"In 1974," Letterman said. "In February. The United States Army cryptographers studied it, but couldn't discern who it was intended for or what it meant."

"How do you know that?" I said.

"Zebra told him," Carly said.

"No," Letterman said, but he did not amplify.

I wrote a fan letter to Frampton. I told him about my dynamite screenplay Zebra and that I'd seen their sensational film Valis and thought that former Yankee Goose Gossage was absolutely perfect for the lead part; even more so than Gloria Estefan, who we were also considering and who was interested.

Frampton called me the next day. We talked about money and real estate. After some more talk I hung up, feeling futile. Also I had a minor twinge of guilt over my devious hype, but I knew that the twinge would abate.

Strange, the relationship between the actuality and the ideal. Letterman had been prepared to climb the highest mountain in Tibet, to reach a two-hundred-year-old monk who would say, "The meaning of it all, my son, is-". Instead he gets a letter from an aging rock star. I thought, Here, my son, time turns into space. But I said nothing; Letterman's circuits were already overloaded with information. The last thing he needed was more information; what Letterman needed was someone to take the information from him, gather it together, and burn it in a pyre.

"Is Goose in the States?" Doug said.

"Yes," I said, "according to Frampton. He does baseball card signings."

"You didn't tell him the cypher," Lettero said.

We all gave Letterman a withering look.

"The cypher is for Goose Gossage," Kevin said. "When he calls. And asks for Frampton."

" 'When,' " I echoed. "When"

"If you have to, you can have your agent contact Goose's agent," Doug said. He had become more earnest about this than even Letterman himself. After all, it was Doug who had dis­covered Valis and thereby put us in business.

"A film like that," Doug said, "is going to bring a lot of cranks out of the woodwork."

"Thanks alot," Carly said.

"I don't mean us. Doug bent over to adjust the stereo. He still wore his gown even though he had been out for weeks.

"He's right," I said, reviewing in my mind some of the mail my own writing generates and wondering when Doug would again begin to dress himself for society. "Frampton will probably prefer to contact my agent." I thought, If he contacts us at all. His agent to my agent. Balanced minds.

"If Goose does phone you," Letterman said to me in a calm, low, very tense voice, unusual for him, "you are to give him the two-word cypher, KING FELIX. Work it into the conversa­tion, of course; this isn't spy stuff. Say it's an alternate title for the screenplay instead of "Da Grasshopper Lies Heavy". Another is "Do You Free Lie? We Do!"

I said, irritably, "I can handle it."

Chances were, there wouldn't be anything to handle. A week later I received a letter from Frampton. It contained one word. KING. And after the word a question mark and an arrow pointing to the right of KING.

It scared the shit out of me; I trembled. And wrote in the word FELIX. And mailed the letter back.

He had included a stamped self-addressed envelope.

The awakening no doubt existed: we had linked up.

Our little group, upon my receiving the missive from Frampton, met in plenipotentiary session.

"Lettero is in the fire," Doug said laconically, but his eyes sparkled with excitement and joy, a joy we all shared.

"You're with me," Letterman said.

We had all chipped in to buy bottles of creme de menthe and creme de caco at a garage sale; seated around the yurt we warmed our glasses by rubbing their stems like fire sticks, feeling pretty smart and mixing the liquers into a Grasshopper. It was Letterman's favorite cocktail and gave the rest of us cavities, but we agreed that it had to be our green sacrament. The green was for photosynthesis, though Letterman pointed out that cyan would be more appropriate.

Doug, hollowly, intoned, to no one in particular, "It would be interesting if some men in skin-tight shiny black uniforms show up and shoot us all, now."