Jason said huskily, his voice shaking, “Ten. I’ve put out ten LPs. The last few with light-show projection tracks.”

“Then I missed one,” Alys said, agreeably. “Here. Turn around and look in the back seat.”

Twisting about, he saw in the rear seat his earliest album: Taverner and the Blue, Blue Blues. “Yes,” he said, seizing it and bringing it forward onto his lap.

“There’s another one there,” Alys said. “My favorite out of all of them.”

He saw, then, a dog-eared copy of There’ll Be a Good Time with Taverner Tonight. “Yes,” he said. “That’s the best one I ever did.”

“You see?” Alys said. The quibble dipped now, spiraling down in a helical pattern toward a cluster of large estates, tree– and grass-surrounded, below. “Here’s the house.”

Its blades vertical now, the quibble sank to an asphalt spot in the center of the great lawn of the house. Jason barely noticed the house: three story, Spanish style with black iron railings on the balconies, red-tile roof, adobe or stucco walls; he could not tell. A large house, with beautiful oak trees surrounding it; the house had been built into the landscape without destroying it. The house blended and seemed a part of the trees and grass, an extension into the realm of the manmade.

Alys shut off the quibble, kicked open a balky door. “Leave the records in the car and come along,” she said to him as she slid from the quibble and upright, onto the lawn.

Reluctantly, he placed the record albums back on the seat and followed her, hurrying to catch up with her; the girl’s long black-sheathed legs carried her rapidly toward the huge front gate of the house.

“We even have pieces of broken glass bottles embedded in the top of the walls. To repel bandits … in this day and age. The house once belonged to the great Ernie Till, the Western actor.” She pressed a button mounted on the front gate before the house and there appeared a brown-uniformed private pol, who scrutinized her, nodded, released the power surge that slid the gate aside.

To Alys, Jason said, “What do you know? You know I’m—”

“You’re fabulous,” Alys said matter-of-factly. “I’ve known it for years.”

“But you’ve been where I was. Where I always am. Not here.”

Taking his arm, Alys guided him down an adobe-and-slate corridor and then down a flight of five brick steps, into a sunken living room, an ancient place in this day, but beautiful.

He did not, however, give a damn; he wanted to talk to her, to find out what and how she knew. And what it signified.

“Do you remember this place?” Alys said.

“No,” he said.

“You should. You’ve been here before.”

“I haven’t,” he said, guardedly; she had thoroughly trapped his credulity by producing the two records. I’ve got to have them, he said to himself. To show to—yes, he thought; to whom? To General Buckman? And if I do show him, what will it get me?

“A cap of mescaline?” Alys said, going to a drug case, a large hand-oiled walnut cabinet at the end of the leather and brass bar on the far side of the living room.

“A little,” he said. But then his response surprised him; he blinked. “I want to keep my head clear,” he amended.

She brought him a tiny enameled drug tray on which rested a crystal tumbler of water and a white capsule. “Very good stuff. Harvey’s Yellow Number One, imported from Switzerland in bulk, capsuled on Bond Street.” She added, “And not strong at all. Color stuff.”

“Thanks.” He accepted the glass and the white capsule; he drank the mescaline down, placed the glass back on the tray. “Aren’t you having any?” he asked her, feeling—belatedly—wary.

“I’m already spaced,” Alys said genially, smiling her gold baroque tooth smile. “Can’t you tell? I guess not; you’ve never seen me any other way.”

“Did you know I’d be brought to the L.A. Police Academy?” he asked. You must have, he thought, because you had the two records of mine with you. Had you not known, the chances of your having them alone are zero out of a billion, virtually.

“I monitored some of their transmissions,” Alys said; turning, she roamed restlessly off, tapping on the small enameled tray with one long fingernail. “I happened to pick up the official traffic between Vegas and Felix. I like to listen to him now and then during the time he’s on duty. Not always, but”—she pointed toward a room beyond an open corridor at the near side—“I want to look at something; I’ll show it to you, if it’s as good as Felix said.”

He followed, the buzz of questions in his mind dinning at him as he walked. If she can get across, he thought, go back and forth, as she seems to have done—“He said the center drawer of his maple desk,” Alys said reflectively as she stood in the center of the house’s library; leather-bound books rose up in cases mounted to the high ceiling of the chamber. Several desks, a glass case of tiny cups, various early chess sets, two ancient Tarot card decks … Alys wandered over to a New England desk, opened a drawer, peered within. “Ah,” she said, and brought out a glassine envelope.

“Alys—” Jason began, but she cut him off with a brusque snap of her fingers.

“Be quiet while I look at this.” From the surface of the desk she took a large magnifying glass; she scrutinized the envelope. “A stamp,” she explained, then, glancing up. “I’ll take it out so you can look at it.” Finding a pair of philatelic tongs she carefully drew the stamp from its envelope and set it down on the felt pad at the front edge of the desk.

Obediently, Jason peeped through the magnifying lens at the stamp. It seemed to him a stamp like any other stamp, except that unlike modern stamps it had been printed in only one color.

“Look at the engraving on the animals,” Alys said. “The herd of steer. It’s absolutely perfect; every line is exact. This stamp has never been—” She stopped his hand as he started to touch the stamp. “Oh no,” she said. “Don’t ever touch a stamp with your fingers; always use tongs.”

“Is it valuable?” he asked.

“Not really. But they’re almost never sold. I’ll explain it to you someday. This is a present to me from Felix, because he loves me. Because, he says, I’m good in bed.”

“It’s a nice stamp,” Jason said, disconcerted. He handed the magnifying glass back to her.

“Felix told me the truth; it’s a good copy. Perfectly centered, light cancellation that doesn’t mar the center picture, and—” Deftly, with the tongs, she flipped the stamp over on its back, allowed it to lie on the felt pad face down. All at once her expression changed; her face glowed hotly and she said, “That motherfucker.”

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“A thin spot.” She touched a corner of the stamp’s back side with the tongs. “Well, you can’t tell from the front. But that’s Felix. Hell, it’s probably counterfeit anyhow. Except that Felix always somehow manages not to buy counterfeits. Okay, Felix; that’s one for you.” Thoughtfully, she said, “I wonder if he’s got another one in his own collection. I could switch them.” Going to a wall safe, she twiddled for a time with the dials, opened the safe at last, and brought out a huge and heavy album, which she lugged to the desk. “Felix,” she said, “does not know I know the combination to that safe. So don’t tell him.” She cautiously turned heavy-gauge pages, came to one on which four stamps rested. “No one-dollar black,” she said. “But he may have hidden it elsewhere. He may even have it down at the academy.” Closing the album, she restored it to the wall safe.

“The mescaline,” Jason said, “is beginning to affect me.” His legs ached: for him that was always a sign that mescaline was beginning to act in his system. “I’ll sit down,” he said, and managed to locate a leather-covered easy chair before his legs gave way. Or seemed to give way; actually they never did: it was a drug-instigated illusion. But all the same it felt real.