The door banged open: Buckaroo Banzai, Perfect Tommy, and Rawhide were returning from a long morning of briefing the Trilateral Commission on the consequences for international relations of Buckaroo's fifth force theory. Mrs. E. Johnson, barely awake at this hour, could tell the session had not been a howling success.

The policy pundits had made it clear that so far they regarded the fifth force of immanent consciousness as more of a Fifth Column than a helpful advance, and the Institute's efforts to translate the "behavior" of mass inorganic forces -- such as raw gold or uranium -- into an econometric model had met with skepticism and downright rudeness. Henry Kissinger, struggling to be at least moderately polite out of his longstanding respect for Dr. Banzai, had nevertheless ridiculed the theory, asking Perfect Tommy if he could predict what his pencil or his paperweight were going to do next.

Nettled, Perfect Tommy had suggested in a suave tone -- one which both Buckaroo and Rawhide recognized as extremely dangerous -- that he was pretty sure he knew what Kissinger's necktie was going to do next. Buckaroo had intervened to prevent his bass player from strangling the former National Security Advisor, quietly referring the Commission to his published analyses and getting Tommy out of the room in a very few minutes. The ride across the bridge had soothed Perfect Tommy's sensibilities somewhat, but he was still in a grousing frame of mind, which was taking the form of repeating his lecture to a thoroughly inattentive audience of Buckaroo and Rawhide.

They came through the Institute's door in a group, with Tommy still holding forth.

". . . never get anywhere until they cease to view nation-states as essentially inorganic entities. Locked into that paradigm, contemporary international policy simply won't be able to encompass--"

"--preachin' to the choir--" said Rawhide.

"--need to remember some of these people think you're reviving the lebensraum critique--" said Buckaroo.

"Sign these," said Mrs. Johnson, jumping up to thrust a small sheaf at Buckaroo. Rawhide leaned over her desk and accessed the World Watch Wire on her Mac, running a quick eye down the day's doings. Mrs. J shifted out of his way, gliding backwards on her wonted rollerskates, and ran a consoling hand down Perfect Tommy's back to cut off the tirade.

"We got a nice lunch out of it, anyway," Tommy told Mrs. Johnson, finally shrugging off his pique.

Caught, Buckaroo produced a pen and began to work his way down the pile. It was mostly correspondence, much of it scientific cross-talk with his fellow physicists; there were also answers to two Congressional inquiries and several responses to internship applications.

Rawhide finished his scrutiny of the computer screen. Turning to brief Buckaroo, he pulled a receipt out of his jacket pocket and held it out to Mrs. Johnson. "Satellite misfire at the Cape this morning," he said. "TelStar lost one, net cost a couple bil. Janetta is lecturing on microvascular decompression of the trigeminal nerve in the City tomorrow afternoon. Pinky's single is number 38 with a bullet, 'n the Hollywood Bowl booking is close to sold out. Interesting paper out of CalTech about four-coordinate wobble in an ordinary coin-flip--"

"I worked that out last year," Perfect Tommy said, bored and annoyed. "Yeah, but you don't publish," Rawhide said. He picked up his summary again "--and there's some peculiar paramilitary activity in Thailand that looks like Xan's gettin' his people prepped for a strike. You'll want to look at that, huh?"

"Yup," said Buckaroo, continuing to read and sign.

Mrs. Johnson looked up from the receipt in her hand. "Where's your bridge toll?"

"Waved through," Rawhide grinned. "The toll lady recognized us. Said she'd rather have an autograph."

"Another dollar and a quarter spared to us by fame," said Mrs. J drily. She twirled on her skates.

Perfect Tommy smirked. "What she really wanted was a kiss."

One of the internship replies was in the affirmative. Buckaroo pulled it out of the stack and handed it to Perfect Tommy.

"Here's your poet," he told his friend, "the Blue Blaze from Washington." He set the rest of the letters on Mrs. J's desk.

Perfect Tommy reacted with pleasure. "The one from the assassination attempt on Captain Cousteau."

"The one who almost put him in the drink savin' his life," Rawhide commented. He took the sheet from Perfect Tommy and ran a considering eye down it. The Blue Blaze had been routinely driving Pecos, Perfect Tommy and Captain Cousteau from the U.S. Capitol to the Anacostia River berth of Calypso when agents of Hanoi Xan launched an attack from adjacent cars. The Blaze's driving during the ensuing brief shootout had been crazy enough to earn her a pat on the back from Perfect Tommy, although, Pecos said, "it looked like Zheek was seasick for the first time in sixty years."

Rawhide finished reading and looked up. "She's a lawyer?"

"Her references checked out."

"A lawyer?" Perfect Tommy repeated with visible distaste. "No way. Really, she's pretty tolerable." If he'd known that, he'd never have recommended her; lawyers rated well below paramecia on his evolutionary scale.

"Mostly a poet," Buckaroo answered. "Her poem about barrel neuron research was in N. E. J. Med., and there was one about the pre-Cambrian era in Science '83. She'll do. Remember, three minutes ago you liked her."

"Can she play?" Mrs. Johnson asked warily.

Buckaroo shook his head in the negative. Mrs. Johnson shrugged, and executed a pirouette on two wheels. "Dommage," she sighed.

Rawhide rubbed his jaw. "We wasted $22,000 on legal fees last year fighting off that infringement suit." He thought for a moment. "She was at desert survival last summer -- good endurance, no upper body strength."

Perfect Tommy looked at the letter's last paragraph. "'Apache'?" He knew the Blaze under her given name.

Buckaroo nodded. "She's part Chiricahua." He smiled. "Plus, I liked the bloodthirsty glint in her eye when the subject of nuisance litigation came up. She said 'white man speak with bifurcated tongue.'"

Perfect Tommy shook his head and put the letter back on the pile. "Injuns on the place," he said. "I knew it would come to this."

~ 30 ~