From: intraphase@gmail.com

Frank Harris and Alex see Trevor McBain approach the flower house with Pierce
Daniels ten steps behind carrying a leather rucksack. Augustus Ferguson is carefully watering a stand of his most precious orchids. Smoking is permitted and the men are
indulging to an acceptable degree.
“What kind of rotten move was that Ferguson?” Trevor calls out brushing off Alex and Harris.
Augustus glances up then ignores him realizing Pierce must be carrying the disputed items.
Harris interjects; “Where is the elegant dignified threesome of cultivated pearls tonight.”
McBain gives Harris a cold stare, “At Templeton’s nursing Aurian back from an epileptic fit.”
Augustus strolls nonchalantly up to Doc popping off indifferently. “Hand them over kid.”
“The girls don’t want them. McBain doesn’t want them. It was my sleuthing that found them.”
Frank and Alex made eye contact, tossing their cigarettes on the floor and stepping on them.
“Those are amber boxes older than the pyramids or sphinx, each one carved from a single block of amber. You wouldn’t be safe owning such valuables…” Gus trails off exasperated picking up his water can. ”Young people have no integrity these
days. This whole world is going to ruin.”
Frank and Alex ambled towards the outer gate with; “Night Fergie,” and “Goodnight Gus.”
Augustus petulantly pouting gives Mac and Doc two limp flicks of his wrist, “Go away now.”
Doc cinches the rucksack a little tighter and confidently strides into the eve’s pale moonlight.
Harris is unable to start his car, the headlights growing dimmer with each turn of the key
“You fellas got any jumper cables?” Harris asks resigned to the dilemma. McBain searched the trunk of Lisa’s Chrysler to no avail. “Jump in were headed downtown.”
Driving along Harris casually asks “You fellas ever heard of the musician Johnny LeMond?”
Trevor still smarting from the library doesn’t like the smell of this: “Yeah what of it Harris?
I have a late night invite to a casual party at the Morse Building and he is supposed to be there.”
The chief takes a seat on his favorite bench under the stations portico. Ted is groggy but by his side, hands restrained at his waist level by a canvas belt
and padded leather cuffs, a tether attaches the belt to the bench. The ten level gun metal grey
ramps leading down from the first three chrome plated boxcars are waiting. The chief gives him several slow swigs of his ice tea then lights a cigarette for him placing it in a holder so Danes can smoke without assistance.
Danes men are mulling about relaxing on the stations southern veranda. They have paced Ted up and down the thirty feet of unused rail enough times for the triplet of activated magnetic lines to degauss a portion of Ted’s consciousness. Frank Harris
and Alex Mathias have also spent nights chained to this bench or being carried in a field stretcher up and down this accurate and exquisitely specialized barrier system.
Major Danes slightly unhinged by the turnabout, “It’s that freak from the
hothouse.”
“Yeah, Gus built the whole thing.”
“Where do you get the power?”
“He split a granite shelf to form the Ayre River; the short width and extended depth providing swift powerful currents and excellent locations for dynamos to harness the pressurized flow.”
“The ant people are legion by legion going to conquer. I have seen those visions flawlessly”
“It’s not like that Ted.” The chief finished politely and whistled softly for a PSI member.
The chief lowered his hand and the three inch high native holding his tactical assault gear got in. Ted was nonplussed by the miniature human. When he unfolded the headgear Ted started to tremble and weep. “Long ago we discovered that information
systems and sizeless objects are the key to many discoveries. This world we share is still in its information science infancy.”
The small native was donning and removing the elaborate head hand and body protection repeatedly. Ted was slowly gathering his wits back about him. The chief had the small native withdraw and a conventional sized native exited the door on his left.
The enormity of the headpiece placed on the ground is soothing to Danes. Holding the fluffy gauss of the microfiber blue jumpsuit to the Majors face, Danes could feel a therapeutic effect instantly. Two flexible, football shaped eye pieces, with four
foot rams horn shaped extension, that run up and curl downward into tipped cones at the rear waist level; were placed over his head. Hearing a casual laugh from the veranda Danes turned and gasped. “Whoa.”
“You see them as they are without the filters of the information system that is the human eye.”
The native placed the thick yellow mittens over the Majors hands and he was sightless and bathed in a soft grey white fluorescent quality light. “What is
this?”
“That’s unarticulated information flows. Say “American English, then Mode Three””
The Major complying observed lines of yellow red and blue touching the fuzzy mittens which are silver now. Looking away from the gloves; the lines diverge transposing into other colors at a distance of twenty feet, where clouds of colored gas are
gently jostling for positional traction and dominance, affecting each of its neighbors. Occasionally a modest languid lightning bolt of intense color would appear before melding into the gradient ramps of the surrounding hues.
“That is your consciousness, the ripples are primal awareness. Say “Stop Listening and Exit.”
Ted can see through the millions of tiny lenses normally again as the chiefs subordinate lifts the protective gear. Fiddling with something inside the headpiece the young adult native tosses the electromagnetic data hood onto the stone floor. It shatters,
crinkles and dissolves into grey powder. The Chief said routinely. “If you’ll take one last sedative I’ll remove the restraints.”
Alex and Harris are sitting quietly in the Chrysler’s plush rear seats. Pierce has all of the car’s interior lights on, and is also using a tiny flashlight’s illumination, to examine every square centimeter of the two amber boxes in minute detail;
still pondering what all the fuss is about. The two men in the back not engaging in small talk raises McBain’s alertness level several more degrees. He turns the radio on loud to provoke a response joining a Stray Tears song in midstream and pulls
off Route 24 onto Sixth Avenue.
“Selfishness is never satisfied… the tears fall from your eyes
How good can you feel about something bad… an ocean of pain smiles disguise.”
Pierce tears a blank sheet of paper from his pocket pad using the edge to probe the finely carved ridge lines on the boxes interior walls singing along to the repeating chorus like a dying whale.
“The ancient songster… sits in his mansion and moans…
waiting for the muse… of music… to throw him a bone.”
Pierce tosses his pocket pad in the amber box turning to the younger of the two
men.
“A vicious little verse, followed by a plaintiff wailing chorus, Now that’s rock n roll. Wish I could write a few songs like that and sell them to old mister media mogul Robert Bitterman.”
Doc closes the lid of the amber box tying off the straps of the rucksack’s cover flap.
Spotting the valet parking attendant’s booth, outside the four lane wide driveway, of the recently constructed twenty-story Morse Building; Doc shuts off the radio and turns to Mathias.
Alex sitting in the back seat smiling like the Cheshire Cat does not rile Doc even momentarily.
“Johnny LeMond’s been out of circulation for five years. Hope this isn’t a lynching party.”
“It never hurts to deal with people who consider themselves your superior. It teaches grace under fire and a fluidity of dispositional approach that bears
fruit in wiser plans of attack.”
Doc unwilling to risk leaving valuables in the car tows his precious satchel of quest items along. McBain would have dropped all three of them off but is unwilling to leave Daniels to the sharks. Bitterman spotting the foursome’s arrival from the
balcony is waiting in the foyer as the private penthouse elevator door is opened by the operator. Trevor is tense and unimpressed by the luxurious setting of marble, fine wood and floor to ceiling windows. Pierce is very eager
but equally unimpressed.
Bitterman greets Alex and Frank and Harris introduces Doc and Mac. Pierce shakes Bitterman’s hand vigorously, “It’s a pleasure to finely meet you Mr. Bitterman.”
“Bob or Bobby please, only the IRS and my ex-wives lawyers call me Mr. Bitterman.”
Leading them into the large dining hall for a round of refreshments, their small, dark haired, tuxedo clad, host excuses himself: but not before asking Harris and Alex to wait until the other guests have wandered out so they can speak at length privately.
Doc enters the coat room unthinkingly hanging up the rucksack and covering it with his denim jacket. McBain is watching taking note of the guests and activities. Doc gets a triple shot of scotch for Trevor and indulges in a Pink Lady taking advantage of
the top quality bar and lack of a tab. Delivering the drink to his brooding friend. “I feel like I am trapped in a desert walking at night burying myself
by day.”
Doc nodded noncommittally at Mac and headed in the direction of Johnny LeMond.
Halfway there, a casually dressed, zealous eyed, pony tailed wearing bohemian
named David pulls Pierce by his free arm; whispering conspiratorially, “I’ve got to show you something.”
Momentarily bemused Doc follows the mysterious gnome down a thickly carpeted corridor.
Stopping outside a closed door, the aging hippie grasps the knob, opening the door with a theatrical flourish. Daniels follows him into a large linoleum floored room. It is bare except
for a large strange cube in the center; standing aside David points Pierce towards the cube.
Trevor sees Bitterman make a play for Doc’s knapsack in the coatroom and head down a dimly lit corridor. Following him; Trevor doesn’t notice Alex and
Frank five steps behind trailing him.
Pierce walks up to the cube and realizes it is a four foot high eight by eight foot stack of 33 RPM
record albums. The design of each cover is an iconic photograph of Johnny LeMond with large block type letters below it. “John LeMond For President.”

Pierce feels a peculiar sense of peril staring at the surrealistic political monument. He wishes the night’s adventures hadn’t worn Tatianni out so he could get her read on this oddity.
Bitterman enters and pulls the amber boxes out of the backpack placing them ritualistically on the mammoth pop music obelisk. McBain enters the room his eyes on the small black onyx
pyramid in each corner of the room and another one hanging inverted from the ceiling.
McBain shouts furiously, “I hope you brought your ruby slippers Pierce Daniels!”
Lunging at Bitterman he grabs the waifish mogul by the throat, Alex and Harris enter weapons drawn followed by six security personnel from the OSG Consortium.
“Enough Trevor!”
Harris and McBain had yelled loud enough to send a polite panic through the genteel royalty of rock n roll attending Bitterman’s soiree. Security crawling out of the moneyed woodwork with semi-automatic weapons was enough to tarnish the luster of
monarchy and dispel the illusion of invincibility. Trevor released Bitterman yanking the rucksack from his hand to reload the boxes.
“I paid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for those items” Alluding to the cigar boxes.
Harris and Mathias look at McBain, who shook his head negatively; then over at Pierce. Doc’s back was an inch away from the wall. Trevor put the two amber boxes on the monolithic horror.
Trevor points towards the door; “GET OUT!” No one spoke. They waited in deadly silence.
John LeMond opened the door walking in apprehensively; catching sight of the totality of the bizarre room and its contents: for the first time and the last.
He walked boldly up to Bitterman;
“I’d rather die.” Stepping cautiously in Pierce’s direction, “I’m sorry we had to meet like this.”
LeMond picked up the two amber boxes presenting them to Trevor humbly. “It is
done.”
Trevor tied up the knapsack spit at Bitterman and grabbed Doc’s arm pulling him away from the ghastly infernal abstraction. In less than a minute he had Pierce out the door, down the elevator and in the waiting car driven by Mathias. Dropping the young
men off at the Harland Building six blocks east with a promise to return Lisa Templeton’s Chrysler before sunrise; Harris and Alex sped back to The Arboretum.
“Some things are inevitable Frank.”
“We could’ve interfered in many ways but it would’ve inexorably led to system annihilation.”
When I was McBain’s age I had a recurring nightmare that I was Trevor. I would awaken in the apartment he is in now. This version of me would arrive. As
Trevor I would awaken in a stupor the loaded gun on the table. Impossible to kill myself, I would
try to find one of the broken gates in Arizona or New Mexico. The gate at Canyon De Chele is one hundred feet below the cliff and four hundred feet up in
the air. The gate has shrunk from three hundred sixty feet wide to six feet wide. According to
Augustus it took seven thousand three hundred and thirty-seven attempts to hit the bullseye and sever the connections. So most likely I’ll have that dream a
few more times.”
Frank remained respectfully silent having heard this sequence related before.

“I’m thinking either I try the direct approach; appealing to Trevor’s sense of honor and love for his friends to get him to go west or let fate take its course and draw him reluctantly forward . We bought some time tonight when LeMond jumped on
that grenade.” Harris sighed resigned.
Aurian Tatianni has finally fallen asleep in the large eastward Victorian on the Reed Estate’s private drive. Moses and his RN6 Consortium associates are conferring in the middle house with Michelle Gauthier. Templeton is sleeping in
the westward
residence closest to the main gate which serves as her personal getaway to buffer herself from the mansion’s political intrigues.

[continued in next message]

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