<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 22 Newcomer Coming over the bridge into Portland for the first time, Steve sat next to Jeremy on the seat of his friend's extra-wide 1970s sedan. They were talking about music. Predictably, Jeremy insisted that Anton was a sellout. "He's already mainstream. Even my mom likes Destroyed Teen. 'A little dark, but I can listen to it.' That's what she said. 'He's a decent boy, so serious and intelligent. Does he write his own songs?'" They both had to laugh at that. The idea seemed old-fashioned somehow, with Jeremy's mother saying it. "'That's how they do it, Ma,' I told her. 'What do you think, the producers find a pretty face and....'" He stopped, stupefied, and turned to Steve. "Well, do they?" "I don't think that's how it works. It's not convincing. They've tried it, sure, but we'd know if a band was singing lyrics they didn't write themselves." "Anton sings lyrics he didn't write himself," Jeremy prodded. He knew that Steve had a soft spot for Anton. "He does? When?" "His cover of 'Favela Rosa,' and that thing he did for Bob Smokes—" "Anton's different! He's an artist. People ask him to do their songs. He only does it if it has any meaning for him. He doesn't pretend he wrote them." Signaling, Jeremy prepared to move off the highway. "Are you sure you can get to see him?" "I've got a plan. Give me ten days to track him down. I'll learn his favorite places and wait for him there." Jeremy was his best friend from high school. They'd run off to Portland on a whim, but their reasons for doing it were different. For Jeremy it was an adventure. They would pick up girls and try to find work. If it wasn't easy, they would go home in a few days. But for Steve, going back wasn't an option. He'd come to find Anton, and that was it. They parked in front of a family restaurant they knew from back home, and went in. Within minutes, Jeremy had started a conversation with two girls who were sitting in the booth next to them. "We're runaways," he said. "We just got here from Texas." "Runways? Cool," said one of the girls. "You came here from Texas?" said the other. "What for?" "Adventure," Steve said. "Learning experience." The girls exchanged a glance. The boys were fresh-faced and engaging, and apparently harmless. They decided it was worth a go. They chatted about school, pop culture, and what Portland was like. Sally's major was history, and Lori's was communications. They were a bit older than the boys, sophomores in college. They left the restaurant together, piling into Jeremy's car. Sally sat next to Jeremy in front, while Steve sat in back with Lori. They drove to a hilltop where they could see all of Portland. Lori made some remarks about the sunset. She was shivering from the cold, so Steve put his arm around her clumsily. Jeremy and Sally were already making out. Once it got dark, they went to a bar where there was dancing. Steve worried that he wasn't connecting with Lori as much as he should. He felt awkward without Jeremy there next to him. Jeremy was dancing with Sally, or deep in conversation with her. Still, Lori was animated and determined to draw him out. She called his deep blue eyes "soulful." The beer made him bolder, and before long they were making out too. He and Jeremy hadn't given much thought to where they would sleep that night. They'd slept in the car on the way out. As the four of them left the bar, it became clear that Sally wanted to take Jeremy home. She prompted Lori to invite Steve to her place. "Lori lives with a bunch of slobs," she told him, "but there's room for you there. Right, Lori? Unless you want to make the poor boy sleep on the street." Jeremy dropped them off at Lori's house, flashing Steve a look of apology as he drove away. Inside, he met her roommates Brian and Chad, who were college students like her. They teased him at first, but soon warmed to him enough to offer him their bong. Their suggestive glances made Lori nervous, so he knew he wouldn't be spending the night in her bed. She sat down next to him on the couch, took a hit from the bong, and explained to her roommates that he was new in town. "He's from Texas somewhere. Just got in today. His friend hooked up with Sally and left him stranded. So here he is." "Welcome," said Brian. "Make yourself comfortable," said Chad. Soon Lori jumped up again with the words, "I've got class at eight tomorrow. You can sleep on the couch." She reappeared with a blanket, and her door clicked shut. The next morning, she came out of her room as he was putting on his socks. She was cranky because she was still half asleep. She told him how to get into town on his own, and said she wouldn't be home until late that afternoon. He asked her where the local musicians played, Anton Dupree for example. "Anton? That guy creeps me out. Brian likes him, but I can't stand him. I don't know, maybe Cosmos? Just go to Zombieland and ask around." After she left, he realized that he'd forgotten to ask for Sally's number, so he had no way to reach Jeremy and make plans for the day. No matter, he was eager to get on with his quest. He took a bus to Zombieland. It was still early, and there were just a few people on the street. He ate breakfast in a cafe, and stepped outside for a smoke. As he stood shivering in his jacket because of the cold, two unsavory characters came up to him. They were beery and cantankerous, with stubble on their faces and bizarre clothing. They seemed jovial enough, but he bristled and remained on guard. "What have we here?" said one. "It's a newcomer, Charlie!" said the other. "So it is, Uncle Tom. We've got a newcomer, a new boy." They introduced themselves. "This here's Charlie, and I'm Uncle Tom. We're old-timers, lifestyle artists in the Beat mode." "You ever met old-timers like us before?" Charlie asked. Steve shook his head no. "What do you call yourself?" Uncle Tom said. "Steve." "That's it? Just Steve?" "Steve Banning." "Pleased to meet ya, kid. What can we do ya for?" He gave them a blank look. "How may we help you?" Charlie translated. "What may we offer in the way of services? Portland is a city known for its hospitality." "Thanks, but I don't need any help." Charlie turned to his partner. "He must be looking for something. Newcomers always do." He turned back to Steve accusingly. "You're looking for something, ain't ya kid?" "Really, I'm not." The two of them exchanged a look. Charlie propped his hands on his hips, while Uncle Tom leaned forward slightly, hands behind his back. Charlie clucked his tongue. "You can tell us. I know you didn't come all the way out here for nothing. So what can we do ya for, like my colleague said?" It occurred to Steve that maybe they really could help. Who would know better than two local vagrants what Anton did when he was in Zombieland, and what his routine might be? "Where can I find Anton Dupree?" he blurted. "Where does he play?" "I told ya he wants something," Charlie said. "I never said he didn't!" Uncle Tom turned to him. "The thing is, Anton don't do shows. He used to play with his band at New Jerusalem, right there across the street. But it ain't New Jerusalem now, it's closed. And ever since his band broke up, he's gotten kind of private-like. What he does now is make 'appearances.'" "Appearances?" "In the clubs. To show people he's glamorous, the center of attention. And to find paramours," he said in a leering whisper. "Folks to bed down with." Steve blushed. The old-timers put their heads together, discussing Anton's favorite clubs, the ones where Steve would have the best chance of meeting him. He heard the names Lizard Lounge, Cosmos, Club Omaha, the Arena. "Don't send him to the Arena!" said Uncle Tom, horrified. "He doesn't go there a lot, anyway," Charlie said. "You in a hurry, kid?" Steve shook his head, unsure what to say. "I think he's in a hurry," Uncle Tom said. "That's no good," Charlie warned him. "You don't want to rush this. You want to take your time, lie in wait. Catch him at the opportune moment." The words rolled off his tongue. "What do you want, anyway? Just to catch a glimpse? Or do you want to make contact?" "I'd like to say a few words," Steve admitted. "That could be difficult. These days, Anton's on his guard against newcomers. But we'll think of something." "If it works, you owe us a favor," Uncle Tom said. "A big favor," Charlie said. They engaged him in a comic staredown. "Sure, if it works," Steve said finally. He felt a little happier, a bit less lost. These clownish characters seemed to know about Anton, and they were willing to help him. • • • He approached Anton in the dark club, grinning. "You know that song you wrote that begins, 'Let's talk to each other, let's tell each other where we're from'?" Anton eyed him warily. "'Delirium creeps in like a fog and I fall into you, fall into you,'" he filled in. "Yeah, but that's, let's see, three verses further down! Jumping ahead, that's no fair." "I guess you know the whole song by heart. Probably better than I do. I only wrote it. In fact, you know all my songs by heart. You collect the bootlegs and remixes, too." Steve blushed. Anton was secretly won over by this, but he remained skeptical. "I don't go that far," Steve said quickly. "I've got a life, only you can't imagine how necessary those songs have been to me, certain times. I remember them, sure. You must get a lot of people like me," he finished in a rapid mumble. "Sure, and most of them are misguided. They come without knowledge, and they resent me when I do nothing for them. There was a time when I sought companions through my music, comrades for life even...." He stopped for a moment and stared into Steve's eyes. For the first time, his face was less than severe. "Where are you from?" "Elgin, Texas." For most people, Texans were exotic, but not in a good way. Texans were large and vulgar, even by American standards. Everywhere they went, they loudly mourned Texas, and wished it was more like Texas. People saw this as a turnoff, and he had to agree. He would have hated to run into anyone from Texas in this faraway city. Anton didn't scoff or turn away. "Congratulations," he said. "That means you got out of there. It's not an easy place to get out of, I imagine. And you're here for good now?" Steve nodded. "That makes us neighbors, I guess. What's your name?" "Steve." "Anton Dupree." He felt it was only polite to introduce himself, even if everyone already knew who he was. "I was in Elgin once," he remembered. "For about two hours. We pumped gas on the way north. We ate donuts, dozed under a tree. It's the sort of place where they give you a ticket for spitting on the sidewalk, am I right?" Steve flushed. "We don't get many visitors." "Must be tough on a kid. How are your famous bricks?" Steve looked confused. "You've got a sign coming into town that says, 'Elgin, Home of Fine Sausages and Famous Bricks.' And it's made of brick." He had a photographic memory for things like that. Steve nodded rapturously. Anton had been to his hometown, breathed the same air. "We were founded by Germans in the nineteenth century," he said a bit randomly. "Are you...Germanic?" Anton asked, looking him over. Steve blushed as if he'd heard a dirty word. "My grandmother was. My grandfather's Irish. He makes boots for the Texas Rangers." "The baseball team?" "The police force." They shared a chuckle over that. "And your parents?" "My mom's a hometown girl. She helped her mom in the kitchen, and when she got married, it was more of the same. The only difference was, now it was her minding the stove. Of course she's a good Christian." He couldn't believe he was spilling himself to Anton, his idol. "My dad was a military man from back East. Delaware, I think. He came to Texas for a few years, then he left again. I hear he's made it to captain now." Anton embraced him. "Congratulations again for getting out of there. I don't really see what else a boy like you can do." He fingered a leather peace sign that Steve wore around his neck on a thong. "What does this mean to you?" Steve lowered his eyes. "Where I come from, people are constantly giving me shit for this. They say, 'You faggot! You want our country to be run by foreigners? Let the Iranians come and make you their bitch, then see how you like it.' Sometimes I say, 'Better them than you.' Sometimes I tell them we're all foreigners here. Mostly I keep my mouth shut, because I don't want to get killed." He touched the peace sign idly. "Here in Portland it's a cliché, I guess. But it still has the power to raise passions in some places." "Is that what you do, raise passions?" Anton said softly. He could see that Steve was attractive under his scruffy exterior. Steve laughed with happy embarrassment. "Among other things, I guess." "We all need a little passion." Anton paused thoughtfully. "You ran away, didn't you? No grudges, no regrets." "No lingering debts!" Steve affirmed. "You came out west hoping to find me, like a kitten chasing a ball of sunshine. You know what I'm talking about, when you open the refrigerator and light bounces across the room?" "Yes, yes." It was a happy image for him. "How long have you been here? Two weeks? A few days?" "A few days." "And you sleep in the streets? Where do you sleep?" "I came with my friend Jeremy in his car. Then I met this girl Lori—" "So you sleep on her couch? At first you slept with her, but now you feel more comfortable sleeping alone. And her roommates, seeing this boy she brought home, are starting to ask, 'Why is he still here?' And you're thinking it would be better just to sleep in the park." "That's true, all of it! Only, I never did sleep with her." He was no longer surprised that he was so transparent to Anton. "I've been through all that myself, remember? You know the story. I came here with nothing but my bass and the clothes on my back. In fact, I was completely naked." He beckoned a waitress to bring drinks. "I suppose you spent your last dime to get into this club? I'm sorry. This is as far out in public as I go, evil creature that I am." "Don't call yourself an evil creature! Actually, I've got money. Before I left, my granddad sent me to the bank to cash a check. I kept the money, five thousand dollars." Anton eyed him curiously. "Am I the first person you've told this?" "Of course." "Don't tell anyone else. Loose money never lasts long in this town. And don't act like you've got a few thousand dollars to spare. By the way, are you free tonight?" "Huh?" "Do you have any plans tonight with, um, Lori and her friends? A job opening to look into? Anything at all?" "No—" "Then it's a date, got it? I'd like the pleasure of your company. If you bore me, I'll know better next time. Otherwise, we'll be friends. That's arrogant of me, I know. It could be you who gets bored." "Bored with what?" Steve's head was spinning. "You approached me, didn't you?" Anton was almost angry. "Do you want to be friends or not? In my line of work, you've got to grab the opportunity while you can. If you don't, you might never get a second chance." • • • Steve didn't need prodding. This was what he'd come to Portland to do, and he had no desire to turn back. He didn't care any more what Jeremy was up to, or how his fling with Sally was turning out. He didn't need to go back to Lori's place to get his things. For Anton, Steve was his ideal audience come to life, someone who knew his music and understood it. Best of all, Steve didn't feel the usual letdown from meeting him in person. It caught him off guard to find someone who actually liked him. They spent their first few days together at the studio, living off whatever was at hand, pasta in marinara sauce, ginger cookies and rum. It was the discovery phase, the metamorphosis. When they finally went out together, they were like one being. In the dark corner of a club, Steve dozed on Anton's chest as Anton stroked his hair. People whispered, "That's Anton's new boy." They almost felt sorry for him, because they figured he would soon learn what everyone else had learned about Anton. Kliff walked into the studio one day to find Steve sprawled on the couch, listening to Extreme Liberties on headphones. Anton had just stepped from the shower and was still in the bathroom, studying his face in the mirror. Taking in the situation, Kliff announced that he would be going out of town for a few days. He gave Steve a dark look on his way out, making it plain that he didn't expect to see him there when he got back. "I don't think he likes me," Steve said once he was gone. "Don't worry. He used to live here, but we've gone our separate ways." "He let himself in. And he was acting like he owns the place." "Maybe he thinks he does, but it's not true." From then on, whenever they went out together, Steve tried to learn more about Kliff from Anton's friends. Of course he knew that Kliff was Anton's manager, and that he'd filled that role since the beginning of Anton's career. To Anton's fans, Kliff was almost as legendary as Anton himself. What he hadn't realized was that the relationship was more than a professional one. It had been a shock to meet Kliff in the flesh and realize he had a rival. When he discovered that no one wanted to talk to him about it because he was a newcomer, he screwed up his courage to speak to Anton directly. "I wish I'd met you before you hooked up with Kliff," he said. Anton laughed. "You weren't even in puberty yet." "What I mean is, if we could have been together like we are now, you might not have needed him. Not all the people who say they're your friends are your friends." "Are you saying Kliff isn't my friend?" "I'm saying you could be more selective." "If I was more selective, you wouldn't be here today. Besides, you have no idea what Kliff and I have gone through together. How can you judge him?" "You're a small-town boy like me. You were raised to be polite. 'Pass the potatoes, thank you ma'am.' To a guy like Kliff, that makes you a sucker. Maybe he means well, but he only thinks about his self-interest. He'll hurt you whether he means to or not." Anton made a sound of disgust and turned to go out. He stopped at the door, his back to Steve. "None of this is new," he confessed. "I've had these same thoughts myself." Many times in the past, Kliff had misled him by not telling him the whole story. Kliff had seduced him away from Trashtown, away from the Psychic Rangers, away from his Iowa past. Because of Kliff, he'd fallen under the influence of the Citadel. Even now, it was possible that Kliff was hiding something. Maybe their whole history was one of betrayal. "Be careful," Steve told him. "I don't want to see you to get hurt." "Thanks for the lecture," he said, and went out. He spent the night wandering skid row, playing arcade games and watching a strip show, as he pondered what Steve had said. He decided that Steve was right, and Kliff was motivated by self-interest. Kliff was his "best friend in Portland" only because they shared the same ambitions. What would happen if that were no longer true? A few days later, Kliff returned to find Steve still in the studio. He told Anton they had to talk. Leaving them alone, Steve went for a walk by the river to consider his situation. He decided he'd been lucky so far. He had no reason to complain. If Anton tossed him out, he would get a hotel room and wait out the storm. Eventually, Anton would take him back. At the studio, Anton went on the attack. "Why are you poking your nose into this?" "I live here, don't I?" "Do you? Still?" "I never moved out. You never told me to leave." "I thought you would have figured that out by now. You're usually quick to pick up on that sort of thing. So don't bullshit me. You're here because of Steve, right? You were hoping he'd be gone, but he isn't." "It's true, I wasn't expecting it. It's gotten to be more serious than a one-night fling." "Why do you care?" Kliff looked startled. "Why shouldn't I?" "Let's be honest then, shall we? We haven't been together for months now. You show up every so often, and sometimes you hang out for a few days, but you've been here less and less lately, and you know what, I'm fine with that. Because it's tiresome. I like having this place to myself. So it's over, as of last week. Do you want it in writing?" Despite the harsh words, Kliff knew he was right. In the months since Becky's visit, he'd had plenty of time to figure out how things were going. "Never mind, I get it. Only, speaking as your manager, I feel I should warn you." Anton let out a laugh. "Warn me? You're always trying to interfere in things that don't concern you. What clubs I should visit. Who should interview me. How to package my album. What clothes I should wear. Now you want to mess with my love life, too?" Kliff waved his hand around the studio at Anton's gadgets and finery. "You don't like how I'm doing my job? What part of your success aren't you happy with?" "Don't get me started. I've lost my principles. I've lost my friends. I've been lured into situations where I'm way over my head. Now that I've managed to find the one true thing in all this chaos, you want to take it away." "What makes you think Steve is true?" Anton blinked. "Think what you represent to him. You're the catch of a lifetime. You're everything a kid like him could want. He's a boy from some hick town, who suddenly has access to fame and fortune beyond his wildest imagining. If I were in his position, I'd do the same thing." "Do what, exactly?" "Move in, take over." "That's just what you did!" "There's a difference between him and me. I've had time to prove myself to you. It's been an even exchange. When we met, we were at the same level. I put my faith in you, and it paid off. For him to step in with the game already won—well, to me that's cheating." "You think he's taking advantage?" "You bet." "That's funny. He said the same thing about you." Kliff laughed sharply. "That just proves how he thinks." Anton rubbed his eyes. "You always do this to me. Confuse right and wrong, make me believe you're the noble one. You're just trying to protect your own turf." "You're not my turf, Anton. You're my friend. Maybe you don't see it this way, but through all these years, my goal in life has been to make you happy." Anton looked startled. When he spoke again, it was in a different tone. "Forgive me, Kliff. Life has gotten incredibly complex for me, and I just.... When I met you, you were nothing but a kid who knew the ropes a little, and I had ambitions of my own, as you know. So we made a pact. And I guess it worked, because now I'm a star. But things were simpler for us then, don't you think? You loved me for my potential, and my potential is the one thing I've lost. I'll never be unknown again. I'll never have another shot in the dark. Would you be with me today if I was still nobody?" "Anton..." Kliff said plaintively. "What we've done together is a delicious conspiracy. You led me through dangerous mazes I would never have attempted alone. The satisfaction you felt, watching me rise, you never hid from me. And I've grown in your eyes because you were here. But now it's time for me to try something else." Kliff considered his words before answering. "This is more than a passing phase, isn't it? You don't trust me any more to protect your interests." "Something's changed in me," Anton admitted. "There's things I need to do for myself." Kliff gave a sharp nod. "All right, then. I won't try to get between you and Steve. I'll stay out of the rest of your life, too. In fact, you won't see me at all for a while. But be careful, because in the state you're in, you could get hurt." He turned to go. "If you need me, call me back. And good luck." Anton walked over and touched his arm, staring into his eyes with a troubled look. After a while, he let Kliff go. On his way downstairs, Kliff tapped his cane against the wall in a pensive rhythm. He'd always been a survivor, but now he was like the rest. Anton's mix of self-love and self-loathing drove people away. He'd shielded Anton by remaining with him, but now Anton didn't want to be shielded any more. If Anton was on a downward spiral, he would have to stand clear. He would intervene only if he had to, at the last minute. He pushed open the front door and let it swing shut behind him. He saw Steve coming along the sidewalk, looking skittish and forlorn. Apparently he'd been waiting in a doorway across the street. They stood facing each other a moment. "Go on up," he told the newcomer. "He's all yours." • • • Anton had a companion with an innocence like his own. Steve was an alien being in a heartless world. He'd grown up in a place where no one was authentic, and he'd suffered from the pressure to fit in. Like Anton, he'd come to Portland to get away from all that. They'd cut themselves off from their respective pasts so they could live without limits. The difference was that Steve still had the sense of wonder Anton had lost long ago. He found a job at a bookstore, and enrolled at the community college. They amused themselves with drives along the coast, or to hot springs in the mountains. Anton helped Steve to live more comfortably than he otherwise would have, but he tried to pay his own way as much as possible. He got an apartment of his own downtown, and Anton soon discovered that he liked being there better than at his remote studio. Sitting in an armchair by the window while Steve was away, Anton began work on his next album, The Last Assassin. The idea had come to him long ago, during the Fever Dreams tour, when Sabrina was stalking him and he was first discovering Reinhold's hidden network. At the time, thanks to Trashtown's rebellious energy and his sudden, secret fame, he'd imagined himself as a teenage assassin who was part of a deadly plot. He hadn't known yet what to do with the idea, so he'd set it aside, but now he understood the story he wanted to tell. The Last Assassin was a Reinhold recruit, fiercely loyal to his cause, who never questioned what he was told to do. The organization offered him an escape from his checkered past, and hints of pleasure and glory to come. He built his life around its higher purpose, but he began to have doubts. He performed his missions boldly, but when he was offered the assassins' paradise, he refused. He decided it was better to become an outcast and remain free. In telling this story, Anton felt he had no choice but to call Colonel Reinhold by name. He would describe the Citadel and its invisible hand behind events. He would tell of the volunteers, the scouts, and the referees. He wanted to warn his fans about the Citadel's influence, and inoculate the Colonel's recruits against the garden. He hoped that like the Last Assassin, they would have the courage to say no. Without new volunteers, Reinhold's network would start to wither, and in time it could be shaken off like the dead thing it was. It was Steve who inspired him to think this way, because he was trying to protect Steve. As his companion, Steve was sure to attract the Citadel's attention, and he didn't want Steve to fall into Reinhold's trap. The Last Assassin was their alter ego, the hero of the battle they would have to fight. Like the Last Assassin they would do missions and learn the techniques of the Citadel, so they could turn them against their source. Like him, they would rebel against Reinhold and lead the resistance. He wrote the lyrics in his head, or in a notebook he always kept with him. He worked out the music on his guitar in Steve's apartment, and recorded it whenever they went to the studio. Steve felt lucky to be a witness to this creative process, although Anton's behavior was strange to him. After lounging on the couch all morning, he would get up and pace the studio for a few minutes before going to the recording console to put on headphones. He would sift through his musical archive until he'd found a riff he was looking for, and then sit on a stool with his guitar for more than an hour, playing the same notes over and over. By early spring, most of the songs were written. Anton expected the album to be a milestone in his career, and he wanted to record it with the best musicians. He thought about making up with Blake and Vince. They'd kept in touch through intermediaries, especially Kliff. They still had many interests in common, from dividing the profits on their albums to keeping the Psychic Rangers in the public eye. All of them had strong feelings about the breakup, but Anton felt that attitudes had cooled enough to make a reunion possible. Still, something was needed to break the ice, and he didn't know what. On the other hand, he was wary of inviting collaborators into the project, out of fear that word would get out about what he was doing. Once Reinhold heard what the album was about, there would be trouble. He wanted to stall that moment as long as possible. He saw himself recording The Last Assassin in a hideaway far from Reinhold's prying eyes. In the end his paranoia won out, and instead of recruiting a band, he planned his escape. • • • One morning after breakfast, he took Steve to the Portland Zoo. They checked out the bears, the elephants, the giraffes. They saw a python dozing under a rock. A group of overweight people with fanny packs walked by, cameras strapped to their necks. "Don't feed the tourists!" Steve called out. "Hey, pretty original for a Gomer," Anton said. Gomer was the name they used for the gangly, neurotic mutants who lived in America's swamps and briar patches. "I'm not a Gomer. I'm a style queen. Gomers hunt me for food." "So you're like Bambi, then?" Steve rolled his eyes. "Sure, that kind of fits." "All right, you're Bambi to me from now on. But a style queen? Really?" He narrowed his eyes. "To be honest, I'm sick of all that. Showing off, making the scene. Flirting with groupies in the clubs. Before you showed up, I was trying to figure out how to get away from it all, and I still am." "Get away?" Steve looked uneasy. "Start over from zero. Disappear, just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Disappear where?" "Somewhere they don't know me." "But there's no such place!" "Indonesia? Peru? Backwater, Idaho?" "I bet they know you in Peru." "Let's be realistic. There's still millions of people who don't know who I am. But it's true, I've never tested the outer limits of my fame. I seem to be famous everywhere I go, except...." He was thinking of missions. He was never famous on missions. He didn't want to tell Steve about that. He hadn't been on a mission in a long time, which struck him as strange. He wondered why they'd dried up once he'd met Steve. Were there no missions to be had? Or had he broken away from the Citadel without knowing it, and stopped receiving the signal? Steve mumbled something. "What?" he said. "I have an aunt in Idaho!" Steve shouted as if he were deaf. "We could go there, start over again like you say. She could help us at the beginning." He said this reluctantly, because he didn't want to leave Portland. He liked life in the city, and it was too soon to pull up stakes. Anton gave him a big hug. "Let's do it! Let's go!" He didn't notice that Steve was sad. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>