The Clown's Graveyard
Chapter Twelve: Strangening on Telegraph Avenue

While Lou staked out the alley behind IC Central for Blanston's ransom drop, I took BART to Berkeley and walked over to the U.C. campus, where Dr. Turezyn was spending the year as a special lecturer in the Applied Psychology department.

Telegraph Avenue was choked with punks. I pushed my way past bead vendors and jail-bait townies and funny little European anarchists all in motion around one another like square-dancers. Pale kids with meticulous Mohawks menaced the parents of undergrads for pocket change and sometimes for free. A coven of topless womyn swaggered along the gutter like longshoremen, meeting the stares of drivers with fist-shaking feminist slogans. Everywhere I looked, scribbled, etched, and sprayed on any vertical surface, were bananas in circles like we'd painted on Alcatraz.

In front of Cody's bookstore my way was blocked by a throng of people, their backs to me. I elbowed my way apologetically to the front of the circle. A man in a black leotard and white makeup was seated in the lotus position on the sidewalk. His head was back and he was mouthing an incantation or chant of some kind. Then he faced us and read silently to us from an imaginary tattered paperback. Closing the book with elaborate care he then raised his hands, holding up a match and a matchbook that weren't there. "What's the deal?" I asked the kid next to me. He tugged his pants up partway and ignored me.

"He's going to burn himself alive," a girl with an infected cheek ring piped up behind me. "You missed it before, he did this whole big thing. He's protesting the lack of funding for the arts. Especially mime." She craned her neck to see.

People pressed closer around the mime as he lifted a pinky and struck the match with a grand gesture. Members of the crowd called out Do it and Don't do it in roughly equal numbers. He opened his thumb and forefinger and let drop the flaming invisible match. His face contorted instantly in an agony of self-immolation—apparently he'd doused himself with pretend gasoline—and his arms and torso undulated with waves of heat that made the people in front press back, holding their noses from the implied smell of burning flesh. Some called out helplessly, some cheered, others wept. It was terrible to behold and my stomach turned at the thought of the pain the man must have been in. Soon the poor guy was slumped flat on the sidewalk, his limp form the very image of charred human remains, moldering even as a bright red fire truck and an orange and white ambulance screeched to a halt in a frenzy of flashing lights and sirens. Paramedics poured out of the vehicles like clowns out of Volkswagens and pushed the crowd aside to empty their buckets over the grisly scene. They exchanged grim looks as gallons of confetti fluttered to the bricks like snowflakes. They were too late. They lifted the mime's body onto a stretcher, careful to keep its parts intact, pulled a sheet over the lifeless lycra-clad form and carried it to the ambulance.

As they passed through my part of the crowd the mime sat straight up and looked me right in the eye. "What do you suppose really happened?" he said in a thin, reedy voice.

"What? What really happened when?"

"Anything is possible," he said in an insinuating tone, and chuckled as the paramedics loaded him into the back of their rig.

The people around me stirred, came out of their trance. One or two clapped uncertainly, to be silenced sternly by their neighbors. "A man is dead," I heard a woman say in an appalled voice, "and we're all just standing here."

"What are we supposed to do?" asked someone else.

"I hate mimes anyway," a kid piped up.

"Everyone does—that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

A new disturbance had arisen a block or so away on the other side of the street and another small rhubarb just beyond that. The people of Berkeley were careening chaotically from rumor to impulse to shocked realization. This in itself was nothing unusual—except that now, on this morning like no other, the world around them was rising to the occasion, repaying their ridiculous notions in kind.

What the hell had the mime meant by that? What really happened? He'd spoken as if the answer were obvious and I couldn't even tell what he was asking about. For that matter I could hardly have said what was really happening this very moment. Our venture was gaining momentum, though to what end I couldn't imagine. Or dictate, for that matter. It was out of our hands now, and it was all I could do to keep my grip as we were swept headlong into terra incognita. I'd seen spiders the size of manhole covers spinning webs between buildings, a man on a propeller-equipped bicycle flying into the hills, figures from the past walking big as life, and this was only the beginning. The wilderness beyond reason sheltered fantastic creatures and premises, but also nightmares too horrible to contemplate. By sabotaging Integrated Consciousness I would preserve this pristine habitat from destruction, but I couldn't assume that the more ominous possibilities would show gratitude by keeping their distance. Anything is possible? What was that supposed to mean? Stupid mime.

I thought of Digital Andy tucked away in the server room on the fourth floor, millions of gates and switches clicking away to carry his will throughout his empire. No dreams, no fears; he was logical in the most literal sense, just ones and zeroes, no pi, no square root of two, no imaginary numbers. No wonder he was so confident.

Lou, of course, was as happy as a dog in a sock factory. He embraced the rising strangeness, staring wild-eyed into its glare.

I slipped into the back of the lecture hall where Dr. Turezyn was teaching. The blackboard was covered with symbols and diagrams that I could see copied faithfully into the notebooks of the seventy-five or so in the class.

Dr. Turezyn spoke with the offhanded authority of the universalist, making passing references to baseball history, renaissance cathedrals, and the New York City subway system to illustrate her lecture. She paced slowly while she lectured with the grace of an aging Italian actress, speaking without notes. "Above all, the individual wants to feel that his life forms a coherent narrative—that there is a rational plotline running from beginning to end. Scenes add up to chapters, chapters to volumes, and the experiences of a lifetime to a clear and identifiable moral or dramatic significance. This instinct can lead the person to act in ways that may be contrary to reason, as he is motivated by a sense of literary construction rather than enlightened self-interest. For the social scientist, the question is—" here Dr. Turezyn paused, her hand arrested mid-gesture. "Well," she said, smiling and making a quick pass of eye contact that seemed somehow to catch every student in the class, "perhaps you should tell me. In eight to ten pages, no fewer than five works cited. This will be fifteen percent of your grade." The students wrote the paper's due date in their notebooks, gathered their coats and satchels, and filed meekly through the exit.

"Dr. Turezyn," I said from the back of the room. "Have you got a minute?"

"You don't have to shout, Andrew," she said without looking up. "The acoustics in this room are excellent." She came up the aisle and reached past me to push the door open. I found myself carrying her books. She polished a red apple on her blouse as she walked. "What have you done to your hair?"

I ran my fingers through my shoe-polished hair. "It's a long story," I said. "It's kind of why I'm here."

As I followed Dr. Turezyn across the campus I wrestled with the framing of my plea. My mind was blank. I cursed the mime for throwing me off. What reason could I give her for wanting to bring down Integrated Consciousness? As a scientist, was she capable of understanding or appreciating the decidedly unscientific crisis I faced? I didn't want to compromise her high opinion of me by coming across as a flake, after all. Then again, what did I know of her feelings about Integrated Consciousness? Was she awed by the brilliance of the concept or dismayed at the market-driven ends to which it was being applied? I decided to play my cards close to my chest.

Dr. Turezyn led me to her office, where she indicated an armless straight-backed wooden chair beside her desk. I crossed my legs awkwardly. The room's furnishings presumably belonged to a professor currently on sabbatical, one lacking the clout to demand that his sanctum not be sublet in his absence, but Dr. Turezyn had made her mark, a De Chirico print here, a small color photograph of the Crab Nebula there, a carved wooden puzzle that I recognized from the previous summer. She put her tailored jacket on a coat hanger on the back of the door.

I cleared my throat and tried to sound conversational, as if I had dropped by on the spur of the moment for a chat. "Say, Dr. Turezyn, what did you mean by that Albert Speer comment that day last summer? Do you remember what I'm talking about?"

She raised an eyebrow, then smiled indulgently. "What architect could resist the opportunity to design a thousand-year Reich?"

I wasn't sure whether I should take offense. I tried a more direct approach. "What did you think of Integrated Consciousness? You understood how it worked better than anyone. But what did you think of it?"

"Integrated Consciousness," she repeated, and sighed wearily. "It's quite an innovation, Andrew, I must give you credit. The greatest practical application of the science of the mind since Herta Herzog introduced Freudian theory to Madison Avenue." She stared at me until I had to drop my eyes. "My profession is seen by most people as something akin to witchcraft," she went on. "In contemplating their own consciousness, laymen entertain romantic notions of the soul. They see their own desires and fears as spirits flittering through a moonlit forest while psychiatrists try to catch them in jars. But there's nothing so transcendent about it. Consciousness is a pleasing diversion as we while away our time on this mortal coil, but integrated or not, it's ultimately no more real than," she looked around her desk for a visual aid. Her eyes came to rest on a smudgy tabloid newspaper on the corner of her desk. "Than this supposed spacecraft," she said with a bitter edge to her voice.

"I didn't realize you read—"

"Have you had doubts about your little movement, Andrew? Is that why you're here?"

"It's not that, exactly," I began hesitantly. "I'm not exactly with them anymore. Ed Blanston replaced me with this digital version of me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, and patted my hand. "And you want me to help you get back at them?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that," I hastened.

"Then what?"

I was stumped. "It's just that I've undertaken a new project, and I'd very much like your help with it," I said finally. "That's all I can say right now." I hoped that Lou could do better if I could only get her back to San Francisco.

A clock somewhere rang the hour. Voices passed below the open window. She shifted in her seat, seemed to soften. "This has been the strangest day," she said, half to herself. She folded the tabloid and tucked it under her arm on her way out the door. We drove back to the city in her car, leaving me with an unused dollar ten on my BART ticket.

I caught Mr. Clegg winking at Dr. Turezyn from the front desk of the Emperor Norton Arms, though it seemed to me that it was a wink-in-response. Her face was blank when I glanced back at her on the way down the mildewed hallway.

Lou was sitting crossways on the bed, thumbing through a thick stack of bills. He'd picked up a green eyeshade somewhere. He held up a finger while he finished riffling the wad, his lips fluttering with the tally. "Twenty-nine thousand and three hundred U.S. Grade A Semolians. That Blanston fella tipped us, how do you like that?" He looked up and saw Dr. Turezyn. "Hello," he said.

I stepped into the room. Joe Bananas was sitting at one end of the bed, and at the other end sat Angela. Angela Whitfield, my old administrative assistant, lounging on the bedbug-ridden mattress, clicking her heels in the air, smoking one of Lou's cigarettes. I imagined that her clothing was in disarray, but I knew Lou too well to think he wouldn't count the money first. "Hey, partner," Lou said. "Say hello to our latest team member."

"Oh Andy," Angela said, rolling off the bed and coming over to me. "I'm so glad to see you. I was worried when we suddenly never saw you anymore, and things got all tightened up at the office, especially after that banana business yesterday—I knew they must have forced you out or something."

"That's not exactly what happened," I said, reddening.

I could hear Dr. Turezyn laughing behind me. "Is that what this is about after all, Andy?" she asked, enjoying herself all of a sudden. "Are you a disgruntled former figurehead?"

"No, it's nothing like that," I insisted.

"It's that digital version of you now, right?" Angela said. "I should have known Blanston would pull something like this. He can't stand not being able to control something. Now he controls you."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessarily an accurate ... Lou, could I speak with you in the hall for a moment?"

"Joe Bananas, what are you doing here?" I heard Dr. Turezyn say as I helped Lou out the door. "I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?"

"What's up?" Lou asked, leaning against the peeling corridor wallpaper.

"Would you mind checking with me first next time? I thought we were a team here."

"Sorry, boss," he said innocently. "What's your problem all of a sudden? Is there bad blood between you and Angela?"

"No, it's not that," I said. "It's just ... I was just a little surprised to see her. And to have her see me in this rathole ... you know, she sort of had me on a pedestal back at IC. It doesn't matter. What have you told her so far?"

"Just that you were working on something top-secret, and that she could help out if she felt like it. I thought she might know something we don't." He had a point. "What did you tell Dr. Turezyn?"

"I ... kind of choked," I admitted. "We can't tell them this is about Integrated Consciousness. They won't take it seriously."

"Or you," Lou said.

"Thank you."

"All right, so we'll leave IC out of it," said Lou.

"I just feel like things are getting a little out of control here," I said, my voice rising in spite of myself. "The Release is in nine days and we still don't have a plan, and I haven't had any sleep in days, and there's all this weird shit going on—"

Lou slapped me. Then he did it again. I covered up before he could try for three. "Let's just take a moment here," he said. "Everything is going to be fine. But we're playing in the big leagues now, Andy. This is a lot bigger than a few bad dreams. This is going to take everything we've got, and it may get a little hairy, but it's going to pay off big. You've got to trust me on this one. The main thing is to keep our heads."

"Sure, sure," I said.

"You're all right, right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Great. Now follow my lead," Lou said, and opened the door to room 14.

Dr. Turezyn had joined Angela on the cot. "Andy, I'm so sorry," she said. "Angela's told me about your difficulties those last weeks at Integrated Consciousness. No wonder they had to replace you."

I tried not to glare at Angela. "It wasn't that way at all," I said. "I left Integrated Consciousness for my own reasons. To launch my current venture, which is what I've brought you on board for."

"To get revenge on Blanston?" Angela asked eagerly. "That was great how you scammed him for all that money this morning."

"This has nothing to do with Integrated Consciousness," I said sternly. Lou was shaking beer cans, trying to find one that wasn't completely empty. Follow his lead? His only contribution at this point was trying not to smile. "It's a different matter entirely. And I'm going to tell you what it is." They all looked at me expectantly, Angela and Dr. Turezyn, Lou and Joe Bananas.

A knock came at the door. It didn't sound like Mr. Clegg's bony-knuckled cash-only rap. No one else knew we were here. I had an uneasy feeling about what I would find on the other side of the door. I opened it to see Roy, Jerry, and Brenda the waitress, the three we'd conned in Twenty-nine Palms. Or so I'd thought at the time.

"We found the saucer," Jerry said. "Andy Hunter," he added.

Dr. Turezyn hiccuped behind me, then thrust the tabloid she'd been carrying in front of me. I studied it more closely this time. The photograph showed Jerry, Roy, and Brenda posed in front of a metallic object the size of a six-foot Tootsie Roll. VISITOR FROM FUTURE MATERIALIZES IN MOJAVE DINER, REVEALS LOCATION OF UFO, the headline read.

"That's right, we know who you are," Jerry went on. "We kept it out of the article to give you a chance to explain yourself. Which is it? Is it the Masons or the aliens you're in with?"

"How come you wanted us to find the saucer? Are you trying to tell us something?" asked Roy, leaning in close. "Is Integrated Consciousness part of this?" He nodded shyly at Angela and Dr. Turezyn, then slid past me to take a seat on the windowsill.

"The saucer has nothing to do with Integrated Consciousness," I said, all I could truthfully say.

"Here's something we found at the site," Jerry said, handing me an oblong tile of a material I couldn't identify, a marble-like substance. On it was etched an encircled banana. "You want to explain this, too?"

Lou and Angela looked over my shoulder at the thing before Dr. Turezyn snatched it out of his hand. "Did you have something to do with that business on Alcatraz yesterday?" she asked fiercely. "You did, didn't you."

"Oh man, you've got a monkey? That is so cool," Roy burst out.

"Chimp, actually," said Lou. "He's a little sensitive about it."

"Well, Andy?" said Brenda, the former waitress.

I realized that I wasn't especially surprised that they had found the UFO. I should have seen it coming. It followed naturally from everything else that had been going on. It was like finding a cryptic trail marker in a fairy tale forest, or a tarnished brass lamp in an Arabian bazaar; you knew what you were supposed to do and you did it. Since I'd made up the UFO in the first place it was only natural that I should fabricate a significance for it. As I stood there facing the seven of them, the perfect story hatched in my mind fully formed like Athena from Zeus's head.

"You may find this a little hard to believe," I said, "but please bear with me. About a week ago, I was contacted by someone claiming to be the representative of an alien race. I thought he was crazy, of course, but then I was, shall we say, convinced of the truth of his words. It was explained to me that they have an outpost on Saturn's moon Titan. They've been there for over four hundred years, and all that time they've been bathing this planet in some kind of radiation that alters our genes to make each generation smarter than the last. That's why our cultures and civilizations have been developing so rapidly, especially in the modern era. It's a logarithmic curve."

"Judas Priest," Jerry barked. "Is nothing sacred?"

"It would explain a lot," said Brenda thoughtfully.

"Why did they contact you?" Dr. Turezyn asked, her voice urgent. "Why now, I mean."

"Because their work is finished," I said. "They've been monitoring our progress, and they've decided that we're finally wise enough to know."

"Know what?" said each person in the room, nearly in unison.

"I wish I knew," I said. "I'm waiting to find out just like the rest of you. They're going to tell us on Friday."

"But that's the day before the release," said Angela.

"I know. They've got terrible timing. And that's not all. The way they're going to deliver the message is via telepathy. It's nothing you can put into words, see. And for us to be able to hear it, our minds are going to have to be completely focused on it. Otherwise it goes right by you."

"Why haven't we heard anything about this before?" Roy said.

"You begin to see the problem. They're going to be here in eight days and they haven't done thing one about publicity. That's why they contacted me. And that's why they had me contact all of you."

"Well I'll be damned," Brenda said. "I never would have guessed." She looked at Angela, who had been listening from a chair by the window. "What do you make of this?"

"I don't know ... it sounds like kind of a stretch," said Angela uncertainly. "Who was this representative of theirs, Andy?"

"It was I," said Joe Bananas. "I have been in communication with them for some time, you see." His resinous voice hung in the air, the accent reminiscent of Ricardo Montalban. His speech was so matter-of-fact that there was no questioning his words or the fact that he'd spoken them. Behind him, Lou's eyes were as big as bread plates.

"The Fabulous Ontarians, that is," Joe went on, enunciating carefully with his broad pink lips. "That's the English name they've chosen for themselves." He gazed at me. As I looked into the glistening eyeballs of my simian co-conspirator, a weightless sensation came over me as if I were falling through space, watching the world I'd left receding in the distance. Everything looked brilliant and sharp, like a migraine without the pain, and my body surged. I wondered if this was what Lou felt when the heroin hit his bloodstream. But this was beyond any drug. This was actually happening.

"The Fabulous Ontarians have already made contact with other species," I explained to the others. "Humans were the last to achieve the necessary wisdom."

"And not a moment too soon, I might add," said Joe Bananas. "Now, will you help us or not?"

Chapter Fourteen: Staring at the Moon