say you had a golf-cart accident," she said. "It changes everything. We have to revise our thinking about the universe, religion. My God, Bits."
"You ran into a tree and got a bump."
"But why the medical experimenting? They must be part of an advance team, studying us." 'A bad bump," Bitsey said. 'Advance team for what, though?"
"I'd better call Chip. I don't think you should do the show tomorrow."
"Subjugation? Colonizing? Enslavement? G od." "He'll get someone to fill in."
"You should have seen the ship, Bits. It was like something in a movie."
"Maybe he can get Evan Thomas to fill in for you." "They made my balls act in this strange way." "Jack, enough."
"They were trying to draw me in. Me. It wasn't an accident. They wanted me."
"No, not Evan Thomas. He's got his eye on your show as it is. All that angling to fill in for you last summer when we were in Turkey?"
"So why me?" Banion murmured.
"1 know - Rick Simmons. I'll tell Chip to get him."
"They could have had the Speaker of the House and a Supreme Court justice. But they picked me."
"Jack, stop it."
"I don't know if I can, Bits."
"Of course you can."
"I'm just one man. There might be thousands of them out there."
"We'll discuss it in the morning."
"Millions."
Banion was sitting at his desk, immersed in a book by a former Army colonel who claimed personally to have witnessed alien corpses that had crash-landed at Roswell, New Mexico, when Renira buzzed to tell him that there was a reporter from the Post on the line wanting to talk with him about "last Sunday at Burning Bush." Banion scowled owlishly and pondered: should he take the call?
Nothing was secret in this town. So who had blabbed? Not the manager or the assistant. Burning Bush staff were as discreet as the deaf-mute slaves in the palaces of the caesars. That foursome he'd shouted at to clear the area? The ambulance crew? Someone with a police scanner listening as they radioed ahead to the hospital that they were bringing in a lunatic raving about aliens? The doctors? Surely the Hippocratic oath also extended to doing no harm to your patient by leaking embarrassing details to the press. At any rate, there was now a reporter on the line. Best just stick to the cover story.
"This is John Banion."
"Patrick Cooke, with the Post. How are you?" They were always so friendly, these piranhas.
"Tip-top. What can I do for you?"
"I'm following up on a report we had that you had an unusual experience at Burning Bush last Sunday." "A very unusual experience, yes."
"How's that?"
"I bogeyed the fourth hole."
He could hear the clicking of Cooke's keyboard. Every thing you say will be used against you.
"You're doing better than I am. So you ended up at the hospital?"
"I was in shock. I've never bogeyed the fourth."
"You, um, reported that you'd been abducted by aliens? Three of them, in a spaceship?"
Blast. He had details.
"I don't remember that part. That would be a story. The fact of the matter is, I was in a golf-cart accident." "You were in a golf-cart accident?"
"I'm embarrassed to say. Yes. There's a sharp turn on the path, with a tree on the right. I wasn't paying attention, and I must have gone off the road. I don't remember much. Must have got a nasty bump. Anyway. I'm fine. A bit busy, actually, right now."
Clickety-click. It was like listening to teeth that were eating you.
"Someone at the hospital" - so they were the leakers. Hippocritical Hippocrats! Banion decided his next column would be an attack on the medical profession - "told me that you said you had been, this is a quote, 'raped by aliens.'"
"Ululant nonsense."
"Sorry?"
"Mr. Cooke, I happen to be a close friend of the chairman of the board of The Washington Post. She is coming to dinner at my house next week, with the president. My guess is that she would be possibly even more embarrassed than you t o read a remark - no doubt unat tributed - in her paper, whose mission, 1 believe, is to convey responsible information to the
"You ran into a tree and got a bump."
"But why the medical experimenting? They must be part of an advance team, studying us." 'A bad bump," Bitsey said. 'Advance team for what, though?"
"I'd better call Chip. I don't think you should do the show tomorrow."
"Subjugation? Colonizing? Enslavement? G od." "He'll get someone to fill in."
"You should have seen the ship, Bits. It was like something in a movie."
"Maybe he can get Evan Thomas to fill in for you." "They made my balls act in this strange way." "Jack, enough."
"They were trying to draw me in. Me. It wasn't an accident. They wanted me."
"No, not Evan Thomas. He's got his eye on your show as it is. All that angling to fill in for you last summer when we were in Turkey?"
"So why me?" Banion murmured.
"1 know - Rick Simmons. I'll tell Chip to get him."
"They could have had the Speaker of the House and a Supreme Court justice. But they picked me."
"Jack, stop it."
"I don't know if I can, Bits."
"Of course you can."
"I'm just one man. There might be thousands of them out there."
"We'll discuss it in the morning."
"Millions."
Banion was sitting at his desk, immersed in a book by a former Army colonel who claimed personally to have witnessed alien corpses that had crash-landed at Roswell, New Mexico, when Renira buzzed to tell him that there was a reporter from the Post on the line wanting to talk with him about "last Sunday at Burning Bush." Banion scowled owlishly and pondered: should he take the call?
Nothing was secret in this town. So who had blabbed? Not the manager or the assistant. Burning Bush staff were as discreet as the deaf-mute slaves in the palaces of the caesars. That foursome he'd shouted at to clear the area? The ambulance crew? Someone with a police scanner listening as they radioed ahead to the hospital that they were bringing in a lunatic raving about aliens? The doctors? Surely the Hippocratic oath also extended to doing no harm to your patient by leaking embarrassing details to the press. At any rate, there was now a reporter on the line. Best just stick to the cover story.
"This is John Banion."
"Patrick Cooke, with the Post. How are you?" They were always so friendly, these piranhas.
"Tip-top. What can I do for you?"
"I'm following up on a report we had that you had an unusual experience at Burning Bush last Sunday." "A very unusual experience, yes."
"How's that?"
"I bogeyed the fourth hole."
He could hear the clicking of Cooke's keyboard. Every thing you say will be used against you.
"You're doing better than I am. So you ended up at the hospital?"
"I was in shock. I've never bogeyed the fourth."
"You, um, reported that you'd been abducted by aliens? Three of them, in a spaceship?"
Blast. He had details.
"I don't remember that part. That would be a story. The fact of the matter is, I was in a golf-cart accident." "You were in a golf-cart accident?"
"I'm embarrassed to say. Yes. There's a sharp turn on the path, with a tree on the right. I wasn't paying attention, and I must have gone off the road. I don't remember much. Must have got a nasty bump. Anyway. I'm fine. A bit busy, actually, right now."
Clickety-click. It was like listening to teeth that were eating you.
"Someone at the hospital" - so they were the leakers. Hippocritical Hippocrats! Banion decided his next column would be an attack on the medical profession - "told me that you said you had been, this is a quote, 'raped by aliens.'"
"Ululant nonsense."
"Sorry?"
"Mr. Cooke, I happen to be a close friend of the chairman of the board of The Washington Post. She is coming to dinner at my house next week, with the president. My guess is that she would be possibly even more embarrassed than you t o read a remark - no doubt unat tributed - in her paper, whose mission, 1 believe, is to convey responsible information to the
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