“Lllllllll,” said John, as he maneuvered his way to the chair in front of the computer. Arnold interrupted himself long enough to boot up Guns ’n’ Martians. John proceeded to press keys in a frenzy until he heard a repetitive beeping sound, at which time he began to giggle out of control.
Arnold returned to the printout, which he was reviewing in a speed-reading kind of pattern, a foot or so at a time. He was rapidly tearing away sections of paper, then allowing them to drop to the floor. “Just a minute, just a minute,” he said, in a voice tight with urgency. Finally, he found a very small section of the printout, which he tore free.
“This is it,” declared Arnold. “Take a look at this.”
Vano looked at the printing on the paper:
37.454N X 122.271N 0515GMT
But after reading it several times, he could only say, “This is very nice, Arnold.”
“Don’t you know what it means?”
“No, I don’t.”
“This is the read-out! This is the one!”
When Vano still drew a blank, Arnold explained, “This is it! This is the culmination! This read-out pinpoints exact time and place!”
“I see.”
Nearly breathless though he was, Arnold couldn’t help underscoring, “This is the perfect set of conditions we talked about for entering ultimate hoom!”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. We have a date, which is today’s, and we have a time, 9:15 P.M. our time. I’ve been able to identify the precise location as Alta Plaza Park in San Francisco.”
After a few seconds Vano said, “I think it’s very nice, Arnold. You deserve a lot of credit for working so hard.”
“Thank you, but this is so totally cosmic it truly humbles me, Vano. I just kept putting the data in, folds in the earth superimposed on patterns of harmonic convergence. Tell him what you said, Herne.”
Herne Hill made his reply with four ounces of beer in his mouth, along with the better part of a Twinkie: “What I said to him was, garbage in, garbage out. You get the goods, you get the answer you need. It was bound to happen.”
“Do you see, Vano?”
“No, Arnold, to be honest, I don’t.”
First Arnold made a face, and then he held up his watch so Vano could see. “We don’t have time to go into it now, it’s past two o’clock. If we’re going to get there on time, we need to get started.”
Vano receded a little deeper down. “Are we going to San Francisco today?”
“We have to,” Arnold insisted. “There’s no other choice. We may be on the threshold of the greatest discovery since fire or the wheel! We can’t look the opportunity in the face and turn the other way.”
Vano formed the question, “How will we get there?”
“We have your Lincoln. Sister Cecilia says it’s no problem if we want to use it.”
The Twinkie finished and his beer can empty, Herne Hill was on his feet. He did a little gapping and stretching, then embarked on a series of long and loud belches. He was combing his beard with his fingers so as to distribute crumbs on Robin’s bedspread. He said to Vano, “To go or not to go, Amigo; that is the question.”
“It would be very nice to go to San Francisco,” said Vano.
“Give me a few minutes to round up Rita,” said Herne. “She wouldn’t miss this trip for anything.” He was referring to Rita Lieberman, with whom he had succeeded in establishing a carnal relationship during his few days on campus. “When I return, I’ll be ready.”
After a few moments of pondering, Vano said, “Chaplain Johansen needs to go to Salinas. Can we offer him a ride?”
“Salinas is right on the way,” Hill noted. “The more the merrier is how I look at it.” Then he left.
Arnold began immediate preparation for the journey by doubling up on the adhesive tape which reinforced his glasses. He started to pack his Alpine backpack. “I wouldn’t have all this stuff if it wasn’t for the spelunking club,” he reminded Vano. In went some maps, a compass, his calculator, fresh batteries, the crucial pages of printout, the Arguelles book, Revuelto’s manuscript, several number two pencils, and a translucent yellow plastic pencil sharpener from Sav-On.
From deeper down, Vano was watching him. “You’d better get your stuff ready,” Arnold told him.
“I don’t have any stuff. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Sister Cecilia entered the room, carrying the laundry basket. She began folding towels and stacking them on Vano’s dresser.
“Sister, we’re going to San Francisco. Would you like to come with us?”
“Thank you, Vano, but I think I have too much to do.”
Vano wondered if he should try and explain how this was more than a trip to the store. If he passed over into ultimate hooommm, then he would never see her again.
“I have two more loads of laundry and lots of ironing,” Sister continued. “I’m glad you’re back, though; I need to talk to you.”
John giggled madly at a beeping laser just before Sister said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay here any longer. I think it’s time I moved out.”
Vano pointed out, “All the guys think highly of you, Sister.”
“I know. They’ve all been so accepting and supportive. This is a wonderful place for you and your friends, but I can’t fit in, not over the long haul. I’m not discouraged though, because the Lord has made known His will to me. He has led me to understand what to do with myself.”
“What’s that?” asked Vano.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to keep on living at the condo. There’s so much upkeep to do, even when I’m there by myself. Did you know that furnace filters have to be changed every month?”
“Even if the furnace isn’t running?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“I didn’t know that,” Vano admitted.
“Besides that, there’s the Salvation Army band. You know how much the band means to me.”
“I know how much the band means to you. I think it would be real nice if you stayed on at the condo.”
Herne Hill appeared in the doorway to announce that Rita was waiting in the car. Spying Sister, he made a request: “Little Lady, if we’re going to San Fran, I’m going to have to leave John in your care. I hope you don’t mind. He’s getting such a kick out of the computer, I doubt if he’ll need much attention.”
“Your father didn’t have a current will, Vano. He was changing the terms of it after the accident. His estate is going to be in probate for a long time, I’m afraid.”
Herne said, “I might as well warn you, John has a habit of beating his meat. If he gets that action going, I advise you to more or less ignore it. I think he can tell if he’s being watched, just don’t ask me how.”
“With all his business interests and the investment portfolio, there’s going to be a lot of red tape to unravel in the months ahead. I’m sure it would keep me busy for a long time. It would take several hours a day just to write the necessary letters.”
Vano agreed. “I can see your point.”
Herne said, “It makes some people uptight when he does it in public, but I say hey, what the hell? Live and let live. He’s blind, he can’t talk, and he’s retarded. He deserves a little pleasure out of life, am I right?”
“Vano, what I’m trying to say is, I’d like to be the executor of your father’s estate. Of course, I would need your permission.”
“I think it sounds real nice, Sister. It sounds real logical to me.”
Herne Hill brought his agenda to a conclusion by adding, “Course, you being a woman and all, you could probably send John straight to the moon if you was to get in a few strokes of your own. Let’s just leave that part optional, though.”
“For several years, I’ve been doing a lot of your father’s basic transactions like the checking account, the savings account, the certificates of deposit, the municipal bonds, and the IRA’s. I could send you the same funds you’
re getting now, pay your school bills, and so on. In a little while, we might not even notice that your father is gone.”
“We might not even notice,” murmured Vano.
Arnold Beeker spoke up for the first time to say, “Vano, I’ve got to be completely honest with you. Even though this is totally cosmic, and even though it may be the most important event since the discovery of fire, I have a few reservations. I’ve got to be honest.”
Vano understood what he was talking about. For the second time, he wondered if he should share with Sister how this might be a permanent farewell. But Herne Hill interrupted his train of thought: “Boys, this is no time for wet feet. The time has come.”
On the way to the car, Arnold tried to define the manner of his trepidation: “This is a bittersweet situation. It’s sweet because I figured out how to load the right data, which may lead to a great discovery. It’s bitter because if it works, it means I won’t be seeing you any more.”
“I understand.”
“If you go into ultimate hoom, you’ll be in particle existence. I won’t be seeing you any more. I’ll have myself to blame, because I just had to feed that data.”
Vano’s delay was a short one. “You did what you do best, Arnold. It’s something to be proud of. Besides, nothing in the universe is permanent.”
“I suppose you think that’s a good answer. I suppose you think that’s some kind of consolation. I think this whole thing is mind-blowing.”
Vano said, “Most likely, that’s what it is exactly.”
“Are you some kind of prophet or something? Is that why you were chosen?”
“Of course not.”
“But you were chosen.”
“I was only chosen because I had preliminary experience in hooommm. There were others before me and there will be others again. It’s inevitable in a universe of waves and particles.”
“I suppose you think that’s a good answer.”
Herne slid in behind the wheel, with Rita beside him. Arnold rode on the passenger’s side in front. Vano and the chaplain sat in the back seat on either side of Rita’s Aztec statue. They purred north at high speed on the Pacific Coast Highway. The sun was playing hide and seek among the clouds. Vano shimmered in the merger of earth and sky and sea.
The chaplain and Vano conducted an over-the-statue conversation. The chaplain said, “Arnold Beeker tells me you were once a great pitcher.”
“I think that’s true,” Vano replied. It was only a few months ago, yet it seemed so distant, practically like a different lifetime.
“You seem so contemplative to be an athlete. I hope that’s not an offensive remark.”
“It’s not offensive. Taking offense is not a part of hooommm.”
Chaplain Johansen told Vano that Coach Radulski wasn’t on the staff any more. He was in a rehab center. “Did you know that?”
“No,” said Vano. “I didn’t know. What I do know is that Coach Radulski was depending on me to cover the Entrada baseball team with fame and glory. He thought the program would become the recipient of millions of dollars in gate receipts and television revenue.”
“But you mustn’t feel guilty, my son. The coach had a serious problem with alcohol abuse long before he met you.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” Vano replied. “Guilt is not a part of hooommm.”
Chaplain Johansen tilted the angle of the statue so he could make eye contact. “Just thinking out loud, but it may turn out that your presence may still be of major economic benefit to Entrada.”
Vano was in too deep to process this change of direction quickly. “I don’t think I understand.”
“What I mean to say is that Wilfong Weingrad was inclined to give us this huge endowment after he read a memo I wrote. That memo was based on the material you gave me about particle dust intelligence floating through the heavens.”
Hooommm. “I see.”
The chaplain continued, “I thought you should know, because if the college does receive the gift, most of the credit will belong to you.”
The pause lingered before Vano answered politely, “The truth is, what I know about particle existence comes from the particle people. Not from me.”
When they reached rural Salinas, they needed to stop at nearly every intersection to check directions. Chaplain Johansen referred to his map, while Arnold looked his calculations over. Since Rita Lieberman was sliding her hand inside his pants at every stop, Herne Hill had no objection to the frequency of these delays.
Their combined reconnaisance proved successful. The sun was low by the time they pulled to a stop in front of Weingrad’s remarkable mailbox, perched next to the lonely stretch of blacktop. “This is a crusader,” observed Chaplain Johansen. “Weingrad’s mailbox is a statue of a crusader.”
Herne Hill couldn’t help but admire the statue’s rigid attire. “Hot damn, look at the chain-mail. I could see myself wearing these duds on the Harley. I wonder if the armor comes off.”
Chaplain Johansen felt a knot of tension forming in his stomach as he looked closely at the security system which sealed Weingrad’s premises from the rest of the world. Near the road was a chain-link fence, 12 feet high, with spirals of barbed wire bristling along the top. A large, painted sign was posted on the fence:
WARNING: ELECTRIFIED FENCE. THESE PREMISES
GUARDED BY KILLER ATTACK DOBERMANS
Despite these daunting admonitions, however, the gate was open. Herne shot the car up the long lane, spinning gravel.
The chaplain got out of the car, but owing to his escalating case of nerves, he spoke briefly with Herne: “This shouldn’t take too long. You’ll be right here when I’m finished?”
Before he could answer, Herne had to lift his head from beneath Rita’s skirt. “We’ll be right here, Bro.” Droplets of drool bobbed on his beard.
The chaplain didn’t notice these logistics, so absorbed was he by the tension of his imminent mission. He rubbed his hands together several times. “Thank you,” he finally said.
“We’ll even have the motor runnin’.”
Arnold Beeker put in his two cents: “I hope so. It’s very important to get to Alta Plaza on time.”
Chaplain Johansen paced uneasily on the front porch after ringing the bell. His uneasiness increased when Grizelda opened the door to greet him. She was a large, barrel-chested woman with solid forearms. Her breath smelled of whiskey. “You haff come for seekink Wilfong?” she asked.
Chaplain Johansen confirmed it, but he asked her if she could give him a little information about the potential benefactor.
“Wilfong hass cuckoo,” said Grizelda.
“Wilfong hass cuckoo?”
“Don’t dare to make spordt mitt Grizelda!” warned the formidable housekeeper. She grinded her right fist into her left palm. The chaplain stared at the huge fists. She could probably pound him into the ground like a tent stake.
The house was poorly lit. Grizelda led Johansen to the basement where Wilfong was playing with his electric trains. The very elaborate train set treatments were precise in much detail. Wilfong Weingrad operated the transformer with unrestrained glee. He wore a striped engineer’s cap while shouting “Woo woo!” every now and again. The trains zoomed around the tracks.
After Grizelda informed him it was Chaplain Johansen from the college, he took his guest upstairs to the study.
It was in this room that Johansen saw the 32 cuckoo clocks on the wall. So this was what Grizelda meant. Without thinking, the chaplain blurted out, “You hass cuckoo.”
“You hass cuckoo?” asked Weingrad.
Chaplain Johansen felt like a fool. He got red in the face. In a panic, he tried to think of some manner of explanation for his remark, but he was speechless.
It didn’t matter in the least. Weingrad was sitting at his desk and getting out his Bible. He was wrapping the wire frames of his glasses around his ears. The pink scalp glistened through the few white hairs.
Wilfong laid it on the line: “These are
the Last Days, so I hope you’re prepared for the Apocalypse! The Beast is all around us. The Lord is coming in his fury to smite the enemy with His terrible, swift sword! Do you have the fear o’ the Lord in you? Does your college have the fear o’ the Lord?”
Still very nervous, Chaplain Johansen tiptoed in the direction of some cautious speculation: “I would say that’s a difficult question. First, we would have to examine what we mean by fear.”
His tentative preamble was as irrelevant to Weingrad as the relative humidity in Chula Vista. “I will give the 25 million dollars if you have the fear o’ the Lord! Having said this, Weingrad proceeded to read from Revelation the description of the Lord coming from Heaven as a warrior on a white horse. So moved was he by this battle imagery, he embellished with a few details of his own device: “He will be armed to the teeth! He will have a sword and a doublebladed ax and he will be outfitted with shining armor. It won’t be ordinary armor either, but chain-mail! There will be steel mesh on his terrible, swift fists!” At this point, red in the face and short of breath, he had to pause.
Chaplain Johansen had concluded by now that Wilfong was unbalanced, but this knowledge did nothing to allay his discomfort. At this moment, the 32 cuckoo clocks began going off. It was a startling, nerve-wracking cacaphony which provoked Johansen to jump to his feet. For his part, Weingrad was merely annoyed. He jerked out his hearing aide and threw it on top of his desk.
He was now deaf as a stone. Hearing nothing, he shuffled across the room. “Goddamit, Woman! You’re not to wind these clocks! How many times have you been told?” The clocks were slightly out of sync, which meant they would be sounding for quite some time. On the other side of the room, Wilfong punched a button on a control panel to shut off the clocks. By accident, he punched the wrong button, which activated the warning siren which was part of the security system.
To the chaplain, it sounded as if a squad car had just entered the room. His pulse increased to 205, and he broke a sweat. The clocks cuckooed while the siren screamed. But hearing not a sound, Weingrad returned to his seat behind the desk; he resumed the reading from Revelation.
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