Lightning

like this without cockroaches would be like the Beverly Hills Hotel without tree rats."
    As they ate, Stefan outlined the plan he had devised for closing the gate and destroying the institute. Thelma interrupted with wisecracks, but when he was finished, she was solemn. "This is damned dangerous, Stefan. Brave enough to be foolish, maybe."
    "There's no other way."
    "I can see that," she said. "So what can I do to help?"
    Pausing with a wad of corn chips halfway to his mouth, Chris said, "We need you to buy the computer. Aunt Thelma."
    Laura said, "An IBM PC, their best model, the same one I have at home, so I'll know how to use all the software. We don't have time to learn the operating procedures of a new machine. I've written it all down for you. I could go buy it myself, I guess, with money you gave me, but I'm afraid of showing my face too many places."
    "And we'll need a place to stay," Stefan said.
    "We can't stay here," Chris said, enjoying being a part of the discussion, "not if we're going to be doing stuff with a computer. The maid would see it no matter how hard we tried to hide it, and she'd talk about it because that would be weird, people holing up in a place like this with a computer."
    Stefan said, "Laura tells me that you and your husband have a second house in Palm Springs."
    "We have a house in Palm Springs, a condo in Monterey, another condo in Vegas, and it wouldn't surprise me if we owned—or at least had time shares in—our very own Hawaiian volcano. My husband is too rich. So take your pick. My houses are your houses. Just don't use the towels to polish the hubcaps on your car, and if you must chew tobacco and spit on the floors, try to keep it in the corners."
    "I thought the house in Palm Springs would be ideal," Laura said. "You've told me it's fairly secluded."
    "It's on a large property with lots of trees, and there're other show-biz people on that block, all of 'em busy, so they don't tend to drop over for a cup of coffee. No one'll disturb you there."
    "All right," Laura said, "there's just a few other things. We need changes of clothes, comfortable shoes, some basic necessities. I've made a list, sizes and everything. And, of course, when this is all over, I'll pay you back the cash you gave me and whatever you spend on the computer and these other things."
    "Damn right you will, Shane. And forty percent interest. Per week. Compounded hourly. Plus your child. Your child will be mine."
    Chris laughed. "My Aunt Rumpelstiltskin."
    "You won't make smart remarks when you're
my
child, Christopher Robin. Or at least you'll call me Mother Rumpelstiltskin, Sir."
    "Mother Rumpelstiltskin, Sir!" Chris said, and saluted her.
    At eight-thirty Thelma prepared to leave with the shopping list that Laura had composed and the information about the computer. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I can," she said, giving Laura and then Chris one last hug. "You'll really be safe here, Shane?"
    "I think we will. If they'd discovered we were staying here, they would've shown up sooner."
    Stefan said, "Remember, Thelma, they're time travelers; once they discover where we've been hiding, they could just jaunt forward to the moment when we first arrived here. In fact they could've been waiting for us when we pulled into the motel on Wednesday. The fact that we've stayed here so long unmolested is almost proof there'll never be public knowledge that this was our hideout."
    "My head spins," Thelma said. "And I thought reading a major studio's contract was complicated!"
    She went out into the night and rain, still wearing the wig and the horn-rimmed glasses but carrying her stage teeth in her pocket, and she drove away in her gardener's truck.
    Laura, Chris, and Stefan watched her from the big window, and Stefan said, "She's a special person."
    "Very," Laura said. "I hope to God I haven't endangered her."
    "Don't worry, Mom," Chris said. "Aunt Thelma's a tough broad. She always says so."

    That night at nine o'clock, shortly after Thelma left, Laura drove to Fat Jack's place in Anaheim. The rain was not as heavy as it had been but fell in a steady drizzle. The macadamized pavement glistened silver-black, and gutters still overflowed with water that looked like oil in the queer light of the sodium-vapor streetlamps. Fog had crept in, too, not on little cat feet but slithering like a snake on its belly.
    She had been loath to leave Stefan at the motel. But it was not wise for him to spend much time in the