Phantoms

came, he locked himself in a bathroom. It got him anyway. But he gained enough time to scrawl your name and the title of your book on the mirror!”
    Timothy was speechless. There was a chair beside the telephone. He suddenly needed it.
    “The authorities in California don’t understand what’s happened. They don’t even realize The Ancient Enemy is the title of a book, and they don’t know what part you play in all this. They think it was a nerve gas attack or an act of biological warfare or even extraterrestrial contact. But the man who wrote your name on that mirror knew better. And so do we. I’ll tell you more in the car.”
    “Car?” Timothy said.
    “My God, I hope you have a passport!”
    “Uh… yes.”
    “I’m coming by with a car to take you to the airport. I want you to go to California, Dr. Flyte.”
    “But—”
    “Tonight. There’s an available seat on a flight from Heathrow. I’ve reserved it in your name.”
    “But I can’t afford—”
    “Your publisher is paying all expenses. Don’t worry. You must go to Snowfield. You won’t be writing just a popularization of The Ancient Enemy . Not any more. Now, you’re going to write a well-rounded human story about Snowfield, and all of your material on historical mass disappearances and your theories about the ancient enemy will be supportive of that narrative. Do you see? Won’t it be great?”
    “But would it be right for me to rush in there now?”
    “What do you mean?” Sandler asked.
    “Would it be proper?” Timothy asked worriedly. “Wouldn’t it appear as if I were attempting to cash in on a terrible tragedy?”
    “Listen, Dr. Flyte, there are going to be a hundred hustlers in Snowfield, all with book contracts in their back pockets. They’ll rip off your material. If you don’t write the book on the subject, one of them will write it at your expense.”
    “But hundreds are dead,” Timothy said. He felt ill. “Hundreds. The pain, the tragedy…”
    Sandler was clearly impatient with the professor’s hesitancy. “Well… okay, okay. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I haven’t really stopped to think about the horror of it. But don’t you see—that’s why you must be the one to write the ultimate book on the subject. No one else can bring your erudition or compassion to the project.”
    “Well…”
    Seizing on Timothy’s hesitation, Sandler said, “Good. Pack a suitcase fast. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
    Sandler hung up, and Timothy sat for a moment, holding the receiver, listening to the dead line. Stunned.
     
    In the taxi’s headlights, the rain was silvery. It slanted on the wind, like thousands of thin streamers of glittering Christmas tinsel. On the pavement, it puddled in quicksilver pools.
    The cabdriver was reckless. The car careened along the slick streets. With one hand, Timothy held tightly to the safety bar on the door. Evidently Burt Sandler had promised a very large tip as a reward for speed.
    Sitting next to the professor, Sandler said, “There’ll be a layover in New York, but not too long. One of our people will meet you and shepherd you through. We won’t alert the media in New York. We’ll save the press conference for San Francisco. So be prepared to face an army of eager reporters when you get off the plane there.”
    “Couldn’t I just go quietly to Santa Mira and present myself to the authorities there?” Timothy asked unhappily.
    “No, no, no!” Sandler said, clearly horrified by the very thought. “We’ve got to have a press conference. You’re the only one with the answer , Dr. Flyte. We’ve got to let everyone know that you’re the one. We’ve got to start beating the drum for your next book before Norman Mailer puts aside his latest study of Marilyn Monroe and jumps into this thing with both feet!”
    “I haven’t even begun to write the book yet.”
    “God, I know. And by the time we publish, the demand will be phenomenal!”
    The cab turned a corner. Tires squealed. Timothy was thrown against the door.
    “A publicist will meet you at the plane in San Francisco. He’ll guide you through the press conference,” Sandler said. “One way or another he’ll get you to Santa Mira. It’s a fairly long drive, so maybe it can be done by helicopter.”
    “Helicopter?” Timothy said, astonished.
     
    The taxi sped through a deep puddle, casting up plumes of silvery water.
    The airport was within sight.
    Burt Sandler had been talking nonstop since Timothy had