Part 15 (1/2)

”Put your hand on your p.u.s.s.y and listen,” said August Personage. ”I'd like to lift your dress and-” Rebecca hung up.

She suddenly remembered the hit when the needle went in, and all those wasted years. Saul had saved her from that, and now Saul was gone and strange voices on the phone talked of s.e.x the way addicts talked of junk. ”In the beginning of all things was Mummu, the spirit of pure Chaos. In the beginning was the Word, and it was written by a baboon.” Rebecca Goodman, twenty-five years old, started to cry. If he's dead, she thought, these years have been wasted, too. Learning to love. Learning that s.e.x was more than another kind of junk. Learning that tenderness was more than a word in the dictionary: that it was just what D. H. Lawrence said, not an embellishment on s.e.x but the center of the act. Learning what that poor guy on the phone could never guess, as most people in this crazy country never guessed it. And then losing it, losing it to an aimless bullet fired from a blind gun somewhere.

August Personage, about to leave the phone booth at the Automat on Fortieth Street and the Avenue of the Americas, catches a flash of plastic on the floor. Bending, he picks up a p.o.r.nographic tarot card, which he quickly shoves into a pocket to be examined at leisure later.

It was the Five of Pentacles.

And, when the throne room was empty and the believers had departed in wonder and redoubled faith, Ha.s.san knelt and separated the two halves of the vessel which held the head of Ibn Azif. ”Very convincing screams,” he commented, slipping the trapdoor beneath the plate; and Ibn Azif climbed out, grinning at his own performance. His neck was thick, bull-like, undamaged, and quite solid.

THE FIFTH TRIP, OR GEBURAH.

Swift-Kick, Inc And, behold, thusly was the Law formulated: IMPOSITION OF ORDER = ESCALATION OF CHAOS!-Lord Omar Khayaam Ravenhurst, ”The Gospel According to Fred,” The Honest Book of Truth The Honest Book of Truth The lights flashed; the computer buzzed. Hagbard attached the electrodes.

On January 30, 1939, a silly little man in Berlin gave a silly little speech; among other things, he said: ”And another thing I wish to say on this day which perhaps is memorable not only for us Germans: in my life I have many times been a prophet and most of the times I have been laughed at. During the period of my struggle for power, it was in the first case the Jews that laughed at my prophecies that some day I would take over the leaders.h.i.+p of the State and thereby of the whole folk and that I would among other things solve also the Jewish problem. I believe that in the meantime the hyenalike laughter of the Jews of Germany has been smothered in their throats. Today I want to be a prophet once more: if the international-finance Jews inside and outside Europe should succeed once more in plunging nations into another world war the consequence will be the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.” And so on. He was always saying things like that. By 1939 quite a few heads here and there realized that the silly little man was also a murderous little monster, but only a very small number even of these noticed that for the first time in his anti-Semitic diatribes he had used the word Vernichtung Vernichtung-annihilation-and even they couldn't believe he meant what that implied. In fact, outside of a small circle of friends, n.o.body guessed what the little man, Adolf Hitler, had planned.

Outside that small-very small-circle of friends, others came in intimate contact with der Fuhrer der Fuhrer and never guessed what was in his mind. Hermann Rauschning, the Governor of Danzig, for instance, was a devout n.a.z.i until he began to get some hints of where Hitler's fancies were tending; after fleeing to France, Rauschning wrote a book warning against his former leader. It was called and never guessed what was in his mind. Hermann Rauschning, the Governor of Danzig, for instance, was a devout n.a.z.i until he began to get some hints of where Hitler's fancies were tending; after fleeing to France, Rauschning wrote a book warning against his former leader. It was called The Voice of Destruction The Voice of Destruction and was very eloquent, but the most interesting pa.s.sages in it were not understood by Rauschning or by most of his readers. ”Whoever sees in National Socialism nothing but a political movement doesn't know much about it,” Hitler told Rauschning, and this is in the book, but Rauschning and his readers continued to see National Socialism as a particularly vile and dangerous and was very eloquent, but the most interesting pa.s.sages in it were not understood by Rauschning or by most of his readers. ”Whoever sees in National Socialism nothing but a political movement doesn't know much about it,” Hitler told Rauschning, and this is in the book, but Rauschning and his readers continued to see National Socialism as a particularly vile and dangerous political movement political movement and nothing more. ”Creation is not yet completed,” Hitler said again; and Rauschning again recorded, without understanding. ”The planet will undergo an upheaval which you uninitiated people can't understand,” and nothing more. ”Creation is not yet completed,” Hitler said again; and Rauschning again recorded, without understanding. ”The planet will undergo an upheaval which you uninitiated people can't understand,” der Fuhrer der Fuhrer warned on another occasion; and, still another time, he remarked that n.a.z.ism was, not only more than a political movement, but ”more than a new religion;” and Rauschning wrote it all and understood none of it. He even recorded the testimony of Hitler's physician that the silly and murderous little man often awoke screaming from nightmares that were truly extraordinary in their intensity and would shout, ”It's HIM, it's HIM, HE's come for me!” Good old Hermann Rauschning, a German of the old school and not equipped to partic.i.p.ate in the New Germany of National Socialism, took all this as evidence of mental unbalance in Hitler.... warned on another occasion; and, still another time, he remarked that n.a.z.ism was, not only more than a political movement, but ”more than a new religion;” and Rauschning wrote it all and understood none of it. He even recorded the testimony of Hitler's physician that the silly and murderous little man often awoke screaming from nightmares that were truly extraordinary in their intensity and would shout, ”It's HIM, it's HIM, HE's come for me!” Good old Hermann Rauschning, a German of the old school and not equipped to partic.i.p.ate in the New Germany of National Socialism, took all this as evidence of mental unbalance in Hitler....

All of them coming back, all of them. Hitler and Stretcher and Goebbels and the powers behind them what look like something you can't even imagine, guvnor....

You think they was human, the patient went on as the psychiatrist listened in astonishment, but wait till you see them the second time. And they're coming-By the end of the month, they're coming but wait till you see them the second time. And they're coming-By the end of the month, they're coming....

Karl Haushofer was never tried at Nuremberg; ask most people to name the men chiefly responsible for the Vernichtung Vernichtung (annihilation) decision, and his name will not be mentioned; even most histories of n.a.z.i Germany relegate him to footnotes. But strange stories are told about his many visits to Tibet, j.a.pan, and other parts of the Orient; his gift for prophecy and clairvoyance; the legend that he belonged to a bizarre sect of dissident and most peculiar Buddhists, who had entrusted him with a mission in the Western world so serious that he vowed to commit suicide if he did not succeed. If the last yarn is true, Haushofer must have failed in his mission, for in March 1946 he killed his wife Martha and then performed the j.a.panese suicide-rite of (annihilation) decision, and his name will not be mentioned; even most histories of n.a.z.i Germany relegate him to footnotes. But strange stories are told about his many visits to Tibet, j.a.pan, and other parts of the Orient; his gift for prophecy and clairvoyance; the legend that he belonged to a bizarre sect of dissident and most peculiar Buddhists, who had entrusted him with a mission in the Western world so serious that he vowed to commit suicide if he did not succeed. If the last yarn is true, Haushofer must have failed in his mission, for in March 1946 he killed his wife Martha and then performed the j.a.panese suicide-rite of sepukku sepukku upon himself. His son, Albrecht, had already been executed for his role in the ”officer's plot” to a.s.sa.s.sinate Hitler. (Of his father, Albrecht had written in a poem: ”My father broke the seal/He did not feel the breath of the Evil One/ He set It free to roam the world!”) upon himself. His son, Albrecht, had already been executed for his role in the ”officer's plot” to a.s.sa.s.sinate Hitler. (Of his father, Albrecht had written in a poem: ”My father broke the seal/He did not feel the breath of the Evil One/ He set It free to roam the world!”) It was Karl Haushofer, clairvoyant, mystic, medium, Orientalist, and fanatic believer in the lost continent of Thule, who introduced Hitler to the Illuminated Lodge in Munich, in 1923. Shortly thereafter, Hitler made his first bid to seize power.

No rational interpretation of the events of August 1968 in Chicago, satisfactory to all partic.i.p.ants and observers, has yet been produced. This suggests the need for value-free models, inspired by the structural a.n.a.lysis in von Neumann and Morgenstern's Theory of Games and Economic Behavior Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, which will allow us to express what actually occurred functionally, without tainting our a.n.a.lysis with bias or moral judgments. The model we will employ is that of two teams, an uphill motorcar race and a downhill bicycle race, accidentally intersecting on the same hill. The Pica.s.so statue in the Civic Center will be regarded as ”start” for the downhill motorcar race and ”finish” for the uphill bicycle race. Pontius Pilate, disguised as Sirhan Sirhan, fires the opening shot, thereby disqualifying Robert F. Kennedy, for whom Marilyn Monroe committed suicide, as recorded in the most trustworthy tabloids and scandal sheets.

THIS IS THE VOICE OF YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER MAN SPEAKING. YOU MUST REALIZE THAT YOU ARE NOT JOSEPH WENDELL MALIK.

h.e.l.l's Angels on motorcycles do not fit the structure of the race at all, so they endlessly orbit around the heroic statue of General Logan in Grant Park (”finish” for the uphill crucifixion racers) and can be considered as isolated from the ”action,” which is, of course, America.

When Jesus falls the first time, this can be considered as a puncture and Simon operates an air pump on his tires, but the threat to throw LSD in the water supply const.i.tutes a ”foul” and this team thereby is driven back three squares by Mace, clubs, and the machine guns of the Capone mob unleashed from another time track in the same multiverse. Willard Gibbs, far more than Einstein, created the modern cosmos, and his concept of contingent or statistical reality, when cross-fertilized with the Second Law of Thermodynamics by Shannon and Wiener, led to the definition of information as the negative reciprocal of probability, making the clubbings of Jesus by Chicago cops just another of those things that happens in this kind of quantum jump.

A centurion named Semper Cuni Linctus pa.s.ses Simon in Grant Park looking for the uphill bike race. ”When we crucify a man,” he mutters, ”he should confounded well stay stay crucified.” The three Marys clutch handkerchiefs to their faces as the teargas and Zyklon B pours upward on the hill, to the spot where the crosses and the statue of General Logan stand.... ”Nor dashed a thousand kim,” croons Saint Toad looking through the door at Fission Chips.... Arthur Flegenheimer and Robert Putney Drake ascend the chimney.... ”You don't have to believe in Santa Claus,” H. P. Lovecraft explains.... ”Ambrose,” the Dutchman says to him imploringly. crucified.” The three Marys clutch handkerchiefs to their faces as the teargas and Zyklon B pours upward on the hill, to the spot where the crosses and the statue of General Logan stand.... ”Nor dashed a thousand kim,” croons Saint Toad looking through the door at Fission Chips.... Arthur Flegenheimer and Robert Putney Drake ascend the chimney.... ”You don't have to believe in Santa Claus,” H. P. Lovecraft explains.... ”Ambrose,” the Dutchman says to him imploringly.

”But it can't be,” Joe Malik says, half weeping. ”It can't be that crazy. Buildings wouldn't stand. Planes wouldn't fly. Dams would collapse. Engineering colleges would be lunatic asylums.”

”They aren't already?” Simon asks. ”Have you read the latest data on the ecological catastrophe? You have to face it, Joe. G.o.d is a crazy woman.”

”There are no straight lines in curved s.p.a.ce,” Stella adds.

”But my mind is dying,” Joe protests, shuddering.

Simon holds up an ear of corn and tells him urgently, ”Osiris is a black G.o.d!”

(Sir Charles James Napier, bearded, long-haired and sixty-odd years old, General of Her Majesty's Armies in India, met a most engaging scoundrel in January 1843 and immediately wrote to his cronies in England about this remarkable person, whom he described as brave, clever, fabulously wealthy, and totally unscrupulous. Since this curious fellow was also regarded as G.o.d by his followers, who numbered over three million, he charged twenty rupees for permission to kiss his hand, asked-and got-the s.e.xual favors of the wives or daughters of any True Believers who took his fancy, and proved his divinity by brazenly and openly committing sins which any mortal would shrivel with shame to have acknowledged. He also proved, at the Battle of Miani, where he aided the British against the rebellious Baluchi tribesmen, that he could fight like ten tigers. All in all, General Napier concluded, a most unusual human being-Hasan ali Shah Mahallat, forty-sixth Imam, or living G.o.d, of the Ishmaelian sect of Islam, direct descendant of Ha.s.san i Sabbah, and first Aga Khan.) Dear Joe:I'm back in Czechago again, fabulous demesne of Crookbacked Richard, pigbaschard of the world, etc., where the pollution comes up like thunder out of Gary across the lake, etc., and the Padre and I are still working on the heads of the local Heads, etc., so I've finally got time to write you that long letter I promised.The Law of Fives is all the farther that Weishaupt ever got, and Hagbard and John aren't much interested in any further speculations along those lines. The 23/17 phenomenon is entirely my discovery, except that William S. Burroughs has noted the 23 without coming to any conclusions about it.I'm writing this on a bench in Grant Park, near the place I got Maced three years ago. Nice symbolism.A woman just came along from the Mothers March Against Polio. I gave her a quarter. What a drag, just when I was trying to get my thoughts in order. When you come out here, I'll be able to tell you more; this will obviously have to be somewhat sketchy.Burroughs, anyway, encountered the 23 in Tangier's, when a ferryboat captain named Clark remarked that he'd been sailing 23 years without an accident. That day, his s.h.i.+p sunk, with all hands and feet aboard. Burroughs was thinking about it in the evening when the radio newscast told him that an Eastern Airlines plane, New York to Miami, had crashed. The pilot was another Captain Clark and the plane was Flight 23.

”If you want to know the extent of their control,” Simon told Joe (speaking this time, not writing a letter; they were driving to San Francisco after leaving Dillinger), ”take a dollar bill out of your wallet and look at it. Go ahead-do it now. I want to make a point.” Joe took out his wallet and looked for a single. (A year later, in the city Simon called Czechago in honor of the synchronous invasions in August 1968, the KCUF convention is taking its first luncheon break after Smiling Jim's sock-it-to-'em opening speech. Simon brushes against an usher, shouts, ”Hey, you d.a.m.ned f.a.ggot, keep your hands off my a.s.s,” and in the ensuing tumult Joe has no trouble slipping the AUM in the punch.) ”Do I have to get a library card just to look at one book?” Carmel asks the librarian in the Main Branch of the Las Vegas Library, after Maldonado had failed to produce any lead to a communist agent.

”One of the most puzzling acts of Was.h.i.+ngton's Presidency,” Professor Percival Petsdeloup tells an American history cla.s.s at Columbia, back in '68, ”was his refusal to aid Tom Paine when Paine was condemned to death in Paris.” ... Why puzzling? George Dorn thinks in the back of the cla.s.s, Was.h.i.+ngton was an Establishment fink.... ”First of all, look at that face on the front,” Simon says. ”It isn't Was.h.i.+ngton at all, it's Weishaupt. Compare it with any of the early, authentic pictures of Was.h.i.+ngton and you'll see what I mean. And look at that cryptic half-smile on his face.” ”First of all, look at that face on the front,” Simon says. ”It isn't Was.h.i.+ngton at all, it's Weishaupt. Compare it with any of the early, authentic pictures of Was.h.i.+ngton and you'll see what I mean. And look at that cryptic half-smile on his face.” (The same smile Weishaupt wore when he finished the letter explaining to Paine why he couldn't help him; sealed it with the Great Seal of the United States whose meaning only he knew; and settling back in his chair, murmured to himself, ”Jacques De Molay, thou art again avenged!”) (The same smile Weishaupt wore when he finished the letter explaining to Paine why he couldn't help him; sealed it with the Great Seal of the United States whose meaning only he knew; and settling back in his chair, murmured to himself, ”Jacques De Molay, thou art again avenged!”) ”What do you mean, I'm creating a disturbance? It was that f.a.ggot there, with his big mitts on my a.s.s.”

(”Well, I don't know which particular book, honey. Something that tells how the communists work. You know, how a patriotic citizen can spot a commie spy ring if there's one in his neighborhood. That kind of thing,” Carmel explained.) A swarm of men in blue s.h.i.+rts and white plastic helmets rushes down the steps at Forty-third Street and UN Plaza, past the inscription reading, ”They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks, neither shall they study war any more.” Waving heavy wooden crosses and shouting angry battle cries, the helmeted men surge into the crowd like a wave hitting a sand castle. George sees them coming, and his heart skips a beat.

”And when you turn the bill over, the first thing you see is the Illuminati pyramid. You'll notice it says seventeen seventy-six on it, but our government was founded in seventeen eighty-eight. Supposedly, the seventeen seventy-six is there because that's when the Declaration of Independence was signed. The real reason is that seventeen seventy-six is the year Weishaupt revived the Illuminati. And why do you suppose the pyramid has seventy-two segments in thirteen layers?” Simon asks in nineteen sixty-nine.... ”Misunderstanding, my eye! When a guy gropes my b.u.t.t that way I understand exactly what he wants,” Simon shouts in nineteen seventy.... George nudges Peter Jackson. ”G.o.d's Lightning,” he says. The plastic hats gleam in the sunlight, more of them jostling down the stairs, a banner, red letters on a white background unfurling above: George nudges Peter Jackson. ”G.o.d's Lightning,” he says. The plastic hats gleam in the sunlight, more of them jostling down the stairs, a banner, red letters on a white background unfurling above: ”AMERICA: LOVE IT OR WE'LL STOMP YOU.... ”AMERICA: LOVE IT OR WE'LL STOMP YOU.... ”Christ on roller-skates,” Peter says, ”now watch the cops do a vanis.h.i.+ng act.” ”Christ on roller-skates,” Peter says, ”now watch the cops do a vanis.h.i.+ng act.”... Dillinger settles down cross-legged in a five-sided chamber under the UN meditation room. He curls into the lotus posture with an ease that would appear unusual in an American in his late sixties were there anyone to witness it.

”Seventy-two is the cabalistic number for the Holy Unspeakable Name of G.o.d, used in all black magic, and thirteen is the number in a coven,” Simon explains. ”That's why.” The Volkswagen purrs toward San Francisco.

Carmel comes down the steps of the Las Vegas Public Library, a copy of J. Edgar Hoover's Masters of Deceit Masters of Deceit under his arm, an antic.i.p.atory smirk on his face, under his arm, an antic.i.p.atory smirk on his face, and Simon is finally ejected from the Sheraton-Chicago shouting, ”f.a.ggots! I think you're all a bunch of f.a.ggots!” and Simon is finally ejected from the Sheraton-Chicago shouting, ”f.a.ggots! I think you're all a bunch of f.a.ggots!”

”And here's one of their jokes” Simon adds. ”Over the eagle's head, do you dig that Star of David? They put that one in-one single six-pointed Jewish star, made up of all the five-pointed stars-just so some right-wing cranks could find it and proclaim it as proof that the Elders of Zion control the Treasury and the Federal Reserve.”

Overlooking the crowd in UN Plaza, Zev Hirsch, New York State Commander of G.o.d's Lightning, watches his thick-shouldered troops, swinging their wooden crosses like tomahawks, drive back the lily-livered peaceniks. There is an obstacle. A blue line of policemen has formed between the men of G.o.d's Lightning and their prey. Over the cops' shoulders, the peaceniks are screeching dirty words at their plastic-hatted enemies. Zev's eyes scan the crowd. He catches the eye of a red-faced cop with gold braid on his cap. Zev gives the Police Captain a questioning look. The Captain winks. A minute later the Captain makes a small gesture with his left hand. Immediately, the line of police vanishes, as if melted in the bright spring sun that beats down on the plaza. The battalion of G.o.d's Lightning falls upon their anguished, outraged, and astonished victims. Zev Hirsch laughs. This is a lot more fun than the old days in the Jewish Defense League. All the servants are drunk. And the rain continues.

At an outdoor cafe in Jerusalem two white-haired old men wearing black are drinking coffee together. They try to mask their emotions from the people around them, but their eyes are wild with excitement. They are staring at an inside page of a Yiddish newspaper, reading two ads in Yiddish, a large, quarter-page announcement of the greatest rock festival of all time to be held near Ingolstadt, Bavaria-bands of all nations, people of all nations, to be known as Woodstock Europa. On the same page is the paper's personals column, and the watery eyes of the two old men are re-reading for the fifth time the statement, in Yiddish, ”In thanks to St. Jude for favors granted.-A. W.”

One old man points at the page with a trembling finger. ”It is coming,” he says in German.

The other one nods, a beatific smile on his withered face. ”Jawohl. It is coming very soon. Der Tag. Soon we must to Bavaria go. Ewige Blumenkraft!”

Carlo put the gun on the table between us. ”This is it, George,” he said, ”Are you a revolutionary, or are you just on an ego trip playing at being a revolutionary? Can you take the gun?”

I wiped my eyes. The Pa.s.saic was flowing below me, a steady stream of garbage from the Paterson falls down to Newark and the Atlantic Ocean. Like the garbage that was my contemptible, cowardly soul.... The G.o.d's Lightning troopers fan out, clubbing each person wearing an I WON'T DIE FOR FERNANDO POO b.u.t.ton. Blood dances in the air, fragile red bubbles, before the tomblike slab of the UN building.... Dillinger's breathing slows down. He stares at the ruby eye atop the 13-step pyramid hidden in the UN building, and he thinks of pentagons Dillinger's breathing slows down. He stares at the ruby eye atop the 13-step pyramid hidden in the UN building, and he thinks of pentagons.

”I'm a G.o.d's Lightning,” Carlo said. ”This is no joke, baby, I'm going to do the whole bit.” His intense eyes burned into mine as the switchblade came out of his pocket. ”Motherf.u.c.kin' commie,” he screamed suddenly, leaping up so quickly that the chair fell over behind him. ”You're not getting off with a beating this time. I'm gonna cut your b.a.l.l.s off and take them home as a souvenir.” He slashed forward with the knife, deflecting his swing at the last minute. ”Made you jump, you long-haired f.a.ggotty freak. I wonder if you have any b.a.l.l.s to cut off. Well, I'll find out.” He inched forward, the knife weaving snakelike patterns in the air.

”Look,” I said desperately, ”I know you're only playacting.”

”You don't know nothing nothing, baby. Maybe I'm FBI or CIA. Maybe this is just an excuse to get you to go for the gun so I can kill you and claim self-defense. Life isn't all demonstrations and play-acting, George. There comes a time when it gets serious.” He lunged again with the knife, and I stumbled clumsily backward. ”Are you going to take the gun or am I going to cut your b.a.l.l.s off and tell the Group you're no f.u.c.king good and we couldn't use you?”

He was totally mad and I was totally sane. Is that a more flattering way of telling it, instead of the truth, that he was brave and I was yellow?

”Listen,” I said, ”I know you won't really stab me and you know I won't really shoot you-”

”s.h.i.+t on you know you know and and I know” I know” Carlo hit me in the chest with his free hand, hard. ”I'm a G.o.d's Lightning, really a G.o.d's Lightning. I'm gonna do the whole scene. This is a test, but the test is for real.” He hit me again, jarring my balance, then slapped my face, twice, rapidly, back and forth like a winds.h.i.+eld wiper. ”I always said you longhaired commie freaks don't have no guts. You can't even fight back. You can't even feel angry, can you? You just feel sorry for yourself, right?” Carlo hit me in the chest with his free hand, hard. ”I'm a G.o.d's Lightning, really a G.o.d's Lightning. I'm gonna do the whole scene. This is a test, but the test is for real.” He hit me again, jarring my balance, then slapped my face, twice, rapidly, back and forth like a winds.h.i.+eld wiper. ”I always said you longhaired commie freaks don't have no guts. You can't even fight back. You can't even feel angry, can you? You just feel sorry for yourself, right?”

It was too d.a.m.ned true. A nerve twinged deep down inside at the unfairness of it, of his ability to see into me more than I usually dared see into myself; and at last I grabbed the gun from the table, screaming, ”You s.a.d.i.s.tic Stalinist Stalinist son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!” son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!”

”And look at the eagle,” Simon says. ”Look real close. That ain't really no olive branch in his left claw, baby. That's our old friend Maria Juana. You never really looked at a dollar bill before, did you?

”And the real symbolism of the pyramid is alchemical, of course. The traditional code represents the three kinds of s.e.x by a cube, a pyramid, and a sphere. The cube is that travesty we call 'normal' s.e.x, in which the two nervous systems never actually merge at the o.r.g.a.s.m, like the two parallel sides of the cube. The pyramid is the two coming together and joining, the magical-telepathic o.r.g.a.s.m. The sphere is the Tantric ritual, endlessly prolonged, with no o.r.g.a.s.m at all. The alchemists used that code for over two thousand years. The Rosicrucians among the founding fathers used the pyramid as a symbol of their kind of s.e.x magic. Aleister Crowley used that symbol the same way, more recently. The eye on the pyramid is the two minds meeting. Neurological interlock. The opening of the Eye of s.h.i.+va. Ewige Schlangekraft-the eternal serpent power. The joining of the Rose and Cross, v.a.g.i.n.a and p.e.n.i.s, into Rose-Cross. The astral leap. Mind escaping from physiology.”

The AUM was supposed to work almost instantly, according to what the scientists at ELF had told Hagbard, so Joe approached the first man who had sampled the punch and started a conversation. ”Nice talk Smiling Jim gave,” he said earnestly. (I rammed the gun into Carlo's gut and saw him go white about the lips. ”No, don't worry,” I said, smiling. ”I'm not using it on you. But when I come back there'll be a dead pig on the streets somewhere in Morningside Heights.” He started to speak, and I jabbed downward with the gun, grinning as he gasped for air. ”Comrade,” I added.) (I rammed the gun into Carlo's gut and saw him go white about the lips. ”No, don't worry,” I said, smiling. ”I'm not using it on you. But when I come back there'll be a dead pig on the streets somewhere in Morningside Heights.” He started to speak, and I jabbed downward with the gun, grinning as he gasped for air. ”Comrade,” I added.) ”Yeah, Smiling Jim was born with a silver tongue,” the other man said. ”Yeah, Smiling Jim was born with a silver tongue,” the other man said.

”A silver tongue,” Joe agreed solemnly, then added, holding out his hand, ”by the way, I'm Jim Mallison from the New York delegation.”

”Knew by your accent,” the other said shrewdly. ”I'm Clem Cotex from down Little Rock.” They shook. ”Pleasure to meet you.”

”Too bad about that kid that got thrown out,” Joe said, lowering his voice. ”It looked to me like that usher really was-you know-touching him.” him.”

Cotex looked surprised for a moment, but then shook his head in doubt. ”Can't tell nowadays, especially in big cities. Do you really think an Andy Frain Andy Frain usher could be a-fairy?” usher could be a-fairy?”