Saturday at Plummet Field

The next morning I woke with Adam's arm draped across my side. Eventually I couldn't hold still any longer and then he woke up too.

"You doin' OK?" he whispered.

"Yeah, weird but OK, I guess."

"Olivia's just a friend. You know that, right? And it was Friday the thirteenth..."

"Yeah, shower buddies," I recalled, silently regretting I'd ever proposed that arrangement. Then oh well, I thought: better the trouble you know. Gently I grabbed his cock.

"You better be careful, there," Adam cautioned quietly. Then I had him in my mouth, then Olivia woke, then she dropped onto his face. I suppose I could have asked her for equal treatment but I let it pass. Friday the thirteenth usually goes from morning to morning, not midnight to midnight, but I'm not into that. With girls, I mean. I got what I wanted from Adam, and Olivia knew it.

Adam's alarm went off at six thirty. The three of us realized as one that the bathroom was quiet and we rushed in as one to shower and clean up. I began to wonder more and more about the whole shower buddy arrangement. Adam certainly seemed to enjoy doing it with two girls at once. Showering, that is. Or was it more?

Adam went looking for Walt but the bedroom was empty. We eventually found him in the foyer saying goodbye to Cynthia's sister, Natasha Robinsong, and to Tanya Hayward, an agent Cynthia worked with at Bogswamp.

Next to leave were three clothed people who'd apparently been in the guest room. Walt then introduced Molly, a supply manager from the airline, Meghan her masseuse, and Maynard, a trucking inspector from out of town. I guess Walt, Tanya, and Molly had started the evening together, then met the others at a club and mixed things up.

Out in the front yard six younger kids were running, rolling, bumping, and snuggling. Two were Adam's younger brother and sister, a pair of new twins named Effie and Jeffie. The other four were two more new pairs who'd spent the night with them. Curious.

Once Walt's visitors had left he, Adam, Olivia and I got in the jeep and headed over to Finer Diner for breakfast. When we arrived Nate and a full crew of helpers were double-checking a flatbed semi trailer equipped with a fifteen-foot wood-fired grill, a twelve-foot commercial range, two deli stations, four fry vats, an order window, a waiting line, and a pickup window. Workmen are filling a full-length refrigerated trailer with fresh meat, sausages, fruit, vegetables, milk, and cheese. Nearby were a dozen pallets loaded with bread, buns, flour, frying oil, ketchup, mustard, pickles, salt, pepper, and other seasonings. One pallet held nothing but exotic spices and toppings. A semi from the local soft drink bottler was idling at the curb.

Despite this hubbub of activity, Nate immediately stopped what he was doing and guided the four of us into the Finer Diner. Once inside, he led us to a reserved table and then disappeared into the back room. Moments later he returned with our breakfast.

Keying off Adam and Walt's last name, Jonson, Nate had prepared a Swedish breakfast special. Most of it rested on three glass and stainless steel tea carts, each at one corner of the table. At the fourth corner, Nate stood behind a portable range and proudly announced his creation.

"This mawnin' we have four traditional Swedish drinks," he began. "First is Kaffe (the Swedish word for coffee) fresh ground from Zoégas brand Ekologiskt Odlat-100% Organic beans. Next is authentic Gothenburg Tea, taken straight. Third we have Pommac, a fruit-flavored soft drink. And finally there's Filmjölk, a thick, slightly sour milk you can take with or without sugar.

"We have quite a selection from the bakery this mawnin'. This is Limpa, a rye bread seasoned with beer, honey, cardamom, caraway, aniseed, and orange peel.. Next is Lucia, a white bread seasoned with saffron. These Ableskiver are basically pancake balls. We also have Swedish pancakes and waffles with fresh lingonberries or lingonberry syrup, Swedish apple pancakes, breakfast crepes with fruit topping, and several kinds of quiche, all delicately flavored. The rest of these are standards: traditional Swedish coffee braid bread, muffins, and cinnamon rolls.

"Of course we have fresh fruit. These are fresh lingonberries, which come from the cranberry family. They're quite popular in northern Europe for making jams and preserves. We also have apples, pears, plums, cherries, imported bananas, oranges, and kiwis.

"How can you have Swedish breakfast without cheese? This is Graddost, Sweden's most popular cheese, deliciously mild and very creamy. It's laced with small to mid-sized holes. Served with fruit and wine, its also an excellent dessert cheese. Here we have Herrgard, Sweden's second most popular cheese. It comes in large wheels and has just a few small holes. It has similar characteristics to Cheddar and the color is pale yellow. The taste is slightly sweet and nutty. Havarti you may already know. It has a mild buttery and creamy taste and a semi-soft texture. Most people find it very appealing. I also have it seasoned with dill. This is Hushallsost, Scandinavian farmer's cheese, and this is deep fried Jarlsberg Cheese with Lingonberry Sauce.

"There's no better way of staring the day than a bowl of hot and hearty soup. Here we have Havregrot, a type of oatmeal porridge. This is Fruktsoppa, and old fashioned Swedish fruit soup. Next is Gerstensuppe Engadine barley soup, a cream soup made with made with tongue, beef, barley, haricot beans, diced potatoes, and cabbage. In here I have Swedish cheese soup, made with Emmenthal, Appenzell, and Gruyere cheeses. If you'd rather have something cool, try the chilled blueberry soup or the watercress and pear soup made with shallots, chicken stock, and double cream.

"Eggs, I can make any kind you like right here at the table. I particularly recommend omelets or eggs benedict any way you like them, including tomato and watercress, crab cake and smoked salmon, and the boiled eggs with red & black cod's roe.

"For our selection of meat this mawnin' we have Swedish meatballs in a sour cream gravy, honey roast ham, potato sausage, assorted cold meats, and assorted Swedish sausages.

"Fish, of course, is a staple of Sweden. Here we have smoked salmon served with fresh dill & lemon, smoked herring, pickled herring, herring in mustard dill sauce, crispy cod bites with tartar sauce, crayfish tails in dill mayonnaise. This is Jansson's Frestelse, which means Jansson's Temptation. It's shredded potato cooked with anchovy fillets & cream. Fantastic. Here at the end we have Gravadlax: salmon cured with dill & rock salt served with mustard sauce.

"I've mentioned potatoes already but this is Pytti Panna, a hash of potatoes, sausage & bacon, served with a fried egg. In a simpler vein we also have potatoes sautéed with onion and lightly fried hash browns.

"For condiments we have all the standards plus grape pudding, Swedish rice pudding, Filmjölk, a kind of sour-milk yogurt, Prawns mayonnaise, and Lingonberry jam.

"And finally, if none of that appeals to you, we have the most popular breakfast cereal in Sweden: Cheerios. Now, what can I serve you?"

"We'll have one of those also," a family of six told Nate from the next booth.

"All right, just let me check one thing," Nate replied, heading into the back room. Adam, Walt, Olivia, and I were speechless anyway. I could have spent all day just making up my mind.

A moment later Nate returned with a sorrowful look on his face. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "We're all out of those. You're in luck, though; today's special is the chuck wagon egg skillet. I can give you six of those for the price of five."

"Maybe they'd like to share," suggested the mom, her mouth obviously watering. "They seem to have plenty, and we'd gladly pay our share."

"I'm sorry; health regulations don't allow that," Nate maintained.

"Well, OK, we'll have the skillets," the dad finally decided. I really felt sorry for him. He was trying to do something nice for his family, and because of us he ended up being the goat. So, before we left, I asked Nate for a piece of paper and then got the dad's attention.

"Uh, look; I'm sorry about what happened with the food here," I told the dad.

"No, that's all right. I'm sure it wasn't your fault," he told my left tit. Of course, he was sitting and I was standing, perhaps a little too close. The mom was giving me dirty looks.

"Well, look; we're going to be giving jeep and dune buggy rides this afternoon at Bushie's Off-Road. If you give 'em this note, you can each have a free ride," I told the dad. Then, I wrote, "Free pass, specials all-around, all-day, family of six," signed it, and dated it. The dad didn't seem convinced, though.

"There's gonna be some other things going on, too," I encouraged him. "Bands, outdoor food vendors, some pompom girls..." Of course, when I got to the pompom girls, that's all he needed to know. He took the pass.

After that, Nate called me over to the counter. "Do you want a box for those leftovers?" he asked jokingly. Of course, we'd hardly made a dent in all that food.

"I don't think it would fit in the jeep," I replied.

"Well, I'd hate to throw all this out. Would you like it delivered somewhere?" Nate suggested.

"How about the Jonson's?" I suggested.

"No problem," Nate replied. "You got the address?"

I did, right there in my PDA, so I beamed it into the cash register and patted Nate on the butt. "Bang!" I whispered.

"Yeah, Bang!" he replied. "See you this afternoon."

"Yeah, this afternoon," I confirmed, and then I joined the others and got in the jeep.

The weather was beautiful as we headed out to Plummet Field, the general aviation airport. I drove just fast enough to arrive perfectly on schedule at eight.

The moment I parked Walt stood and went rigid. His eyes were locked on a genuine old biplane coming in for a landing. Other than going glassy, his attention was complete. To say he was transfixed wouldn't convey the half of it.

"Are you OK?" I asked, then again, "Walt, are you OK?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry," he mumbled, not looking away for a second. "You know, my whole life I've dreamed of flying a plane like that, but that they're so rare I've never even seen one. This is like a dream. Look at that. Oh my. Just look," then he had to wipe his eyes again.

Walt remained transfixed as the biplane taxied over to the spot where the four of us were standing. It was painted olive drab with concentric red, white, and blue circles that looked like bulls-eyes on the fuselage and wings. As soon as the engine stopped, Olivia and I ran out to fix the tie downs.

Walt remained by the fence, slack-jawed and frozen. Then, after getting a nod from the pilot, he approached the plane gingerly, and then glided his fingertips all around it without touching. Every detail fascinated him: every screw, every hinge, every pulley, every cable. He couldn't take his eyes away. Adam was fascinated as well, but not the way his dad was.

After about five minutes I interrupted and introduced both guys to the pilot. "Walt and Adam, meet Teddy Rickenbacker. Ted's an old friend of mine. He's in town to help me with a few things."

"Nice to meet you, Ted," said Walt, who nevertheless couldn't keep his eyes off the plane. "Is... Is that what I think it is?"

"It depends what you think," Ted teased. "Genuine Sopwith Camel, one of 5,140 ever built. This is number 4037, built over a hundred years ago in 1918. 150 horsepower Gnome rotary engine. Nine cylinders. Of course we've braced the wings and fuselage, and we've added an electric starter and all the legally-required flight instruments. Miniature versions, of course. I have no idea who installed the trainer seat and dual controls but we left them in. Every few years we have to replace the fabric."

Walt stood transfixed but seemed to be taking it all in.

"So Walt, as a professional pilot, do you think there's much interest left for these old planes?" Ted asked.

Walt just about jumped out of his skin. "Oh yes, I'm sure there is," he uttered with a squeak in his voice. Then he just kept staring at the plane.

"Would you like to go up?" Ted asked Walt.

"Could I? I gotta tell you, Ted, this is a boyhood dream. That would be fantastic."

"Consider it done," Ted replied, giving me a wink. "Viv, would you do the honors?"

With that, Ted tossed me the keys and Walt nearly left his skin again. Adam sat down and held his forehead.

"Sure," I replied, snatching the keys out of the air. "What about Adam?"

"I'll make sure he doesn't get bored," Ted replied.

This time it was my turn to wink but I kept silent and let Ted have his fun. I was just pumped to be flying again. I headed straight for the Camel.

Walt was suddenly uncertain but I knew what I was doing and set out to prove it. Without looking I pulled a kit bag out of the front seat, picked out a leather helmet, goggles, poncho, and scarf, and then helped Walt find similar equipment his size. The helmets had two-way radios built in.

Next I helped Walt into the front cockpit, making absolutely sure he was strapped in properly. Then I climbed into the rear and fastened my straps as if I'd done it a hundred times before. OK, as I'd done a hundred times before. Ted and Olivia freed the tie-downs and then I started the engine. Oh, yeah! There's no other sound in the world quite like that big nine-cylinder rotary starting up. As quickly as possible I blinked, dried my cheek, and collected myself.

Safety first, of course. I tested the cables and flaps, checked the flags and windsock, called for tower clearance, taxied to the end of the runway, and asked Walt if he was ready. Walt gave me the thumbs up, then I hit it. As in both the throttle and high C.

"Whoooo-ooh! We're runnin' baby! Yeeeee-ha! Eat ground! Yeeeeeaaa! We're rollin; baby! Rollin... Rollin... Tail up! Ooooooh baby! We're rockin'! We're rollin'! Hang on! Almost! Almost! Hang on! Airspeed! Airspeed! Elevators up! Vhwoooom! Yeeeee-haaaaa! Goodbye dirt, hello sky! I got wings, baby! I'm walkin' on air! I'm on top of the wooooorrrrld! Just me and the clouds! Yeeeeeah! Yah-hah! Whooooo-ee!"

Oh, I do love flying. Did I tell you that? Second star on the right, straight on till morning. I can fly, baby! Oh yeah, I can fly!

Once we had altitude I banked sharply to the right and flew back parallel to the runway. I didn't see Ted or Adam but I did spot an open hanger door and the characteristic red tail of another small aircraft. That's all I needed to know. I took a few turns, accelerated into a climb, and then took a mild dive back to cruising altitude.

The wooden airframe creaked and flexed. The guy wires between the wings slacked and tightened. The engine alternately droned and strained as I flew my maneuvers. The air flowed around the open cockpits like a soft unseen fluid that permeated the universe. We were looking down on the clouds, down on the earth, down on all of life's petty problems.

"You doin' OK?" I asked Walt, and he gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. Then I flew into a cloud or two and told Walt to look nine o'clock.

Another plane was pulling up next to us, just a hundred feet away. A red triplane with two open cockpits and the iron cross painted in black on white. Both the pilot and Adam were waving! Their plane, however, was flying upside down!

"Is that what I think it is?" Walt asked.

"Fokker Triplane number 297," I replied. "Only 320 were ever built. You want lift and maneuverability, that's your plane. Of course, they had a reputation for wing failures, instability on all three axes, and loss of control on landings. The guys have made a few adjustments, of course, but it's still tricky. And yes, he did."

"Who?"

"Manfred von Richtofen. The Red Baron. He personally flew that plane into combat. Three missions, five kills. The records are on file. You can still find bullet nicks in the struts."

The Fokker's pilot, by then, had extended his palm toward us and kept flipping it over. He kept jerking his head, too, as if he was trying to make a point.

"Damn, wouldn't you think an aeroplane pilot would know up from down?" I asked Walt. Then, before Walt had a chance to look around, I rolled the Camel a hundred and eighty degrees. But so did the Fokker's pilot and within moments we were both flipping palms at each other again. So we rolled our planes again. And again, And again!

Eventually, of course, we overflew the cloud cover and it was obvious that the Earth was where the sky should be. So I rolled the plane right side up and then smoothly flew three complete rolls. The Fokker rolled right along with us.

The Fokker's pilot flashed me a hand signal. In response I gave him a thumbs up and a nod.

"You doin' OK?" I asked Walt.

"Yes," he replied, a little shaken. The Fokker executed three rolls in quick succession, and then the pilot gave me another hand signal. I could hear Walt gasp.

I executed two more rolls, dove to pick up airspeed, and then pulled up with everything the Sopwith had. The plane went vertical, heading straight into the sky, aiming for the sun. Then we were arching over backwards! At the top of the loop we were basically weightless and hardly felt upside down. Of course, the ground was once again where the sky should be, and vice versa.

It's a funny thing, you know: People think aerobatics must be rough, like a roller coaster. But it's not like that at all. It's as smooth as an escalator or a ferris wheel. You feel like an eagle, or a hawk, or a condor. You climb, you hover, and you dive with the air against your wings like a soft cushion. You're free, utterly free. Free as a bird.

Then the plane was diving downward, aiming straight at the ground! But I pulled up and moments later we were flying next to the Fokker and Adam again.

"You still doin' OK?" I asked Walt.

"Yes," he replied, a little less certain.

"Well then, take the controls," I said.

Walt wasn't sure and looked over at the Fokker. The pilot nodded enthusiastically.

"What do I do?" asked Walt.

"You should know; you're the professional pilot," I chided him. "Forward and back on the stick controls the elevators, right and left control the ailerons, pedals control the rudder. That's the throttle there on your right. Sopwiths tend to spin out of control during tight turns, so be careful at first. And oh yeah, that rotary engine up front is a 381-pound gyroscope that spins the plane to the right. You have to compensate by applying left rudder just about all the time."

The Fokker had pulled ahead of the Sopwith, but suddenly it pulled into a loop and came out of it on our tail. Fortunately, the twin Spandaus had their barrels welded shut a century ago.

Walt flew for about half an hour, quickly gaining experience and confidence. Then I took the stick and did two more loops. The second time, I told Walt to keep a light touch on the stick.

"OK, you ready?" I asked after completing the second loop.

"You're shitting me, right?" asked Walt.

"Well, if you don't, I'm flyin' the first half and then seein' if the plane can finish with no hands," I threatened.

Walt completed the loop with only slight assistance from me. After that we dive-bombed a few cow fields and duck ponds, and then we tried a little dog-fighting with the Fokker.

All too soon the Fokker's fuel supply was dwindling and it had to land. I took one more pass around the airport, then set the Sopwith down and taxied over to the hangar where Ted, the Fokker, Adam, and Olivia were waiting.

"That was fantastic!" exclaimed Walt. "Where did you get these planes?" Adam looked pumped as well.

"Well, I've been holding back a little secret," Ted explained. "My name is Teddy Rickenbacker and I'm the Lieutenant Commander of the Underground Airmen. Have you heard of us?"

"You're the guys with all the old fighter planes, right?"

"I wouldn't say all of them but yes, we do have a few. In addition to the Sopwith Camels and Fokker Triplanes, two of which you see here, we have a number of Stearman biplanes, a De Havilland Tiger Moth, a Spitfire, two P-51 Mustangs, a couple of Chance-Vought F4U Corsairs, a few Grumman F6F-3 Hellcats, a Messerschmitt BF-109, and various others. Of course, we're always on the lookout for more. Oh, here's Manny."

Sure enough, another pilot was just leaving the hangar and strutting toward us. From a distance, he seemed to be wearing a brown leather flight helmet, matching leather jacket and boots, and fitted khaki pants. Upon closer inspection, however, the pants were an illusion.

"Walt, this is Manny Richtoffen, Commander of the Underground Airmen," Ted explained. "We're inviting you to join."

Walt gasped.

"Are you kidding?" Walt asked excitedly. "You guys are almost a legend. Some people think you're a myth. Sometimes I thought you were a myth. And I thought memberships were impossible to get!"

"Any friend of Vivian's and Magic's is a friend of ours," Manny explained sincerely. Then Teddy Rickenbacker, Manny Richtoffen and Walt shook hands and all three synchronized their contact information.

Walt, Adam, Olivia and I helped refuel the planes, and then Ted and Manny mounted their cockpits, waved, and taxied away. Walt stood transfixed as they took off, and then watched until they disappeared into the clouds.

"I don't know how you kids set this up, but I'm just awestruck," Walt stated on the way home. "I wish there was something I could do for you in return."

"Funny you should mention that," I remarked. Then, after we'd driven back to town, I skipped the exit ramp that led to the Jonson house and instead took an exit closer to downtown. Then, after negotiating a couple of side streets, I pulled into Folsom Lockup. I opened the front gate by keying the password into my PDA, and then stopped in front of a locked garage stall. A second password opened that door.

After a moment's pause I pulled the tarp off the vehicle inside. Both Adam and Walt were confused because the vehicle looked somewhat like a car, but obviously wasn't. Overall, it had the shape of a partially inflated football with a flat rear tip. On each side were two arched titanium tubes: one curving over the passenger compartment, and one curving under it. Those four tubes supported the smoothly curved body panels and dirt screens.

"This," I explained, "is The Silver Bullet, the dune buggy that won the Baja three years running until they they rammed it and then changed the rules to keep it out. The frame and body are 100% titanium. The body finish is brushed like a DeLorean. Each wheel had its own toroidal maglev traction motor that also serves as the bearings, the steering, and the brakes. Each strut has toroidal maglev suspension. Those are the only moving parts in the vehicle."

"How do you steer?" Walt asked.

"With these gloves and boots," I explained. "They work like VR gloves, except that they control The Bullet rather than some video game. Each glove controls one front wheel and each boot controls one back wheel."

"I don't get it," Adam admitted.

"OK, stand back and whatever you do, don't touch the wheels," I instructed. Then I climbed inside The Bullet and powered up the internal systems. The hydrogen cylinders, fuel cells, and batteries were only at two percent but that was enough. Out of habit I slipped on the safety harness, and then as one movement I keyed the power sequence and activated the maglevs.

"Bang!" went The Bullet.

"What was that?" Adam asked frantically. "Are we safe?"

"Safe as you can be around hydrogen,” I assured him. “See how the wheels have moved into a true position now? That's because I activated the maglev fields. The wheels and shocks are basically floating on two counter-rotating toroidal magnetic levitation fields. But until they reach running position, the inner and outer fields are misaligned and they superheat the air between them. That's what creates the Bang!"

"So, The Bullet goes Bang!" Walt observed.

"Yeah, we sorta made a team cheer out of that," I admitted. "Now watch, and keep your hands away from the wheels.” Then, with a gesture of my left hand, I started the left front wheel spinning at fifty.

"What happened to the tread?" Adam asked, reaching forward to touch the wheel.

"Move your hand back!" I shouted. Then, after he did, I continued, "The surface of that tire is rotating at a speed of fifty miles an hour. That's why you don't see the tread; it's moving too fast. But it'll still catch your finger and rip it right off."

"But I never heard the engine start. Or whine. And I never heard the wheel speed up, either. Shouldn't the tire move or vibrate or something?"

"No sound, no vibration, no wasted energy," I explained. "I could crank it up to a hundred or two and you still wouldn't hear or see anything. The steering is just as smooth, see?" Then, to demonstrate, I angled my wrist and the spinning wheel matched my angle perfectly.

"So, all four wheels work like that?" Adam asked.

"Yes, independently. Two hands, two feet, four wheels, perfect control, no sound, no friction, no wasted energy."

"What does all this have to do with me?" Walt finally asked.

Before answering I froze the wheel, cut power, removed the control glove, and twisted out of The Bullet.

"It was the last race of the season and The Bullet got hit by a cannonball," I explained. "See these two cracks in the frame? Those were the result."

"A cannonball?" Adam asked.

"Yeah, the Trans-Cal Cannonball. It was yet another case of a big company squeezing out the competition. They had three times our weight, five times our power, and unlimited money. We always beat 'em, though, because we had superior control and maneuverability. So, after we kept winning, they rammed us."

"It looks like a simple enough welding job," Walt noted.

"Yeah, well, titanium is tricky stuff to weld. To achieve full strength you need special equipment, and the only shop in the state with that equipment is at Mammoth Field. It belongs to Sardinia Airlines."

At that, I stopped speaking and just stared at Walt. His expression changed as he realized what I was asking. "Have you asked them?" Walt inquired.

"We tried," I responded. "Oh my, did we try!"

"You did?" asked Adam.

"We can't even get past the answering system. Even Ben couldn't do it."

"Since when have you been talking to Ben?" Adam asked.

"And without someone to talk to, even Nadia's negotiating talents were pretty much useless."

"You got Nadia mixed up in this? Who else?" Adam asked.

"I guess this would, ah, repay this morning's favor, eh?" asked Walt.

"Oh, I hadn't even thought of that," I replied innocently. As innocently as, oh, say, Lucretia Borgia.

"I'll see what I can do. That's all I can promise," replied Walt. Then, as an afterthought, he asked, "Uh, if I can get it fixed, can I drive it?"

"You'd have to ask Adam," I replied quietly.

"What? This isn't mine, is it?" Adam gasped.

"Adam, The Silver Bullet doesn't exactly belong to anyone. From time to time, it picks different people to take care of it. I've had my shot. I think it wants you now. I think you should be its captain."

Suddenly Adam was all over the vehicle, touching the wheel struts, the wheels, the chassis, the side panels, the roof. "Can I get in?" he asked.

"You're the captain. Go ahead," I replied. "But don't bounce it too much. Those frame cracks could get worse."

Adam looked pretty funny squeezing his large frame into The Bullet's small one. And of course he got his erect dick caught in the dashboard. Eventually, though, he managed to squeeze in and get the seat adjusted. He was grinning ear to ear.

"You've been working on this for a while, haven't you?" he finally asked.

"Most of the week," I admitted. That's when Walt's PDA announced an incoming call. Of course it did. Moments earlier I'd sent Ted the prearranged signal.

"Oh, hi... Uh huh... Yeah... All right... Sure... Well, if you're sure that's best... I don't have my car... OK, I'll be there. Thanks again," said Walt with his PDA pressed against his ear.

"They need me back at Plummet Field," Walt announced. Imagine that. "Can you give me a ride home so I can get my car?

"Sure," I replied. Ten minutes later, Adam, Olivia, and I were driving to Bushie's Off-Road and Walt was driving to the adventure of his life. Life was good.

eSaturday at Bushie's Off-Road

We got to Bushman's shortly before nine thirty but pandemonium had clearly preceded us. For one thing, there was a craft fair operating in the park across the street. Nobody had checked the park schedule, and nobody had made provisions. Neither, of course, had the craft show vendors. As a result, the artists, artisans, food vendors, and local merchants were all arguing furiously about curb space. Progress was slow but step by step, inch by inch, everyone was slowly getting settled.

The next emergency came from Magic, who'd discovered another break-in at Bushie's. Taking no chances after Thursday night's break-in, Magic had checked over the Dunemaster and found that someone had altered the hydrogen regulator valve. After ten or fifteen minutes of operation, the hydrogen tank would have overheated and blown up. The police were already there. Magic explained it must have been a professional job. She was still checking the other vehicles.

10:00 AM

Just as I was getting over that, Ben and Nadia found me. "We finally cracked into Dee Muntz's file," Ben reported.

"It turns out her dad was transferred to another city during first semester last year," Nadia continued. "The rest of the family moved during semester break. Unfortunately, Dee was killed in an auto accident a few weeks later. A drunk driver ran a red light."

"The person who checked into Blackcomb-Weller's Featherton clinic and got the extreme makeover was a guy named Lenny Lobach," Ben explained.

"Viv, are you OK? Is this worse than it looks?" Nadia was suddenly asking.

"No, it's just the same old shit, that's all. Everything fits. I should have figured it out. Wishful thinking, I guess."

"What? Is this Lenny Lobach someone you know?" Nadia pressed.

"Oh yes, I know that name very well. He was listed as an assistant racing mechanic for Trans-Cal but most people believed he was actually a paid saboteur. He's a complete idiot except for two things: bobby-trapping vehicles and hiding evidence from the cops. He's never been arrested, let alone convicted. The cops and DAs know how many lawyers Trans-Cal can afford."

"Maybe he'll split now that we've found him out," Ben speculated.

"Why would he? He doesn't know we know, right? And even if he did, it's not legal evidence. You both cheated, right?"

Neither Ben nor Nadia could deny that.

"And if we did have legal evidence, of what? Getting a makeover? Changing his name? Those are both legal, or can be with all the right papers. We can't firmly connect him, or her, or it to either break-in."

"So what do we do?" Ben asked.

"Keep your eyes open, tell everyone else to keep their eyes open, and watch him if he shows up. Maybe this time we can catch him and put him away before he hurts anyone. Ben, I need you to help Olivia get her traffic control stuff working. Nadia, spread the word about Louie, or Dee, or whatever it calls itself these days. Don't mess with him; just watch and report."

At ten thirty Olivia waved from the roof to signal she was ready. A trickle of curiosity-seekers was dribbling in. The craft fair was outselling the food vendors, and the food vendors were praying for a good lunch rush. Crystal and Tess started making public address announcements and the echoes were deafening.

"Vivian, you have a customer," came a call from Erin and Katie at the test track entrance. At least something had gone right; they'd gotten themselves all set up without assistance.

"Hi, my name is Lola Liliuo," said the mark -- I mean the customer -- as if I cared. "I just dropped my son and daughter off at soccer practice in the park and thought I'd see what this is all about. Are you the driver? You don't look like a dirt track driver."

How does she expect me to look, I wondered. Dirty?

"Does this help?" I asked, pulling on a helmet. "You'll need to wear a helmet too, ma'am. Try those on the shelf until you find one that fits."

"I'd rather not. It'll crush my hairdo," soccer mom Lola complained.

"Sorry, you have to wear a helmet," I insisted. "Our lawyer insists on it. Something about liability insurance."

"Can I have my money back?" she tried.

"No," I improvised.

"Oh, very well," she said, then she peeled her fake Mohawk off of her bald pate and gave it to Erin for safe keeping. "You know, I spent half an hour this morning getting that thing glued on straight," she remarked bitterly.

Without the Mohawk crown to contend with, finding the soccer mom a helmet was easy. Then she got touchy about me strapping her in and I had to get pushy about that, too. I sure didn't want loose customers flying out of the jeep and into the air or worse.

"Is this going to be fast?" she asked impatiently.

"No," I replied, then I pumped the clutch, popped it into first, punched the accelerator and pasted her soccer-ball head to the seat back. The jeep lurched but remained on all fours.

"Aaaagh! You're running into that hill! You're gonna hit it! Watch out!" screamed the bald but helmeted soccer mom. "We're gonna fall backwards! You can't see where we're going! Eeee-yah! We're crashing into the ground! Stop the car! Lemme out! Stop the car! Oof! Not so fast! Not so fast! You can't make this turn! Slow down! We're skidding! Watch out for that tree! Omigosh! Oof! Where's the road? I can't see it! Oof! Slow down for these little hills! Slow do-OH-oh-OH-oh-OH-oh-OH-own! Why are you speeding up? You can't make this turn! You can't make it! Slow down! You're going over the top! You're falling! Speed up! No, slow down! Stop! I wanna get off! Stop, I tell you! Oh shit! Stop! I, oh shit! Oh-OOOH-oh! Stop! Oof! Stop this jeep! Oof! You're an idiot, you know that? Oof! Watch this turn! Let me off! You're gonna crash! How do you work this seat belt? Ohmigosh! Oof! Slow down! Slow down! Where's the road? Oof! I can't stand any more of this! Oh here comes the end! Stop! Stop! You're going too fast! You're skidding! You're gonna crash! We're spinning! Agh! Are we stopped?"

"Yeah, you want another lap?" I asked sincerely.

"No, ooh, just hold these, ooh" replied the soccer mom, handing me her panties. "Ooh! Aah! Ooooooh! That was terrible! Oooooh! You're a maniac, you know that? Mmmmm! Oh! Oh! Ooooh! Oof! Aaaah! Oh yes! Yes! Oh yes! Oooooh! Oooooh! Aaaaah! Pfew! Oh, I gotta have one of these! Where can I buy a vehicle like this?"

By then she'd fingered, I mean figured out the seat belt so I just pointed her toward the new vehicle showroom and off she went, wearing only her bustier. Ronnie Delonnie's perverted little brother snagged the panties. Erin tossed the fake Mohawk piece into the lost and found.

Business, at least, was picking up. Adam and Ursula were on the track with customers, and Ginger was loading up. A line had started to form. Apparently, the noise from the jeeps and dune buggies was starting to draw customers. Either that or the pompom girls had started waving and flashing their, uh, placards at all the nearby intersections. Or both. Lines were starting to form at the food vendors, too.

11:00 AM

Shortly after eleven I told my PDA to scan for special announcements on the local television stations.

"This is Eldon Leadbetter aboard NewsChopper 2 for Hot Local News," began the first spot. "We've over the east side of town where witnesses have reported seeing some unusual aircraft... There! Zoom in, please... Wow, is that... Yes! It is! It's a biplane! A biplane! No, wait! There's two of them. No, wait! Zoom back... back... there by the clouds... Ladies and gentlemen we have six biplanes entering city airspace on the east side of town and heading west. Stay tuned for further developments. Now we return you to our regular programming."

Regular programming, as it turned out, involved a naked model giving knitting lessons. Having no use for either, I asked for the next station.

"Good morning folks, this is Rosalinda Bibby reporting for The Sundry Channel, your ceaseless source of news and not," said a red-haired chick with big tits. "We're here on NewsBlimp Nothing with our pilot, Norwood Norris. Tell us what's been going on, Norris."

"We've hovering over the west side of town, Rosalinda, watching a squadron of red tri-planes circle over one neighborhood after another. There seem to be five, no six of them. Quite a few people are out in their yards looking up and watching. Some of them may have been sunbathing. Traffic at a few intersections is stalled because of people getting out of their cars to look. Bit by bit, the planes are moving east. It almost seems they're trying to attract attention."

"Thanks, Norris. Stay right here, viewers; we'll have more information as it develops," promised Rosalinda, her tits jiggling just enough to notice.

"Good morning, this is Wendy Ahern of NewsChannel 17 reporting live," began the next clip. Ahern was the reporter who'd discovered Adam and me screwing at Dhrystone Lake and put it on the air. I figured she owed me one.

"Two squadrons of vintage planes have appeared over the city," Ahern explained breathlessly. "At this moment, a group of six Sopwith Camels is advancing to the west. Six Fokker Triplanes are heading east. Based on our projections, they're going to meet at twelve o'clock over the eleven hundred block of Ruff Road."

"Viewers, quite a few others things are happening in that same neighborhood. There's a craft fair, some great-looking food vendors, and test rides on an off-road track. I see a band setting up, too. This looks like the hot spot of the day, ladies and gentlemen. We'll have further reports on the half hour but you really should come down and join the fun. Wendy Ahern, NewsChannel 17, reporting live."

Not bad. I'm sure it was my imagination but the flow of people seemed to be increasing.

Noon

By twelve the flow of people had become a flood. Some had followed the planes; some had come for the craft show; some must have seen the TV spots; some had followed the signs or whatever that the pompom girls were waving in the breeze.

Tess and Crystal had done a spot with Wendy Ahern about the food vendors and it couldn't have hurt. If Ruby's Camarones con Cebollitas Rojas y Ajo (Shrimp with Shallots & Garlic) didn't drag 'em in, Socrate's moussaka surely would. Wendy got a nice shot of Pietre mixing the ground lamb, eggplant, olive oil, onions, ripe tomatoes, white wine and grated Kefalotiri cheese, then covering the whole dish in bread crumbs and béchamel sauce before popping it in the stone oven.

Sure enough, Digger Topp ended up across the street from the Agoras's. The competition was something to behold. Hundreds of people were blocking the street, unable to decide between Digger's shrimp, steak, and game fish straight off the barbie and Socrate's moussaka, souvlaki, spanakopita and saganaki.

Guido Rabottini showed off a few of his Tuscan, Roman, and Sicilian creations. Bubba practically gave a tour of China with his Mandarin, Cantonese, Szechuan, Shanghai, and Hunan specialties.

Shorty Widdle's Griddle of Nowhere trailer was the smallest stand but his Henry IV burger with melted baby Swiss cheese, ham, tomato, bacon strips and 1000 island dressing was among the biggest hits. The "Marilyn" burger with fresh avocado, jack cheese, bib lettuce, roma tomato, dill pickle, sautéed Bermuda onion and Tabasco mayonnaise wasn't far behind. The pocket rib-eye, stuffed with sautéed mushrooms and onions and served on a stick, was an idea whose time had come.

Nate, across the street, was holding his own with a turkey and cranberry wrap he made with mayonnaise, German mustard, light cream cheese, and chunky cranberry sauce mixed and spread on a whole wheat tortilla with thin slices of roasted turkey, Havarti cheese and butter lettuce. The real butt-kicker, however, was an Italian sub that featured a partially hollowed Ciabatta bun filled with basil pesto, prosciutto, salami, provolone cheese, marinated eggplant, grilled bell peppers, hot peppers, dried tomatoes in olive oil, zucchini, and chopped green and black olives, all heated in foil for 15 minutes and then chilled in ice to blend the flavors. Even Guido was giving him dirty looks. And yes, he also had Vongole Gratinate al Forno, sand-baked clams on the half shell.

Kojo Kaunadodo was there too. Who wouldn't jump at the chance for one last Kaunadodo pizza?

The Sopwiths and Fokkers, meanwhile, had started dogfighting right over the area. It was incredible how many people were standing or even walking with their faces looking straight up. People would bump into each other, excuse themselves, and resume walking, never taking their eyes off the sky.

The first local band was playing by then: three guys and two girls who called themselves Quentin Collapse and the Tokyo Movable Ducks. Crystal had them using the receiving dock as a stage but the music floated everywhere. It wasn't half bad if you like that Mongolian Rap Reggae fusion stuff. Laughing Gas showed up late and had to play in the park gazebo across the street. They weren't laughing but oh well.

By then we were running four jeeps and three buggies, each with three passengers per lap. Even so, the line backed up for about a quarter mile. A lot more people were watching than riding, but even the watchers drifted over to new vehicle sales after a while.

Adam and I had just a moment to talk between laps. "This is a lot bigger event than I expected," he remarked.

"How so?" I asked.

"Mr. Bushman would've been happy with us just standing by the jeep, not even driving it, just waving to people," Adam reminded me.

"But this is bigger and better, right?" I inquired hopefully.

"Well, it's bigger; I'll give it that," he replied. "It's just, you know, not how I planned to spend my entire day."

For a moment I couldn't believe Adam had said that. Then I remembered that dune buggies and dirt riding were my scene, not his. Maybe I should have remembered that, oh, about Monday or Tuesday. Then again, it was Adam who'd contacted Bushman in the first place, Adam who'd set up the first commercials, and Adam who'd organized VAN Enterprises.

"Did you clear all this with Otto?" Adam asked.

"Why would I"? I tried.

"This is all your doing, right?"

"Uh, no, not completely. What makes you think that?"

"Remember Tuesday, on the big whoop? When you overdid something in order to be in control? Oh, look; my passengers are waiting. Talk to you later," Adam promised, then he popped into the Dunemaster, checked everyone's seat belts, and punched it down the track. Somehow I avoided breathing a cloud of dust. I didn't think it was intentional. The dust, that is.

1:00 PM

By one o'clock the Sopwiths and Fokkers were running low on fuel and had to retreat. In their place, some American Stearman PT17s and British DH82A de Havilland Tiger Moths began an aerobatic display. The news choppers were lined up along the side, taking it all in.

Somehow the pompom squad cleared a large enough area to perform their routines. They crowd teemed around them as they danced, shouted, and shook their, uh, poms.

A couple of the planes broke formation for wing walking.

Sidewalk performers started to appear out of nowhere. One of the first was Willie Fundeman, telling jokes and doing magic tricks. Even though he was still in The Program, he pulled a dove out of his left armpit and a mouse out of his right. You don't want to know about the porcupine.

Tess Palmer summoned an improv group that did comedy sketches and audience participation. Nearby were assorted jugglers, acrobats, musicians, puppeteers, and least of all mimes.

Dee Muntz, or Lenny Lobach, or whatever its name was just walked around at random and let people look at him or her or what. Amazingly, he or she stayed away from any of the buildings or equipment.

Then, suddenly, one of the wing walkers fell. The entire crowd gasped, then shouted out, they cheered as his chute opened. Then another wing walker jumped, and another until the sky was filled with parachutists gliding back and forth and catching thermals.

2:00 PM

"Uh, Viv, you got a minute?" said Erin as I waited for my passengers to load. "It's the cops. They want to talk with you."

Great. Just great. Just what I needed. "Are you Vivian Vivicelli?" asked the oldest cop, who was wearing a white toga with police emblems sewn in all the usual places. That seemed to mark him as the leader. The other cops were dressed (and I use that term loosely) in blue. Of course, they all had pistol belts or bandoliers at least.

"Guilty." I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk with someone in charge," the top cop told my tit.

"Well, I'm on the organizing committee. It might take a while to find the others. Are we in trouble?"

"I'm Chief Getcherman, Chief of Police," the top cop said to my face. What a refreshing improvement. "It's a violation to stage an event this size without a permit. Look around. You obviously need crowd and traffic control. With this many people, you're bound to have a few thieves and other lawbreakers. Traffic and parking are a mess up to several miles away. You're really creating a major problem here."

"I'm sorry about that," I replied sincerely. "We had no idea the event was going to be this popular." OK, maybe that part wasn't so sincere. Oh well. "Is there something we can do to correct this?" Something other than shutting us down, I thought.

"That's what I came to talk about," the chief explained. "We've already closed off all the streets within a half mile. We've also opened every available city parking lot within three miles. The other officers here will provide crowd control for now. More are on the way. The sanitation department is bringing in more toilets and trash receptacles. I think that'll do it for now, but we'll continue to monitor the situation. And next time, get a permit."

"We will," I promised.

"Now, where can we get some of this fantastic food everyone seems to have?" the chief wanted to know.

"The vendors are lined up over there by the park," I explained.

"You mean in that No Parking zone?" the chief asked.

"Uh, somewhere around there, yes," I had to admit. "Here, let me give you a voucher. Katie, do you have some paper?"

She did, so I gave each cop a note that said, "Good for one special, any vendor," and signed it.

"You don't have to wait in line," I told them. "Just take these around back." That, it seemed, was funny. I guess cops working large events don't wait in line very much.

"Where's the best place to hear the band?" asked another cop.

"Over there, just beyond that break in the fence," I told him.

"But there's nothing there," he objected. "It's the only empty place on the property."

"Exactly," I reassured him.

Once the cops moved away, I recognized someone else who'd been standing behind them, It was the dad from the family of six at Nate's.

"Vivian? Is that your name?" he began straight to my face. "We met this morning, but we were never properly introduced. I'm Mayor Nays. This is quite an event you've organized here. My family and I are having the time of our lives. Plus, it's a special pleasure to see all these out-of-town folks bringing their business to our fair city. Good job."

"Uh, thanks," I replied blinking, shaking his hand, and wondering when the hit was going to come.

"Even so, I hope you're not planning to stage any more events this size, especially in this location, and without a permit."

"Every week," I had to admit. "We'll certainly apply for a permit, though. I mean, this week, we just didn't know."

"Vivian, with this many people in this small an area, the neighborhood is simply overloaded. There aren't enough streets, parking, and sanitation, for example. I don't want to shut you down but you do need to find a larger facility."

"Actually, we're working on that," I explained. "We signed the initial papers yesterday. But I'm sure we still need to get a lot of paperwork through city hall."

"That's where I can help," promised the mayor. "Here, let me beam you my private number. Give me a call when your paperwork is ready and I'll make sure there are no snags. Now you'll have to excuse me. I need to find my wife before she runs off with some Bulgarian acrobat."

Once the mayor had left, I realized Nadia had been standing right behind me. Without saying a word she threw me an omigosh expression and signaled "perfect" with her thumb and finger.

2:30 PM

By two thirty the craft fair had completely turned over. A vendor would run out of merchandise, then sell his tarps and booths to a new vendor, and then the new vendor would sell out.

Now, though, instead of knickknacks and t-shirts, the fair was selling outdoor equipment, outdoor clothing (particularly sunglasses, hats, gloves, knee pads, and boots), body jewelry, makeup infusions, haircuts, depilitations, piercing, tattoos, lotions, leather items, sex toys, and tissues.

Needles and Pins had purchased a sold-out a booth and was piercing people like hotcakes. I was watching the booth and the crazy pierced people when Cynthia passed by and noticed me.

"Oh, Vivian! Come with me. I need your help," she demanded in a nice voice.

"What's up?" I asked as she dragged me along.

"I've been feeling really plain lately," she explained. "Earrings, a necklace, and shoes. That's my outfit. Nothing in between. I feel like having a little more decoration. What do you think?"

"What were you considering?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Some nipple rings, I guess. I just never had the guts. But here we are now. Will you help me? I guess I need moral support."

The manager, as it turned out, knew Nadia fairly well and the piercer was a friend of Sandra Samuels. That and their knowing I was some kind of organizer got us to the head of the line. Cynthia picked out a pair of 12-gague 75 millimeter d-rings and held them in front of her nipples. "What do you think?"

"I think they're fine if that's what you want," I encouraged her. "Have you told Walt?"

"No, it's going to be a surprise for him. In fact, I haven't seen him all day. Do you know where he is?"

"He'll be over in a little while," I explained.

"Well, let's go ahead, then. We'll take four of these," Cynthia told the piercer.

"I think it's better to start with two," I warned her.

"Aren't you going to join me?" Cynthia gushed. "It'll be such fun if we're both pierced the same, don't you think? I'll pay, if you're worried about that."

Now, at that time, I had no particular aversion to nipple rings but no real attraction either. It did, however, seem that having them would be more a nuisance than not. Still, Cynthia had been nice to me all week and if it made her happy...

"Oh, all right," I agreed.

"How about some belly button or pussy rings?" Cynthia continued. "Shall we go whole hog?"

Somehow I talked her out of that but even so, a few minutes later we were both staring at the large metal hoops now passing through and hanging beneath our nipples. Then the manager talked us into changing our stud earrings for hoops as well and Cynthia got herself a nose ring to match the one Adam had bought me two weeks before. Everything was titanium, of course. I was just glad they were using the new piercing equipment that identified and avoided nerve endings, and that deposited a temporary liner inside the hole.

As we left the booth we passed Pietre waiting in line. Somehow he couldn't stop staring at the new nipple rings and I suddenly felt terribly conspicuous. Funny, after a year of going naked you'd think a person would get past that. Cynthia kept looking down at herself too.

Eisenblush Salon, where Sandra Samuels worked, had moved into a booth nearby and was giving haircuts, Mohawks, and other depilatations at a furious pace. Rita and Serena had reached the head of the line and were discussing Mohawks with one of the operators.

"Well, if it's cum you're worried about, a Mohawk won't be much help," explained the bald heavily-tattooed operator wearing a transparent smock and no nipple rings. "It still gets caught in the hair you have left and if you go with one of the spiky styles, it's even harder to rinse out and maintain. Believe me, I know. I tried it."

"Will it ever grow back?" Serena asked.

"Yes, but you can prevent that by getting a booster every couple of months. Oh look; the chair's open. We can do it right now if you're ready."

They were, on a mutual dare. I made a mental note to watch for them later on. On the far side of the booth the entire Delonnie family was getting Mohawks, including Ronnie's perverted little brother. They were all naked except for Lonnie, the dad, who was wearing a fluffy yellow kilt.

2:45 PM

Right on time, shortly before three, a C-130 Hercules cargo plane flew an inspection pass over the area. That really got the crowd going. I guess they thought the plane was dive bombing them, or maybe crashing. Then, on the second pass, the plane opened its rear cargo door and dropped an enormous portable stage section. A second later chutes opened on each corner, with rangers manning the chute lines. Then came a second C-130, and a third. The rangers glided all three sections beyond that break in the fence, into the empty field, and perfectly into place.

A second later doors opened in each stage section and a swarm of roadies began unloading, unpacking, and setting up lights, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, and instruments. Four Chinook helicopters brought in light bars, support bars, and generators. Ben and Dan were out there too, showing the roadies where to find audio and power connections. Then, after the roadies had lowered the backdrop, I felt two hands shaking my shoulders from behind.

"What have you done! Vivian, you asshole! What have you done!" screamed Crystal, who seemed about ready to pass out from agitation. Tess Palmer was right behind her.

"I told you the three o'clock band would be dropping in," I explained calmly.

"Yeah but, but, but, but, ..." Crystal repeated, her body twitching as she alternately stared at me all bug-eyed and scanned the horizon. "But how?" she finally managed to utter.

"We'll talk about that later," I replied, beginning to feed off her excitement. "Now, do you know how to make the announcements? Because if you don't, I can beam you the script."

3:00 PM

"Asshole," Crystal called me once again, then she and Tess both patched their PDAs into the public address system. That seemed to calm them down, or at least focus their attention on the performance.

"This is it, right?" Crystal asked as the C-130 came back into view.

"Yeah, you might say that," I confirmed. "Go for it."

"OK, this better not be a trick," said Crystal, then she cleared her throat and keyed the Talk button.

"Ladieeees... aaaand... Gentlemennnn..." she began, then she released the button, cleared her throat, and quickly wiped her eyes. "Look up! Look up! In the northeast quadrant of the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's the Condors! The Condors! Are in! The aaaair! The Crimson Condors, ladies and gentlemen, are in the air! Are you ready? Look up! Look up!"

At that moment, of course, a body came flying off the C-130's tail ramp. Thanks to Ben and Olivia patching the PA into the flight radio, the timing was perfect.

"Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this," said Crystal, then she caught her breath, punched Talk once again, and continued, "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment, on drums: Mad... Mike... Munson!!!"

Yeah, it was Mad Mike all right. He floated longer than he probably should have, arms and legs outstretched and body facing the ground. Then he opened his chute and steered over the surging throng a few times, waving his arms, cupping his ears, and dropping t-shirts just to whip up the audience. The chute itself was one of those large rectangular ones, and of course it was deep crimson in color. He really did look like a bird up there.

Sooner than not, of course, he alit on the stage, stepped out of his harness, and strutted to his babies: his drums. The crowd went nuts when he picked up his sticks, then nuttier still when he held them over his head. It was pandemonium when he began to play but not for long. Instead, every man, woman, and child wanted to listen.

You can't truly appreciate a Mad Mike drum solo unless you've heard one in person. It's intoxicating. It's primal. It's mesmerizing. It draws you in so you can't think of anything else. You think you're hearing an orchestra, not a set off drums, each limited to a single note. You find yourself breathing, blinking, tapping, bouncing, just plain living in rhythm with that incredible music. I was off in another world, another life, then my PDA beeped.

"Southwest," I cued the others. Crystal was so mesmerized that she let Tess take it. Mad Mike finished his solo and fell into a soft but still enchanting rhythm. Then, from beyond the southwest, a Lockheed Model 10E Electra appeared over the trees. Yeah, you got it: the same type of plane Amelia Earhart was flying when she went down over the Pacific.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in the southwest corner of the sky, on the Fender Bass, I give you... the incredible... Thunder... Turk... Thompson!" Tess exclaimed.

The roar from the crowd was deafening as Turk left the plane perfectly on cue. Turk was faster on the rip cord than Mike but, if anything, better at sailing. He floated and glided his way around the area for a couple of minutes dropping t-shirts, hats, harem pants, boleros, condoms, and other souvenirs, then he too took his place on stage.

Smoothly as silk Turk blended a haunting series of power chords into Mad Mike's rhythm. Entrancing as Mike's solo had been, adding Turk's bass work was like switching a movie from black-and-white to color. It was almost spooky how their individual rhythms meshed at every eight count, how the two rhythms blended onto one, how unimportant anything but the music seemed to be. Then my PDA beeped again.

"Southeast," I cued, then Crystal nodded to Tess. Yeah, I knew what she wanted.

Tess, though, was really into it by then. "Attention everyone!" she screamed. "In the southeast sky, now arriving on dream highway thirty-one, the third member of the Crimson Condors, the Master of the Stratocaster, on rhythm guitar: Elijah... "Fingers"... Grissom!"

Sure enough at that exact moment a Bell UH-1 "Huey" helicopter appeared from the southeast. Both side doors were open and Elijah was clearly visible waving to the crowd. Then, much too low for a parachute to do any good, he fell!

A collective gasp and then a sickening moan arose from the crowd. Until, that is, his bungee cord grew taut. His heels were almost within reach of the crowd, then he threw out some autographed shorts and panties, then the cord snapped him upward and he was back in the sky. After a few more bounces, the Huey shot upward until it was safe for Fingers to release. Then he, like the others, glided onstage. The crowd went silent as he hefted his ax.

What can I say? Have you ever watched at night when they lit up a big Christmas tree for the first time in a season? Have you ever turned a corner and found a rose garden in full bloom? Have you ever crawled between satin sheets for the first time? That's how it is when Fingers joins up with Turk and Mad Mike, except faster and more intoxicating. It was ecstasy.

Wendy Ahern and a bunch of other news people had found me by then but I shushed away all their questions. They were busy enough filming the Condors. Then my PDA beeped again and I didn't have to say a word.

"Laaaadies aaaand gentlemennnn!" began Crystal. "Look to the sky! There! In the Northwest! On lead guitar and vocals! The leader of the Crimson Condors! The heartthrob of the nation! I give you... none other than... Ian... Strommer! I love you, Ian!"

At that instant a Stearman biplane appeared as advertised in the northwest sky. Idiot Ian was out there walking on the wings. I swear, the guy was addicted to ham. It probably goes with the territory. Of course, after the Stearman ran a few turns, spins, rolls and loops, Ian made a show of falling off. And of course, he opened his chute just in time. I always thought the guy was going to hurt himself some day.

Ian circled the crowd as the others had done, waving and throwing out souvenirs. Then he landed onstage, stepped out of his chute, and began whipping up the audience as if they weren't already frantic with anticipation. He pranced across the stage flailing his arms and leaping to make the audience cheer. He called a girl up on stage, tilted her back, and played her like an air guitar. He did a few handsprings and summersaults. Then he picked up his guitar and the crowd roared in approval. Then he set it down.

"I wish Walt could see this," Cynthia remarked at my elbow. "He'd go nuts over all these old planes, and he's always liked the Crimson Condors."

"Look up," I told her and there, tipping their wings in salute, were all four aircraft that had carried the band members. "That's Walt flying the C-130."

"Oh Vivian, that's wonderful! How did you possibly manage that?" cried Cynthia, throwing her arms around me in the biggest hug I could remember. I'm normally not much of a girl hugger, especially naked ones, but I guess I hugged Cynthia too. Her back and butt had a nice feel to them. Whoa.

"Uh, I happened to know some people," I replied after we'd drawn apart. I was glad our matching nipple rings hadn't tangled. Cynthia waved at Walt and then, as he left, he showed off with a power dive right above us.

Ian was teasing the crowd by playing just the first few notes of one hit record after another. Then the band began the lead-in to the one song that nobody expected and the one song I dreaded.

"Viewers, this is incredible," Wendy Ahern panted into her microphone. "It appears the Crimson Condors are going to play their first number one song live for the first time. This is the recording that made them world-famous. No one understands why they haven't played it since. It's the greatest mystery in the world of rock. We're keeping it right here, viewers. This is music history in the making. Listen for the first time live!"

And then, yup, sure enough, they played it.

Viv-i-an, Viv-i-an, you're always on the run now,
Chasin' after something, that we had together anyhow,
I think you've got to look here, before you search the world,
I think that you're afraid of love, but that's what you need more of,
Callin' Viv-i-an!

(refrain)
I really don't remember, was it somethin' that I said?
All the voices in my head calling, Viv-i-an?
Viv-i-an, don't you think you've run away'?
If everybody wants you, why can't you take my love and stay?
You don't have to answer,
Just leave me on the line, callin' Viv-i-an,
Viv-i-an (Vivian), I think I know where you are (Vivian),
I think I got the alias (Vivian) that you've been hidin' under (Vivian),
I really don't remember, was it somethin' that I said?
All the voices in my head, callin' Viv-i-an?

So how, Viv-i-an, how you gonna find it, Viv-i-an?
Will it be at the starting line, or will you catch it as you speed around?
Will you go for money, or a quick lay afternoon?
Let your true heart slip away, it sure won't come back soon,
Callin' Viv-i-an!

(refrain)

Crystal meanwhile, had gone catatonic. It was all she could do to stand there transfixed, knees bent, palms up, eyes and jaws wide open. Then, when the number was over, she turned slowly toward me. Somehow her eyes widened even more and her jaw dropped completely. Then she pointed at me with a shaking finger and began her litany, "You... you... you..."

"It's not what you're thinking," I assured her. "The world is full of coincidences."

Cynthia, always the considerate one, led Crystal away to calm her down. Crystal was too disoriented to object. I don't think she even noticed the other pompom girls crowding around the stage and vying for turns as stage dancers.

3:30 PM

"So, this is the secret three o'clock band," said Adam from behind me.

"Well, not so much secret as last-minute," I replied after turning to face him. There was no use denying that I knew Ian, and that I'd coaxed him and the band into playing. Not to Adam.

"I only found out yesterday afternoon that the band could come. What if I told everyone the band was coming and then it didn't work out? I'd have looked pretty foolish. And if I'd told you, would you have believed me?"

"What about keeping the rest of us in the dark? That makes us feel kind of foolish, don't you think?"

"Well, I didn't mean it that way," I explained. "I thought it would be a surprise. I thought everyone would be happy and amazed. Believe me, I wasn't trying to make you look foolish."

"Yeah, I guess you weren't," said Adam, his constantly-erect dick twitching as he spoke. A couple of pompom girls passed behind him, patted his butt, and startled him into jumping. Somehow I kept a straight face and Adam seemed to appreciate that. Then he continued, "So, I guess you know Ian Strummer."

"Yeah, that was a long time ago, before the band got famous. We had a crush for each other, then the band made the big time and moved out. I haven't seen him for a couple of years. I'm over him. Is that enough?"

"If Ian and the band moved out, does that mean you were living together?" Adam probed.

"Not that way," I explained, but Adam clearly wasn't satisfied. "Look, it was more like a boarding house than a love shack. I was there, the Silver Bullet team was there, the band was there, some other people were there. Reb was there, Reb, who you met last night. She owned the place. Is that what you want to know?"

"Partly," Adam replied as the crowd teemed around us. Another girl patted his butt. A guy in sheer running shorts patted mine.

"Look, you know all about me," Adam explained. "There isn't much to tell. You know my parents. I grew up in the house you've seen. I go to school. I'm on the swim team. But I know almost nothing about you. I want to know more about you. I want to know everything about you."

Whoa!

"That's a mouthful," I remarked sincerely as a belly dancer wearing three pet snakes passed by and ran her finger across Adam's shoulders. At least, I hoped that's what she was.

"Yeah, I guess this isn't the right place. I hope we can find time to talk, though," Adam stated intently.

"Whatever you say," I heard myself reply. Then, sensing the topic was finished, I apologized, "Uh, look, I'm sorry if I screwed up your day, here. Did you have something else planned?"

"No, this is fine," Adam replied. "I'm surprised, happy, and amazed, that's all. We'll talk more later. Is that OK?"

"Yeah, later. Later would be good," I replied, then we hugged, Adam came on my abs, we hugged some more, and then we parted. Adam returned to the dirt rides, I went looking for some paper towels, and the band played on.

I was just wiping off when my PDA beeped again. It was Erin.

"Vivian, there are two suits at the main building looking for you. They say they're from the Federal Aviation Administration. What should we tell them?"

Now what, I thought. Whatever issues I had or didn't have with Olivia, she was good at her job. I seriously doubted we'd screwed anything up.

"Tell 'em I'll be there in a minute or two," I decided.

"OK. They'll be the two guys wearing suits," Erin explained. I thanked her anyway.

Same ole, same ole. "Can I help you gentlemen?" I asked the suits five minutes later. The crowd was so dense that it was hard to get around.

"Are you Vivian Vivichelli?" the suit on the left asked my right tit. Other than that, he was an OK-looking blonde guy.

"Guilty." I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"We tried talking to Otto Bushman about this, but he claims he knows nothing. He says it must be your doing. We've observed at least twenty aircraft flying in close formation, engaging in dogfights and aerobatics, dropping cargo, and performing other dangerous maneuvers in this area today. None of them have flight plans. That makes even a simple take-off a violation of federal statutes. Do you have anything to say on your behalf?"

"Let's check with my associate," I suggested, then I led them upstairs to the roof. There, of course, was Olivia catching rays on a lounge chair and wearing nothing but some VR goggles and a headset with a microphone. A joystick was at her right hand and a cooler of drinks at her left. The goggles, the headset, and two antennas, one on each side of the roof, were all plugged into a small but powerful computer.

"Olivia, it's Vivian. Do you have a second? Don't get up."

"Yeah, go. Hercules two, adjust altitude to one five thousand feet, heading two seven zero. Maintain airspeed."

"I have two guys from the FAA here. They claim we didn't file flight plans."

"Flight plans complete. Sent 'em in myself twenty two hundred hours. Ask 'em to double-check. Stearman twelve, clear from three thousand to eight thousand feet, one mile ahead for maneuvers. Window closes in thirty seconds. Go. Huey three, hold and maintain altitude for cross traffic. Mustang five, check with tower for permission to land. We have fuel on the way."

"What the..." began blonde suit, so I spoke to the other one, a buzz cut.

"We electronically submitted all our flight plans yesterday evening at ten. They should have arrived under the name Olivia Ortiz. Would you check that please?"

Buzz cut grumbled but retreated to the far corner of the roof and started making calls. Blonde suit was about to say something, then Olivia spoke up again.

"NewsChoppers 5, 7, 21, and 33, you're drifting. Back off five hundred feet heading one three five, please."

"Is this girl running air traffic control? That's prohibited, you know. Federal statute gives the FAA sole control of all air traffic in this country. Furthermore, the controllers themselves need to be licensed. Furthermore, it's illegal for a private citizen to operate radar equipment. I'm afraid you're all in some serious trouble."

"This isn't full air traffic control," I explained. "Olivia here is simply advising our planes regarding permissable adjustments within their registered flight plans. There's no radar. The two antennas here pick up each plane's federally-required transponder signal. That gives us each plane's identity, position, airspeed, and elevation. We double-check that by triangulation. The computer predicts dangerous situations and projects a three-dimensional view of the airspace into the VR goggles. Here, you wanna see?"

At that, I handed blonde suit another pair of goggles and plugged them into the secondary VR port. Even with the goggles covering most of his face, I could tell he was impressed.

"This is some piece of work," he finally said. "Have you shown this to anyone in the government?"

"Only the patent office," I explained. "They're still thinking about it. Last I heard, we were suing our old lawyers and looking for new ones. Is that right, Olivia?"

"Roger patents. Tiger Moths two, three, and seven, ready for skywriting. On my mark: three, two one, engage! That's a go. Continue per flight plan," Olivia said.

"We received the flight plans, just like they said," admitted blonde suit, who by then was off the phone. "Our guys just figured it was a prank. I mean, who's gonna show up with half a dozen Sopwith camels and Fokker triplanes? Most people figure there's none left, not even in museums, let alone airworthy."

The two guys looked at each other for a minute, then shrugged. "I guess we're out of objections," said blonde suit sheepishly.

"All right, then," I acknowledged. "Is there anything else?"

"Well, uh, could we have a ride?" asked buzz cut.

Olivia was on it before I could answer. "Huey one and two, we have two to beam up, my location. Huey one, proceed heading two one five, descending to elevation six five oh. Estimated distance one mile. Huey two, fall in behind. Looking good. Retrieve at will, situation charlie. Out."

A few moments later the first Huey was hovering a hundred feet over the roof. A second after that the crew extended the winch and threw out a woven steel rescue seat.

"Uh, I'm not sure about..." said buzz cut, but by then I'd pushed him into the lift seat and snapped the safety bar. A half second later the chopper lurched upward, taking the lift seat and buzz cut with it. "Say hello to Louie for me!" I shouted upward.

"Who's Louie?" asked blonde suit, whose face had turned pale as the driven snow.

"The pilot. You're not going to chicken on me, are you? I sent your pal first because I figured you were the brave one."

"Uh, no. I mean, yes, I am" he replied uncertainly. "Who's my pilot? Is he any good? Who trained this girl here?"

"Yves Gaston Delaflote II and yes, he's one of the best. Don't call him Yves, though. He hates that. Everybody calls him Deauxee. As to Olivia, no one trained her. She just got addicted to Grand Theft Aero."

Blonde suit was staring at me blankly when the lift seat dropped so I just pushed him in, snapped the bar, stepped back, and gave the signal. Deauxee jammed the collective and blonde suit disappeared as if we'd used a transporter from a science fiction movie.

"Good work," I told Olivia.

"Hueys one and two, prepare for aerial transfer," said Olivia "Ascend to three thousand feet, heading two one five. Fortress five, descent to two nine five zero feet, heading two three zero. Match speed and heading on intercept. Looking good. Fortress five, watch that upper turret when you drop it open. It's heavy and it swings back faster than you think. Advise when complete. Go."

"If those guys come back and need a new lunch, tell 'em it's on the house," I remarked to Olivia.

"Roger lunch, Viv. Spitfires four and seven, prepare to defend aerial transfer. Messerschmitt Zwei, are you within range?"

"Javohl Fraulein Commandant," came the answer. Priceless. They were gonna need new pants, too.

Heather, Jasmine, and Lavender started a beach volleyball game against Imani Duncan, Aaliyah Yupe, and Makayla Threase, the starting front three on the Bald Mountain girls' basketball team. That alone would have instigated a major stampede but the stakes ensured it. Losers had to spend ten minutes mud wresting then twenty in the dunk tanks.

Street performers continued arriving in droves. The naked hula dancers and firewalkers drew special interest.

4:00 PM

Wendy Ahern's four o'clock newschopper report showed an enormous swarm of people surrounding Bushie's Off-Road. Every street, field, and sidewalk within a mile radius was packed with cars and people. The Condors played on. The air show continued. The dirt rides were backed up hopelessly.

Petunia Pei and Yulan Yuan drew an audience of thousands by staging an exhibition of martial arts. In the mud pits. Then under a fire hose. Then in grape Jello.

Most of the food vendors were already short of supplies. Shorty Widdle sold out, including his Griddle Of Nowhere trailer, but he was already discussing a convoy of semi trailers with the local dealer.

"What-a you mean you can't deliver?" Ruby Ruiz was screaming into his PDA. "I need-a thirty bushels o' limes, two hundred crates o' marinated pollo, and one tanker o' salsa right-a now! Si, si, I know, it's-a Saturday afternoon. But you promise you keep-a me supplied!! I pay you for dat!!"

"Look, I'm sorry, Erubio, but my delivery trucks can't even get close to your location there at Bushie's," I heard Ruby's supplier reply. "The streets are jammed. There's no way in or out. I'd love the business but I can't deliver."

"Hang on, Ruby, maybe I can help," I interceded. Then I told my PDA to make a call.

"Olivia, patch me through to Louie, wouldja?" I asked.

"Louie's refueling but here's Deauxee. Go ahead," Olivia replied.

"Deauxee, it's Viv. Yeah, bon jour. Are you up for a milk run? Erubio's Super Mex needs a warehouse pickup."

"Fooah you, mon cheri, certainment. How can you doubt zuch a ting, eh? Whe-ah iz ziz vairhouse of Erubio's?"

After giving Deauxee the warehouse address I found Nadia and told her start coordinating airdrops through Olivia. In less than ten minutes she had Louie and Deauxee making regular drops from their Hueys. Within fifteen she had China and Choey Chung servicing chefs from their Chinook as well.

5:00 PM

As five o'clock approached so did more restaurants. They couldn't get close to Bushie's, of course, but they were lining up near the fringes.

One of them was Mackinac Attack, affiliated with the posh Olde North Tavern. Eldon Leadbetter of Hot Local News interviewed Nora Eestra, the manager. Leadbetter kept raving about the cod, halibut, swordfish, shark, shrimp, squid, clams, lobster, chowder and other seafood.

Another was The Freedom Shack, affiliated with Chateau d'Aquitaine. Rosalinda Bibby interviewed Pierre Gump for The Sundry Channel. According to Bibby, the soufflé au fromage, coq a' vin, beef bourguignon and escargot were impressive but the fries were soggy.

Wendy Ahern interviewed Lemuel Poncetrain, manager of Tabasco Road, affiliated with Papa Jack's Bayou Cook Shack and Steamer. The jambalaya, gumbo, bouillabaisse, shrimp, crawfish, and catfish were guaranteed to make anyone's mouth, nose, eyes, forehead and chin water (not to mention the naughty bits).

The Bald Mountain cafeteria staff set up a deep-fried beet and turnip stand but no one would go within two blocks of it. I suppose it was the smell.

The Condors continued playing nonstop. The air show and the dirt rides continued relentlessly. The mass of people grew like an unstoppable wave.

I spotted Rita and Serena a couple of times. Once they were rubbing their newly bald scalps and freaking out just by looking at each other. The second time they'd paired up with Ali Manzueta and a similarly bald friend of his. Both girls already had face fulls and were urging the new guy to get a PA like Ali's.

At the Cupids Pita convoy I ran into Pietre and immediately noticed a new pair or earrings. They looked good on him, but so did the new barbell in his cock. "Careful, it's tender," he warned when I reached to check out the barbell.

"I've heard that," I replied. "Does this mean you're done wearing pants?"

"I dunno. My dad says I could wear a foustanella until it heals," Pietre replied.

"I don't think white pleats are your style," I teased. "I think it looks fine just as it is."

"I'll think about it," Pietre promised, then he had to mix some more moussaka.

About five thirty I called Reb for a status report on Shallow Chasm. She'd been there all day watching and directing the bulldozers. She said the track looked great and ought to run just as well.

Louie and Deauxee were still making non-stop deliveries in their Hueys, lowering whole pallets of ingredients to the restaurants. China and Choey Chung were using their Chinook to deliver whole shipping containers full of food, fuel, and service items. With that assistance the restaurants were keeping up with demand, but barely.

Adam was still giving rides and seemed to be enjoying it. "How's it going?" I asked when he was between laps.

"Not so bad," he replied. "I was afraid of throwing my back out but it seems to be OK. So how did you meet those guys Ted and Manny from the airport? Where'd you learn how to fly?"

"It was coincidence," I explained. "To pay for all the planes and stuff, they run a side business called Missing Pieces, Inc. If you need a custom or obsolete part for almost anything, but don't have the specs, they're the place to go. They take whatever information you have, electronically model the surrounding system, simulate it, and reverse-engineer the missing part. They made quite a few parts for The Bullet. That's how I met 'em."

"I guess they make their own parts for the planes, then," Adam surmised.

"Yeah, the plane parts came first. Later they needed to make money from it. How'd you start swimming?"

"Oh, my mom and dad took me to the pool in summertime. I took lessons when I was a little kid. Actually, I took lessons in a lot of stuff. I just did swimming the best, that's all. That made me like it, so I kept up with it. Well, they've got my passengers loaded up. I guess I better get going," said Adam.

"Take care. Brace your back against the seat. It prevents injuries," I suggested.

"Yeah, later," Adam replied.

"Definitely," I assured him.

7:00 PM

At seven the Crimson Condors finished their four-hour set. The Huey lifted Mad Mike, Thunder, and Fingers off the stage, but a stand-in took the ride for Ian. No one else seemed to notice the switch but I knew it was my signal, my time to face the music.

Sure enough, Ian was waiting for me behind the portable stage. The first person to speak, however, was Crystal, who'd apparently been following me since the show ended. "You scum!" she screamed. "Coincidence my ass! You know Ian Strommer, don't you? He wrote Callin' Vivian for you, didn't he? You're the one he wants, right? Why in the world are you still livin' poor here in this podunk town? Shit, Viv, this is Ian Strommer! Ian Strommer!"

Ian stared at me blankly, then lifted one eyebrow in question. "This is my friend Crystal," I explained. "Maybe you could do something for her."

Oh, he did something all right. He reached into his guitar case, took out a well-worn silver bullet hat, autographed it, and handed it to Crystal.

Crystal was momentarily speechless, then set loose another torrent. "You assholes! You were together, weren't you? I know this hat! I know this design! You two and that old man Stitch! Who else? Everyone knows but me, huh? Well, what are you going to do about this? Tell me that, huh? What are you going to do about it?"

"You want another autograph?" Ian suggested, then he started rummaging through his publicity case. "There oughta be a skin pen in here someplace..."

"Ooh!" screamed Crystal in frustration. She squinted, she shook her head, she threw her fists at the ground. Then she gave Ian a big one-legged hug, kissed him on the cheek, patted him on the cock, and let him autograph her left tit. Finally she left, giving me the finger as she passed.

"Hi," said Ian.

"Hi," I replied tentatively.

"You know, you could come with us right now," Ian offered for the zillionth time. "Private jets, luxury hotels, people who do whatever you want. See the world. It's not such a bad life."

"Ian, we've been over this," I replied. "I've been on the road all my life. I need to stop. I need a real home."

"I've got six of 'em," Ian explained. "If you get tired of traveling with the band -- with me -- you can pick one and stay there as long as you want."

"No, I've done the home alone thing way too much already. I'm not about to sign up for more of that, either."

"I'll quit the band," Ian offered.

"No, you can't," I told him. "The band is your dream. It'll suck you back. And if it doesn't, that would be worse. I've seen too many people give up their dreams, Ian. It turns them into empty shells. But my dream is here, or at least that's the way it seems for now."

"How about one day, or even one night?" Ian begged.

"I've never been into one-night stands, Ian. You know that. And anyway, we're both past that, at least with each other. Somehow, despite the things we have in common, it's just not our fate to be together. Thanks for helping me out, though. The music was great. You're still the best that way."

"Yeah, the best, but not good enough," Ian complained, then we hugged and gave each other one helluva long kiss. Eventually, I had to push him away.

"If you've got nothing else to do, why don't you find my friend Crystal?" I suggested. "Here, I'll beam you her number. She's really hot for you."

"Yeah, they always are," Ian sighed. "Maybe some other time, eh?"

"Never can tell," I replied. "Take care of yourself, OK? Don't overdo things. Pack your own chute."

"Yeah, you too," Ian wished quietly. Then we gave a little Bang! and went our separate ways.

That's when I lost it. Oh sure, I had a few seconds warning, and I used it to find a dark spot between the bushes and the fence. With my arm and face against a pole I cried and cried and cried. Didn't even have a handkerchief. The tears just dripped off my nipple. Then I heard something, looked up, and saw Ian fifty feet away puking his guts out.

Holy Control and the Flying Headache were battling Choir of the Assertive Twelve for control of the stage. It didn't sound too bad for a while, but time took its toll and both bands eventually sulked off to lick their wounds. An upstart group called anvilhead! jumped on stage started a ukulele and tuba drill. It wasn't half bad but they could have used some bongos. Mistress Payne and the Submissives got caught in traffic and had to play in the potpourri boutique next door. Mistess Payne was pissed but the Submissives, at least, seemed to enjoy it.

Eventually I looked up and saw that Ian was gone. Then I calmed down a bit, dried my face the best I could, and headed over to the dirt ride area.

"Are you OK?" Adam asked. "You look terrible."

"Thanks for noticing," I replied. "I just got splashed, that's all. I don't suppose there's a clean towel anywhere, is there?"

"Not since early this morning," Adam replied. "Maybe someone in line has one, though."

At that point Adam stood on a barricade, faced the waiting line, and announced, "If anyone has a clean towel we can borrow, that person can move to the head of the line."

Almost immediately, half a dozen guys came forward and offered their shorts. Another guy offered the beach wrap he was wearing. The eventual winner was a goth chick who loaned me the black gauze blouse she was wearing unbuttoned over her waist cincher.

"You gonna stay at our house tonight?" Adam asked.

"Yes, I'd like that very much," I replied.

8:00 PM

For the rest of the evening I took turns giving dirt rides. With the Condors long gone a couple dozen local bands had lined up for a chance to play on the same stage. The fire department brought in fireworks and put on a terrific show. Some of the aircraft were dropping fireworks too, and the crowd enjoyed the unusual effect. Then, at one in the morning, Chief Getcherman took the mike and declared the event ended. Horde by horde the remaining onlookers drifted home.

2:00 AM

At two I dragged myself into Bushman's showroom and found him in a daze. All the merchandise was gone. The showroom contained nothing but empty shelf units.

"I sold out," Bushman mumbled when he saw me.

"To who?" I asked. If it was Reb, I was going to kill her. If it was Averill Overdale or anyone else from Trans-Cal, I was declaring war.

"To thousands of people," Bushman replied. "I sold my entire inventory, including vehicles and repair parts, except for this one gas cap. It fits a 1973 Yardgrinder go-kart."

"I've been searching years for one of those!" shouted a frantic guy in a chicken suit. "I'll give you a hundred bucks for it, right now, cash and carry!"

"You can have it for sixty," said Bushman, taking the guy's money. Then the chicken guy ran off squawking, clucking, and waving his arms as if he'd found gold. If I hadn't been so tired, I'm sure his wiggling tail would have been funny.

"I'm not the only one, you know," Bushman told me. "The tire store and the potpourri boutique next door sold out too. So did the sporting goods store down the block, a bridal store, a tack shop, an oriental grocery store, a rubber-stamp emporium, two piercing shops, an herb and vitamin store, a home and garden center, a furniture warehouse, and even a couple of clothing stores. I don't know what to say."

"Just reorder," I suggested, then Nadia appeared from the back room.

"Revenue from the dirt rides was $30,000," she announced. "Commissions from the food vendors were another $100,000. People threw more than $1500 in Willie Fundeman's hat, and that was for bad jokes. A guy playing the bagpipes in full Scottish regalia cleared over $2000, and it probably would have been more if he'd skipped the kilt (and no, that's not a Scottish folk-dance). I'll have the final totals tomorrow."

"Just give everything to Lucy Lastik. She'll know how to handle it. Don't leave it here," I advised.

"What about the Dunemaster?" Bushman asked. "Is Adam going to drive it home?"

"No, we decided to leave it here so Magic can check it over in the morning," I told him.

A few minutes later Bushman locked up and I drove over to Jonson's. On the way I stopped at the truck stop for a free shower.

The Jonson house was filled wall-to-wall with people: some sleeping, some talking quietly, some rolling around. In Adam's room, Nadia, Ben, Dan, and Olivia were all using blankets on the floor. Adam, however, had saved the bed for himself and me. We fell asleep in each other's arms and that made it a good day.