CHAPTER 51 Ralph's posters announcing the August 18 meeting went up all over Boulder. There was a great

CHAPTER 51

Ralph's posters announcing the August 18 meeting went up all over Boulder. There was a great deal of excited conversation, most of it having to do with the good and bad qualities of the seven- person ad hoc committee. Mother Abagail went to bed exhausted before the light was even gone from the sky. The day had been a steady stream of callers, all of them wanting to know what her opinion was. She allowed as how she thought most of the choices for the committee were pretty good. The people were anxious to know if she would serve on a more permanent committee, if one should be formed at the big meeting. She replied that that would be a spot too tiring, but she sure would give a committee of elected representatives whatever help she could, if people wanted her to help out. She was assured again and again that any permanent committee that refused her help would be turned out en masse, and that right early. Mother Abagail went to bed tired but satisfied. So did Nick Andros that night. In one day, by virtue of a single poster turned out on a hand-crank mimeograph machine, the Free Zone had been transformed from a loose group of refugees into potential voters. They liked it; it gave them the sense of a place to stand after a long period of free fall. That afternoon Ralph drove him out to the power plant. He, Ralph, and Stu agreed to hold a preliminary meeting at Stu and Frannie's place the day after next. It would give all seven of them another two days to listen to what people were saying. Nick smiled and cupped his own useless ears. "Lip-reading's even better," Stu said. "You know, Nick, I'm starting to think we're really going to get somewhere with those blown motors. That Brad Kitchner's a regular bear for work. If we had ten like him, we'd have this whole town running perfect by the first of September." Nick gave him a thumb-and-forefinger circle and they walked inside together.

320 That afternoon Larry Underwood and Leo Rockway walked west on Arapahoe Street toward Harold's house. Larry was wearing the knapsack he had worn all the way across the country, but all that was in it now was the bottle of wine and a half dozen Paydays. Lucy was out with a party of half a dozen people who had taken two wrecking trucks and were beginning to clear the streets and roads in and around Boulder of stalled vehicles. Trouble was, they were working on their own-it was a sporadic operation that only ran when a few people felt like getting together and doing it. A wrecking bee instead of a quilting bee, Larry thought, and his eye caught one of the posters headed MASS MEETING, this one nailed to a telephone pole. Maybe that would be the answer. Hell, people around here wanted to work; what they needed was somebody to coordinate things and tell them what to do. He thought that, most of all, they wanted to wipe away the evidence of what had happened here this early summer (and could it be late summer already?) the way you would use an eraser to wipe dirty words off a blackboard. Maybe we can't do it from one end of America to the other, Larry thought, but we should be able to do it here in Boulder before snow flies, if Mother Nature cooperates. A tinkle of glass made him turn. Leo had lobbed a large stone from someone's rock garden through the rear window of an old Ford. A bumper sticker on the back deck of the Ford's trunk read: GET YO ASS UP THE PASS—COLD CREEK CANYON. "Don't do that, Joe." "I'm Leo." "Leo," he corrected. "Don't do that." "Why not?" Leo asked complacently, and for a long time Larry couldn't think of a satisfactory answer. "Because it makes an ugly sound," he said finally. "Oh. Okay." They walked on. Larry put his hands in his pockets. Leo did likewise. Larry kicked a beercan. Leo swerved out of his way to kick a stone. Larry began to whistle a tune. Leo made a whispering chuffling sound in accompaniment. Larry ruffled the kid's hair and Leo looked up at him with those odd Chinese eyes and grinned. And Larry thought: For Christ's sake, I'm falling in love with him. Pretty far out. They came to the park Frannie had mentioned, and across from it was a green house with white shutters. There was a wheelbarrow full of bricks on the cement path leading up to the front door, and next to it was a garbage can lid filled with that do-it-yourself mortar-mix to which you just add water. Squatting beside it, his back to the street, was a broad-shouldered dude with his shirt off and the peeling remnants of a bad sunburn. He had a trowel in one hand. He was building a low and curving brick wall around a flower bed. Larry thought of Fran saying: He's changed... I don't know how or why or even if its for the best... and sometimes I'm afraid. Then he stepped forward, saying it just the way he had planned on his long days crossing the country: "Harold Lauder, I presume?" Harold jerked with surprise, then turned with a brick in one hand and his mortar-dripping trowel in the other, halfraised, like a weapon. Out of the corner of his eye, Larry thought he saw Leo flinch backward. His first thought was, sure enough, Harold didn't look at all as he had imagined. His second thought had to do with the trowel: My God, is he going to let me have it with that thing? Harold's face was grimly set, his eyes narrow and dark. His hair fell in a lank wave across his sweaty forehead. His lips were pressed together and almost white. And then there was a transformation so sudden and complete that Larry was never quite able to believe afterward that he had seen that tense, unsmiling Harold, the face of a man more apt to use a trowel to wall someone up in a basement niche than to construct a garden wall around a flower bed. He smiled, a broad and harmless grin that made deep dimples at the corners of his mouth. His eyes lost their menacing cast (they were bottlegreen, and how could such clear and feckless eyes have seemed menacing, or even dark?). He stuck the trowel blade-down into the mortar chunk! wiped his hands on the hips of his jeans, and advanced with his hand out. Larry thought: My God, he's just a kid, younger than I am. If he's eighteen yet I'll eat the candles on his last birthday cake. "Don't think I know you," Harold said, grinning, as they shook. He had a firm grip. Larry's hand was pumped up and down exactly three times and let go. It reminded Larry of the time he had shaken hands with George Bush back when the old bushwhacker had been running for President. It had been at a political rally, which he had attended on the advice of his mother, given many years ago. If you can't afford a movie, go to the zoo. If you can't afford the zoo, go see a politician. But Harold's grin was contagious, and Larry grinned back. Kid or not, politician's handshake or not, the grin impressed him as completely genuine, and after all this time, after all those candy wrappers, here was Harold Lauder, in the flesh. "No, you don't," Larry said. "But I'm acquainted with you."

321 "Is that so!" Harold exclaimed, and his grin escalated. If it got any broader, Larry thought with amusement, the ends would meet around at the back of his skull and the top two thirds of his head would just topple off. "I followed you across the country from Maine," Larry said. "No fooling! You did, really?" "Really did." He unslung his packsack. "Here, I've got some stuff for you." He took out the bottle of Bordeaux and put it in Harold's hand. "Say, you shouldn't have," Harold said, looking at the bottle with some astonishment. "Nineteen forty-seven?" "A good year," Larry said. "And these." He put nearly half a dozen Paydays in Harold's other hand. One of them slipped through his fingers and onto the grass. Harold bent to pick it up, and as he did, Larry caught a glimpse of that earlier expression. Then Harold bobbed back up, smiling. "How did you know?" "I followed your signs... and your candy wrappers." "Well I be go to hell. Come on in the house. We ought to have a jaw, as my dad was fond of saying. Would your boy drink a Coke?" "Sure. Wouldn't you, L—" He looked around, but Leo was no longer beside him. He was all the way back on the sidewalk and looking down at some cracks in the pavement as if they were of great interest to him. "Hey, Leo! Want a Coke?" Leo muttered something Larry couldn't hear. "Talk up!" he said, irritated. "What did God give you a voice for? I asked you if you wanted a Coke." Barely audible, Leo said: "I think I'll go see if Nadinemom's back." "What the hell? We just got here!" "I want to go back!" Leo said, looking up from the cement. The sun flashed too strongly back from his eyes and Larry thought, What in God's name is this? He's almost crying. "Just a sec," he said to Harold. "Sure," Harold said, grinning. "Sometimes kids're shy. I was." Larry walked over to Leo and hunkered down, so they would be at eye-level. "What's the matter, kiddo?" "I just want to go back," Leo said, not meeting his gaze. "I want Nadine-mom." "Well, you..." He paused helplessly. "Want to go back." He looked up briefly at Larry. His eyes flickered over Larry's shoulder toward where Harold stood in the middle of his lawn. Then down at the cement again. "Please." "You don't like Harold?" "I don't know... he's all right... I just want to go back." Larry sighed. "Can you find your way?" "Sure." "Okay. But I sure wish you'd come in and have a Coke with us. I've been waiting to meet Harold a long time. You know that, don't you?" "Ye-es..." "And we could walk back together." "I'm not going in that house," Leo hissed, and for a moment he was Joe again, the eyes going blank and savage. "Okay," Larry said hastily. He stood up. "Go straight home. I'll check to see if you did. And stay out of the street." "I will." And suddenly Leo blurted in that small, hissing whisper: "Why don't you come back with me? Right now? We'll go together. Please, Larry? Okay?" "Jeez, Leo, what—" "Never mind," Leo said. And before Larry could say anything more, Leo was hurrying away. Larry stood watching him until he was out of sight. Then he turned back to Harold with a troubled frown. "Say, that's all right," Harold said. "Kids are funny." "Well, that one sure is, but I guess he's got a right. He's been through a lot." "I'll bet he has," Harold replied, and just for an instant Larry felt distrust, felt that Harold's quick sympathy for a boy he had never met was as ersatz as powdered eggs. "Well, come in," Harold said. "You know, you're just about my first company. Frannie and Stu have been out a few times, but they hardly count." His grin became a smile, a slightly sad smile, and Larry felt sudden pity for this boybecause a boy was all he was, really. He was lonely and here stood Larry, same old Larry, never a good word for anyone, judging him on vapors. It wasn't fair. It was time for him to stop being so goddam mistrustful. "Glad to," he answered.

322 The living room was small but comfortable. "I'm going to put in some new furniture when I get around to it," Harold said. "Modern. Chrome and leather. As the commercial says, `Fuck the budget. I've got MasterCard. '" Larry laughed heartily. "There are some good glasses in the basement, I'll just get them. I think I'll pass on the candybars, if that's all right with you-I'm off the sweets, trying to lose weight, but we've got to try the wine, this is a special occasion. You came all the way across the country from Maine behind us, huh, and following myour-signs. That's really something. You'll have to tell me all about it. Meanwhile, try that green chair. It's the best of a bad lot." Larry had one final doubtful thought during this outpouring: He even talks like a politician smooth and quick and glib. Harold left, and Larry sat down in the green chair. He heard a door open and then Harold's heavy tread descending a flight of stairs. He looked around. Nope, not one of the world's great living rooms, but with a shag rug and some nice modern furniture, it might be fine. The best feature was the stone fireplace and chimney. Lovely work, carefully done by hand. But there was one loose stone on the hearth. It looked to Larry as if it had come out and had been put back a little carelessly. Leaving it like that would be like leaving one piece out of the jigsaw puzzle or a picture hanging crooked on the wall. He got up and picked the stone out of the hearth. Harold was still rummaging around downstairs. Larry was about to put it back in when he saw there was a book down in the hole, its front now lightly powdered with rockdust, not enough to obscure the single word stamped there in gold leaf: LEDGER. Feeling slightly ashamed, as if he had been prying intentionally, he put the rock back in place just as Harold's footfalls began to ascend the stairs again. This time the fit was perfect, and when Harold came back into the living room with a balloon glass in each hand, Larry was seated in the green chair again. "I took a minute to rinse them out in the downstairs sink," Harold said. "They were a bit dusty." "They look fine," Larry said. "Look, I can't swear that Bordeaux hasn't gone over. We might be helping ourselves to vinegar." "Nothing ventured," Harold said, grinning, "nothing gained." That grin made him feel uncomfortable, and Larry suddenly found himself thinking about the ledger-was it Harold's, or had it belonged to the house's previous owner? And if it was Harold's, what in the world might be written in there?

They cracked the bottle of Bordeaux and found, to their mutual pleasure, that it was just fine. Half an hour later they were both pleasantly squiffed, Harold a little more so than Larry. Even so, Harold's grin remained; broadened, in fact. His tongue loosened a bit by wine, Larry said: "Those posters. The big meeting on the eighteenth. How come you didn't get on that committee, Harold? I would have thought a guy like you would have been a natural." Harold's smile became large, beatific. "Well, I'm awfully young. I suppose they thought I didn't have experience enough." "I think it's a goddam shame." But did he? The grin. The dark, barely glimpsed expression of suspicion. Did he? He didn't know. "Well, who knows what lies in the future?" Harold said, grinning broadly. "Every dog has its day."

Larry left around five o'clock. His parting from Harold was friendly; Harold shook his hand, grinned, told him to come back often. But Larry had somehow gotten the feeling that Harold could give a shit if he never came back. He walked slowly down the cement path to the sidewalk and turned to wave, but Harold had already gone back inside. The door was shut. It had been very cool in the house because the venetian blinds were drawn, and inside that had seemed all right, but standing outside it occurred to him suddenly that it was the only house he'd been inside in Boulder where the blinds and curtains were drawn. But of course, he thought, there were still plenty of houses in Boulder where the shades were drawn. They were the houses of the dead. When they got sick, they had drawn their curtains against the world. They had drawn them and died in privacy, like any animal in its last extremity prefers to do. The living-maybe in subconscious acknowledgment of that fact of death- threw their shutters and their curtains wide. He had a slight headache from the wine, and he tried to tell himself that the chill he felt came from that, part of a little hangover, righteous punishment administered for guzzling good wine as if it was cheap muscatel. But that wouldn't quite get it-no, it wouldn't. He stared up and down the street and thought: Thank God for tunnel vision. Thank God for selective perception. Because without it, we might as well all be in a Lovecraft story.

323 His thoughts became confused. He became suddenly convinced that Harold was peeping at him from between the slats of his blinds, his hands opening and closing in a strangler's grip, his grin turned into a leer of hatred... Every dog has its day. At the same time he was remembering the night in Bennington, sleeping on the stage of the bandshell, waking up to the horrible feeling that someone was there... and then hearing (or only dreaming it?) the dusty sound of bootheels moving off to the west. Stop it. Stop freaking yourself out. Boot Hill, his mind free-associated. Chrissake, just stop it, wish I'd never thought about the dead people, the dead people behind all those closed blinds and pulled drapes and shut curtains, in the dark, like in the tunnel, the Lincoln Tunnel, Christ, what if they all started to move, to stir around, Holy God, cut it out— And suddenly he found himself thinking of a trip to the Bronx Zoo with his mother when he had been small. They had gone into the monkey-house and the smell in there had hit him like a physical thing, a fist driven not just at his nose but into it. He had turned to bolt out of there, but his mother had stopped him. Just breathe normal, Larry, she had said. In five minutes you won't notice that nasty smell at all. So he had stayed, not believing her, just fighting not to puke (even at the age of seven, he had hated to puke worse than anything), and it turned out she was right. When he looked down at his watch the next time, he saw that they had been in the monkey-house for half an hour, and he couldn't understand why the ladies who came in the door were suddenly clapping their hands over their noses and looking disgusted. He said as much to his mother, and Alice Underwood had laughed. Oh, it still smells bad, all right. Just not to you. How come, Mommy? I don't know. Everybody can do it. Now just say to yourself, "I'm going to smell how the monkey- house REALLY is again, " and take a deep breath. So he did, and the stink was there, the stink was even bigger and badder than it had been when they first came in, and his hotdogs and cherry pie started to come up on him again in one big sickening whipped bubble, and he had charged for the door and the fresh air beyond it and managed-barely-to hold everything down. That's selective perception, he thought now, and she knew what it was even if she didn't know what it's called. This thought had no more than completed itself in his mind before he heard his mother's voice saying, Just say to your self, "I 'm going to smell how Boulder REALLY smells again. " And he was smelling it— just like that, he was smelling it. He was smelling what was behind all the closed doors and drawn shades and pulled blinds, he was smelling the slow corruption that was going on even in this place which had died almost empty. He walked faster, not running but getting closer and closer to it, smelling that fruity, rich reek which he—and everyone else—had stopped consciously smelling because it was everywhere, it was everything, it was coloring their thoughts, and you didn't pull your shades even if you were making love because the dead lie behind drawn shades and the living still want to look out on the world. It wanted to come up on him, not hotdogs and cherry pie now but wine and a Payday candybar. Because this was one monkey-house he was never going to be able to get out of, not unless he moved to an island where no one had ever lived, and even though he still hated to puke worse than anything, he was going to now— "Larry? Are you okay?" He was so startled that a little noise—"Yike!"—squeaked out of his throat and he jumped. It was Leo, sitting on the curb about three blocks down from Harold's. He had a Ping-Pong ball and was bouncing it up and down on the pavement. "What are you doing here?" Larry asked. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal. "I wanted to walk home with you," Leo said diffidently, "but I didn't want to go into that guy's house." "Why not?" Larry asked. He sat down on the curb beside Leo. Leo shrugged and turned his eyes back to the Ping-Pong ball. It made a small whock! whock! sound as it struck the pavement and bounced back up to his hand. "I don't know." "What." "This is very important to me. Because I like Harold... and don't like him. I feel two ways about him. Have you ever felt two ways about a person?" "I only feel one way about him." Whock! Whock! "How?" "Scared," Leo said simply. "Can we go home and see my Nadine-mom and my Lucymom?" "Sure."

324 They continued down Arapahoe for a while without speaking, Leo still bouncing the Ping-Pong ball and catching it deftly. "Sorry you had to wait so long," Larry said. "Aw, that's okay." "No, really, if I'd known I would have hurried up." "I had something to do. I found this on a guy's lawn. It's a Pong-Ping ball." "Ping-Pong," Larry corrected absently. "Why do you think Harold would keep his shades down?" "So nobody can see in, I guess," Leo said. "So he can do secret things. It's like the dead people, isn't it?" Whock! Whock! They walked on, reached the corner of Broadway, and turned south. They saw other people on the streets now; women looking in windows at dresses, a man with a pickaxe returning from somewhere, another man casually sorting through fishing tackle in the broken display window of a sporting goods store. Larry saw Dick Vollman from his party biking in the other direction. He waved at Larry and Leo. They waved back. "Secret things," Larry mused aloud, not really trying to draw the boy out anymore. "Maybe he's praying to the dark man," Leo said casually, and Larry jerked as if brushed by a live wire. Leo didn't notice. He was double-bouncing his PingPong ball, first off the sidewalk and then catching it on the rebound from the brick wall they were passing... whock-whap! "Do you really think so?" Larry asked, making an effort to sound casual. "I don't know. But he's not like us. He smiles a lot. But I think there might be worms inside him, making him smile. Big white worms eating up his brain. Like maggots." "Joe... Leo, I mean—" Leo's eyes-dark, remote, and Chinese-suddenly cleared. He smiled. "Look, there's Dayna. I like her. Hey, Dayna!" he yelled, waving. "Got any gum?" Dayna, who had been oiling the sprocket of a spidery-thin ten-speed bike, turned and smiled. She reached into her shirt pocket and spread out five sticks of Juicy Fruit like a poker hand. With a happy laugh, Leo ran toward her, his long hair flying, Ping-Pong ball clutched in one hand, leaving Larry to stare after him. That idea of white worms behind Harold's smile... where had Joe (No, Leo, he's Leo, at least I think he is) gotten an idea as sophisticatedand as horrible-as that? The boy had been in a semi-trance. And he wasn't the only one; how many times in the few days he had been here had Larry seen someone just stop dead on the street, looking blankly at nothing for a moment, and then go on? Things had changed. The whole range of human perception seemed to have stepped up a notch. It was scary as hell. Larry got his feet moving and walked over to where Leo and Dayna were sharing out the chewing gum.

That afternoon Stu found Frannie washing clothes in the small yard behind their building. She had filled a low washtub with water, had shaken in nearly half a box of Tide, and had stirred everything with a mop-handle until a sickly suds had resulted. She doubted if she was going about this in the right way, but she was damned if she was going to go to Mother Abagail and expose her ignorance. She dumped their clothes in the water, which was stone-cold, then grimly jumped in and began to stomp and slosh around, like a Sicilian mashing grapes. Your new model Maytag 5000, she thought. The Double-Foot Agitation Method, perfect for all your bright colors, fragile underthings, and She turned around and beheld her man, standing just inside the backyard gate and watching with an expression of amusement. Frannie stopped, a little out of breath. "Ha-ha, very funny. How long have you been there, smartypants?" "Couple of minutes. What do you call that, anyway? The mating dance of the wild wood duck?" "Again, ha-ha." She looked coolly at him. "One more crack like that and you can spend the night on the couch, or up on Flagstaff with your friend Glen Bateman." "Say, I didn't mean—" "They're your clothes too, Mr. Stuart Redman. You may be a Founding Father and all that, but you still leave an occasional skidmark in your underdrawers." Stu grinned, the grin broadened, and finally he had to laugh. That's crude, darlin." "Right now I don't feel particularly delicate." "Well, pop out for a minute. I need to talk to you." She was glad to, even though she would have to wash her feet before getting back in. Her heart was hurrying along, not happily but rather dolefully, like a faithful piece of machinery being misused by someone with a marked lack of good sense. If this was the way my great-great-great- grandmother had to do it, Fran thought, then maybe she was entitled to the room which eventually became my mother's precious parlor. Maybe she thought of it as hazard pay, or something like that. She looked down at her feet and lower legs with some discouragement. There was still a thin sheath of gray soapsuds clinging to them. She brushed at it distastefully.

325 "When my wife handwashed," Stu said, "she used a... what do you call it? Scrub board, I think. My mother had about three, I remember." "I know that," Frannie said, irritated. "June Brinkmeyer and I walked over half of Boulder looking for one. We couldn't find a single one. Technology strikes again." He was smiling again. Frannie put her hands on her hips. "Are you trying to piss me off, Stuart Redman?" "No'm. I was just thinking I know where I can get you a scrub board, I think. Juney too, if she wants one." "Where?" "You let me look and see first." His smile disappeared, and he put his arms around her and his forehead on hers. "You know I appreciate you washing my clothes," he said, "and I know that a woman who is pregnant knows better than her man what she should and shouldn't be doing. But, Frannie, why bother?" "Why?" She looked at him, perplexed. "Well, what are you going to wear? Do you want to go around in dirty clothes?" "Frannie, the stores are full of clothes. And I'm an easy size." "What, throw out old ones just because they're dirty?" He shrugged a little uneasily. "No way, uh-uh," she said. "That's the old way, Stu. Like the boxes they used to put your Big Mac in or the no-deposit-no-return bottles. That's no way to start over." He gave her a little kiss. "All right. Only next washday it's my turn, you hear?" "Sure." She smiled a little slyly. "And how long does that last? Until I deliver?" "Until we get the power back on," Stu said. "Then I'm going to bring you the biggest, shiniest washer you ever saw, and hook it up myself." "Offer accepted." She kissed him firmly and he kissed back, his strong hands moving restlessly in her hair. The result was a spreading warmth (hotness, let's not be coy, I'mhot and he always gets me hot when he does that) that first peaked her nipples, then spread down into her lower belly. "You better stop," she said rather breathlessly, "unless you plan to do more than talk." "Maybe we'll talk later." "The clothes—" "Soaking's good for that grimed-in dirt," he said seriously. She started to laugh and he stopped her mouth with a kiss. As he lifted her, set her on her feet, and led her inside, she was struck by the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and wondered, Was it ever so hot before? So strong? It's cleared up every last blemish on my back... could it be the ultraviolet, I wonder, or the altitude)? Is it this way every summer? Is it this hot? And then he was doing things to her, even on the stairs he was doing things to her, making her naked, making her hot, making her love him.

326 "He said he'd be glad to serve in any capacity as soon as we get ourselves a real doctor, but just now he can't. We had another twenty-five come in today, and one of them had a gangrenous leg. Came from a scratch she got crawling under a rusty bobwire fence, apparently." "Oh, that's bad." "Dick saved her... Dick and that nurse that came in with Underwood. Tall, pretty girl. Laurie Constable, her name is. Dick said he just would have lost the woman without her. Anyway, they took her leg off at the knee, and they're both exhausted. It took em three hours. Plus they've got a little boy with convulsive fits, and Dick's driving himself crazy trying to figure out if it's epilepsy or cranial pressure of some kind or maybe diabetes. They've had several cases of food poisoning from people eating stuff that's gone over, and he says some people are going to die of it if we don't get out a flier real soon telling people how to pick their supplies. Let's see, where was I? Two broken arms, one case of the flu—" "My God! Did you say flu?" "Ease up. It's the regular flu. Aspirin knocks down the fever no sweat... and it doesn't come back up. No black patches on the neck, either. But Dick isn't sure which antibiotics to use, if any, and he's burning the midnight oil trying to find out. Also, he's scared the flu will spread and people will panic." "Who is it?" "A lady named Rona Hewett. She walked most of the way here from Laramie, Wyoming, and Dick says she was ripe for a bug." Fran nodded. "Lucky for us, this Laurie Constable seems sort of stuck on Dick, even though he's about twice her age. I guess that's all right." "How big of you to give them your seal of approval, Stuart." He smiled. "Anyhow, Dick's forty-eight and he's got a minor heart condition. Right now he feels that he can't spread himself too thin... he's practically studying to be a doctor, for the Lord's sake." He looked soberly at Fran. "I can understand why that Laurie fell for him. He's the closest thing to a hero we've got around here. He's just a country, vet and he's scared shitless he's going to kill someone. And he knows there are more people coming in every day, and some of them have been banged around." "So we need one more for the committee." "Yeah. Ralph Brentner's gung-ho for this Larry Underwood guy, and from what you say, he struck you as being pretty handy." "Yes. He did. I think he'd be fine. And I met his lady today downtown. Lucy Swann, her name is. She's awfully sweet, and she thinks the world of Larry." "I guess every good woman feels that way. But, Frannie, I got to be honest with you-I don't like the way he spilled his life's story to someone he just met." "I think it was just because I was with Harold from the start. I don't think he understood why I was with you instead of him." "I wonder what he made of Harold?" "Ask him and see." "I guess I will." "Are you going to invite him onto the committee?" "More likely than not." He stood up. "I'd like to have that old fellow they call the Judge. But he's seventy, and that's too damn old." "Have you talked to him about Larry?" "No, but Nick did. Nick Andros is one sharp guy, Fran. He changed a few things around on Glen and I. Glen was a little bent out of shape about it, but even he had to admit Nick's ideas were good ones. Anyway, the Judge told Nick that Larry's just the kind of person we're looking for. He said Larry was just getting around to finding out he was good for something, and that he was going to get a lot better." "I'd call that a pretty strong recommendation." "Yes," Stu said. "But I'm going to find out what he thought of Harold before I invite him along for the ride." "What is it about Harold?" she asked restlessly. "Might as well ask what it is about you, Fran. You still feel responsible for him." "Do I? I don't know. But when I think about him, I still feel a little guilty- I can tell you that." "Why? Because I cut in on him? Fran, did you ever want No. God, no." She almost shuddered. "I lied to him once," Stu said. "Well... it wasn't actually a lie. It was the day the three of us met. July Fourth. I think he might have sensed what was coming even then. I said I didn't want you. How was I to know right then if I wanted you or not? There may be such a thing as love at first sight in books, but in real life..."

327 He stopped, and a slow grin spread across his face. "What are you grinning about, Stuart Redman?" "I was just thinkin," he said, "that in real life it took me at least..." He rubbed his chin consideringly. "Oh, I'm gonna say four hours." She kissed his cheek. "That's very sweet." "It's the truth. Anyway, I think he still holds what I said against me." "He never says a mean word against you, Stu... or anybody." "No," Stu agreed. "He smiles. That's what I don't like." "You don't think he's... plotting revenge, or anything?" Stu smiled and stood up. "No, not Harold. Glen thinks the Opposition Party may just end up coming together around Harold. That's okay. I just hope he doesn't try to fuck up what we're doing now." "Just remember that he's scared and lonely." "And jealous." "Jealous?" She considered it, then shook her head. "I don't think so—I really don't. I've talked to him, and I think I'd know. He may be feeling rejected, though. I think he expected to be on the ad hoc committee—" "That was one of Nick's unilateral—is that the word?—decisions that we all went along with. What it came down to was that none of us quite trusted him." "In Ogunquit," she said, "he was the most insufferable kid you could imagine. A lot of it was compensation for his family situation, I guess... to them it must have seemed like he had hatched from a cowbird egg or something... but after the flu, he seemed to change. At least to me, he did. He seemed to be trying to be, well... a man. Then he changed again. Like all at once. He started to smile all the time. You couldn't really talk to him anymore. He was... in himself. The way people get when they convert to religion or read—" She stopped suddenly, and her eyes took on a momentary startled look that seemed very like fear. "Read what?" Stu asked. "Something that changes their lives," she said. "Das Kapital. Mein Kampf. Or maybe just intercepted love letters." "What are you talking about?" "Hmm?" She looked around at him, as if startled out of a deep daydream. Then she smiled. "Nothing. Weren't you going to go see Larry Underwood?" "Sure... if you're okay." "I'm better than okay—I'm ultimately fine. Go on. Shoo. Meeting's at seven. If you hurry, you've got just enough time to get back here for some supper before." "All right." He was at the gate which separated the front yard from the back when she called after him: "Don't forget to ask him what he thought of Harold." "Don't worry," Stu said, "I won't." "And watch his eyes when he answers, Stuart."

When Stu asked casually about his impression of Harold (at this point Stu had not mentioned the vacancy on the ad hoc committee at all), Larry Underwood's eyes grew both wary and puzzled. "Fran told you about my fixation on Harold, huh?" Yep. Larry and Stu were in the living room of a small Table Mesa tract house. Out in the kitchen Lucy was rattling dinner together, heating canned stuff on a brazier grill Larry had rigged for her. It ran off bottled gas. She was singing snatches of "Honky Tonk Women" as she worked, and she sounded very happy. Stu lit a cigarette. He was down to no more than five or six a day; he didn't fancy having Dick Ellis operating on him for lung cancer. "Well, all the time I was following Harold I kept telling myself he probably wouldn't be like I pictured him. And he wasn't, but I'm still trying to figure out what it is about him. He was pleasant as hell. A good host. He cracked the bottle of wine I brought him and we toasted each other's good health. I had a good time. But..." "But?" "We came up behind him. Leo and me. He was putting a brick wall around this flower garden and he whirled around .. didn't hear us coming until I spoke up, I guess... and for a minute there I'm saying to myself, `Holy God, this dude is gonna kill me. '" Lucy came into the doorway. "Stu, can you stay for dinner? There's plenty." "Thanks, but Frannie expects me back. I can only stay fifteen minutes or so." "Sure?" "Next time, Lucy, thanks."

328 "Okay." She went back into the kitchen. "Did you come just to ask about Harold?" Larry asked. "No," Stu said, coming to a decision. "I came to ask if you'd serve on our little ad hoc committee. One of the other guys, Dick Ellis, had to say no." "Like that, is it?" Larry went to the window and looked out on the silent street. "I thought I could go back to being a private again." "Your decision, of course. We need one more. You were recommended." "By who, if you don't mind me—" "We asked around. Frannie seems to think you're pretty level. And Nick Andros talked-well, he doesn't talk, but you know-to one of the men that came in with you. Judge Farris." Larry looked pleased. "The Judge gave me a recommendation, huh? That's great. You know, you ought to have him. He's smart as the devil." "That's what Nick said. But he's also seventy, and our medical facilities are pretty primitive." Larry turned to look at Stu, half smiling. "This committee isn't quite as temporary as it looks on the face of it, is it?" Stu smiled and relaxed a little. He still hadn't really decided how he felt about Larry Underwood, but it was clear enough the man hadn't fallen off a hayrick yesterday. "Weell, let's put it this way. We'd like to. see our committee stand for election to a full term." "Preferably unopposed," Larry said. His eyes on Stu were friendly but sharpvery sharp. "Can I get you a beer?" "I better not. Had a few too many with Glen Bateman a couple nights ago. Fran's a patient girl, but her patience only stretches so far. What do you say, Larry? Want to ride along?" "I guess... oh hell, I say yes. I thought nothing in the world would make me happier than to get here and dump my people and let somebody else take over for a change. Instead, pardon my French, I've been just about bored out of my tits." "We're having a little meeting tonight at my place to talk over the big meeting on the eighteenth. Think you could come?" "Sure. Can I bring Lucy?" Stu shook his head slowly. "Nor talk to her about it. We want to keep some of this stuff close for a while." Larry's smile evaporated. "I'm not much on cloak-and-dagger, Stu. I better get that up front because it might save a hassle later. I think what happened in June happened because too many people were playing it a little too close. That wasn't any act of God. That was an act of pure human fuckery." "That's one you don't want to get into with Mother," Stu said. He was still smiling, relaxed. "As it happens, I agree with you. But would you feel the same way if it was wartime?" "I don't follow you." "That man we dreamed about. I doubt if he's just gone away." Larry looked startled, considering. "Glen says he can understand why nobody's talking about that," Stu went on, "even though we've all been warned. The people here are still shellshocked. They feel like they've been through hell to get here. All they want to do is lick their wounds and bury their dead. But if Mother Abagail's here, then he's there." Stu jerked his head toward the window, which gave on a view of the Flatirons rising in the high summer haze. "And most of the people here may not be thinking about him, but I'd bet my bottom dollar that he's thinking about us." Larry glanced at the doorway to the kitchen, but Lucy had gone outside to talk to Jane Hovington from next door. "You think he's after us," he said in a low voice. "That's a nice thought to have just before dinner. Good for the appetite." "Larry, I'm not sure of anything, myself. But Mother Abagail says it won't be over, one way or the other, until he's got us or we've got him." "I hope she's not saying that around. These people would be headed for fucking Australia." "Thought you didn't hold much with secrets." "Yeah, but this—" Larry stopped. Stu was smiling kindly, and Larry smiled back, rather sourly. "Okay. Your point. We talk it out and keep our mouths shut." "Fine. See you at seven." "Sure thing." They walked to the door together. "Thank Lucy for the invite again," Stu said. "Frannie and I'll take her up on it before long." "Okay." As Stu reached the door, Larry said, "Hey." Stu turned back, questioning.

329 "There's a boy," Larry said slowly, "that came across from Maine with us. His name is Leo Rockway. He's had his problems. Lucy and I sort of share him with a woman named Nadine Cross. Nadine's a little out of the ordinary herself, you know?" Stu nodded. There had been some talk about a peculiar little scene between Mother Abagail and the Cross woman when Larry brought his party in. "Nadine was taking care of Leo before I ran across them. Leo kind of sees into people. He's not the only one, either. Maybe there were always people like that, but there seems to be a little bit more of it around since the flu. And Leo... he wouldn't go into Harold's house. Wouldn't even stay on the lawn. That's... sort of funny, isn't it?" "It is," Stu agreed. They looked at each other thoughtfully for a moment and then Stu left to go home and get his supper. Fran seemed preoccupied herself during the meal, and didn't talk much. And while she was doing the last of the dishes in a plastic bucket full of warm water, people began arriving for the first meeting of the Free Zone Ad Hoc Committee.

After Stu had gone over to Larry's, Frannie rushed upstairs to the bedroom. In the corner of the closet was the sleeping bag she had carried across the country strapped to the back of her motorcycle. She had kept her personal belongings in a small zipper bag. Most of these belongings were now distributed through the apartment she and Stu shared, but a few still hadn't found a home and rested at the foot of the sleeping bag. There were several bottles of cleansing cream-she had suffered a sudden rash of skin outbreaks after the deaths of her mother and father, but that had now subsided-a box of Stayfree Mini Pads in case she started spotting (she had heard that pregnant women sometimes did), two boxes of cheap cigars, one marked IT'S A BOY! and the other marked IT'S A GIRL! The last item was her diary. She drew it out and looked at it speculatively. She had entered in it only eight or nine times since their arrival in Boulder, and most of the entries had been short, almost elliptical. The great outpouring had come and gone while they were still on the road... like afterbirth, she thought a little ruefully. She hadn't entered at all in the last four days, and suspected that the diary might eventually have slipped her mind altogether, although she had firmly intended to keep it more fully when things settled down a little. For the baby. Now, however, it was very much on her mind once more. The way people get when they convert to religion... or read something that changes their lives... like intercepted love letters... Suddenly it seemed to her that the book had gained weight, and that the very act of turning back the pasteboard cover would cause sweat to pop out on her brow and... and... She suddenly looked back over her shoulder, her heart beating wildly. Had something moved in here? A mouse, scuttering behind the wall, maybe. Surely no more than that. More likely just her imagination. There was no reason, no reason at all, for her to suddenly be thinking of the man. in the black robe, the man with the coathanger. Her baby was alive and safe and this was just a book and anyhow there was no way to tell if a book had been read, and even if there was a way, there would be no way to tell if the person who had read it had been Harold Lauder. Still, she opened the book and began to turn slowly through its pages, getting shutterclicks of the recent past like blackand-white photographs taken by an amateur. Home movie of the mind. Tonight we were admiring them and Harold was going on about color & texture & tone and Stu gave me a very sober wink. Evil me, I winked back... Harold will object on general principles, of course. Damn you, Harold, grow up! ... and I could see him getting ready with one of his Patented Harold Lauder Smartass Comments... (my God, Fran, why did you ever say all those things about him? to what purpose?) Well, you know Harold... his swagger... all those pompous words & pronouncements... an insecure little boy .. That was July 12. Wincing, she turned past it rapidly, fluttering through the pages now, in a hurry to get to the end. Phrases still leaped up, seeming to slap at her: Anyway, Harold smelled pretty clean for a change... Harold's breath would have driven away a dragon tonight... And another, seeming almost prophetic: He stores up rebuffs like pirate treasure. But to what purpose? To feed his own feelings of secret superiority and persecution? Or was it a matter of retribution? Oh, he's making a list... and checking it twice... he's gonna find out... who's naughty and nice... Then, on August 1, only two weeks ago. The entry started at the bottom of a page. No entry last night, I was too happy. Have I ever been this happy? I don't think so. Stu and I are together. We End of the page. She turned to the next one. The first words at the top of the page were made love twice. But they barely caught her eye before her glance dropped halfway down the page. There,

330 beside some blathering about the maternal instinct, was something that caught her eyes and froze her almost solid. It was a dark, smeary thumbprint. She thought wildly: I was riding on a motorcycle all day long, every day. Sure, I took care to clean up every chance I got, but your hands get dirty and... She put out her hand, not at all surprised to see that it was shaking badly. She put her thumb on the smudge. The smudge was a lot bigger. Well, of course it is, she told herself. When you smear something around, it naturally gets bigger. That's why, that's all that is... But this thumbprint wasn't that smeared. The little lines and loops and whorls were still clear, for the most part. And it wasn't grease or oil, there was no use even kidding herself that it was. It was dried chocolate. Paydays, Fran thought sickly. Chocolate-covered Payday candybars. For a moment she was afraid to do so much as turn around-afraid that she might see Harold's grin hanging over her shoulder like the grin of the Cheshire cat in Alice. Harold's thick lips moving as he said solemnly: Every dog has his day, Frannie. Every dog has his day. But even if Harold had sneaked a glance into her diary, did it have to mean he was contemplating some secret vendetta against her or Stu or any of the others? Of course not. But Harold's changed, an interior voice whispered. "Goddammit, he hasn't changed that much!" she cried to the empty room. She flinched a little at the sound of her own voice, then laughed shakily. She went downstairs and began to get supper. They would be eating early because of the meeting... but suddenly the meeting didn't seem as important as it had earlier.

Excerpts from the Minutes of the Ad Hoc Committee Meeting August 13, 1990

The meeting was held in the apartment of Stu Redman and Frances Goldsmith. All members of the ad hoc committee were present, those being: Stuart Redman, Frances Goldsmith, Nick Andros, Glen Bateman, Ralph Brentner, Susan Stem, and Larry Underwood... Stu Redman was elected moderator of the meeting. Frances Goldsmith was elected recording secretary .. These notes (plus complete coverage of every burp, gurgle, and aside, all recorded on Memorex cassettes for anyone crazy enough to want to listen to them) will be placed in a safe-deposit box of the First Bank of Boulder... Stu Redman presented a broadside on the subject of food poisoning written by Dick Ellis and Laurie Constable (eyecatchingly titled IF YOU EAT YOU SHOULD READ THIS!). He said Dick wanted to see it printed and nailed up all over Boulder before the big meeting on August 18, because there have already been fifteen cases of food poisoning in Boulder der, two of them quite serious. The committee voted 7–0 that Ralph should duplicate a thousand copies of Dick's poster and get ten people to help him put them up all over town... Susan Stern then presented another item that Dick and Laurie wanted to put before the meeting (we all wished one or the other of them could have been here) . They both feel that there must be a Burial Committee; Dick's idea was that it should be put on the agenda of the public meeting and that it be presented not as a health hazard-because of the possibility it might cause panic-but as "the decent thing to do." We all know there are surprisingly few corpses in Boulder in proportion to its pre-plague population, but we don't know why... not that it matters much now. But there are still thousands of dead bodies and they must be gotten rid of if we intend to stay here. Stu asked how serious the problem was at present and Sue said she thought it would not become really serious until fall, when the dry, hot weather usually turns damp. Larry made a motion that we add Dick's suggestion that a Burial Committee be formed to the agenda of the August 18 meeting. A motion was carried, 7–0. Nick Andros was then recognized, and Ralph Brentner read his prepared comments, which I am here quoting verbatim: "One of the most important questions this committee must deal with is whether or not it will agree to take Mother Abagail into its complete confidence, and shall she be told about everything that goes on at our meetings, both open and closed? The question can also be put the other way: `Shall Mother Abagail agree to take this committee-and the permanent committee that will follow it- into her complete confidence, and shall the committee be told about all that goes on in her meetings with God or Whoever... particularly the closed ones?' "That may sound like gibberish, but let me explain, be cause it's really a pragmatic question. We have to settle Mother Abagail's place in the community right away, be cause our problem is not just

331 one of `getting on our feet again. ' If that was all, we wouldn't really need her in the first place. As we all know there is another problem, that of the man we sometimes call the dark man, or as Glen puts it, the Adversary. My proof for his existence is very simple, and I think most people in Boulder would agree with my reasoning—if they wanted to think of it at all. Here it is: `I dreamed of Mother Abagail and she was; I dreamed of the dark man and therefore he must be, although I have never seen him. ' The people here love Mother Abagail, and I love her myself. But we won't get far—in fact, we won't get anywhere—if we don't start off with her approval of what we're doing. "So this early afternoon I went to see the lady and put the question to her directly, with all the bark on it: Will you go along? She said that she wouldbut not without conditions. She was perfectly blunt. She said we should be perfectly free to guide the community in all `worldly matters'-her phrase. Clearing the streets, allocating housing, getting the power back on. "But she was also very clear about wanting to be consulted on all matters that have to do with the dark man. She believes we are all a part of a chess game between God and Satan; that Satan's chief agent in this game is the Adversary, whose name she says is Randall Flagg (`the name he's using this time,' is how she puts it); that for reasons best known to Himself, God has chosen her as His agent in this matter. She believes, and in this I happen to agree with her, that a struggle is coming and it's going to be us or him. She thinks this struggle is the most important thing, and she's adamant about being consulted when our deliberations touch on it... and on him. "Now I don't want to get into the religious implications of all-this, or argue whether she's right or wrong, but it should be obvious that all implications aside, we have a situation we must cope with. So I have a series of motions." There was some discussion of Nick's statement. Nick made this motion: Can we, as a committee, agree not to discuss the theological, religious, or supernatural implications of the Adversary matter during our meetings? By a 7–0 vote, the committee agreed to bar discussion on those matters, at least while we're "in session." Nick then made this motion: Can we agree that the main private, secret business of the committee is the question of how to deal with this force known as the dark man, the Adversary, or Randall Flagg? Glen Bateman seconded the motion, adding that from time to time there might be other business—such as the real reason for the Burial Committeethat we should keep close to the vest. The motion carried, 7–0. Nick then made his original motion, that we keep Mother Abagail informed of all public and private business transacted by the committee. That motion was passed, 7–0. Having disposed of the Mother Abagail business for the time being, the committee then moved on to the question of the dark man himself at Nick's request. He proposed that we send three volunteers west to join the dark man's people, the purpose being to gain intelligence about what's really going on over there. Sue Stem immediately volunteered. After some hot discussion of that, Glen Bateman was recognized by Stu and put this motion on the floor: Resolved, that no one from our ad hoc committee or from the permanent committee be eligible to volunteer for this reconnaissance. Sue Stern wanted to know why not. Glen: "Everyone respects your honest desire to help, Susan, but the fact is, we simply don't know if the people we send will ever come back, or when, or in what shape. In the meantime, we have the not-so-inconsiderable job of getting things in Boulder back on a paying basis, if you'll pardon the slang. If you go, we'll have to fill your seat with someone new who would have to be briefed on the ground we've already covered. I just don't think we can afford all that lost time." Sue: "I suppose you're right... or at least being sensible... but I do wonder sometimes if those two things are always the same. Or even usually the same. What you're really saying is that we can't send anyone from the committee because we're all so fucking inexpendable. So we just... just... I don't know..." Stu: "Lay back in the buckwheat?" Sue: "Yes. Thank you. That's just what I mean. We lay back in the buckwheat and send somebody over there, maybe to get crucified on a telephone pole, maybe something even worse." Ralph: "What the hell could be worse?" Sue: "I don't know, but if anyone does know, it will be Flagg. I just hate it." Glen: "You may hate it, but you've stated our position very succinctly. We're politicians here. The first politicians of the new age. We just have to hope that our cause is more just than some of the causes for which politicians have sent people into life-or-death situations before this." Sue: "I never thought I'd be a politician." Larry: "Welcome to the club." Glen's motion that no one from the ad hoc committee should be one of the scouts was carried- gloomily-by a 7–0 vote. Fran Goldsmith then asked Nick what sort of qualifications we should look for in prospective undercover agents, and what we should expect them to find out.

332 Nick: "We won't know what there is to be learned until they come back. If they do come back. The point is, we have absolutely no idea what he's up to over there. We're more or less like fishermen using human bait." Stu said he thought the committee should pick the people it wanted to ask, and there was general agreement on this. By committee vote, most of the discussion from this point on has been transcribed into these excerpts verbatim from the audio tapes. It seemed important to have a permanent record of our deliberations on the matter of the scouts (or spies), because it turned out to be so delicate and so troubling. Larry: "I've got a name I'd like to put into nomination, if I could. I suppose it'll sound off the wall to those of you who don't know him, but it might be a really good idea. I'd like to send Judge Farris." Sue: "What, that old man? Larry, you must be nuts!" Larry: "He's the sharpest old guy I've ever met. He's only seventy, for the record. Ronald Reagan was serving as President at an older age than that." Fran: "That's not what I'd call a very strong recommendation." Larry: "But he's hale and hearty. And I think the dark man might not suspect we'd send an old crock like Farris to spy on him... and we have to take his suspicions into account, you know. He's got to, be looking for a move like this, and I wouldn't be entirely surprised if he had border guards checking people coming in over there against a potential `spy profile. ' And—this will sound brutal, I know, especially to Fran—but if we lose him, we haven't lost somebody with fifty good years in front of him." Fran: "You're right. It sounds brutal." Larry: "All I want to add is that I know the Judge would say okay. He really wants to help. And I really think he could carry it off." Glen: "A point well taken. What does anybody else think?" Ralph: "I'll go either way, because I don't know the gentleman. But I don't think we should throw the guy out just because he's old. After all, look who's in charge of this place-an old lady who's well over a hundred." Glen: "Another point well taken." Stu: "You sound like a tennis ref, baldy." Sue: "Listen, Larry. What if he fools the dark man and then drops dead of a heart attack while he's busting his hump to get back here?" Stu: "That could happen to just about anyone. Or an accident." Sue: "I agree... but with an old man, the odds go way up,., Larry: "That's true, but you don't know the Judge, Sue. If you did, you'd see that the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. He's really smart. Defense rests." Stu: "I think Larry's right. It's the sort of thing Flagg might not expect. I second the motion. Those in favor?" Committee voted aye, 7–0. Sue: "Well, I went along with yours, Larry-maybe you'll go along with mine." Larry: "Yeah, this is politics, all right. (General laughter.) Who is it?" Sue: "Dayna." Ralph: "Dayna who?" Sue: "Dayna Jurgens. She's got more guts than any woman I ever knew. Of course, I know she isn't seventy, but I think if we put the idea to her, she'd go along." Fran: "Yes—if we really have to do this, I think she'd be good. I second the nomination." Stu: "Okay—it's been moved and seconded that we ask Dayna Jurgens along for the ride. Those in favor?" Committee voted aye, 7–0. Glen: "Okay—who's number three?" Nick (read by Ralph): "If Fran disliked Larry's, I'm afraid she's really going to dislike mine. I nominate—" Ralph: "Nick, you're crazy! You don't mean it!" Stu: "Come on, Ralph, just read it." Ralph: "Well... it says here he wants to nominate... Tom Cullen." Uproar from the committee. Stu: "Okay. Nick has the floor. He's been writin like a bastard, so you better read it, Ralph." Nick: "First of all, I know Tom just as well as Larry knows the Judge, and probably better. He loves Mother Abagail. He'd do anything for her, including roasting over a slow fire. 4 really mean that-no hype. He'd set himself on fire for her, if she asked him to." Fran: "Oh, Nick, nobody's arguing that, but Tom is—" Stu: "Let it go, Fran—Nick's got the floor."

333 Nick: "My second point is the same one Larry made about the Judge. The Adversary is not going to expect us to send a retarded person as a spy. Your combined reactions to the idea are maybe the best argument in favor of the idea. "My third-and last-point is that, while Tom may be retarded, he is not a halfwit. He saved my life once when a tornado came, and he reacted much faster than anyone else I know would have done. Tom is childish, but even a child can learn to do certain things if he is drilled and taught and then drilled some more. I see no problem at all in giving Tom a very simple story to memorize. In the end, they'll likely assume that we sent him away because—" Sue: "Because we didn't want him polluting our genepool? Say, that's good." Nick: "—because he is retarded. He can even say he's mad at the people who sent him away and would like to get back at them. The one imperative which would have to be drilled into him would be to never change his story, no matter what." Fran: "Oh, no, I can't believe—" Stu: "Come on, Nick has the floor. Let's keep it orderly." Fran: "Yes—I'm sorry." Nick: "Some of you may feel that, because Tom is retarded, it would be easier to shake him from his story than it would be someone with a wider intelligence, but—" Larry: "Yeah." Nick: "—but actually, the reverse is true. If I tell Tom he simply must stick to the story I give him, stick to it no matter what, he will. A so-called normal person could only stand up to so many hours of water torture or so many electric shocks or splinters under the fingernails—" Fran: "It wouldn't come to that, would it? Would it? I mean, nobody really thinks it would come to that, do they?" Nick: "—before saying, `Okay, I give up. I'll tell you what I know. ' Tom simply won't do that. If he goes over his story enough times, he won't just have it by heart; he'll come to almost believe it is true. Nobody will be able to shake him on it. I just want to make it clear that I think, in a number of ways, Tom's retardation is actually a plus in a mission like this. `Mission' sounds like a pretentious word, but that's just what it is." Stu: "Is that it, Ralph?" Ralph: "There's a little more." Sue: "If he actually starts to live his cover story, Nick, how-in the hell will he know when it's time to come back?" Ralph: "Pardon me, ma'am, but it looks like that's what some of this is about." Sue: "Oh." Nick (read by Ralph): "Tom can be given a post-hypnotic suggestion before we send him out. Again, this is not just blue-skying; when I had this idea, I asked Stan Nogotny if he would try to hypnotize Tom. Stan used to do it as a parlor trick at parties sometimes, I heard him say. Well, Stan didn't think it would work... but Tom went under in about six seconds." Stu: "I'll be. Ole Stan knows how to do that, huh?" Nick: "The reason I thought Tom might be ultra-susceptible dates back to when I met him in Oklahoma. He's apparently developed the knack, over a long period of years, of hypnotizing himself to a degree. It helps him make connections. He couldn't understand what I was up to on the day I met him-why I didn't talk to him or answer any of his questions. I kept putting my hand on my mouth and then my throat to show I was mute, but he didn't get it at all. Then, all at once, he just turned off. I can't explain it any better than that. He became perfectly still. His eyes went far away. Then he came out of it, exactly the way a subject comes out of it when the hypnotist tells him it's time to wake up. And he knew. Just like that. He went into himself and came up with the answer." Glen: "That's really amazing." Stu: "It sure is." Nick: "I had Stan give him a post-hypnotic suggestion when we tried this, about five days ago now. The suggestion Was that when Stan said, `I sure would like to see an elephant,' Tom would feel a great urge to go into the corner and stand on his head. Stan sprang it on him about half an hour after he woke Tom up, and Tom hustled right over into the corner and stood on his head. All the toys and marbles fell out of his pants pockets. Then he sat down and grinned at us and said, `Now I wonder why Tom Cullen went and did that?'" Glen: "I can just hear him, too." Nick: "Anyway, all this elaborate hypnosis stuff is just an introduction to two very simple points. One, we can plant a post-hypnotic suggestion that Tom return at a certain time. The obvious way would be to do this by the moon. The full moon. Two, by putting him into deep hypnosis when he gets back, we'd get almost perfect recall of everything he saw." Ralph: "That's the end of what Nick's got written down. Wow." Larry: "It sounds like that old movie The Manchurian Candidate to me." Stu: "What?"

334 Larry: "Nothing." Sue: "I have a question, Nick. Would you also program Tom—I guess that's the right word—not to give out any information about what we're doing?" Glen: "Nick, let me answer that, and if your reasoning is different, just shake your head. I would say that Tom doesn't need to be programmed at all. Let him spill anything and everything he knows about us. We're keeping our business as it relates to Flagg in camera anyway, and we're not doing much else that he couldn't guess on his own... even if his crystal ball is on the blink." Nick: "Exactly." Glen: "Okay—I'm going to second Nick's motion right on the spot. I think we have everything to win and nothing to lose. It's a tremendously daring and original idea." Stu: "It's been moved and seconded. We can have a little further discussion if you want, but only a little. We'll be here all night, if we don't look lively. Is there any further discussion?" Fran: "You bet there is. You said we have everything to win and nothing to lose, Glen. Well, what about Tom? What about our own goddam souls? Maybe it doesn't bother you guys to think about people sticking... things... under Tom's fingernails and giving him electric shocks, but it bothers me. How can you be so cold-blooded? And Nick, hypnotizing him so he'd behave like a... a chicken with its head stuck in a bag! You ought to be ashamed! I thought he was your friend!" Stu: "Fran—" Fran: "No, I'm going to have my say. I won't wash my hands of the committee or even walk off in a huff if I'm voted down, but I'm going to have my say. Do you really want to take that sweet, foggy boy and turn him into a human U-2 plane? Don't any of you understand that's the same as starting all the old shit over again? Can't you see that? What do we do if they kill him, Nick? What do we do if they kill all of them? Breed up some new bugs? An improved version of Captain Trips?" There was a pause here while Nick wrote out a response. Nick (read by Ralph): "The things Fran has, brought up have affected me pretty deeply, but I stand by my nomination. No, I don't feel good about standing Tom on his head, and I don't feel good about sending him into a situation where he might be tortured and then killed. I'll only point out again that he would be doing it for Mother Abagail, and her ideas, and her God, not for us. I also truly believe that we have to use any means at our disposal to end the threat this being poses. He's crucifying people over there. I'm sure of that from my dreams, and I know some of you others have had that dream, too. Mother Abagail has had it herself. And I know that Flagg is evil. If anyone works up a new strain of Captain Trips, Frannie, it will be him, to use on us. I'd like to stop him while we still can." Fran: "Those things are all true, Nick. I can't argue them. I know he's bad. For all I know, he may be Satan's Imp, as Mother Abagail says. But we're putting our hand to the same switch in order to stop him. Remember Animal Farm? `They looked from the pigs to the men, and could not tell the difference. ' I guess what I really want to hear you say—even if it's Ralph who reads it-is that if we do have to pull that switch in order to stop him... if we do... that we'll be able to let go once it's over. Can you say that?" Nick: "Not for sure, I guess. Not for sure." Fran: "Then I vote no. If we must send people into the West, let's at least send people who know what they are in for." Stu: "Anyone else?" Sue: "I'm against it, too, but for more practical reasons. If we go on the way we're headed, we're going to end up with an old man and a feeb. Pardon the expression, I like him too, but that's what he is. I'm against it, and now I'll shut up." Glen: "Call the question, Stu." Stu: "Okay. Let's go around the table. I vote aye. Frannie?" Fran: "Nay." Stu: "Glen?" Glen: "Aye." Stu: "Suze?" Sue: "Nay." Stu: "Nick?" Nick: "Aye." Stu: "Ralph?" Ralph: "Well—I don't like it that much either, but if Nick's for it, I got to go along. Aye." Stu: "Larry?" Larry: "Want me to be frank? I think the idea sucks so bad I feel like a pay toilet. This is the kind of stuff you get when you're at the top, I guess. Neat fucking place to be. I vote aye." Stu: "Motion's carried, 5–2." Fran: "Stu?" Stu: "Yes?"

335 Fran: "I'd like to change my vote. If we're really going to put Tom into it, we better do it together. I'm sorry I made such a fuss, Nick. I know it hurts you-I can see it on your face. It's so crazy! Why did any of this have to happen? It sure isn't like being on the sorority prom committee, I'll tell you that. Frannie votes aye." Sue: "Me too, then. United front. Nixon Stands Firm, Says I Am Not a Crook. Aye." Stu: "Amended vote is 7–0. Here's a hanky, Fran. And I'd like the record to show that I love you." Larry: "On that note, I think we should adjourn." Sue: "I second that emotion." Stu: "It has been moved and seconded by Zippy and Zippy's mom that we adjourn. Those in favor, raise your hands. Those opposed, be prepared to get a can of beer dumped on your head." The vote to adjourn was 7–0.