Mr. Murder

society's imminent collapse as could be found, on a par with heavily armed crack-cocaine dealers selling their wares in schoolyards.
        As the JetRanger cruised north through Sequoia National Park, King's Canyon National Park, along the western flank of the Sierra Nevadas, and eventually directly into those magnificent mountains, Oslett kept moving from one side of the helicopter to the other, determined not to miss any of the stunning scenery. The vastnesses beneath him were so sparsely populated, they might have been expected to trigger his nearly agoraphobic aversion to open spaces and rural landscapes. But the terrain changed by the minute, presenting new marvels and ever-more-splendid vistas at a sufficiently swift pace to entertain him.
        Furthermore, the JetRanger flew at a much lower altitude than the Lear, giving Oslett a sense of headlong forward motion. The interior of the helicopter was noisier and shaken by more vibrations than the passenger compartment of the jet, which he also liked.
        Twice he called Clocker's attention to the natural wonders just beyond the windows. Both times the big man merely glanced at the scenery for a second or two, and then without comment returned his attention to Six-Breasted Amazon Women of the Slime Planet.
        "What's so damned interesting in that book?" Oslett finally demanded, dropping into the seat directly opposite Clocker.
        Finishing the paragraph he was reading before looking up, Clocker said,
        "I couldn't tell you."
        "Why not?"
        "Because even after I told you what I find interesting in this book, it wouldn't be interesting to you."
        "What's that supposed to mean?"
        Clocker shrugged. "I don't think you'd like it."
        "I hate novels, always have, especially science fiction and crap like that."
        "There you go."
        "What's that supposed to mean?"
        "Just that you've confirmed what I said-you don't like this sort of thing.
        "Of course I don't."
        Clocker shrugged again. "There you go."
        Oslett glared at him. Gesturing at the book, he said, "How can you like that trash?"
        "We exist in parallel universes," Clocker said.
        "What?"
        "In yours, Johannes Gutenberg invented the pinball machine."
        "Who?"
        "In yours, perhaps the most famous guy named Faulkner was a virtuoso on the banjo."
        Scowling, Oslett said, "None of this crap is making any sense to me."
        "There you go," Clocker said, and returned his attention to Kirk and Spock in Love, or whatever the epic was titled.
        Oslett wanted to kill him. This time, in Karl Clocker's cryptic patter, he detected a subtly expressed but deeply felt disrespect.
        He wanted to snatch off the big man's stupid hat and set fire to it, duck feather and all, grab the paperback out of his hands and tear it to pieces, and pump maybe a thousand rounds of hollow-point 9mm ammo into him at extreme close range.
        Instead, he turned to the window to be soothed by the majesty of mountain peaks and forests seen at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
        Above them, clouds were moving in from the northwest. Plump and gray, they settled like fleets of dirigibles toward the mountain tops.
        At 1:10 Tuesday afternoon, at an airfield outside of Mammoth Lakes, they were met by a Network representative named Alec Spicer. He was waiting on the blacktop near the concrete-block and corrugated steel hangar where they set down.
        Though he knew their real names and was, therefore, at least of a rank equal to Peter Waxhill's, he was not as impeccably attired, suave, or well-spoken as that gentleman who had briefed them over breakfast. And unlike the muscular Jim Lomar at John Wayne Airport* in Orange County last night, he let them carry their own luggage to the green Ford Explorer that stood at their disposal in the parking area behind the hangar.
        Spicer was about fifty years old, five feet ten, a hundred and sixty pounds, with brush-cut iron-gray hair. His face was all hard planes, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses even though the sky was overcast. He wore combat boots, khaki slacks, khaki shirt, and a battered leather flight jacket with numerous zippered pockets. His erect posture, disciplined manner, and clipped speech pegged him for a retired-perhaps cashiered-army officer who was unwilling to change the attitudes, habits, or