The Network Trilogy

By Max Morgan

The Network Trilogy explores the lives of three protagonists who shape a worldwide revolution from the top down. Fortunately for many, it is not this world but a similar one far removed from here. More of a psychological study, it investigates the motivations and mores of a group which prefers a more ancient way of doing things in what most would consider a contemporary high-tech society.

Unlike many trilogies, this work is not entirely sequential but considers a time period during which all protagonists come to know each other, however brief their contact. In a way, it is a democratic tale of people starting with little and rising to great heights. Still, their notion of democracy harks back to a much earlier version in world history. This raises the question whether all arrows of time point to the future or might they reverse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Morgan
• Release date: Nov 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311386885

Max Morgan

Worked as go-fer, mortician's assistant, business consultant, teacher, head hunter, fund raiser, (and a few other nondescript things) but not in any particular order. Fondness for long hikes and communing with nature. Interested in the kind of philosophy no one reads outside of university philosophy departments. Would prefer to live in the eighteenth century, if I weren't a peasant (as a blacksmith would be nice). Non-technological (don't own a cell phone). I think my TV set has tubes but I never looked. Trying to find a good typewriter. Can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

BOOK ONE

RENASCENCE II

The sound of vacuum cleaners, and the general noise of the housecleaning staff emanating from the hall, woke him. Lord knows, he didn’t want to get up but the maids would probably pound on his door at any moment given he forgot to put out the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob the night before.

The clock read ten o’clock, definitely too late to attend the day’s first session because the convention activities started at eight. Had to make excuses. He arose, went to the door, and belatedly hung the sign outside to give himself time to dress before being bothered by the cleaners.

There was a sluggish feeling, the kind many experience whenever they’ve spent too much money on too much drink. He made it to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and faced a terrible mess: bloodshot eyes; beard needed a trimming—Let it go another day.

A glance at the bed: the night before returned to consciousness. Made it over to the night table where, on the back of the napkin taken from the bar: Katie 868-432-2470. Well, it happened again: another vow broken; not the first time; wouldn’t be the last.

He met Katie in a bar the night before—just another one of the many hustlers who picked up on the convention crowd in Novalean, a free and easy metropolis noted for its languorous, fun-loving ways. Frank had donned his casual attire and went looking for a bar where he wouldn’t be recognized by anyone attending the convention downtown. For some reason, Katie preferred working her trade away from the tourist traps and so prowled the more sedate places looking for strays.

Frank reminisced: Katie; good looking gal; mid-thirties; good body; somehow more intelligent than your run-of-the-mill hooker. Unfortunately, Katie put him out-of-pocket to the tune of several hundred tolars, almost blowing his expense account. No idea what time she left the room last night. They returned about midnight. Somewhere between two and three, she cut out. No doubt she had cab fare to get home. A sudden thought hit. Frank checked his cash and credit cards—all there. Katie was a good girl.

Ambivalent feelings about what happened: got everything he wanted, along with tremendous guilt. Still, by the time a supposedly celibate man reaches fifty, things can get a little screwy.

He dressed in his black suit and clerical collar, picked up the various items from the night stand, scrutinized the napkin with Katie’s number, and then tossed it into the waste basket. Just another night; just another woman. Certainly didn’t happen often...but...every couple of years, it did.

After filling his pockets with the articles, he headed out the door. About to close it behind him, he paused, reentered, and went to the waste can. Retrieving the napkin previously trashed, he jotted the number on a small note pad, then left again.

* * *

A sign above the convention center reading WELCOME SOCIETY FOR BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES beckoned the members of this second-rate association composed mainly of college academics. The crowd, not huge—probably around two thousand professorial types, sophomoric students, and general hangers-on: all viewing slide shows, movies; attending lectures; philosophizing about the state of the discipline; and lamenting the lack of job opportunities for people having scientific know-how but no contacts. The attendees were somewhat bright people with no special contributions to make.

Frank went to the registration desk, picked up his speaker’s badge, and glanced at it. Rev. Frank Numen, Ph.D. University of St. Angelica. Oh well, they spelled Newman wrong. Reviewing the calendar of events, he decided upon the session devoted to the latest advances in genetic manipulation. An old colleague, Professor John McClellan, would give the presentation and the topic offered some interest to a man of Frank’s semi-masochistic tendencies.

He found the lecture hall darkened and McClellan well into his presentation. Fortunately, the presentation screens threw off enough light to find a seat in the back row. The room contained about fifty people, mostly the very committed sorts wanting to learn the intricacies of how one designs and utilizes micro tools and techniques for carving up and handling the infinitesimally small. A disappointing performance: a rework of something one could read for himself. No doubt, McClellan mouthed the same stuff to his classes numerous times.

Frank wondered why he came. Perhaps he needed to broaden his knowledge on an aspect of his discipline previously neglected. No, not true. McClellan didn’t reveal anything Frank hadn’t known when still a puppy in college. Whatever, he’d stick it out—nothing better to do. When the lights came on his eyes settled upon the back of a woman seated in the middle of the room. Did he know her? Couldn’t be, almost looked like Katie. It was Katie. Frank fidgeted. Having no interest in the topic sufficient to formulate some brilliant questions, and not wishing to meet her in this place, he left.

Over lunch he reviewed the notes on the lecture he’d give in the afternoon: the moral and sociological implications of biological research. For some unexplained reason this particular topic interested him while gene manipulation left him cold. Perhaps it was a break from all the technologies usually occupying his mind.

By two o’clock, the hangover disappeared. Standing by the podium watching the participants enter, he sensed a personal disappointment. Fewer people showed than had attended McClellan’s morning presentation. No doubt people had misplaced priorities.

Reverend Frank delivered a lecture he’d given many times before. At least if the ideas weren’t new, the audience would be. After the talk came the questions and answers when he got the usual simplistic inquiries from the students and faculty members who were in attendance. No reason for dismay. Everyone was boring and you had to expect it. Say the most silly things with sufficient authority and you sound messianic. After all, this is the age of inanity and Frank had grown accustomed to the game.

Finally, four o’clock arrived and the session concluded, allowing Frank to get the hell out. He wandered around the convention center seeking familiar faces: someone to dine with; somebody to keep him out of trouble. Unfortunately, he found no one fitting the bill.

* * *

After dinner, Frank returned to the hotel room, undressed, lay down on the bed, and watched an old movie, rather this than read one of the books he’d brought relating to science and philosophy. So much for good intentions. Better for his mind to remain numb; unoccupied by anything weighty.

The movie ended at nine when he got up, went over to the coat draped across the desk chair, and withdrew the note pad with Katie’s number. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out his cash, and counted it out on the desk top. Came to fifty-five tolars and change; certainly not enough to afford Katie. Frank dressed in his casual attire and went looking for another bar.

Preferring to locate a place where there wouldn’t be any conventioneers, he avoided the Whiskey Street party-time area of the Old Quarter . After a lengthy walk he found a decent, secluded spot where the piano player was good, the place dimly lit, and an unoccupied table waited in the corner. Frank ordered some straight liquor from the waitress.

He paid nil attention to the patrons while contemplating the drink: definitely in his own world, reflecting upon the dissatisfaction with his life, career, and rather mundane accomplishments as a scholar. Never a true believer: no absolute, complete sense of religiosity. His faith difficult; hard won. Too much agonizing and intellectualizing.

Many times during his clerical career he wanted to chuck the whole thing: find a reasonable job, get married, have children, do the common things. Yet despite these feelings, there remained a solid core of faith assuring him of his path’s correctness. No matter what the agony, bad times, and breaking of vows, the faith persisted. Better to fail as a clergyman than succeed as something else. If he quit the agony of the loss would far outweigh the benefits gained from joining the common lot of mankind. And, what the hell, at one time he actually enjoyed the study of theology, philosophy, and the biological sciences, all in that order. Now he read too much; didn’t see any new ideas; became bored with it all yet, still, basically content.

Frank so deeply pondered his condition he failed to notice the figure standing by his side. Good evening, Katie said. May I join you?

Without showing any reaction, he motioned for her to sit. Her arrival put him out of sorts. Why was she here? A gal like Katie couldn’t make any money in a place like this.

Katie, I’m glad to see you, but my finances are short and—

She smiled and waved her hand to cut him off. Don’t worry about it. I’m taking a break and only wanted to say hello. Can’t work every minute of the day, you know, especially in my business. Tends to wear one out too quickly.

She ordered a drink and they sat there for a while saying nothing. If they couldn’t discuss business, there seemed no point in talking. Katie fell back upon common bar chatter. Tell me, Frank, what exactly do you do for a living? I know you’re into biology, like you explained last night. But what exactly is it you do?

He paused. Ummmh...yes. I’m a biochemist. One thing he wouldn’t do was clue Katie concerning his clerical status.

That’s interesting, she remarked offhandedly while motioning to the waitress for another drink. She continued on in a singsong and flat manner designed to convey complete indifference: You must have an exciting time getting to discover cures for diseases, finding out what makes creatures tick at a fundamental level, and all those things. Sounds like something I’d enjoy.

Well, Katie, you’re mixing different specialty areas, not to mention the fact I’m an academic. Where I come from most of us simply inhabit the halls of Academe, preach to students, and tell them what we’ve read in books.

Funny, that’s not what you said last night.

Oh crap, Frank thought to himself. Couldn’t remember anything about last night. What did he say to her?—though he really didn’t want to know. His expression must have told all because Katie answered his unspoken question.

You said you were the finest biochemist produced in this century, bar none, and there wasn’t anything you couldn’t do were it not for the fact you’ve got religious scruples. Were you lying?

Frank sank into his chair. Shit, what kind of a fool did he make out of himself? Unfortunately, he always told the truth when drunk. Now, he wasn’t.

"Ah, Katie, come on. You know what a few drinks can do to people. I probably tried to impress you last night. Please forgive me and ignore what I said.

She shrugged and diverted the topic. Married?

No, never have been. Haven’t found a woman who could tempt me to settle down. How ‘bout you?

Not now—a couple of times in the past. The story of my life is boring. Tell me yours. What do you do as a biochemist? she bored on.

Oh, I profess. Although I call myself a biochemist, I really teach the usual selection of university biology courses—you know, cutting up frogs and worms; those kinds of things. What I wind up doing is teaching some undergraduate and graduate courses for people on their way toward medical degrees.

Sounds boring, she said, taking a swig of her drink. No disrespect intended. I’ve always preferred engineering, you know, applied stuff. I majored in chemical engineering in graduate school and worked at that for a time. Pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

Oh! Frank reacted in surprise.

I always get your reaction, she sighed. I’ll tell you, the way I work my business, there’s more profit than I’d get working as an engineer. Also, I don’t have the psychological makeup to rise to the top in a bureaucracy. Still, I can make a six-figure income working by myself. After investing it as I go along, I figure I’ll be worth more than a high class corporate executive in the long run.

To each his own, Frank responded. It’s just .... The sentence trailed off.

It’s just what I do is disreputable, right? Katie completed the thought.

Well...yes, he stammered in embarrassment.

You people. Here I am in the world’s oldest profession...big market for services...fill an important need...somehow I’m disreputable. Anyway, all women are whores—just their payoffs are different. I treat it all with a sense of humor. How about a dance? I like the tune.

Frank shook his head and hands in a negative gesture. Look, darlin’, I haven’t danced in years. Let’s pass.

Oh, hell, she said, grabbing his hand. Come on. With a tug he followed along to the dance floor.

A slow number, Frank could simply stand there swaying and make it look like a dance. Speaking quietly into her ear: I’m surprised to see you here. And you were at the convention. Why do you keep turning up?

Don’t worry, Frankie, I’m not following you. I tried drumming up some business at the convention center. Didn’t see you there. Wished you’d’ve said Hello though if you saw me. Hoped I’d found a new spot here. Strictly coincidence. Won’t ever come back again. It’s dead.

Frank had his fill of dancing. Please, he begged, let’s sit down.

She conceded and they returned to the table for more drinks and where Katie positioned herself sideways to better watch the piano player ply his trade. Her low cut dress being loose around the bodice afforded Frank an excellent view of her ample bosom. His eyes were still focused there when she turned around.

She pulled her shoulders back to make her breasts more prominent. See anything you like?

Uh...yes. Uh...no. Uh.... He got flustered at being caught in his stare. What occupied his mind until Katie embarrassed him with her question was the desire for a few hundred to spend on the merchandise.

You sure you don’t want to change your mind about doing business tonight? Katie pressed. Tell you what. It’s a slow night and if you’re short of cash I’ll go for a hundred. What say?

Frank shook his head. Can’t do it.

Okay, then I’ve gotta go, soon as I finish my drink, she said, a twinge of disappointment in her voice.

Neither one said anything for the next five minutes during which Katie nurtured her drink as though something were on her mind, something she hesitated to discuss. As Frank gazed at her with a sexual longing, he perceived her desire to raise a topic, though she never did. When Katie downed the last sip of her drink she smiled, arose, and then left without saying anything at all.

He grinned to himself. Typical. All alike. Cash up front or no deal. But then, why not? The last thing she needs is a mooch. It’s a tough business. Yet he felt so melancholy and wished the rules could be held temporarily in abeyance. Reality snapped back. Gees, smitten by a hooker; too much to drink.

He hung in for a few more rounds, listening to the music, pondering the conversation with Katie. Frank’s consciousness became so alcohol-laden he experienced a strong temptation to scream out that even in a stupor no one could match him at what he did best. He knew things based on a command of philosophy and mechanical technique which could blow the socks off his supposed peers. Fuck them all. He would die with the knowledge.

Back to God. Back to the Church. Drink up and get serious again. God’s work consisted of his students at Saint Angelica’s, despite their being basically illiterate.

He felt a nudge on his shoulder. Katie had returned.

Hey, Frank, I was thinking. Are you doing anything for the rest of the night?

Her reappearance created a sparkle in him for he really needed a female companion. Still, no point in revealing his need. Keep things formal. You mean apart from having a few more drinks before I cut out?

Yeah.

No, why do you ask?

I’m heading to a party in the sticks. When I thought about the people who’d be there, I knew they were your type, a bunch of highbrow intellectuals. Should be kind of lively. No funny stuff; totally respectable. Thought you might like to come.

Uh, I don’t think so, Katie. I’m a little tired and don’t want to crash somebody’s party.

If you’re with me you’re not crashing. I know everybody there. Believe me, nobody’ll mind. You’ll enjoy it. Why sit here by yourself when you can have some decent drinking companions?

Frank thought about it for a minute. Bored and lonely, the drinks he’d had didn’t do anything to reinforce his control mechanisms. Why not? After paying the tab he left with Katie.

She put an end to his worries about the cab fare by motioning for him to get into the super luxurious Cortada sports car parked nearby, which they entered and then roared away from the curb. Oh, he thought, one of those drivers. Inspecting the car’s interior, he noted her business must be good; then realized he’d helped pay for it.

Get to Novalean much? she queried.

No, this is the first time in years.

Every time they have a biology convention?

"No, last time was with my parents. Dad felt poorly, but well enough to squeeze in one last vacation before he died. My parents always wanted to see Novalean, so we made the trip together. Dad died a little later. At least he got in the vacation he wanted.

Tell me about where we’re headed. What kind of a party is it? Lots of people? One or two?

Well, if I know these things, it’ll be an intimate gathering of twenty or thirty. The people who own the place we’re going, they got money to burn. Always partying. Now mind you, they’re not the liveliest parties in town—a group of talkers. Sometimes you’d swear you’re around a bunch of academic types when you’re with them. That’s why, when I thought about you being a prof’ and all, you might enjoy the place. If it weren’t for business, I wouldn’t go near it. Just your kind of folks.

Thanks a lot, Katie. I don’t know if I should feel honored by this invitation.

Ah, don’t get me wrong, Frank. You are kind of straitlaced. You have to admit it.

The streets whizzed by: her foot, full bore on the accelerator or jammed on the brake—no in-between. Frank expected a cop to pull them over any minute.

The way you drive, I bet you collect a lot on your insurance policies, Frank remarked.

What do you mean? I’m a safe driver. Only ever had one accident and it got charged to the other guy.

Figures, Frank said.

Huh?

Nothing.

He wondered: why she headed to the party? From the way she described it, she didn’t seem to fit-in. Katie drove along the massive lake’s shore road for a time and then turned on to a narrow dirt strip with a Private Property notice posted. The dust flew as she went tearing down the road, scaring the daylights out of the armadillos, rabbits, and possums lurking in the bushes. The road couldn’t have seen much traffic: so narrow he wondered what’d happen if a car came the other way. They must be going to a real dump if it had an access road like this.

Suddenly the dirt road turned into a macadam-topped one and they headed up a long driveway toward the largest mansion Frank had ever seen.

Holy smokes, he said, looks like a hotel.

No, it’s Tom’s place. Tom and Ethel like to do things in a big way.

Tom and Ethel, huh?

Yeah, Tom and Ethel McNeil. He’s retired or something. Never sure exactly what he did.

She stopped right in front of the main door, ignoring the parking facilities off to the side where all the other guests had their cars. Jumping out, she scurried up the steps with Frank bringing up the rear. After ringing the bell, she waited.

How ya doin’, Jeeves? she asked when the butler opened the door.

Good evening, Miss Matthews. Please, the name is Haverson.

Sure thing, she said as Frank caught up and stood behind her.

Haverson gave him a once-over. Does the gentleman have an invitation?

Come on, Jeeves, he’s with me.

I’m sorry, Miss Matthews. You know it’s by invitation only.

Frank turned away, ready to walk back down the steps.

Oh, come on, Jeeves. You go ask Tom whether I can’t bring a gentleman friend with me.

But Miss Matthews...

Go on. Go on, she insisted.

One moment please. He closed the door and left them standing there.

"Katie, Frank said in a forceful manner, I figured I couldn’t simply barge into a party. Look at this. You drag me into an invitation-only thing. The butler’s in his tux and here I am in a flowery print shirt."

Don’t worry about it, Frankie. Just don’t worry about it, she reassured, patting him on the shoulder.

Haverson again opened the door. Mr. McNeil would be pleased to welcome your friend. This way please.

As Frank followed behind Haverson and Katie, he began cringing. Thought a gal like Katie’d drag him into a wild bash at some smoky dump. Maybe it would’ve been preferable to this: a black-tie affair with a string ensemble doing its work. Either way, Frank felt out of place; knew all eyes were on him, him in his rumpled slacks and loud shirt.

The butler led them to the study, knocked on the door, and entered without waiting for a response. Leaning casually against the desk, the man looked like he owned the place: tall, handsomely rugged, distinguished, with a full shock of gray hair. Haverson raised his arm to indicate Katie and Frank should proceed into the room, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Hi, Tom. Hi, Charlie, she said, directing her latter greeting to a pipe-smoking man sitting in an easy chair. The pipe-smoker, a bald-headed little fat man, looked uncomfortable in the formal attire which didn’t quite fit him.

Tom McNeil opened wide his arms as she walked over to receive a friendly hug. Katie, so good to see you.

Tom, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Frank Newman.

Frank, a pleasure, the big man said, straightening himself to full height and extending a hand to Frank.

Frank took his hand. I apologize for being here, Mr. McNeil. Katie invited me to a party but didn’t say anything about it being formal.

"Katie." Tom had a hint of reprimand in his voice as he waved a finger at her.

Oh, what the heck, Tom. I was with Frank...and he looked lonely. He’s an interesting guy so I brought him along.

That’s okay, Katie, Tom assured, It’s all right with me, but I’m afraid Frank might feel a little embarrassed.

Frank nodded. Yes, indeed.

Reaching down, Tom put his arm around Frank’s shoulder. Look, Frank, let me reassure you. You’re quite welcome here. Please feel free to mingle. Nobody will pay any attention. They’ll figure you’re some eccentric billionaire who doesn’t own a tux. They’re used to the type. So play the role and have a good time.

Katie grabbed Frank’s hand and started leading him away. Thanks, Tom. I wanted you to meet him.

Sure thing, Katie, Tom replied. Enjoy yourself.

They left the study and rejoined the guests in the large room with the string ensemble playing something classical.

Katie, I could strangle you.

Oh, don’t be silly, Frank. Mix. Go meet some of the folks. Get yourself a drink and talk to people. You’ll see. They’re all interesting. I see somebody I haven’t talked to in a long time.

She walked away, leaving him standing there alone. Frank ambled over to the bar, plopped himself on a stool, and ordered a whiskey. Upon receiving the drink, he felt grateful to the bartender who evidently had a heavy hand.

Haven’t seen you before, the bartender observed. I’m Jack.

Hi, Jack. Frank Newman. Nope, haven’t been around before. A friend brought me. Didn’t tell me things were formal.

Jack nodded an acknowledgment. Should’ve been here this afternoon. Days are informal. But nights, they’re always a formal occasion around here. The McNeils do anything for an excuse to dress up.

The bartender went to fill an order at the other end of the bar while Frank looked around for a phone to get a cab back to his hotel. He really felt out of place.

Another guest dropped by to have his glass filled and leaned on the stool next to Frank. Hi, there. You got here a little late; missed most of the fun.

Uh, yeah, Frank said, wishing his companion would go away. I only dropped in for a moment. Is there a phone around here? I didn’t bring mine and want to call a cab.

Boy, you’ll have a hard time getting a cab to come here. It’s a tough place to find if you don’t know exactly where you’re going. If you need a lift we can get somebody to drop you off. Somebody can kick a chauffeur free. They’re standing around outside doing nothing.

No, I don’t want to bother anybody, Frank replied.

Oh, no bother. I’ll ask Tom for you.

No, please, Frank insisted. I came with somebody and they can probably take me along when they’re ready to go.

Okay, as you wish.

The man eased himself on to a bar stool and ordered a drink from the bartender. Frank gave him a quick once over: late thirties; good-looking; probably a businessman. Thought he recognized him from someplace; hoped it wasn’t the convention. No, couldn’t be—not this guy, wrong type.

The man introduced himself. I’m Scotty Eldridge.

Frank Newman. They shook hands.

Glad to meet you. What racket are you in?

Racket? For a moment Frank didn’t understand what he meant. Oh, I’m a university professor.

Where at?

Frank hesitated, afraid to mention the name of a religious school lest the guy get the idea he might be a clergyman, but he realized most of the faculty were laity anyway. Saint Angelica’s.

Scotty thought for a moment. Saint Angelica’s. Don’t really think I know it.

Well, we’re not big, Frank said, partially relieved by the fellow’s ignorance. Anyway, what would a businessman know about school affiliations?

Still the guy pressed on. Is it a nondenominational school or does it have some religious connection?

Yes, it’s a Universalist institution, Frank replied.

Oh, then maybe I am familiar with it. What’s your subject?

More and more Frank wanted this guy to get his drink and leave. I’m a professor of biology.

That’s nice, Scotty said. I used to be a university prof’ myself once, a while back. Gave it up. Couldn’t take it anymore. Now I’m an investment banker.

Must’ve been quite a shift, Frank remarked, getting interested.

Yeah, but a welcome one. I couldn’t hack the environment anymore. Had to get out and get some action cooking. Sends a shudder down my spine every time I think about being back there. However, when I was a kid in college, being a university prof’ was my highest aspiration. Scotty caught himself. I’m sorry, Frank. Didn’t mean to disparage what you’re doing. Merely trying to say it wasn’t for me. Probably being in finance wouldn’t be your cup of tea either.

Different strokes for different folks, Frank agreed. I really enjoy the university environment. Kind of a bookish don at heart.

Yeah, it can be a nice life. I think I got screwed up because I taught at a large university and in a publish or perish kind of atmosphere: rather unusual in a Universalist institution.

You also taught at a Universalist college? Frank asked.

Yeah, at a few of them.

What subject?

Philosophy, mostly. I also pulled down a good chunk of theology.

Frank looked at him quizzically. There aren’t many laymen who get heavily into both philosophy and theology.

Oh, not a layman; clergy. The Reverend Scott Eldridge, he said with a mock formality.

Scott...El...dridge Frank articulated slowly, feeling for the name which somehow he’d heard before. Then he remembered why Scotty looked familiar: heard him lecture a few times.

Are you the one who wrote all those works on metaphysics and epistemology?

Yup, I’m the one, he answered in a sprightly tone. "Or, rather, I was the one. Now I’m plain old Scotty. I don’t even want to hear about metaphysics anymore."

I’m familiar with some of your works. Read a thing or two you wrote. You had some pretty darn good insights.

Yeah, so they tell me. Only thing is, I came not to believe any of it. So, I packed it in. Been out of the teaching business about five years now.

Frank got hooked; wanted to know what made Scotty tick. Why does a man with his reputation, a churchman of that stature, chuck everything to go off to the financial centers? It didn’t make any sense. Had to know more.

I’m really curious. I’m a reasonably strong practicing Universalist with an interest in philosophy. What made you toss in the towel?

Scotty gave him a weird look. "You’re a practicing Universalist with an interest in philosophy? he said with such a strong question mark in his voice it made Frank feel as though he’d recently come from a different planet. A look of utter disbelief took hold of Scotty’s face. And you’re here? he added, almost as an afterthought. Oh hell, I guess it takes all kinds."

Seriously, Frank pressed on, what made you quit?

Easy. Life is simple, otherwise humans couldn’t survive. So I’ll say this once, as cogently and clearly as possible. I could find no intellectual basis whatsoever for anything I supposedly believed in, and I didn’t like the life style. So, I quit. Nothing complicated. He swigged down his drink, almost as an exclamation point.

Frank became upset because Scotty cavalierly, though inadvertently, dismissed everything he stood for. How can you say such a thing? You were one of the intellectual stars. You know our spiritual and philosophical heritage stands on bedrock.

"Well, as one of the intellectual stars, Frank, let me tell you the bedrock’s a little on the mushy side."

Oh, come on— Frank started to insist.

Scotty patted him on the shoulder. Frank, Frank, please, I don’t want to be rude, he interrupted him with a little chuckle in his voice. I prefer not to talk about it. For one thing, I haven’t thought about those issues in years. My head’s in a totally different direction. Second, talking about such stuff isn’t real any more. Whenever I’m around people who get into those kinds of discussions, I always feel I’m in the middle of a bunch of witch doctors arguing over what gods need appeasing in case of snakebite. It’s simply not real. Might be a nice intellectual game for some people, kind of like a trivia quiz, but utterly meaningless. Know any good ethnic jokes? he asked, trying to change the subject.

Frank shook his head in disbelief. He wanted to challenge his assertions though quickly realized he, not Scotty, pressed the topic. So Frank merely shrugged and answered his question. No, not much on jokes. I hear one and five minutes later I forget it.

Who did you say you came with? Scotty asked.

Oh, with a woman by the name of Katie Matthews Frank looked around. She’s here someplace.

Yeah, I know Katie, Scotty said. That’s nice. You can do a hell-of-a-lot worse than Katie. Now, if you like her—he scanned the room and spied his objective—you’ll also like Georgette...over there, the gal with the black dress in the corner.

Frank glanced at the extremely attractive woman who looked to be about thirty, all decked out, and fashionably attired.

Georgette, Scotty continued, is a little Boumard number—very talented woman, if you know what I mean. Also, a little heavier in the Intelligence Rating department than Katie.

She’s a...pro...like Katie? Frank couldn’t believe more than one Katie-type would be around. How many others are here?

Boy, where have you been? He almost threw his hands up in amazement. You don’t know the lay of the land?

I guess not, Frank replied with a smile, sensing he obviously didn’t understand quite a lot.

Look, Scotty explained, you can’t walk around in here without a scorecard. It’s all a mixed bag.

Frank’s mouth dropped open. Why would the McNeils permit such a thing in their home?

Scotty looked at him and laughed. Why wouldn’t they? Who the hell cares? It makes for interesting get-togethers and everybody has an enjoyable time.

Frank simply shook his head: much too decadent, even for his tastes. Scotty, noticing the look of moral condemnation in Frank’s expression, needled him.

Well, Frank, if you see something you like, ask. Lots of spare rooms and equipment to accommodate any persuasion. Scotty patted him on the shoulder. Georgette looks free now. I want to pay my respects. You have some fun. Leaving Frank sitting at the bar, he made a beeline for Georgette before somebody else could get there first.

Good god, Frank thought to himself. Figured if Katie took him someplace it wouldn’t be a convent. Now seeing the place and the people, how upper-crust everything appeared, he thought they’d’ve exhibited exemplary behavior. Were they simply a bunch of dissolute souls having nothing better to do than cater to their baser instincts? No, a guy with Scott Eldridge’s credentials wouldn’t turn that way—or would he?

What about the others? With the collection of cars outside they weren’t exactly poor, no loud mouthed slobs in the group, a few foreign languages floating around. Anyone walking in would have thought this quite a distinguished gathering. Frank simply couldn’t make sense of it. The caliber of people didn’t match what Scotty implied about their behavior, at least not in Frank’s mind.

The little fat man Frank saw in McNeil’s study came by. Enjoying yourself, Frank?

Oh, just looking around; having a drink.

He hopped up on the stool Scotty had vacated and the bartender immediately brought a drink, evidently knowing what he drank. I see you met Scotty. Saw the two of you talking from the other side of the room. Interesting fellow, don’t you think?

Oh, yes, Frank replied. Learned he was once a prominent philosopher.

Yeah? Didn’t know that about him. He is a bright guy. Made a couple of million his first year in business. From a reasonably successful start he’s been going great guns ever since.

Some reasonably successful start, Frank remarked.

Yeah, it took me a lot longer to hit my stride, Charlie said. I know when I was his age I’d have done anything for a couple of million. Now, hell, you can’t even buy a decent yacht so cheap.

Feeling suddenly poverty-stricken, Frank wanted to talk about something else, though his interest egged him on. What field of endeavor are you in?

I am proud to admit to being a member of the bar—corporate law—specifically, merger and acquisition work.

Is that something like the buying and selling of companies?

Yes. He took a hefty swig of his drink. I represent Mr. McNeil in many of his endeavors. Mr. McNeil, you see, likes to trade companies. Not so much anymore, however every once in a while he becomes active. I believe he gets bored. He’s really been semi-retired for a number of years now.

He doesn’t look so old, Frank commented.

He’s about seventy. Looks good, no? He started off with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. It makes a difference when you start with a sizable capital base. Here, let me give you my card should you ever have need for my services—have a company you want to acquire, or one you wish to unload. Keep me in mind.

He gulped the last bit of his drink, slid off the stool, and then disappeared.

Frank looked at the card: Charles Oglethorpe, plus a New Metropol address. I’ll bet I get a lot of use out of this card, he thought to himself.

Katie finally returned from her perambulations. Hi, Jack, she yelled at the bartender who nodded at her. Well, Frank, how are we doin’?

Not too hot, Katie, I’m a little bit in deep water here. They seem like interesting people but I don’t have much to say to them. You need a few million tolars to play in this game.

Katie smiled. Why don’t you get off your stool and get fixed up. Must be somebody around you’d like.

For a moment, he considered Katie for, after all, everything here seemed to be on-the-house. Still, thing’s didn’t feel right and he’d already had too much to drink. No, Katie, I’m not comfortable here.

Nonsense. These are your kind of people. There’s Ann, let me introduce you. She called out: Ann, can you come here a minute?

Katie, please.

She ignored Frank’s entreaty and continued to motion for Ann to come over. As the woman approached, Frank watched her. A subdued, simple kind of beauty, she moved more elegantly than Katie, and her speech indicated a quiet charm about her.

Hello, Katie, how have you been? It’s good to see you again.

Ann, I want you to meet Frank Newman. He’s a good friend of mine I brought along. I did bad and didn’t warn him about its being a formal affair. Now he’s embarrassed and wants to go. Why don’t you help me convince him to stay?

Ann looked at him and smiled warmly. Oh, Frank, you mustn’t feel embarrassed. Please, why don’t you two come join me on the sofa. I want to hear all about you.

She took Frank by the arm as if to lead him off the bar stool but he balked. I’m sorry, Ann, I really am tired and would like to get back to my hotel.

Oh, Frank, Katie said, don’t be that way. Ann’ll think you don’t like her. Come on. She gently took his other arm. He felt trapped as though about to be pulled off the stool and dragged away by two women, an almost pleasant feeling in a way. Nothing to do but surrender.

They sat down on a sofa with Frank in the middle. By now he couldn’t put up much of a fight; didn’t want to, what with him being a little on the high side from all the drinks he’d consumed. A slight grin plastered itself on his lips as he looked at a foggy world inhabited only by the three of them.

I gather you’re from out of town, Frank. Where from? Ann asked.

Parksburg...in Missury, Frank replied, his speech starting to slur. I teach there. Where are you...from?

Oh, here and there. Mostly there. I travel the country a great deal and don’t call any place home.

Katie still grasped Frank’s arm; now she also rested her hand on his knee. I’m sorry Frank’s feeling so down, Ann. He’s really a lot of fun when he’s up to snuff.

The comment roused him from his lethargy. I’m always up to snuff. Let me get another drink and I’ll show you. Frank signaled the bartender and waved an empty glass to indicate his requirement. Now, then, Ann, Frank continued, tell me about yourself. Have you known the McNeils...long?

She chuckled. Truth is, Frank, I don’t know them at all. I came at somebody else’s invitation like you did. I’m a party crasher too.

For some reason he found this uproariously funny and started guffawing. You too? That’s rich. Oh...I’m so glad I met you, Ann. Ann, was it? Yes...Ann. You crashed it, too.

From here, Frank went on to discuss his work; of course, never mentioning his clerical status. Yet the quality of the conversation left a lot to the imagination, rambling on about nothing in particular, every so often reminding Ann about his crashing the party too.

Katie and Ann were professional, sympathetic listeners—laughing at the right places, properly interpreting what he said, no matter how garbled. Several drinks later—

Chapter 2

Gradually, Frank became aware of a sound. Rushing water?—no, a tap. Opening his eyes he saw the ceiling, then looked around the room. Daytime now. Beautiful, large room: not the hotel. Where?

With his head hurting, he didn’t feel like moving but the unfamiliar surroundings stirred him to sit up in the bed. Still heard the water, apparently coming from behind the closed door of the adjacent bath. Sensed someone moving around in there.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened and he reacted by pulling the blanket over his naked body. Couldn’t see who it was at first; the door blocked his view. A cart came through the doorway containing tea and pastry, followed by Katie pushing it. After closing the door, she glanced over at Frank.

Ah, good morning, she said, much too sprightly for him given the time of day and his condition. I’m glad you’re up. Thought I’d have a hell-of-a-time rousing you. How ‘bout some tea?

Spying a man’s robe on a chair next to the bed, he put it on. Where am I, Katie?

You don’t remember? At McNeil’s place. We both wound up feeling too good last night. Tom wouldn’t let either one of us drive; insisted we stay the night. Here, have some tea.

He took the cup, walked to the window, and looked out upon the McNeil estate’s sprawling grounds. Checked his watch: six-thirty; early yet; at least the day wasn’t shot.

As he turned back, the bathroom door opened and Ann stepped out wearing a robe. Good morning, Frank. Sleep okay? Then spotting Katie—Oh, you have tea. Good, let me have some.

The sight of them together numbed Frank. Oh, lord, he thought, what happened last night? Didn’t want to find out. Hoped nobody’d mention it. He remembered meeting Ann, though not her name.

Katie solved the problem. Handing her a cup of tea, she asked, Well, Ann, have you thought about coming at all?

Yes, I think I will. Did you find out if they have a swimsuit I can wear?

Oh, yeah, Katie said, everything you need. Then to Frank—Can you get ready fast? They want to go soon.

What are you talking about? he asked, wondering what the heck happened to put him in this situation.

The outing on Tom’s yacht, she replied.

No, I don’t think so, Katie. There are still some things going on at the convention which I want to see. I’m supposed to be here on business. May as well conduct some.

Katie grabbed the pot and refilled the cup he held. Come on, Frank, don’t be a spoilsport. Are you going to make me drive you all the way back to the hotel before I can go to the yacht?

I can take a cab...or maybe somebody else can drop me.

Oh, Frank, Ann spoke up, I didn’t think you’d disappoint me.

That surprised him. What do you mean?

You promised to tell me about the ancient Osmians, remember? I’m taking a trip over to Osmius later this year and you were going to give me a background on what to look for in the monuments.

Frank stared at her, unable to remember any such thing. Of course, he couldn’t remember anything after a certain point. Sounded logical though, something he would’ve done.

Right, Katie supported her comment. Anyway, what made you change your mind? Last night you told Tom you were looking forward to it when he invited you. You went on and on about how you’d never been on a yacht before and how happy you were for the chance.

Raising his eyebrows, he turned around and looked out the window again. Feeling as he did, Frank didn’t feel like rushing back to the hotel and get dressed up in his work clothes only to attend some lectures on academic topics. Probably, at the hotel, he’d change his mind anyway and wind up sitting in the room watching movies all day. Might be more pleasant being on a yacht.

All right, he conceded, I’ll come along. Let me get dressed.

Oh, good, Ann remarked, I’ll have you next to me all day and get an education.

Frank grabbed his things and shuffled off to the bathroom. Alone inside, he wondered what happened last night. Wakes up; finds two women in his room. King sized bed—they all could have slept in it. Leaning on the sink, he looked in the mirror. Oh, brother! Nothing like this ever happened before. Had to get hold of himself. What to do? Okay, spend the day relaxing and recovering. May as well enjoy himself. Nothing likely to happen on a yacht. Tomorrow would be the last day of the convention; clear up some unfinished business; go home.

Arriving downstairs, he found the household staff scurrying back and forth making preparations for the trip. A number of people Frank recognized as guests from the night before milled about. Evidently quite a few of them had spent the night, the place certainly large enough to accommodate them all. Looked around for Katie: needed a guide; somebody to take him in tow for the day; show him where to go. Someone’s arm enclosed his.

There you are, Ann said. Ready? Katie’s waiting outside.

They joined Katie and flew off down the road, heading for the nearby ocean and the dock where McNeil kept his yacht. Her driving hadn’t improved overnight.

The yacht matched McNeil’s house in terms of size and stateliness. Something odd about its design—an aft deck structured to accommodate fishing seemed to throw off the ship’s otherwise symmetrical lines.

As the threesome walked up the gangplank, Tom McNeil waited to receive them. Welcome aboard. Glad you could make it. Joe—Tom looked at a deck hand—why don’t you take our guests to the galley for some breakfast.

Of course, the galley wasn’t very galley-like: more a well-appointed dining area. A half-dozen other guests were there when Frank arrived, two of whom he recognized from the night before: Scotty Eldridge and Charlie Oglethorpe.

Well, look who’s here, said Scotty. How ya doin’, folks? Frank, didn’t expect to see you.

They each took a place at the table.

Frank, I don’t think you know all these gentlemen, Scotty continued. Let me introduce them. Boys, meet Frank Newman. Frank, this is Kent Mason...Pete d’Amato...Carson Ellis...and Richard Hanley. Charlie Oglethorpe you already know.

Ann evidently already knew everybody. I’m surprised to see all of you at one time. What brings you here from all over the country?

Business, Kent Mason replied. Kind of our annual meeting. How are you girls doing? Haven’t seen either one of you in over a year.

We’re fine, Katie answered as the three recent arrivals picked up their breakfast menus. I hope you guys aren’t going to be talking business all day. We girls won’t have any fun.

Don’t worry, Pete d’Amato reassured, Today’s been set aside for fun.

Frank and the girls gave their menu selections to the server, while the yacht’s engines were felt to rumble as the craft started up and moved away from the dock.

I don’t think this is going to be our day for fishing, Kent opined. The water looks a little choppy.

That’s okay, Carson replied. I don’t want to go through the effort of landing any today. I’ll watch my line trail behind the boat and catch some sleep. I’m worn out from last night.

Richard Hanley tossed his napkin on the table. I want to get up on deck.

Yeah, I’m stuffed, Kent joined in.

Okay, we’ll all be up in a little while, Ann said. See you later.

Three of the men left the new arrivals while Scotty Eldridge and Carson Ellis remained behind to finish their breakfasts.

First time on the boat? Carson asked Frank.

Yes. I find it exciting. It’s a beautiful craft.

Have you had a chance to look at the stock portfolio I recommended? Scotty asked Carson.

Yeah, Scotty. To tell the truth, it’s not quite what I’m looking for. A little mundane.

But you said you wanted some secure investments for your package.

Yeah, I thought so, too. Those financial institutions you recommended have the security of a graveyard. I don’t like banks or bankers and I won’t give them any of my money to play with. How about some foreign government bonds? Some nice backwoods republic wanting to bend over right now to get some dough.

"You told me security, Carson. Why don’t you throw your wallet overboard?" Scotty retorted.

Ah, let me think about it. My head’s not into stocks and bonds right now. Talk to Frank here. You might get him as a client.

Frank shook his head. Don’t look at me. I’m not big in investments. College professors don’t have loose sums of money lying around to dabble with.

Hey, you guys, Katie complained, I thought you weren’t going to talk shop today.

Pete speaks for himself, Carson said abrasively. You could tell from his tone he didn’t care for Katie, who huffed and looked away.

The server arrived with their orders.

I see there are a couple of boats missing, Carson observed picking up the newspaper on the table. Damned drug runners. Now we’ve got those jerks around here ripping off our boats. A few people are missing; probably never be found.

What about boats and drug runners? Frank asked.

It’s the drug smugglers, Scotty explained. Some of them like to hijack boats and use them to ferry their contraband into the country. If the boats are ever discovered, there’s no ownership connection between them and the boats. Unfortunately, these drug guys like to shoot whoever’s on board and dump them in the sea. They’re not the best class of people to deal with.

Are we safe out here? Frank queried with a note of concern.

Oh, yeah, Carson said. If another boat approaches we’ll break out the Musties and machine guns and give you one. We’ll be okay.

What’s a Musti? Frank wanted to know.

It’s a cute little thing what fires up a storm. There’s more firepower on board this ship than on a Coastal Defense heavy patrol boat.

Oh, great, Ann remarked, that’s all we need.

Don’t worry about it, Ann, Katie said. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.

Frank didn’t find such a thought reassuring. He believed pirates strictly a thing of the past. Coincidentally, as they ate, shots rang out causing Frank to jump up in fright. Were those shots?

It’s okay, Carson said. Sounds like somebody doing a little skeet shooting off the back.

They finished breakfast and headed up top where the girls said they wanted to change and went off to a cabin. Frank and the boys went aft where the shots were more frequent now—sounded like a small war. When they got there everyone seemed to be firing away at the clay targets.

Approaching the shooters, they heard Pete d’Amato say, You guys with your shotguns. Anyone can hit anything with a shotgun. Where’s the sport?

How would you suggest I hit a moving target?—throw rocks at it? Tom asked him.

Use a rifle, Pete suggested.

Sure Pete, use a rifle. Who the hell goes skeet shooting with a rifle? It’s impossible.

Pete stood up and tucked in his shirt as though preparing to get down to business. Get me a rifle.

You serious? Carson asked as he sat down in Pete’s vacated chair.

Sure am. Shall we make a wager?

Odds. Who’s going to quote odds? Charlie asked. And who’s betting what? Let’s see if we have a bet.

Kent raised his voice. "Who bets Pete can pick off one of those clay birds with a rifle?"

I do, Pete said.

Besides you, Scotty chuckled.

No takers: nobody to bet on Pete, so he moved things along. Nudging Frank in the ribs Pete quietly asked, Got any money?

Yeah, about fifty tolars.

Bet on me, Pete half urged, half ordered.

Frank looked at him in disbelief. Huh?

Bet on me, Pete insisted in a quiet tone. Then out loud to the group—I’ll put up a thousand. What kind of odds are you guys gonna give? It’s an impossible shot on the water with the boat moving like this. Why not give me a hundred-to-one?

Wait a minute, Tom said. Does that mean if you put up a tolar you want each of us to pay you a hundred if you make the hit?—or do you want a hundred from all of us?

I’ll be easy on you, Pete answered. I’ll take a hundred total from the group for every one I put up. And I’ll pay a grand to each of you if I miss. Frank wants to bet too, on me. He’s putting up fifty. Aren’t you, Frank?

Frank started to protest about it being his last fifty tolars in cash and his credit accounts being dry, but all the men were on their feet then and excited about the bet. Tom had already sent a deck hand for a rifle and Frank couldn’t get a word in.

The hand returned and gave the rifle to Tom who passed it to Pete. Here, he said, use the Heatherbee. Do you want some practice shots?

Please, take the practice shots, Frank urged. Damn, he felt angry at himself for getting roped into this. If d’Amato missed Frank’d only have five tolars left to his name. Maybe he could phone somebody for more cash or credit.

Okay, I should get used to the weapon, Pete conceded.

An erratic motion to the ship caused by the choppy waters made sighting the rifle almost impossible. Pete fired some shots into the water to get a feel for the rifle. When ready, he shouted, Pull!

A clay pigeon went flying out over the water and Pete hadn’t as yet set the stock into his shoulder. In one sweeping motion he brought the rifle up—didn’t bother sighting in the target—and intuitively pointed and fired. The target shattered. Pete moistened his index finger and chalked one up on an imaginary board.

He beamed a smug, self-satisfied, expression. Check, cash, or electronic transfer will be fine. Each of you owes me twenty-one thousand. I’ll pay Frank five thousand to cover his winnings. Nudging Frank, he added, I get them every time.

"Son...of...a...bitch!" a pissed Kent Mason exclaimed as methodically as possible.

Frank made some mental calculations. One thousand tolar bet by Pete; fifty from himself; hundred-to-one odds; five guys sharing the loss: yeah, Pete’s math worked out right.

Sitting down at a small table, Pete proceeded to scribble out a check. I won’t ask you for account information to do a funds transfer but will give you a check, he said to Frank. It’s Frank Newman, right? N-E-W-M-A-N?"

Yes, Frank replied, somewhat in shock as Pete handed over the five thousand tolar check. Frank looked at it—never saw one so big before—carefully folded it, and put it into his wallet. Certainly glad he came—only nine in the morning and already a profitable day. But the way they played games around here, he now worried about keeping it.

Scotty came over wearing a big grin and tapped him on the shoulder. Hey, Frank, I have this portfolio of stocks I’d like you to take a look at. Being an obvious joke, they both shared a chuckle.

Frank decided to try his hand at some normal skeet shooting. After around fifty shots, he’d only managed to nick a couple, so he gave up and sat down. I guess this isn’t my game, he remarked to Carson Ellis, who was folding some cash Richard Hanley’d given him.

You’re right, Carson agreed, and thank you.

Thank you? For what? Frank wanted to know.

Richard and I had a little bet going here. I said a man who really wanted to hit clay pigeons could consistently miss twenty in a row. Richard bet it couldn’t be done. If you were trying, you’d at least have to accidentally hit one. He lost.

They all had a laugh at Frank’s expense. He felt embarrassed: what the heck, simply good-natured fun.

The girls returned clad in string bikinis. Naturally enough, all the men stared as they approached. Scotty nudged Frank. You son-of-a-gun, spending the night sacked out with those two and after leading me to believe you were some kind of self-appointed saint.

The other men smiled, causing him to blush. He wanted to crawl away somewhere, but no rocks around. Damn, it really did happen. At least he might have enjoyed it. Couldn’t recall a thing. Maybe he passed-out and they spent the night merely sleeping together—no funny stuff.

Are you fellows finished making a racket? Ann asked sitting down. We had to wait in the cabin for all the noise to stop.

All quiet now, Tom said. We’re out of shells. Want to do some fishing?

Katie passed. Not me. Me neither, added Ann.

After entering an area where the sonar indicated some fish may be running, lines were put out and the trolling began. Suddenly, the pin holding Frank’s line snapped and his reel began whizzing as the line played out.

Heave, Frank, Scotty yelled.

Frank gave a jerk on his rod. "Harder, Scotty urged, sink the hook in the sucker."

So Frank yanked on the rod with all his might and started reeling in. Not easy: whatever had hold of the line, Frank imagined it to weigh a ton. He worked on: him reeling in; the fish pulling out more line. This back and forth went on for about a half-hour without Frank ever knowing what he hooked on the line and sweating up a storm, while the others hovered around him waiting to help if needed. Looked like he might give out before the fish did. Finally, all over: the fish came along side where a deck hand gaffed and pulled it on-board.

A nice little sea shark, Tom observed. Probably go around fifty pounds.

You mean I went through all that work for a fifty pound fish? Frank moaned.

Yeah, well, they’re pretty good fighters, Carson said, trying to assuage Frank’s feelings.

Frank wondered what he’d have done with a few hundred pounds of fish on the line. Never realized fishing could be such hard work.

Unfortunately, the excitement seemed to dim in the fish department and no one else had any luck. At lunch time sandwiches were brought out because the men didn’t want to leave their posts and go to the galley. The hands also delivered a cart stocked with a large selection of alcoholic beverages for the drinking which started early.

Frank thought he should pass on the hard stuff: needed to recover from the last two days of overdoing it. Perhaps one or two would banish the hangover.

Ann got up and came over to join him. Wished she’d go away: her presence, too distracting. God, she looked good in a bikini. He wondered whether they really did anything last night.

Okay, Frank, she said, tell me about Osmius. What should I be sure to see?

He collected his thoughts. Didn’t know where to start. Every time he began saying something he’d look at her and his mind wandered until a solution presented itself. He talked to her while paying attention to other things: the boat, the water, other people’s conversations.

Thus engaged, he heard Hanley call over to Kent. "How