greta and Ellen moved in around her.  I’m surrounded.  Captain Homer started to pick up the sealed envelope on Julianne’s counter but Carol stopped him.

      “If you don’t mind, Captain Ashford,” she said firmly, taking his hand off the envelope and putting the photos under her arm.  She lowered her voice.  “I would like to talk to you privately.”  Carol nodded her head at the two women.  “Can we go out in the parking lot together for a minute?”

      Homer’s beady eyes squinted at her.  Then his face broke into the same obnoxious, lecherous smile that Carol had seen on the Ambrosia.  “Certainly, my dear,” he said.  He shouted to Greta and Ellen as he walked out the door with Carol, “Wait here.  I’ll only be a minute.”

      Necessity is the mother of invention, Carol thought to herself as she led Homer Ashford out the door.  So invent, bitch.  And now.  As in this moment.

      They walked up the steps to the parking lot.  Carol turned to Captain Homer at the top of the steps with a conspiratorial look on her face.  “I can tell that you’ve figured out why I’m here,” she said.  “I didn’t want it this way, I thought it would make a better story if nobody knew what I was doing.  But you’re obviously too clever for me.”  Homer grinned foolishly.  “But I would ask you to tell as few people as possible.  You can tell your wife and Greta, but please nobody else. The Herald wants it to be a surprise.”

      Homer looked puzzled.  Carol leaned over and almost whispered in his ear.  “The entire Sunday magazine section the fourth week in April.  Isn’t that unbelievable?  Working title, ‘Dreams of Being Rich,’ stories about people like you, like Mel Fisher, like the four Floridians who have won over a million dollars each in the lottery.  On how sudden income changes your life.  I’m doing the whole piece.  I’m starting with the treasure angle because of its general interest.”

      Carol could see that Captain Homer was reeling.  She knew she had him off guard.  “Yesterday I just wanted to check your boat quickly, see how you lived, see how it would photograph.  I freaked out a little when you recognized me so fast.  But I had always planned to go out with Williams first.”  Carol laughed.  “My treasure-finding equipment from MOI faked him out.  He still thinks I am a genuine treasure seeker.  I almost completed my whole interview with him yesterday.  I only came back today to finish a couple of small items.”

      An alert went off in Homer Ashford’s system when Carol talked about faking out Nick Williams.  Homer wasn’t certain he believed this smooth reporter’s story even now.  He mused to himself that her story was plausible, but there was still one big unanswered question.  “But what is Williams carrying around in that bag?” he asked.

      “That,” said Carol, sensing his distrust, “is nothing.”  She raised her eyebrows and laughed again.  “Or almost anyway.  We pulled up a worthless old trinket yesterday afternoon so I could photograph the salvage process for the story.  I told him to have it appraised today.  He thinks I’m an eccentric.  He must be keeping it hidden in the bag because he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want anybody to see him with it.”

      Carol lightly hit Captain Homer in the ribs with her elbow.  He shook his head.  Part of him realized he was being told a very clever lie.  But somehow enough of it made sense that Homer couldn’t pierce the deception.  His brow furrowed for a moment.  “So I guess you’ll want to talk to us when you’re through with the other two .  .  .”

      At just that moment, unbeknownst to Carol, Nick and Troy drove into the marina parking lot.  They were still slightly drunk and silly.  “Lawdy, lawdy,” said Troy, spotting Carol and Captain Homer in conversation, “I believe my eyes have screwed up.  They’re sending a picture of a beauty and a beast to my brain.  It’s Miss Carol Dawson together with our favorite fat captain.  Now what do you suppose they’re talking about?”

      “I don’t know,” said Nick, bridling instantly, “but I’m damn sure going to find out.  If she’s double-crossing us .  .  .  .”  He pulled the car quickly into a parking place and started to jump out.  Troy reached across and restrained him.

      “Now why don’t you let me handle this one?”  Troy said.  “Humor may be just the right ticket here.”

      Nick thought for a moment.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said.  “I’ll let you go first.”

      Troy walked into view just as Carol and Captain Homer were finishing their conversation.  “Helloooo, angel,” he said from forty yards away, “what’s happening?”

      Carol held her hand up in acknowledgment but didn’t turn around to greet Troy.  “So that’s 2748 Columbia, just beyond the Pelican Resort, at eight-thirty tomorrow night?”

      “Right,” replied Homer Ashford.  He nodded his head in Troy’s direction and started to leave.  ‘We’ll be ready for you.  Bring plenty of tape, for it’s a long story.”  He made a peculiar clucking sound with his mouth.  “And plan to stay for a little party afterward.”

      Homer was already halfway down the steps when Troy walked up beside Carol.  “Hello, Captain Homer.  Good-bye, Captain Homer,” he said quietly, still playing the comic.  He leaned over to kiss Carol on the cheek.  “Hi there, angel .  .  .”

      “Yuch,” Carol pulled her cheek away.  “You smell like brewery.  No wonder I’ve had to look all over town for you two.”  She saw Nick coming toward them across the parking lot.  He was carrying the exercise bag.  She raised her voice.  “Well, Mr. Williams, what a pleasant surprise.  How nice that you and your brother here could climb down from your bar stools long enough to keep our appointment.”  She looked at her watch.  “My, my,” she said in her most sarcastic voice, “we are certainly fashionably late.  Let’s see, if one waits fifteen minutes for a full professor, how long does one wait for a fake professor?”

      “Knock off the bullshit, Miss High and Mighty,” Nick said, responding angrily to her barbs.  He joined Carol and Troy and then caught his breath.  “We have a few bones to pick with you as well,” he continued.  “Just what were you doing talking to that asshole Ashford?”

      Nick sounded threatening.  Carol recoiled.  “Listen to him,” she said, “the typical macho male.  Always shifts the blame to the woman.  ‘Hey bitch,’ he says, ‘forget I’m late, forget I’m an arrogant bastard, it was your fault anyway .  .  .’ ”

      “Hey, hey .  .  .  hey,” Troy interceded.  Carol and Nick were glowering at each other.  They both started to speak but Troy interrupted them again.  “Children, children, please,” he continued, “I have something important to say.”  They both looked at him.  Troy raised his arms for quiet.  Then he adopted a stiff pose and pretended to be reading.  “ ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation .  .  .’ “

      Carol cracked up first.  “Troy,” she said, smiling despite her anger, “ you are something else.  You are also ridiculous.”

      A grinning Troy punched Nick on the shoulder.  “How did I do, Professor?  Would I make a good Lincoln?  Could a nice young black boy play Lincoln for the white folks?”

      Nick smiled reluctantly and looked down at the macadam while Troy jabbered.  When Troy was finished, Nick’s tone to Carol was conciliatory.  “I’m sorry we were late,” he said in measured tones, “we forgot what time it was.  Here’s the trident.”

      Carol recognized how difficult it had been for Nick to apologize.  She accepted gracefully with a short smile and a gesture with her hands.  “You keep the trident for a little while longer,” she said after a brief silence.  “We have a lot of other things to talk about.”  She looked around.  “But this may be the wrong place and the wrong time.”

      Both Nick and Troy were giving her questioning looks.  “I have some very exciting news,” she explained, “some of which is here in your copy of the pictures that I developed this morning.  Bottom line is that the telescope picked up an infrared signal coming out of the fissure from some kind of large object or objects.”  She turned to Nick.  “It may be more treasure.  We can t be certain what it is based on the images.”

      Nick reached for the envelope.  Carol pulled it away.  “Not here, not now.  Too many eyes and ears.  Take my word for it.  What we have to do now is make plans.  Can you two take me out again tomorrow morning early and be prepared to salvage objects possibly as big as two hundred pounds?  Of course, I intend to pay for chartering the boat again.”

      “Wow,” whistled Nick, “two hundred pounds!  I can hardly wait to see the pictures .  “ He was sobering up rapidly .  “ We’ll need to borrow a dredger and — ”

      “I still have the telescope so we can use it again,” Carol added.  She looked at her watch.  “It’s almost five o’clock now, how much preparation time do you need?”

      “Three hours, four hours at the most,” Nick said, calculating swiftly.  “With Troy’s help, of course,” he added.

      “Gladly, my friends,” Troy replied.  “And since Angie has reserved a special table for me at Sloppy Joe’s for her ten-thirty show tonight, why don’t we meet there and go over the details for tomorrow?”

      “Angie Leatherwood is a friend of yours?”  Carol said, obviously impressed.  “I haven’t seen her since she made the big time.”  She paused for a second and handed the envelope to Nick.  “Look at these images in private.  The whole set was taken just under the boat where we were diving.  Some are obviously blowups of others.  It may take a little time for your eyes to adjust to all the colors.  But it’s the brown object or objects that we’re after.”  Carol could tell that both of the men were eager to see the pictures.  She walked with them toward Nick’s car.  “So I’ll see both of you tonight at Sloppy Joe’s about ten-fifteen.”  She turned to head for her own parking place.

      “Uh, Carol, just a minute,” Nick stopped her.  Carol waited while Nick, suddenly awkward, tried to figure out a nice way to ask his question.  “Would you mind telling us why you were talking to Captain Homer?” he at last said tactfully.

      Carol looked at Nick and Troy for a minute and then laughed.  “I ran into him while I was in the office trying to call you guys.  He wanted to know about the piece we retrieved yesterday.  I put him off the track by telling him I was doing a feature article on all members of the crew that found the Santa Rosa treasure eight years ago.”

      Nick glanced at Troy with mock disgust “You see, Jefferson,” he said with exaggerated emphasis.  “I told you there was a legitimate explanation.”  The two men waved at Carol as she headed for her car.

8

LIEUTENANT Todd,” the commander said with exasperation, “I am beginning to think that the U.S. Navy has overestimated your intelligence or experience or both.  It is beyond me how you can continue even to consider the possibility that the Panther was commanded off course by the Russians, particularly in light of the new information you presented this afternoon.”

      “But, sir,” the younger man answered stubbornly “it is still a viable hypothesis.  And you yourself said in the meeting that a good failure analysis does not exclude any reasonable possibility.”

      The two men were in Commander Winters’ office.  The commander walked over to look out the window.  It was almost dark outside.  The air was heavy, still, and humid.  Thunderstorms were building over the ocean to the south.  The base was nearly empty.  At length Winters looked at his watch, heaved a sigh, and came back across the room toward Lieutenant Todd.  He was smiling only slightly.

      “You listened well, Lieutenant.  But the operative word here is ‘reasonable.’ Let’s review the facts.  Did I or did I not hear correctly that your telemetry analysis unit found this afternoon that the commands rejected counter on the bird also incremented during the flight, beginning as early as off the coast of New Brunswick?  And that, apparently, over one thousand command messages were rejected as the missile made its way down the Atlantic Coast?  How do you propose to explain all this in terms of your scenario?  Did the Russians deploy an entire fleet of ships along the flight path, just to confuse and capture one solitary Navy test missile?”

      Commander Winters was now standing directly in front of the taller young lieutenant.  “Or maybe you believe,” he continued sarcastically, before Todd could respond, “that the Russians have a new secret weapon that flies alongside a missile going at Mach 6 and talks to it en route.  Come on, Lieutenant, on what reasonable grounds do you consider this bizarre Russian hypothesis of yours still viable?”

      Lieutenant Todd did not yield.  “Sir,” he answered, “none of the other possible explanations for the missile’s behavior makes any more sense at this stage.  You now say that you believe it’s a software problem; however, our very brightest programmers cannot imagine how the only external indication of a major, system-level software malfunction could be that two, and only two, command counters go haywire.  They have checked all the internal software diagnostic data that was telemetered to the ground and they can find no problems.  Besides, the pre-release checkout indicates that all the software was working fine just seconds before the flight began.

      “And we know something else.  Ramirez has learned from Washington that there have been peculiar movements in the Russian submarine fleet off the Florida coast in the last forty-eight hours.  I’m not saying that the Russian hypothesis, as you call it, is the answer.  Just that until we have a more satisfactory explanation of a failure mechanism that could cause both command counters to increment, it makes sense to carry one option that assumes maybe the Panther was actually commanded.”

      Winters shook his head “All right, Lieutenant,” he said finally.  “I will not order you to take it off the list.  But I will order you to concentrate this weekend on finding the missile in the ocean somewhere and identifying a hardware and/or software problem that could have caused either the command counter anomaly or the change in the flight path or both.  There must be an explanation that does not involve operations on a massive scale by the Russians.”

      Todd started to walk around Winters and leave.  “Just a minute,” the commander said, his eyes narrowing.  “I don’t believe it’s necessary, is it Lieutenant, to remind you of who will be held responsible if the outside world gets wind of this Russian business?”

      “No, Commander .  .  .  sir,” was the answer.

      “Then carry on,” said Winters, “and let me know if there are any significant new developments.”

      Commander Winters was in a hurry.  He had called the theater right after Todd had left and told Melvin Burton that he was going to be late.  He drove quickly into a hamburger stand, wolfed down a burger and fries, and headed for the marina area.

      He arrived at the theater when most of the rest of the cast was already dressed.  Melvin met him at the door.  “Quickly now, Commander, we have no time to spare.  The makeup must be correct the first time.”  He looked nervously at his watch.  “You’re in the pulpit in exactly forty-two minutes.”  The commander entered the men’s dressing room, took off his Navy uniform, and put on the dour black and white regalia of an Episcopal priest.  Outside the door to the dressing room Melvin paced back and forth, going through a final checklist in his mind.

      Commander Winters was in the pulpit when the curtain rose.  He had a strong case of normal opening-night jitters.  He looked across the three rows of his stage congregation to the full audience in the theater.  He saw his wife Betty and son Hap in the second row.  Winters smiled at them quickly before the applause died down.  Then his nervousness disappeared as he launched into Shannon’s sermon.

      The short prologue sped by quickly.  The lights dimmed another time for fifteen seconds, the set changed automatically, and he was in the final scene, walking into his hotel room in Mexico and still mumbling to himself phrases from his letter.  Shannon/Winters sat down on his bed.  He heard a noise in the corner of the room and looked up.  It was Charlotte/Tiffani.  Her gorgeous auburn hair was down over her shoulders.  She was wearing a light blue silk nightshirt, cut low in the middle, which her ample and upright breasts filled completely.  He heard her say, “Larry, oh Larry, finally we’re alone together,” and she came to sit beside him on the bed.  Her perfume filled his nostrils.  Her hand was behind his head.  Her lips pressed against his, insistent, hard, searching.  He pulled back.  Her lips followed, then her body.  He fell back on the bed.  She crawled on top, her kisses continuing, her breasts pushed against his pounding chest.  He put his arms around her, slowly at first, and then, lying on his back, he enveloped her with a deep embrace.

      The lights flashed off and on for several seconds.  Charlotte/Tiffani slid off of Winters and lay beside him on the bed.  He could hear her labored breathing.  A voice was heard, “Charlotte.”  Then again, with a loud knock on the door, “Charlotte, I know you’re in there.”  The door sprang open.  The two lovers half sat up in bed.  The lights went off and the curtain came down.  The applause was loud and sustained.

      Commander Vernon Winters pushed open the door and stumbled outside.  He was at the alley entrance to the theater.  The door, over which was a single light bulb covered with insects, opened onto a small wooden platform a few steps above the pavement.  Winters walked down the three steps and stood beside the red brick wall of the theater.  He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

      He watched the smoke curl upward against the red brick.  In the distance there was a burst of lightning, then a pause before the sound of rolling thunder.  He inhaled deeply again and tried to understand what he had been feeling during those five or ten seconds with Tiffani.  I wonder if they could tell, he thought.  I wonder if it was obvious to everyone.  When he had changed clothes for the first full act of the play, he had noticed the telltale tracks on his undershorts.  He expelled some more smoke and winced.  And that little girl.  My God.  She knows for sure.  She must have felt it when she was on top of me.

      Despite himself, he recaptured for an instant his excitement when Tiffani had pressed herself against him.  His breath shortened.  A first tinge of guilt began to manifest itself.  My God, he thought again.  What am I?  I’m a dirty old man.  For some reason he found himself thinking of Joanna Carr, of a night almost twenty-five years ago.  He remembered the moment when he took her .  .  .

      “Commander,” he heard a voice say.  He turned around.  Tiffani was standing on the platform in her T-shirt and jeans, her long hair down over her shoulders.  Now she was walking down the steps toward him.  “Commander,” she said again with a mysterious smile, “may I have a cigarette?”

      He was dumbfounded, stupefied.  He said nothing.  Winters automatically reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of Pall Malls.  The girl took one, packed it against her fingernail, and slid it into her mouth.  She waited a second, maybe two.  Then she gave him another smile.  Winters at last woke up and produced his cheap supermarket lighter.  She cupped his trembling hand and inhaled vigorously on the cigarette.

      Winters watched her, fascinated, as she pulled the smoke into her lungs.  He studied her mouth, her white neck, her uplifted chest as she caressed the smoke.  With the same rapt attention, he watched her diaphragm subside and the smoke curl out of her pursed lips.

      They stood there together, quietly smoking, neither speaking.  Over the ocean there was another flash of lightning, another roll of thunder.  Each time that Tiffani would put the cigarette in her mouth, the mesmerized Winters would follow her every move.  She would inhale deeply, intently, pulling hard on the cigarette for the nicotine her body cherished.  He was only vaguely aware of his jumbled thoughts.

      She’s beautiful, so beautiful.  Young and fresh and full of life.  And that hair.  How I would love to wrap it around my neck .  .  .  but she’s not a little girl.  She’s a young woman.  She must sense what I’m feeling, my fascination for her .  .  .  she smokes as I do.  With complete concentration.  She caresses .  .  .

      “I love stormy nights,” Tiffani broke the silence as still another distant flash of lightning lit up the sky.  She moved closer to him and then craned her neck to see around a group of trees that was blocking her view of the cloud formation where the lightning was occurring.  She brushed against Commander Winters ever so slightly.  He was electrified.

      His mouth was dry.  His body was suffused with desire, a desire he barely recognized.  He could not answer her comment.  Instead he stared off at the growing storm and took the final drag from his cigarette.

      She too finished her cigarette and dropped it on the pavement.  As she turned to face him and their eyes met, the last wisps of smoke were playfully wandering across her lips.  She gave a quick, flirtatious blow with her mouth and Winters felt a burst of lust in his groin.  He retained his self-control and they entered the theater in silence.

      The applause continued.  Commander Winters brought the women who had played Maxine and Hannah, one on either side of him, forward for their final bow, just as they had planned before the performance began.  The applause intensified.  Again he stared at the empty seats where Betty and Hap had been before the intermission.  He heard a voice from the audience shout “Charlotte Goodall” and Winters improvised.  He took the two ladies back to the line of the assembled cast and walked down the line to Tiffani.  For a moment she did not understand.  Then her face broke into a radiant smile and she took his hand.

      He walked forward with her to the front of the stage.  their hands wrapped together in a tight hold.  This was her special moment.  She was near tears as she heard the applause grow again.  He stood aside and she bowed gracefully to the audience.  She finished her bow, took his hand again with a delightful squeeze, and backed up into the line with the cast.

      Melvin, Marc, and Amanda were all backstage while they were dressing.  Enthusiastic congratulations were everywhere.  Melvin particularly seemed ecstatic.  He admitted that he had had some misgivings during rehearsals, but that everyone had been wonderful.  The director confided to Winters that the bedroom scene with Tiffani had been “superb — couldn’t have been better,” as Melvin literally danced out the dressing room door.

      Winters was overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions.  He was pleased with his performance in the play and the audience reception, but other more personal things were on his mind.  What had happened to Betty and Hap?  Why had they left at intermission?  In his mind’s eye, Winters imagined Betty watching his love scene with Tiffani.  He had a momentary panic as he convinced himself that she had known, from out in the audience, that her husband was not acting at all, that he was every bit as aroused as the character he was playing.

      What had occurred with Tiffani he could not begin to understand and could not even think about without starting to feel guilty.  While he was putting back on his Navy uniform, he allowed himself to taste again her kisses on the bed in the play and to feel the sexual tension while they smoked together in the alley.  But beyond his awareness of his arousal he would not go.  Guilt was a depressing emotion, and on his successful opening night he did not want to be depressed.

      When Commander Winters walked out of the men’s communal dressing room, Tiffani was waiting for him.  Her hair was back in pigtails, her face scrubbed free of makeup.  She looked again like a little girl.  “Commander,” she said, almost with servility, “would you do me a favor, please?”  He smiled his assent.  She beckoned to him and he followed her out in the hall that was adjacent to the backstage quarters.

      A red-haired man about the commander’s age was standing in the hall, nervously smoking a cigarette and pacing.  It was obvious that he felt uncomfortable and out of place.  Next to him was a tawdry brunette, early thirties perhaps, chewing gum and talking to the man in a whisper.  The man noticeably relaxed when he saw the commander in his uniform.

      “Well, sir,” he said to Winters when Tiffani introduced him as her father, “it’s good to meet you.  I don’t know much about this acting business, but I worry that it’s unhealthy for my daughter sometimes.”  He winked at his wife, Tiffani’s stepmother, and lowered his voice.  “You know, sir, with all the wimps and fags and other weirdo actors, a man can’t be too careful.  But Tiff told me there was a real Navy officer, a bona fide commander, as part of the cast.  At first I didn’t believe her.”

      Mr. Thomas was definitely getting signals both from Tiffani and his wife.  He was talking too much.  “I’m regular Navy myself,” he blurted out as Winters remained silent, “almost twenty-five years.  Signed up when I was just a boy of eighteen.  Met Tiff’s mother two years later — ”

      “Daddy,” Tiffani interrupted him, “you promised that you wouldn’t embarrass me.  Please just ask him.  He probably has things that he needs to do.”

      The commander had certainly not been prepared to meet Tiffani’s father and stepmother.  In fact, he had never for a moment even thought about her parents, although as he stood there, listening to Mr. Thomas, it all made sense.  Tiffani was, after all, only a junior in high school.  So of course she lives at home, he thought.  With her parents.  Mr. Thomas was looking very serious.  For about a second Winters felt fear and the beginning of panic.  No.  No, he thought quickly, she can’t have told them anything.  It’s all much too soon.

      “My wife and I play bridge,” Mr. Thomas was saying, “duplicate bridge, in tournaments.  And this weekend there’s a big sectional in Miami.  We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning and coming back very late on Sunday night.”

      Winters was puzzled.  He was lost in this conversation.  Why should he care about what the Thomases did with their free time?  At length Mr. Thomas came to the point.  “So we had called Mae’s cousin in Marathon and asked her if she would pick my daughter up after the show tomorrow night.  But that would mean Tiff would have to miss the cast party.  Tiff suggested that maybe you would be willing to see her home safely from the party and,” Mr. Thomas smiled pleasantly, “keep a fatherly eye on her while I’m off playing bridge.”

      Winters instinctively glanced at Tiffani.  For just a few milliseconds he saw a worldly look in her eyes that tore through him like a fireball.  Then she was a little girl again, entreating her father to let her go to the party.

      The commander played his role well.  “All right, Mr. Thomas,” he replied, “I’ll be glad to help you out.”  He patted Tiffani fondly.  “She deserves to go to the party, she’s worked hard.  “He paused for a moment.  “But I have a couple of questions.  There will certainly be champagne at the party and it will probably go real late.  Does she have a curfew?  How do you feel about — ”

      “Just use your own judgment, Commander,” Mr. Thomas cut him short.  “Mae and I trust you completely.”  The man reached over and shook Winters’ hand.  “And thank you very much.  By the way,” he added, as he turned around to leave, “you were great, although I must admit I was worried when you were necking with my daughter.  The fag that wrote the play must have been one weird dude.”

      Tiffani’s stepmother mumbled thanks over her chewing gum and the girl herself said “See ya tomorrow” as the three of them walked away.  The commander reached in his pocket for another cigarette.

      Betty and Hap were both asleep, as Commander Winters knew they would be, when he finally arrived home around eleven o’clock He walked softly past his son’s room but then stopped outside of Betty’s.  Basically a considerate man, Winters spent a few seconds weighing Betty’s sleep against his need for an explanation.  He decided to go in and wake her up.  He was surprised to find that he was nervous when he sat down on the side of her bed in the dark.

      She was sleeping on her back with a sheet and a very thin blanket both pulled up neatly to within about two inches of her shoulders.  He shook her lightly.  “Betty, dear,” he said.  “I’m home.  I’d like to talk to you.”  She stirred.  He shook her again.  “It’s Vernon,” he said softly.

      His wife sat up in bed and turned on the light on the end table.  Underneath the light was a small picture of the face of Jesus, a man wise beyond his thirty or so years, with a full beard, a serious look, and a glow approximating a halo behind his head.  “Goodness,” she said, frowning and rubbing her eyes, “What’s going on?  Is everything all right?”  Betty had never been particularly pretty.  But in the last ten years she had ignored her looks altogether and had even put on twenty pounds of ungainly weight.

      “Yes,” he answered.  “I just wanted to talk.  And to find out why you and Hap left the show just after the intermission.”

      Betty looked him directly in the eyes.  This was a woman without guile, even without nuance.  Life was simple and straightforward for her.  If you truly believed in God and Jesus Christ, then you had no doubts.  About anything.  “Vernon,” she began, “I have often wondered why you choose to perform in such strange plays.  But I have never complained about it, particularly since it seems to be the only thing that has excited you in a good way since Libya and that awful beach incident.”

      She frowned and a cloud seemed to cross her face momentarily.  Then she continued in her matter-of-fact way.  “But Hap is no longer a child.  He is becoming a young man.  And hearing his father, even in a play, refer to God as a ‘petulant old man’ and a ‘senile delinquent’ is not likely to strengthen his faith.”  She looked away.  “And I thought it was equally disturbing for him to watch you groping with that young girl.  All in all,” she said, glancing back at her husband and summarizing the entire issue, “I thought the play had no values, no morals, and nothing worth staying for.”

      Winters felt his anger building but struggled with it, as he always did.  He envied Betty her steadfast faith, her ability to see God clearly in every daily activity.  He himself felt disjoint from the God of his childhood and his fruitless personal searches had not yet resulted in a clearer perception of Him.  But a couple of things Winters did know for certain.  His God would laugh with and have compassion for Tennessee Williams’ characters.  And He would not be pleased by bombs falling on little children.

      The commander did not argue with Betty.  He gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek and she turned off the light.  For just a moment he wondered.  How long has it been?  Three weeks?  But he couldn’t remember the exact time.  Or even whether or not it had been good.  They “fooled around,” as Betty called it, whenever her awareness of his need overcame her general lack of interest.  Probably about normal for couples our age, Winters thought, somewhat defensively, as he undressed in his room.

      But he was not able to sleep as he lay quietly in the dark underneath the sheet.  The feeling of arousal that had been so intense first during the play and then again out in the alley continued to call to him.  With pictures.  When he closed his eyes he could again see Tiffani’s soft and flirtatious lips blowing out the last of the smoke that had been deep within her lungs.  His mouth could still taste those passionate kisses that she had forced upon him during the bedroom scene.  And then there was that special look when her father had asked him to take care of her at the party.  Had he imagined it?

      Several times Commander Winters changed positions in his bed, trying to dispel the images in his mind and the nervousness that was keeping him awake.  He was unsuccessful.  Eventually, while he was lying on his back, he realized there was one possible release from this kind of tension.  At first he felt guilty, even embarrassed, but the waves of images of Tiffani continued to flood into his brain.

      He touched himself.  The images from the day sharpened and began to expand into fantasies.  She was lying on top of him on the bed, as she had been in the play, and he was responding to her kisses.  For a brief second Winters became frightened and held himself in check.  But a desperate surge of longing removed his last inhibition.  He was again an adolescent, alone in his rich imagination.

      The scene in his mind changed.  He was lying naked on a huge king-size bed in an opulent room with high ceilings.  Tiffani approached him from the lighted bathroom, also naked, her long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and hiding the nipples of her breasts.  She took a last languorous pull from her cigarette and put it out in the ashtray beside the bed, her eyes never leaving his as she slowly, almost lovingly, expelled the last of the smoke from her mouth.  She climbed into the bed beside him.  He could feel the softness of her skin, the tingle of her long hair against his neck and chest.

      She kissed him gently but passionately, with her hands behind his head.  He felt her tongue playing enticingly across his lips.  She moved her body into position next to him and pressed her pelvis into his.  He felt himself rising.  She took his penis in her hand and squeezed lightly.  He was completely erect.  She squeezed again, then gracefully raised her body up and inserted him deep inside her.  He felt a magical moist warmth and then exploded almost immediately.

      Commander Winters was staggered by the power and the intensity of his fantasy.  Somewhere inside him a voice cried for caution and warned of dire consequences if he let this fantasy become too real.  But as he lay spent and alone in his suburban home, he pushed his guilt and fears aside and allowed himself the unrivaled bliss of post-orgasmic sleep.

9

SLOPPY Joe’s was an institution in Key West.  The favorite bar of Hemingway and his motley crew had managed to adapt quickly to the multifaceted evolution of the city that it had come to symbolize.  Many denizens of the old city had been almost apoplectic when the bar had forsaken its historic location downtown and moved into the vast shopping complex surrounding the new marina.  But even they grudgingly admitted, after the club reopened in a well-ventilated large room complete with sound stage and excellent acoustics, that the Tiffany lamps, long wooden bars, narrow mirrors from ceiling to floor, and memorabilia from a hundred years in Key West had been tastefully rearranged in a way that retained the spirit of the old bar.

      It was altogether fitting that Angie Leatherwood should perform as the headliner at Sloppy Joe’s during her brief and infrequent returns to the city of her birth.  Troy’s glib tongue had originally talked the owner, a transplanted fifty-year-old New Yorker named Tony Palazzo, into giving her an audition when she was still nineteen.  Tony had heard her sing for five minutes and then had exclaimed, punctuating his comments with wild hand gestures, “It’s not enough that you bring me a black girl who’s so beautiful she takes your breath away.  No, you bring me one who also sings like a nightingale.  Mama mia Life is not fair.  My daughter Carla would kill to sound like that.”  Tony had become Angie’s biggest fan and had unselfishly promoted her career.  Angie never forgot what Tony had done for her and always sang at Sloppy Joe’s when she was in town.  She was like that.

      Troy’s table was front and center, about ten feet away from the edge of the stage.  Nick and Troy were already seated at the small round table and had finished their first drinks when Carol arrived about five minutes before ten-thirty.  She apologized and mumbled something about parking in Siberia.  As soon as she arrived, Nick pulled out the envelope of images and both men told her that they had found the pictures fascinating.  Nick began asking questions about the photographs while Troy summoned a waiter.  Nick and Carol were involved in an earnest conversation about the objects in the fissure when the new drinks reached the table.  Nick had just mentioned that one of them looked like a modern missile.  It was ten thirty-five.  The lights flashed off and on to announce that the show was beginning.

      Angie Leatherwood was a consummate performer.  Like many of the very best entertainers, she never forgot that it was the audience that was the customer, that it was they who both created her image and enhanced her mystique.  She began with the title song from her new album, “Memories of Enchanting Nights,” and then sang a medley of Whitney Houston songs, according a tribute to that brilliant songstress whose talent had sparked Angie’s own desire to sing.  Next she showed her versatility by blending a quartet of songs with different beats, a Jamaican reggae, a soft ballad from her first album, Love Letters, a nearly perfect Diana Ross imitation from an old Supremes song, “Where Did Our Love Go?” and an emotionally powerful, lilting encomium to her blind father entitled “The Man with Vision.”

      Thunderous applause greeted the conclusion of each song.  Sloppy Joe’s was sold out, including all the standing room along the hundred-foot bar.  Seven different huge video screens scattered throughout the spacious club brought Angie home to those who were not close to the stage.  This was her crowd, these were her friends.  A couple of times Angie was almost embarrassed because the clapping and the bravos would not stop.  At Troy’s table, very little was said during the show.  The threesome pointed out songs they particularly liked (Carol’s favorite was the Whitney Houston song, “The Greatest Love of All”), but there was no time for conversation.  Angie dedicated her penultimate song, “Let Me Take Care of You, Baby,” to her “dearest friend” (Nick kicked Troy under the table) and then finished with her most popular cut from Love Letters.  The audience gave her a standing ovation and hooted noisily for an encore.  Nick noticed while he was standing that he was a little woozy from the two strong drinks and was also feeling strangely emotional, possibly because of the subliminal associations created by the love songs that Angie was singing.

      Angie returned to the stage.  As the noise subsided, her soft and caressing voice could be heard.  “You all know that Key West is a very special place for me.  It was here that I was raised and went to school.  Most of my memories bring me back here.”  She paused and her eyes scanned the audience.  “There are many songs that bring back memories and the emotions that go with them.  But of all of them, my favorite is the theme song from the musical Cats.  So, Key West, this is for you.”

      There was scattered clapping as the music synthesizers accompanying her played the introduction to “Memories.”  The audience remained standing as Angie’s mellifluous voice launched into the beautiful song.  As soon as she began, Nick was instantly transported to the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., in June of 1984, where he was watching a production of Cats with his mother and father.  He had finally come home to explain to them why he had been unable to return to Harvard after his spring break in Florida.  But try as he might, he could not begin to tell the story to his disappointed father and brokenhearted mother.  All he could say was, “It was a woman .  .  .”  and then he would fall silent.

      It had been a sad reunion.  While he was visiting his home in Falls Church, the first malignant polyps had been discovered and removed from his father’s colon.  The doctors had been optimistic about several more years of life, but they had stressed that colon cancer often recurred and metastasized to other parts of the body.  In a long talk with his suddenly frail father, Nick had promised to finish his degree in Miami.  But that was little solace to the older man; he had dreamed of seeing his son graduate from Harvard.

      The performance of Cats at the Kennedy Center had been only mildly entertaining for Nick.  In the middle he had found himself wondering how many people in the audience really knew the author of the source material for the songs, this poet T.S. Eliot, who not only admired and enjoyed feline idiosyncrasies, but also once began a poem by describing the evening “spread out against the sky, like a patient aetherized upon a table.”  But when the old female cat walked to center stage, her beauty faded into wrinkles, and began her song of her “days in the sun,” Nick had been moved right along with the entire audience.  For reasons he never understood, he had seen Monique singing the song, years in the future.  And in Washington he had wept, silent tears hidden quickly from his parents, when the achingly pure soprano voice had reached the climax of the song..

      “Touch me .  .  .  It’s so easy to leave me .  .  .  all alone with my memories .  .  .  of my days in the sun .  .  .  If you touch me .  .  .  you’ll understand what happiness is .  .  .”

      Angie’s voice at Sloppy Joe’s was not nearly as piercing as that soprano in Washington But she sang with the same intensity, evoking all the sadness of someone for whom all the joys of life are in the past.  The corners of Nick’s eyes filled with tears and one of them brimmed out to run down his cheek.

      From where Carol was standing, the lights from the stage reflected off Nick’s cheek.  She saw the tear, the window of vulnerability, and was herself moved in return.  For the first time she felt a deep stirring, almost an affection for this distant, solitary, but strangely attractive man.

      Ah Carol, how different it might have been if, for once in your life, you had not acted impulsively.  If you had just let the man have his moment of loneliness or heartbreak or tenderness or whatever he was feeling, then you might have mentioned it later, at a quieter time, to some advantage.  The sharing of this moment might even have eventually been part of the bonding between you.  But you had to tap Nick on the shoulder, before the song was through, before he even realized himself that he was tearful, and break his precious communion with his inner self.  You were an interloper.  Worse, as so often happens, he interpreted your smile as derision, not sympathy, and like a frightened turtle withdrew completely from the evening.  It was guaranteed that he would reject as insincere any subsequent overtures of friendship.

      Troy missed the interplay between Carol and Nick.  So he was quite surprised, when he turned around and sat down after the final applause, to find Nick’s shoulders set in an unmistakable pose of hostility.  “Wasn’t she wonderful, angel?”  Troy said to Carol.  “And how about you, Professor?  Was this the first time you heard her sing?”

      Nick nodded.  “She was great,” he said, almost grudgingly.  “And I am thirsty.  Can a man get a drink in this place?”

      Troy was slightly offended.  “Well, pardon us,” he said.  “So sorry that the entertainment lasted so long.”  He tried to signal for the waiter.  “What’s eating him, angel?” he said conversationally to Carol.

      Carol shrugged her shoulders.  Then, trying to lighten the atmosphere, she leaned toward Nick and tapped him on the forearm on top of the table.  “Hey, Nick,” she said, “have you been taking angry pills?”

      Nick quickly withdrew his arm and grumbled something inaudible as a reply.  He turned away from the conversation and saw that Angie was approaching the table.  He stood up automatically and both Carol and Troy joined him.  “You were fantastic,” said Carol, a little too loud, just as soon as Angie was within earshot.

      “Thanks .  .  .  Hi,” replied Angie, as she walked up to the table and took the chair that Troy had pulled out for her.  She spent a few moments graciously acknowledging the praise from people at the nearby tables.  Then she sat down and smiled.  “You must be Carol Dawson,” she said easily, leaning across the table toward the reporter.

      Angie was even more beautiful in person than she had been in the picture on the disc jacket.  Her coloring was a dark brown, not quite black.  Her makeup, including the light pink lipstick, was muted to permit her natural assets, including virtually perfect white teeth on prominent display when she smiled, to draw the attention.  But beyond the beauty was the woman herself.  No still photograph could do justice to the natural warmth that radiated from Angie.  You liked her immediately.

      “And you must be Nick Williams,” Angie said, extending her hand to Nick.  He was still standing, looking uncomfortable and uncertain, although Troy had already seated himself.  “Troy has told me so many things about you in the past few days, I feel as if we’re already friends.  He claims that you’ve read every novel ever written that’s worth reading.”

      “That’s an exaggeration, of course,” Nick replied, obviously pleased to be recognized.  He seemed to loosen up a little and finally sat down.  He started to add another comment but Carol jumped into the conversation and cut him off.

      “Did you write that beautiful song about the blind man yourself?” she asked, before Angie had really had time to sit down and collect herself.  “It seemed to be a very personal statement.”

      “Yes,” Angie answered Carol pleasantly, without a trace of irritation at Carol’s aggressive behavior.  “Most of my material comes from other sources, but occasionally I write a song myself.  When it is a very special subject for me.”  She smiled briefly at Troy before continuing.  “My father is a remarkable, loving man, blind from birth but with an uncanny comprehension of the world at all levels.  Without his patience and guidance, I probably would never have had the courage to sing as a little girl.  I was too shy and self-conscious.  But my father convinced all of us when we were small that we were somehow special.  He told us that God had given each of us something unusual, something uniquely ours, and that one of the great joys of life was discovering and then developing that special talent.”

      “And that song, ‘Let Me Take Care of You, Baby,’ did you really write that for Troy?”  Nick blurted out his question before Angie had finished her sentence.  He thereby destroyed the soft mood created by Angie’s loving description of her father.  Nick was on the edge of his chair and for some reason seemed agitated and unsettled.  Troy wondered again what he had missed in the interaction between Carol and Nick that had caused his friend to become so tense.

      Angie looked at Troy.  “I guess so,” she said with a wistful smile, “although it was originally meant to be a playful tune, a light commentary on the game of love.”  She stopped for a moment.  “But it does talk about a real problem.  It’s very hard sometimes being a successful women.  It interferes — ”

      “Amen.  Amen,” Carol interrupted while Angie was still developing her thought.  This was one of Carol’s favorite subjects and she was ready to pounce on the opportunity.  “Most men cannot deal with a woman who is the least bit successful, much less in the spotlight.”  She looked directly at Nick and then continued, “Even now, in 1994, there are still unwritten rules that must be followed.  If you want to have a permanent relationship with a man, there are three don’ts:  Don’t let him think you’re smarter than he is, don’t suggest sex first, and, above all, don’t make more money than he does.  These are the three key areas where their egos are extremely fragile And if you undermine the ego of any man, even when you’re just kidding with him, then it s a lost cause.”

      “Sounds like you’re an expert,” Nick replied sarcastically.  His hostility was obvious.  “I wonder if it ever occurred to any of you liberated females that men are not put off by your success, but rather by the way you handle it.  What you accomplish in life does not mean shit at the personal level.  Most ambitious, aggressive women I have met (and now he was looking directly at Carol) go out of their way to make male-female relationships into some kind of competition.  They will not let the man, even for a moment, have the illusion that he lives in a patriarchal society.  I think some of them purposely emasculate — ”

      “There it is,” Carol jumped in triumphantly.  She nudged Angie, who was smiling but still a little embarrassed at the rancor in this exchange.  “That’s the magic word.  Whenever a woman wants to argue and not accept as gospel some profound male truth, she is trying to ‘castrate’ or ‘emasculate’ — ”

      “Okay, you guys,” Troy interjected firmly, shaking his head.  “That’s enough.  Let’s change the subject.  I had thought that maybe you two could enjoy an evening together, but not if we’re going to start this way.”

      “The problem,” Carol continued, now looking at Angie and ignoring Troy’s request, “is that men are frightened.  Their hegemony in the Western world is threatened by the emergence of women who aren’t willing to be just barefoot and pregnant.  Why, when I was at Stanford — ”

      She stopped and turned when she heard the legs of a chair scraping across the Roor.  “With all due respect, Miss Leatherwood,” Nick was standing up again, holding the chair in his hand, “I believe I will excuse myself.  I thoroughly enjoyed your music, but I do not wish to subject you to any more bad manners.  I wish you continued good fortune in your career and I hope that someday you can spend some time on the boat with Troy and me.”  Nick turned to Troy.  “I’ll see you at the marina at eight o’clock in the morning.”  Finally he looked at Carol.  “You, too, if you still want to go.  You can tell us about the wimps at Stanford while we’re out in the middle of the Gulf.”

      Nick did not wait for a reply He picked up the envelope and walked back through the crowd toward the exit.  As he was approaching the door he heard a voice calling him, “Nick.  Oh, Nick.  Over here.”  It was Julianne, waving to him from a nearby table full of glasses and ashtrays.  She and Corinne and Linda were surrounded by half a dozen men but Julianne was moving them all around and pulling up an empty chair.  Nick walked over to her table.

      Thirty minutes later Nick was very drunk.  The combination of Julianne’s occasionally brushing his leg, Corinne’s gigantic breasts (they were covered now but he could remember them from Troy’s game in the afternoon), and intermittent glimpses of Carol through the cigarette smoke had made him very horny as well.  God damn it, Williams, he had thought to himself when he first sat down with Julianne’s group.  You blew it again.  Here you had this perfect chance to charm her.  Maybe even score.  But half an hour later, after the drinks, his thoughts were more reminiscent of Aesop’s fox.  She’s too aggressive for me anyway.  Famous.  Pushy.  Probably too hard underneath And cold in bed.  Another ballbuster.  Yet still he watched her from across the room.

      The extra chairs that had been brought in for Angie’s performance were cleared away to make room for dancing.  A disc jockey orchestrated the rest of the evening from a booth next to the stage; one could dance to a variety of modern musical selections, watch the outrageously overproduced music videos on the big screens.  or just talk, for the music was not overwhelmingly loud.  Most of the people around Nick were from the marina.  During a break in the music, just after Nick had downed another fast tequila, Linda Quinlan leaned across the table.  “Come on, Nick,” she said, “let us in on your secret.  What did you and Troy find yesterday?”

      “Nothing special,” said Nick, remembering his agreement but surprised to discover that he did indeed want to talk about it.

      “Rumor says different,” jumped in one of the men at the table.  “Everybody knows that you took something to Amanda Winchester this morning.  Come on, tell us what it was.  Have you found a new treasure ship?”

      “Maybe,” said Nick, a drunken grin on his face, “just maybe.”  Another strong impulse pushed him to tell the story and show the pictures, but he stopped himself.  “I can’t talk about it,” was all he would say.

      At this moment two burly young men, short-haired Navy types wearing officer’s uniforms, were making a beeline for Nick’s table from the other side of the floor.  One of them was dark, Hispanic.  Their approach was confident, even arrogant, and their arrival at the table stopped all the conversation.  The white lieutenant put his hand on Julianne’s shoulder.  “All right, gorgeous,” he said boldly, “the Navy is here.  Why don’t you and your friend there (he nodded at Corinne — Ramirez was standing behind her), come and dance with us?”

      Julianne said, “No, thank you,” very politely and smiled.  Todd looked down at her.  He was weaving just a little and it was clear from his eyes that he had been drinking heavily.

      “You mean to tell me,” he said, “that you would prefer to sit here with these local geeks rather than dance with future admirals?”  Julianne felt his hand tighten on her shoulder.  She looked around the table and tried to ignore him.

      Todd did not like rejection.  He took his hand off Julianne’s shoulder and pointed at Corinne’s breasts.  “Christ, Ramirez, you were right.  They are monsters.  Wouldn’t you like to snarf one of those?”  The two lieutenants laughed crudely.  Corinne squirmed self-consciously.

      Linda Quinlan’s steady boyfriend rose from his chair.  Other than Nick, he was the only one of the men at the table who was approximately the same size as Todd and Ramirez.  “Look, guys,” he said reasonably, “the lady said no very nicely.  There is no need to insult her or her friends — ”

      “Listen to him, Ramirez,” Todd interrupted, “this character said we insulted someone.  Since when is admiring the size of someone’s cachunga’s an insult?”  He chuckled to himself at his cleverness.  Ramirez made a sign to leave but Todd waved him off.

      The drunken Nick had been ready to explode all night.  “Get out of here, asshole,” he said, quietly but firmly.  He was still sitting down next to Julianne.

      “Who are you calling asshole, cocksucker?” the truculent Lieutenant Todd replied.  He turned to Ramirez.  “I do believe that I am going to be forced to strum the head of this impertinent bastard.”

      But Nick was ahead of him.  Rising swiftly, he uncoiled a vicious punch that struck Todd full in the face and sent him tumbling backwards, into another table covered with drinks.  Todd and the table crashed to the floor and Nick went after him.  Ramirez pulled Nick off his fellow officer and, when Nick turned and swung at him as well, Ramirez gave Nick a push that caused his unsteady legs to give way.  Nick fell back over Julianne and another full table collapsed upon the floor

      From across the room Carol and Angie and Troy could see the fracas and recognize Nick in the middle of it.  “Uh oh,” Troy said, jumping up to go to his friend’s aid.  Carol was right behind him.  When they reached the opposite side of the room, both club bouncers were already on top of the action.  Meanwhile, Nick and Julianne were still trying to get unscrambled on the floor and Todd was slowly rising to his feet.

      In the fight, the envelope of photos had been knocked free and a couple of them had fallen partially out.  Ramirez had picked the envelope up off the floor and, because of the bright colors, was looking at the pictures.  The close-up of the brown missile in the fissure was clearly visible in the top photo.  “Hey,” he said to the shaken Todd, “look at this.  What do you think this is all about?”

      Carol acted instantly.  She walked past Ramirez, grabbed the envelope and pictures, and before he could say anything, she screamed, “Not again, Nick, no, I don’t believe it.  How could you be drunk again?”  She knelt down beside Nick on the floor and cradled his head in her free hand.  “Oh, darling,” she said, as he stared at her in complete disbelief, “you promised that you’d stop.”

      The astonished crowd watched as Carol kissed Nick full on the mouth to prevent his saying anything.  Troy was amazed.  “Troy,” she shouted a moment later, while Nick was trying to gather his wits.  “Troy, where are you?  Here, give me a hand.”  Troy rushed up and helped Nick to his feet.  “We’re taking him home now,” she announced to the onlookers.  She and Troy each took one arm and the three of them stumbled toward the door of the nightclub.  They passed the manager in the doorway.  Carol told him that she would come by the next day to settle accounts.  She and Troy half carried Nick into the street.

      As they walked away from Sloppy Joe’s, Carol turned around and saw that part of the crowd had followed them to the door.  Ramirez and Todd, the latter still rubbing his cheek, were standing in front of the group with puzzled expressions on their faces.  “Where are we taking him, angel?”  Troy asked when they were out of earshot.  “We don’t even know where he parked his car.

      “It doesn’t matter,” Carol replied, “just as long as we are out of sight of the club.”

      The awkward threesome turned right, down the same alley that ran behind the theater where The Night of the Iguana had finished an hour before.  Just past the theater there was a small vacant lot on the left Carol stopped the trio at the edge of the lot, opposite a grove of trees, and looked back to make certain they were not being followed.  She heaved a sigh and loosened her grip on Nick.  She unconsciously fanned her sweating face with the envelope she had recovered from Ramirez.

      Nick was now almost coherent.  “I had no idea,” he mumbled to Carol, pulling his arm free from Troy and trying to embrace her, “that you felt that way about me.”

      “I don’t,” Carol said emphatically.  She pushed his arms away and backpedaled toward the vacant lot.  Nick didn’t understand and continued his approach.  “Stop,” she shouted angrily at him.  “Stop, you drunken bastard.”

      She tried to fend off his advance with her hands.  But he kept coming.  Just before Troy moved up to restrain him, Carol slapped Nick hard in the face with the hand that was not holding the envelope.  Momentarily startled Nick lost his footing and fell into the grass on his stomach.

      Still fuming, Carol bent down beside him and forcefully rolled him over on his back.  “Don’t you ever, ever, use physical force with me,” she shouted at Nick.  “Not under any circumstances.”  She dropped the envelope on Nick’s stomach and stood up quickly.  She looked at Troy, shook her head in disgust, and stalked off down the alley.

ASSEMBLY AND TEST

UNDER the scanning electron microscope they look like tightly coiled springs with a small tail.  When they are placed in water or some other liquid, the springs seem to stretch out and cilialike appendages extend a few angstroms out from the tail to provide motility.

      There are millions of them concentrated in a mixture the size of a tiny drop of water and they are being carefully checked by a laser device that is also counting and sorting them as it illuminates microscopic portions of the mixture.  When the count is completed, the smaller division of the separated mixture is sluiced out of the metal receptacle and down a channel into another liquid, this one emerald green in color, that is contained in a bottle-shaped beaker.  The springs spread out and follow random paths in wandering around the beaker.

      External mechanisms regularly churn the emerald green liquid.  Around the inside of the beaker, tiny sensors register the temperature, pressure, and exact chemical and electrical characteristics of the fluid.  Some parameter is not absolutely perfect.  A small valve opens a port in the base of the beaker and a new chemical is injected into the green solution.  Continuous measurements monitor the diffusion of this additional material.  At length the fluid is properly altered and a new equilibrium is reached.

      Everything is now ready.  From above several thousand small pellets are dropped into the container.  Some of these pellets float on the surface but most sink to variable depths in the liquid.  Embedded in each of the pellets is a complicated engineering construction on an amazingly miniaturized scale.  The external surface of the pellets contains sensors that scan the nearby region of the liquid for the springlike objects.  A high-frequency transmitter housed next to the sensors directs a call to the springs and attracts them to the neighborhood.  Clusters of springs develop around each pellet.