“Right. They used monkeys or something. Obvious. Who’d notice a monkey’s hallucinations anyway?”

“Well, I would,” said Harriet from under Gary the Frog.

“Me, too,” I agreed. “And what about Laszlo?”

“He’s a tool.” My density seemed to annoy Mike. Pity. “That doesn’t change the plan, though.”

“Oh.” I’d been afraid of that.

“Tomorrow,” Mike went ruthlessly on, “he’s getting more, right? That’s our chance. It’s all so simple.” Mike had a habit, at such times, of spreading out his hands as though he were trying on a crucifix for size. This meant he was practicing superhuman patience with such clods as myself, who were unable to understand such obvious schemes.

“Are you people, you know, like Talkin’ ’bout Somethin’, man,” Patrick stumbled, “or is it one of your rants?” We’d put him on by accident once with the plot of a spy story we never got around to writing, and he’d wondered about us ever since.

“Just a rant,” said the security-conscious M. T. Bear.

“Groovy.”

Whereupon the table talk turned to fairly general subjects, mainly yesterday’s adventures, the Reality Pill, who was sleeping with or without whom, what bands were rumored to be breaking up and why, the Reality Pill, who might be selling what for how much, the apocryphal history of Andrew Blake and everybody else we knew who wasn’t there, modern techniques of counterespionage, wiretapping, housebreaking et al, and other quaint topics dear to our twisted hearts, but especially Reality Pills.

“I don’t care,” Stu insisted. “I want ’em.” Mike had been expounding his Communist Plot theory.

“Sure,” I said loyally, “it’s probably a great high for people like us, but can you imagine the Whole World on that stuff?”

“Why not?”

“Sturgeon’s Law,” Mike explained, Sturgeon’s Law being: 90 percent of everything is crap, mildly speaking.

“That’s cool,” Stu capitulated.

“What’s it like?” Kevin asked. None of us had thought to ask that question, but Kevin was scientifically trained.

“Yeah, Sean,” I agreed. “How does it feel?”

“Uhmm!” Sean was still involved with Sativa. They seemed to be developing a really intricate relationship.

“How does What feel?” That double reed voice again.

“Andy!” Several voices.

“Hello there.” And not just Andrew, best Edwardian threads and all, but Karen Greenbaum as well, and hand in hand, too. Somebody’s plot was thickening nicely, thanks.

Mike and Stu scurried about collecting chairs for them, but Andy said, “No, no. Don’t bother, we can’t stay. We’re off to see Fox and Hare,” the in-est flick that summer. “We just dropped in to see what you were up to. Do you know Karen?”

All of us but Sean and Sativa (who were busy) rose to be introduced and shake hands or, in Mike’s case, kiss hands, that being one of his favorite riffs. Karen blushed, giggled, tried to say hip, sophisticated things, and generally embarrassed everyone but Sean and Sativa (who were busy) and Andrew Blake, who was temporarily blind.

“What happened,” Patrick said uncoolly, “to your Halo?”

“Halo?” Andy gestured casually. “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding.”

I gasped, Mike choked slightly, and even Sean looked up from whatever tactile intricacy he was involved in at the time.

“Misunderstanding?” I amazed.

“You know.”

I didn’t, but what the hell. I was still rabidly curious, though, so I unkindly said, “And, ah, Karen?”

Give him credit, he hemmed and hawed a little first. Then he embarked on a rant involving such classic phrases as, “really quite intelligent,” and, “very sensitive for her age, you know,” and, “really Understands my work,” et standard cetera, during which Mike and I, having heard it all before and before, shrugged eyebrows at each other.

Then, with a fanfare of literate billing and cooing, the new lovers split to Fox and Hare to dig the latest Technicolor version of the life the rest of us were living.

It was almost ten o’clock, technically early but I was beginning to feel a trifle eroded, as though this Sunday had been crawling on for days. A combination of Laszlo and Andy within the same hour, perhaps. Anyhow, as soon as I could catch Mike’s eye, I yawned significantly, whereupon he ordered me another cup of coffee. Life with Mike has certain disadvantages.

From then on the evening disintegrated. At one point, doubtless much later than he ordinarily would have, Sean tenderly dislodged Sativa and staggered to the John.

“Oh,” she whispered in my ear in a tone that’d certainly be sinful for any other two people, “he’s Pretty!”

“Right,” I said. Why not?

“Ah, what’s his, ah, name?” ,

Oh my dear Sativa. “Sean,” I sighed.

“Oh. Sean. Pretty!”

I couldn’t tell whether I was weary or amused. Two cases of young love in one evening were a bit much. Still, I was sort of glad for Sean, who was about to recover from Mary-Bob, so I guess I was basically amused, or at least entertained. Mike, meanwhile, was trying to convince Kevin, of all people, of the basic truth of his Communist Plot hypothesis.

“I think,” Sativa said in an amazingly unmystical tone, “I’d best go to the John and fix my diaphragm.”

I goggled. She split. I suspected I knew where she meant to use that device. Sativa had four cats, a dog, three roommates, and two rooms — a standard Village hangup.

Sean came back, registering absolute dismay at the absence of Sativa.

“She’ll be back,” I comforted him.

He sat down. “You know,” he said, “I think she kinda Likes me.” He was announcing miracles.

“You may be right.” Then Sativa returned and I lost track of them.

Somewhere later I hunted around for my current notebook and found it in front of Mike, being filled with left-handed illegibilities concerning the Reality Pill project.

“What the hell are you doing?” I foolishly inquired. I’d meant to do some scribbling in that notebook myself.

“It’s really very simple,” he beamed, waving a page at me that I couldn’t’ve read with the aid of a computer.

“Oh yeah?” I’d heard him say those words before, and so far they’d never been quite accurate. One of Mike’s famous simple plans’d involved installing ten illegal phones and three bookies in our living room, resulting in a noisy police raid that coincided with my finally taking to bed a chick I’d lusted after for more than a year. I never saw her again. “Simple, huh?”

“Right. Look, all you have to do…”

“Later.” I didn’t want to know all I had to do, but Mike happily misunderstood.

“You’re right,” staring quickly everywhere. “Somebody might hear us.”

“Groovy.”

Later Sean borrowed my keys and he and Sativa vanished. Later yet, with no intervening events I could remember, Mike and I were walking east on Eighth Street, heading home, I became aware of this in the middle of a sentence: “…but the thing to remember is that the power behind Laszlo very strongly does not want to be discovered, and might even try to kill us if they notice us. Might even succeed, in fact.” It was one of my sentences.

“Right, but as soon as we find Laszlo’s connection, we call in the FBI. We’re not doing anything really dangerous.”

“No?”

“Nuh-uh. All we’re gonna do is follow Laszlo. See?”

“Oh yeah? Who you callin’ we, white man?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

The rest of the way home I worried about tomorrow. Following Laszlo was bad enough, following him into possible danger was just ridiculous; but tired as I was, I couldn’t think up a dignified way to chicken out. Maybe it wouldn’t be dangerous. And maybe the sun would rise in the south. Sure.

The guest-room door was closed when we got home, but the noises from behind it were sufficiently explicit. Sean was learning fast. He had a few Texas practices — yelling “Yippee,” for instance — I hoped he’d get over in a hurry, but by and large he seemed to have a lot of (call it) talent going for him. Sativa sounded pretty happy, too, which pleased me, for it meant she’d sing a lot better than usual for a while.