Proverb walked straight up to Mansard with his hand extended. He grasped Charlie's and shook it warmly. His energetic bonhomie came directly from his car salesman roots.

"Charlie, it's good to see you. How are you? How are things going?"

Mansard arranged his face into his best meeting-the-client smile. "I'm very well, Reverend Proverb, and everything seems to be coming together perfectly. So far, we're ahead of schedule."

"Alien. How many times do I have to tell you, Charlie? It's Alien. I can't be doing with my best men calling me Reverend Proverb. Makes me feel that I'm a hundred years old." He glanced at the two bodyguards. "Ain't that the truth, boys? No formalities around this family."

Rashid said nothing, but Joe Don grinned. "No standing on ceremony around us, boss."

The blonde giggled. Rashid gave her a hard look. Mansard had had previous experience with Proverb's lack of formality. Everything stayed relentlessly downhome just as long as it was recognized that Arlen Proverb was the absolute dictator of the universe.

Proverb had changed quite a bit since Mansard had last seen him. Where his hair had previously been a nondescript brown, it was now dyed blue black, and the bow-wave pompadour was far more lavish than he remembered it. Proverb was also sporting thick triangular sideburns. The hair was one thing – the added length and the dye job could be attributed to a simple case of advanced show business. The sideburns were something else again. When one was as much in the spotlight as Proverb was, nothing could be dismissed as coincidental. The sideburns were too much of a symbol. They had to be perceived as an indication that Proverb really was moving closer to the Elvi – and if Arlen Proverb was moving closer to the Elvi, he was also further distancing himself from the Faithful establishment. Even though he claimed to be above it all, Mansard kept a fairly close watch on the political fluctuations of his clients.

Proverb was looking up at the giant scaffolds. "So, Charlie, where do we stand at the moment?"

"Well, Arlen, as you can see, most of the basic framework is in place. Pretty soon we'll start putting in the optical equipment. Once they're in place, we'll be ready for a visual run-through. If your sound men are ready in time, we could sync the audio."

Proverb nodded. "I'll goose them up some. Make sure they're ready when you are."

Mansard had to give Proverb credit for being well aware of the basics of the technology that went into his show. That was unusual among preachers. Most cultivated a smiling ignorance, as if pretending that they were living in some Old Testament world where special effects came straight from God.

"How are things going with the big final set piece?"

Mansard had expected that question. He maintained his air of calm confidence. "My best men are up on the roof rigging the gear, and the weather forecast looks good."

"You don't foresee any problems?"

Mansard shook his head. "Not at this point." He was not about to voice his fears about the DL-70s.

Proverb nodded again, then looked around as if he were hesitating to say something. "There is one thing I'd like to talk to you about."

He put an arm around Mansard's shoulders and led him out of earshot of the entourage.

"Now, I know, what with you being an artist and all, you ain't going to like what I want to ask, but I need a big favor."

Mansard had a suspicion of what was coming. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to juice the wave pushers."

"The script only called for undertow hypnotics."

"I've decided to go for broke."

Mansard sadly shook his head. "I really don't think you need to do that."

"I've got my reasons."

"Usually when a client wants me to juice the hypnotics, he's either got cold feet or he's no damn good, or both. I know that isn't the case with you. We've got an effects menu that'll knock their socks off. Most of them are spongy before they even come to the show from staring into a Jesus Wave all afternoon."

The hand on Mansard's shoulder tightened.

"You know me, Charlie. I trust your effects. Praise the Lord, Charlie, I'm counting on your effects. I have my own special reasons for wanting all the juice I can get. You'll have to trust me on that."

The eyes had come on, and Mansard knew that Proverb was determined to get what he wanted. What the hell was the man up to? He made a small gesture of capitulation. Proverb was God's own salesman.

"What levels do you want the pushers raised to?"

"Give me five with an override to eight."

Mansard let out a low whistle. "Are you sure about that?"

Proverb nodded. He looked almost grim. "I'm positive, and I want the override through to my sleeve control. I want to be able to zap the crowd if and when I need to."

The spangles on the sleeves of Proverb's costumes concealed a highly sophisticated electronic control system that he could play like a master. Mansard still was not happy.

"You want to go easy on the straight eight. You could start them flipping."

"If that's what it takes."

Mansard was surprised. He had never seen Proverb reveal that kind of ruthlessness. Clearly something was going down. Maybe he would rather not know about it.

He gave a small shrug. "It's your insurance coverage."

Proverb fixed him with the eyes again. "You're a good man, Charlie, but let me do the worrying."

There was more ritual handshaking and backslapping, and then Alien Proverb swept out again. Charlie Mansard watched him go. This was shaping up to be no ordinary show.

Carlisle

"You really think he might be a target?" Carlisle asked.

"He's getting so much publicity that we have to seriously consider the possibility," Parnell replied.

"We don't have enough troubles?"

"Not as many as we'd have if a big-name preacher was shot dead live on stage at the Garden."

"Or blown up."

"Exactly."

"We could try to get him to cancel the show."

"Proverb's got too much swagger for that. He'd go on regardless. He'd probably go on even if the LPs issued a public warning."

Harry Carlisle had a leg cocked over the corner of Captain Parnell's desk. He was leaning forward peering at the large, hard-copy floorplan of Madison Square Garden. Both men had mugs of coffee in their hands. Parnell had his own coffee maker. It made real coffee that was infinitely superior to the bitter, dark-tan liquid that came out of the vending machines. Harry tapped the plan with his index finger.

"We can't give him absolute protection in a place this size."

"That's right."

"So what do we do?"

"All we can do is play the odds. Before the show, we do the place from top to bottom with sniffers. We beef up the weapons and explosives searches on the entrances. We run spotter scopes on the crowd and push the images through a hostile motion filter. We position snipers around the stage and have plainclothes squads in high saturation around the most likely vantage points from where a sniper might operate. After that we pray." He glanced up at Carlisle with a half smile. "Of course, you don't pray, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

"You're going to wind up in a camp one of these days."

"Probably."

"You think you can stay out of trouble until after this Proverb spectacular is over?"

"I'll try. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to take charge of the plainclothes squads on the floor."

"How many men do I get?"

"As many as I can spare. Hopefully something around a hundred."

"How much help can we count on from the deacons?"

Parnell shook his head. "I really don't know. They're acting ambivalent. There's a fairly powerful faction that'd be quite happy to see Proverb knocked off. They believe he's a dangerous maverick who borders on heresy."