The Seeker's Handbook, with War Poker: To Circumnavigational Guidance and Coming Events

Appendix

PART I

RENDEZVOUS AT SIGNMAN’S GAP

Chapter 1

Cats And Squirrels Do Mix

SANDRA SQUIRREL KICKED A BRIGHT CAN as she bounced happily toward home. She felt fundamentally fantastic and exorbitantly outrageous, although she didn’t realize it, and inside her she knew she had everything to live for.

Not a block behind her the sounds of children’s excited laughter poured like a joyous song out into the streets and schoolyard. The bell had rung at exactly 12:00. She had been released from her fifth grade class early, for this day was special; a half day, everyone celebrating the event of new friends, new teachers, and the glorious relief from a long, hot, and boring summer.

A special day it was true—a day that came only once a year. But even so, Sandi felt far apart from the crowd and all its beckoning clamor. For Sandi, it was a special day in more ways than just one.

Scents as old as the hills but as new as the day invaded her sensitive nose. A fruited lemon tree and a freshly watered garden became a part of her as she sucked in her breath as if it were to be her last. Her chest fairly swelled as she experienced a heart-felt anticipation that sent a warm glow to her extremities.

It was just as she was approaching the first corner that the steady clak clak clak of wheels hitting cracks told her someone was skateboarding up behind her. A girl jumped off and steadied herself, puffing and out of breath.

Sandi! Aren’t you going to go to the playground and see everybody? Charlotte and Becky and me are going to play four square. Everybody’s waiting for you!

Oh, hi Carla! Yeah, after I change these stupid ol’ clothes and feed my cat.

"What cat? I thought your cat ran away."

"I don’t know, Sandi chattered. Some big ol’ tomcat was lookin’ up at me through the window when I woke up this morning. Zzzzt. He was just a’starin’ up at me and said Hello Sandi, so I let him in. He’s smart."

"You and your cats. You’re always finding them."

"I love cats," Sandi replied simply.

What’s his name?

"How should I know. Sandi’s brown almond eyes grew bigger like they always did when she got into her nonstop rap. He’s waiting for me, I know he is. He’s got the biggest green eyes you ever saw. I don’t know where he lives, wise old cat. He’s black with red squares. And he gots the cutest smile you ever…"

"Com’on Sandra! Cats don’t smile! You’re trying to kid me!"

He does, I’m not kidding, replied Sandi. "I mean he doesn’t smile smile, but you know. He must weigh about fifty pounds! Wise old cat. He’s handsome."

You’re crazy, Sandi!

Cuckoo, cuckoo, said Sandi, swaying her head and shoulders to and fro, her eyes crossed in an imbecilical fixed stare.

Listen, said her friend, "everybody’s waiting. I’m going back to the playground. See you later!"

The girl jumped on her skateboard and Sandi watched her go. Then a half block later Carla skidded to a stop. Turning, she yelled at the top of her lungs, Sandi, Becky says that she heard that Tommy Wilky likes you! and then she went on.

That Becky Ann is just a poopbutt troublemaker, Sandi thought out loud. Then remembering her conversation, she reflected—There is something special about that cat! And with this thought in mind she raced home at nearly full speed, dark curly waist-long hair flying behind her. But even so, she might have run twice as fast had she known the adventures that lay ahead of her.

This was no fragile little girl, but a free-souled explosion of a New Age kid whose energy made adults cringe and children jealous. She was a treasure to all who knew her, admired and loved, and even emulated. A picture of bravery, there was nothing she couldn’t, or wouldn’t do.

But she had just one problem: nobody could understand her. They tried, but they just couldn’t.

As Sandi skidded around a wide hedge and into her driveway she experienced a queer moment of despair concerning her cat. It flashed by her in a second. What if he isn’t there? What if he’s gotten too restless after all this time, or what if… Barely missing a parked bicycle and involuntarily slowing down, a loud high-pitched ringing popped into her ears—the kind you hear in absolute silence when you’re a kid but that happens less and less as you grow older—and somehow she felt instantly soothed and relieved of all her doubts.

Her pace slackened to a fast walk out of courtesy as she entered the front door. She observed her older brother in the kitchen eating a sandwich.

Hi, Squirrel! he said cheerfully and sort of muffled. What’s up?

Hi, Eddie! she exuberated. I can smell that peanut butter sandwich a mile away! Gotta see my cat! She passed down the hall without a single misgiving, and flinging open the door to her bedroom she was not at all surprised to see a plump, uncommonly large feline lying contentedly at the foot of her bed.

Short-haired and with white stockings, his markings were unlike any Sandi had seen until this very day. Melted checkers of rich red chocolate-brown, beginning on the top of his head, moved down his back and tail in gentle misty waves on a background of shiny black. Splashing over his sides, they stopped only a short ways from his soft, dirty grey tummy. He was accented by more grey around his nose and whiskers, and with a chin of white and the long silver tufts of slender hairs protruding from the tips of his ears, he held a somehow remarkable expression.

Slowly zigzagging from the melted square between his ears was the very first wavy spot of red-brown. Smaller than the rest, it dripped tadpole-like over his forehead to rest directly above and between his stunning green eyes.

He and been quietly grooming himself when she entered. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Sandi, either, and seemed to have been waiting patiently all day. He stopped what he was doing and looked up, a certain radiance beaming from his funny smile.

I knew you’d be here! Sandi exclaimed, and flew to the bed to sit beside him. Proudly she stroked him, glancing at the open window above her. "You could have left if you wanted to, Mr. Cat, but you wanted to stay here and wait for me! I knew you would, I knew it, and I didn’t doubt it for a second!"

The cat slowly opened his giant eyes, and for a moment a discerning and almost knowing presence danced between them, and then they were closed again. He was in a dream.

Sandi herself felt dreamy, and somehow she knew she had a friend. Verbootum, versnootum, persnickitium, she said as she swayed from side to side, "persnickitium, perkickitium, verlickitium." Then she heard her brother drop a knife in the kitchen. Hey, she said, "you must understand what I understand!" And she hummed a little.

After a moment she jumped up. Mr. Cat! I’ll bet you’re hungry! She clucked her tongue and patted him reassuringly on his head. Now you stay right here a minute and I’ll get you something for your tummy. She bounded for the kitchen.

Eddie was working on his third glass of milk. What’s up? he asked.

I’ve got a new cat, Sandi answered. He’s the neatest cat ever! I’m going to get him some milk for his tummy. Milk for his yummy. Yummy for his…

Oh yeah? Lemme see. He started toward her room, milk in hand. How was fourth grade?"

Sandi flinched. "Fifth grade, you gazebo!"

"Sorry, Squirrel. Junior high stinks. Bunch of lamebrained dudes walkin’ ‘round think they’re big bananas—and that’s just about what they are, biiig bananas! Hey, I don’t see any cat."

What?! Sandi cried, and flew to the doorway. But it was true. Where there had previously been fifteen pounds of exotic potbellied tomcat, there was now only a cubic foot of clean, pure atmosphere.

Sandi raced to her bed and looked beneath it. She found nothing. She searched every corner of her room, but to no avail. "Here kitty, here Mr. Cat. Here kitty, please come back, where are you?" she pleaded in near desperation. Almost tripping on her bedclothes, she jumped to her window and leaned out as far as she could go. She scanned her backyard and the big tree with the swing, and even searched beyond the red fence to her neighbor’s yard and garden.

Finally she returned to sink down on her bed. He was here a minute ago, Eddie. I just don’t understand it.

Eddie put a caring arm over her shoulder. He might come back, you know how cats are. Try putting some milk on the window sill, Squirrel, that’ll prob’ly work. Her brother left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

Maybe I wouldn‘t have been able to keep him anyway, Sandi thought. And besides, everything works out for the best, doesn’t it? Then Sandi made an effort to sit up straight. She held back the tears that threatened to come. She fought her hardest to keep back the emptiness, and that terrible creepy heartbreaking feeling.

But soon her effort was no longer needed. Confidently, she grinned. "He’ll come back, I know he will." And it was at this very instant that she heard a sound behind her: the precise sound of tongue licking paw.

It’s you! she cried. The cat was lying sphinx-like at the other end of the bed, just below the pillow, and he looked very relaxed. He stopped his lazy licking and like a bright but naughty schoolboy looked up at her.

Sandi wiped her cheek and laughed. "I knew you’d come back, Mr. Cat, I knew it!" Scooping him up she stroked him in a rapid burst from his enormous cat eyes, through his shiny cat ears, all the way down his back to his funny red-blotched tail. An unmistakable contentedness shown on his peaceful demeanor as he soaked up a waterfall of love and attention. Sandi herself felt contented, although she didn’t realize it, and as she slowed her affections, rocking back and forth, the cat began to purr.

The day was again refreshing droplets of newness and laughter, and she and the cat were a part of them, running up, up, up, until they floated breathlessly into a deep blue sky, which was seen as a bubble. Swimming easily through the cold, clear ether, they met friends and blissful souls alike, a journey which was propelled by music, cotton waves, and a singing wind. In and out of the crystalline clearness they travelled, frolicking in an indescribable sphere of beauty that left no space for question or incertitude.

It was almost two full minutes before Sandi realized that the cat was purring in harmony. Her eyes widened. Startled, yet feeling she must still be in a dream, she pinched herself. Holding her breath, she then leaned her head nearer so as to listen even more carefully.

Yes, it was indisputable!—a low, guttural purr like most cats, which sounded natural enough, but then also a higher, richer, more melodious sound, independent of the other, of a birdlike quality and much more like a chirr than a purr. Both together were like music. Like a cricket symphony! she thought. It was beautiful, and she let the resonances become her momentarily.

Then poor Sandi was stunned. Her head reeled, seized by the magnitude of what she had heard. She stopped her petting and the cat’s purring ceased. She wanted to call Eddie, but as she began to she somehow thought better of it, and stopped abruptly. Silently, she stared at the wall in front of her, deep in deliberation. A shudder-wave slowly welled up from her insides and up her back and into her chest and shoulders and shook her fiercely.

And then she knew what she had to do. And just as surely she knew there was a part of her that was unwilling—simply because of the significance which such an act would suggest. But courage and a driving suspicion impelled her.

Slowly, she lifted the cat up in front of her. Then with a reluctance that was difficult to master she forced her gaze over until his eyes met hers. She choked on her words and they felt like they clung to the dryness of her tongue as she deliberately forced them up and out of her mouth.

"Y–You’re no ordinary cat, are you, Mr. Cat?"

The cat’s gaze was still and intent. Soon Sandi had to fight down another shudder-wave. And then it was that all strangeness and fear were replaced with familiarity and warmth. A friendliness of such dimension and depth unfurled in his eyes that she lost herself to a degree that was indeed incalculable, and was only shaken out of it by the abrupt and insistent ringing in her ears.

Chapter 2

Poor, Frustrated Paul

PAUL FRANKLIN SCOTT SORT OF dribbled down onto the sofa with the vivacity of a wet towel. He lay there relaxed, so much so that all expression drained from his lean, sunburned face, his blonde shoulder-length hair sprawling lazily behind him. The neighborhood was calm. All he could hear was the sunny chirping of an afternoon bird in the big fig tree and the buzzing of a few sociable bees in the sweet-smelling bushes near the front door.

As he lay there, Paul’s mid-day somnolence gave him a sharp pang of guilt, and in his mind’s eye he tried to get up. Ah, he thought, but it’s so much nicer just to lie here. He watched himself relax another notch. Soon his mind’s images became less connected and the peaceful chirping outside grew more distant and unreal. He wished regretfully that something would save him from his upward fall into bliss.

He began toying with the idea that dreams might actually be reality, and being awake a dream. It seemed possible. And perhaps in his dream reality he had pondered this same question many times. Of course, from an inverted point of view. The thought made him grin inwardly.

As his thoughts ran to a planned trip to Mexico, the real and the unreal became intangible images dancing before him, beckoning memories of a future time. Smiling friendly peasants floated peacefully through a kaleidoscope of hot dusty roads and forests. Monkeys chattered colorful news through the grapevine as yellow and lavendar-smelling fruits, each glowing with the warmth of hospitality freely given, tickled and teased Paul’s mind to give up his body for the sake of the Greater Reality.

He was sinking into dreamland to be sure. He then made one final attempt to get up. It was just at the point when he knew it was impossible that a sky-blue Oldsmobile roared around the bend and up the street and into his driveway, and with just as much abruptness stopped and was quiet. The door squeaked open and a second later slammed shut.

Paul slowly pulled himself up into sitting position. Rats, he said. He stared drowsily across the living room to the large open door. The restraining threads of sleep lingered and then made the supreme sacrifice.

Hi, Mom. He tried to sound alert. His mother glanced quickly at him and strode through the living room and into the kitchen. She seemed perturbed about something.

Paul, please get the groceries out of the car for me.

O.K, he said. He disappeared out the front door, and in a moment returned with two shopping bags crowded in his arms and a department store bag clenched between his teeth. He put them down on the kitchen table. How was your day? he asked.

She kept effectively silent as she put the cottage cheese and artichokes in the refrigerator and sponged something off the sink. She turned to glare at Paul, making him a bit uneasy. Finally she let loose.

"Paul, I don’t want to bug you again, but you’re bugging me. What did you do today? Anything for the upkeep of the house? Contributed to the groceries? Checked the papers? Or anything?"

Paul pondered. He thought he’d tell her about thinning out the fig tree, as a joke, but he wisely decided against it. Well, he said, actually…

She left him no time for invention. His mother’s gaze reflected anger and suspicions confirmed. "Here you are, a young man of twenty years old and a college dropout, and all your friends are in school having the time of their lives and making something of themselves. Why are you better than them, Paul, tell me, why?"

Paul had heard it all before. He could have given any of a dozen answers, all on which he had expounded a great number of times. In truth, he somehow lacked the simple decision and motivation of his more acceptable associates. Or maybe he just had a different path.

He decided to let go with a sigh and as few words as possible. "I don’t find college interesting, Mother. I’d rather learn from life than from a classroom."

Uh huh, she accused, "at the time and expense of other people. Travelling all around the countryside without one cent in your pocket, using other people’s transportation and their homes for crashpads—yeah, I know all about it!"

His mother had found the right button and she had pushed it. He found himself doing exactly what he didn’t want to do. He retorted in exasperation—"Mother, you’re being ridiculous! People enjoy helping each other and sharing their experiences nowadays. Don’t you know what’s happening? People aren’t afraid of each other like they used to be. It’s different than you think. You have no understanding of how things are nowadays!"

His mother shook her head to herself, as if in defiance. Arms folded, she tapped her foot in silent reproof. In a moment she straightened up, looking Paul straight in the eye.

"I know one thing, Paul, you’re not happy with your existence the way it is. And you won’t be until you stop talking about this New Age all the time, get some kind of direction in your life, and get your butt in gear! This is one thing I do understand!"

Paul turned out of the yard and up the street. The truth of her last words burned him, bit at him. He was confused, and he needed to get away and sort out the jangled thoughts and impressions that seemed to press in on him like a huge vice. In a moment his confusion gave way to anger, more or less directed at his mom. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but at least it had some direction. But as he tucked his hair back and looked up at the tall mountains in the distance he knew how it really was: he was only angry at himself.

When he reached the Boulevard most of his frustrations lifted. Being on the road caused him to take a new outlook. Possibly he would go to the music store and check out some instruments like he had been planning. Who knows, maybe he could get his head into one. The idea made him smile.

As the early rush hour approached, the street became busy with people he had seen a thousand times but never remembered, surging swiftly past him on their hurried way to this place or that. A mighty high energy day, thought Paul.

When Paul stuck out his thumb and the dilapidated little two cylinder DKW car pulled over for him, Paul’s mouth dropped open and he almost fell over backwards. He wrenched open the tiny little door and jumped in.

Chapter 3

A Strange Encounter At The Supermarket

BEHIND THE HUGE STORE-LENGTH window of Bargainways lay an air conditioned Shangri-la. It was a hot, blistering afternoon and the aisles were peppered with Monday shoppers. Prices were the highest they’d ever been, but no-one was surprised, or even cared. Shopping in the frozen food section was a particular pleasure. Piped-in music came from nowhere and everywhere, and the happy-go-lucky polka they were playing contrasted perversely with the humor of most of the shoppers.

But one customer, a Faith Tustin in her early thirties, felt absolutely like waltzing down the aisles. For her the gay tune seemed perfect. She gingerly picked a can of coffee off the shelves and threw it with a flair into her cart.

As she approached the dry cereal racks her two preschool children, galloping behind her, started pestering for their favorite cereals. Faith floated serenely past brand after brand on their want-list, and as she dropped what she considered to be a healthy cereal into her cart, her kids threatened to throw a tantrum. As with a confirming glance they inhaled deeply on the count of three.

Stopping her cart, Faith raised her arm in readiness. She calmly stated that if they persisted in blowing their cools she would let them both have it right there in the store. They never did let out that wail.

Faith headed for the checkers, passing the candy aisle to throw in a final bag of peanuts. She felt she had conquered something that had been bothering her for years. She knew she loved them, and she knew they knew she loved them, and this was one day she didn’t feel she had to prove it to either them or herself. Food piled high and feeling very good with herself, she guided her shopping cart into the least of the long lines. It was there that she spied an old friend, the fourth such chance meeting in just one week.

Lately, it seemed, Faith hadn’t found time to visit this or any of her good friends. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. But it appeared fate would have it differently, at least concerning Marsha. Their unplanned meetings were often of late, beginning to be uncanny, and not just a little embarrassing. She wheeled her carrier toward the middle of the line.

Well, coincidence upon coincidence, Marsha, she grinned, long time no see. Mind if I kinda’ slip in here so we can engage in some abominable gossip?

Hi, kid! Marsha glanced quickly behind her. An elderly lady was glaring at them both. Marsha leaned over and spoke to Faith in an almost whisper. I don’t think old Fuss Face back there would like it. Let’s go to the end.

Both girls were feeling relieved and grateful for their renewed encounter. They pushed their carts toward the end of the line, and by the time they looked their children had joined forces and were halfway down the imported foods section.

When was it, laughed Faith, Saturday at the shoe store or Friday at the bank?

Actually, said Marsha, "it was the gift shop on Saturday, and the shoe store was on Friday. She shook her head, smiling. Faith, I haven’t stopped to breathe. I’ve been running around like a chicken without a head, or a brain to put in it, to put it mildly, trying to get everything ready for Bill’s business party tonight. The first day of autumn, you know. It’s getting so he celebrates everything. At least this is the last stop before I make it to home sweet home. How’ya been? Any better? You look like a rose!"

Faith sighed and smiled. My dear, that’s an understatement. I’m happy to announce that I have found a new magic pill, spelled M-A-N. Faith’s full, freckled cheeks flushed, and her eyes were aglow.

"That’s great, kid! Who’s the lucky hunk? You must have met him yesterday or Saturday."

Uh huh, Saturday, right after I saw you at the gift shop. I’m pretty excited, Marsha, but I can’t tell you much about him except that he was enough to blow all my circuit breakers in just about twenty-five minutes. He called yesterday morning and we’re going out tonight.

Marsha seemed concerned for a second, and was going to say something but changed her mind. She jabbed her friend affectionately in the ribs. Com’on kid, you can tell me, what’s he like? Name, height, sign, serial number—you know, rap me down some facts.

"Well, honestly, Marsha, it was very brief. I had to kill a half hour till the laundry was done, so I decided to go to Bob’s Cafe for a cup of coffee—I needed some perking up. And just after I’d ordered, in comes this fox, and ambles over and asks if he can sit at my table because he just bought two tickets for the Millennium, and it’s running late or something."

What did that mean?

Probably just his line. said Faith. They both tittered generously.

I’ve heard stranger ones than that, attested Marsha.

Then on impulse, both women looked toward the front of the line, and were just in time to catch the strained stare of Mrs. Fuss Face trying to overhear a word or three of their conversation. They weren’t at all bothered, but lowered their voices solely for the reason she seemed so sneaky about it.

Faith continued. "So I certainly didn’t refuse him, Marsha. He sat down and ordered hotcakes, and before I knew it he was pouring hot butter and syrup all over my heart."

Both laughed. O.K, O.K, admonished Marsha, don’t pour it on too thick yourself. So go on, then what happened?

Well, he was dressed, you know, comfortably, and to tell you the truth, she snickered, he was wearing Levis and sandals.

Marsha broke into a muffled giggle.

And he’s, well—medium to smallish build, you know…

Just right, said Marsha.

"Now you’re catching on, kid. He’s got a hint of a cowboy accent, maybe from Colorado or somewhere, very hardy looking, the outdoors type, no beard or anything."

That’s a switch.

And he’s, well, he’s—

Com’on, com’on.

Well, there’s just something about him, Marsh. Some kind of magnetism.

Sounds good.

"And he’s so—relaxed, like he’s been around a lot, at least that’s my impression. But he’s a heck of a conversationalist. Really an exciting person. I want you to meet him."

"But what did you talk about, Faith?"

"You know—I can’t even remember. In fact, I don’t even remember his name. If you can believe that."

"I believe it. You’re too much, kiddo. You worry me. She laid her hand on Faith’s arm. Listen Faith, don’t say no. Why don’t you two come over tonight? It’s couples, you know. I’ve been meaning to have you real soon anyway. And I’ve just got to meet this mysterious, magical M-A-N of yours. How’s about it?"

Oh, I don’t know Marsh. Don’t you think Bill would object?

"Not at all, Faith. You’ve got to come. Bring your kids and I’ll turn them loose with my monsters upstairs. You can pick them up tomorrow. That is, unless you stay the night. You know Bill’s parties."

Gee, Marsh, you’re a real friend. Really, it sounds great! I’ll call the baby-sitter and tell her maybe I can use her next weekend!

Marsha looked at Faith and squeezed her hand gently. The elderly lady, now all checked out, walked icily away with her bag, obviously pretending not to be obviously regretting that she had made the two move out of hearing range.

Let’s keep our fingers crossed, anyway, she told Faith earnestly, and reached over to throw a weekly newspaper and a pack of gum into her cart.

Chapter 4

Nemon And The Wonderbug

PAUL WAS ECSTATIC. "WOW, Mr. Taurus! It’s you! Super-unbelievable, I thought I’d never see you again! How you been, man!?" He vigorously extended his hand for a soul-shake.

Fine, just fine, Paul. But what’s this ‘Mr. Taurus’ business? Sounds like you’ve been tripping out up in the stars again. The little bug set out down the street, rumbling like a big Cracker Jack box.

"Well, I had to call you something. You told me you were a Taurus, and when I got out of your car last time I didn’t think to ask you your name or anything! All of our conversation left me kind of dazzled!"

"Yes, that was quite an interesting afternoon. Neemon’s the name."

Glad to know you, said Paul with a wide grin. Man, that’s a laugh, I feel like I’ve known you all my life.

No more, no less, chuckled Nemon.

How long’s it been, asked Paul, couple’a weeks?

About that. Where you headed today, my friend? Maybe this time we won’t take a three hour detour. Grinning, Nemon reached into a small bag between the seats and then popped a large candy gumdrop into his mouth. He always did. The last time, too.

Oh, I don’t know, Paul replied. I was sort of thinking of going to the music store and checking out some instruments. I’ve been sort of bored and frustrated the last couple of days, Nemon. My mom so much as called me a directionless idiot. I sure didn’t need to hear it.

Nemon was sucking on his gumdrop and seemed thoughtful. He wanted to help. Maybe you did need to hear it, Paul. There’s a reason for feelings like that, you know. Boredom and frustration can be very uncomfortable feelings indeed.

"You’re telling me, man. Say, man, I can hardly believe that you drop one of those things in your mouth every two minutes! Don’t you know that white sugar takes super amounts of calcium out of your body? Curves your spine, rots your teeth, attacks your nerves, messes up your brain and everything else?!"

"That’s what you think, said the man in good humor. What I mean to say is, when you get to a certain point, your body is governed more by your thoughts than what you eat, or anything else. I eat anything I want, I’m young and healthy. Want one?"

I wouldn’t eat one if my life depended on it, Paul replied in all sincerity. Sugar is a drug.

Good boy.

Paul was looking at his newly regained friend with no little awe and admiration. He scratched his head. How old are you, anyway, Nemon?

He turned to look at Paul. How old do you think, my man? Take a guess. He turned back to become absorbed in his driving.

Paul looked him over. He was a man of slight build, short height and good posture. Clean shaven, his complexion was fair, his hair short-cropped in a conservative but rather mod style. His face was round and high cheek-boned, all of his features seeming to sit just right into his neat and compact head. As energetic as a monkey and a boyish air about him, he could have easily passed for a much younger man, but the perpetual smile lines around his eyes gave him away. Thirty-two or thirty-three, Paul was deciding. But even so, it seemed awfully young for a person who seemed to know so much.

Thirty-two? said Paul. Thirty-three? Thirty-four?

Forty-five, said Nemon. He downshifted. Whiiirrr, the car rattled noisily. Here, I’ll show you something. He brought the ratchety little car to a stop at a red light. With both hands he lifted his sweatshirt all the way up to his collarbone. He was trim. Not a hair or wrinkle betrayed his age. Indeed, his muscular conformation had the almost flawless appearance of an active yet undeveloped teenager.

Paul was astonished. "What do you do, yoga all day long, or what?"

Nemon silently shook his head. He was busy sucking on another gumdrop. Nope. The car was rolling again.

Paul just sat there, looking straight ahead. He obviously needed a moment to catch his mind. There were a million things he wanted to ask this man, and he really didn’t know where to begin.

"Nemon… where, I mean how… I mean—"

You’re pretty spaced out, Paul. Nemon reached down next to the gearshift lever and picked up a small plastic bottle. Here, take a couple of these, it’ll unspace you.

What are they? asked Paul.

Niacinamide. It’s a buffered version of vitamin B³

Paul took the jar from his hand and inspected it. How do they work? I don’t see how a little tablet can…

Nemon took the bottle from Paul, opened the lid, popped two in his mouth, chewed them purposefully, and handed the bottle back to him.

Paul poured two in his hand and followed suit. Sure hope they work.

They’ll help, said Nemon, to put your feet on the ground. Your sudden vegetarianism, along with your passive approach to life, has apparently taken you from extreme time-consciousness to extreme space-consciousness in one fell swoop—something like going on a nonstop jet from America to India. The vitamin will take some of your surplus energy from the psychic plane and redistribute it in the lower centers, making your attention more concentrated instead of scattered. You’ve got the right idea, though. I’m a vegetarian for the most part myself.

"Now that surprises me, Nemon. You’d better drink some milk to replace the calcium from those crazy gumdrops. Paul replaced the bottle on the floor. How did you happen to have these in your car, Nemon?"

Nemon was chewing vigorously, staring thoughtfully straight ahead. I bought them for you yesterday.

Paul blinked. "Well, how did you know you’d see me again?"

Oh, I just thought I would, he answered casually.

Paul wasn’t sure he knew how to take this answer. He pondered a moment. And then he remembered something.

Say, man, there’s the music store! Wanna stop?

Sure. Nemon yanked the little car over to the parking space so neatly that Paul almost fell off his seat.

With two slams of the tinny amusement-ride doors they proceeded into the shop. Paul was immediately absorbed in the shiny array of new guitars over in one corner of the store. Picking up a likely looking nylon-stringed, he threw the strap over his shoulder and tried it on for size. He already knew a couple of chords. Now, this is— Paul turned around, but his friend was not there. Nemon was watching with interest through a large plate glass window into a small room. Inside, a thin, grey-sideburned man plunked a few keys over a piano, and then desperately, impatiently, scribbled something on a sheet. The more the man plunked, the more feverish was his scribbling, until finally he erased what he had written only to do it all over again. In a moment Paul saw Nemon slip quietly inside.

Paul turned back to his guitar and tuned it by ear. It had a good feel to it, he decided. He began to play a three chord song he knew.

In a minute Paul looked again. Nemon and the man were laughing and chatting, really whooping it up. When he looked five minutes later Nemon was playing. The thin man was writing vigorously on his scratch pad, laughing. Or was he crying? Paul couldn’t tell. In a few more minutes he came out of the practice room, a hand on Nemon’s shoulder, dabbing a handkerchief to his eyes.

Curiosity overcoming all interest in the well-built but inexpensive instrument he was holding, Paul came over to meet them.

Nemon, the man was saying, "we’ve got to get together again real soon. I want you to hear my new