Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

Then it took Max three minutes to answer her knock, even though he should have expected her.

"Hi," he said, immediately moving away and leaving her to secure the door.

Temple followed him. Such indifference was not Max's usual mode. She found him in the first of the two bedrooms, hunched before the computer screen. A half-ream of paper lay uncollected in the printer well, and another sheet was scraping across this pile as it struggled to print out.

Temple swooped up the paper and disciplined it into an even-edged pile on a nearby table littered with floppy disks and cold pizza slices.

Max, his face not turning from the screen, reached out a hand for something.

Temple filled it with a sloppy slice of congealed hamburger/pep-peroni/anchovies. Ugh!

Max held the pizza slice poised for a moment, in front of the disk port, then lifted it to his face and chewed. And chewed. And swallowed. Double ugh!

"A mess, huh?" Temple said soothingly. "You haven't had much experience with computers, obviously--"

The hand with the pizza (now a mere triangle of crust and anchovies) pointed to the table.

"This is incredible. Take a look at those pages. I printed out whatever seemed intriguing.

Gary had been writing up a storm."

Temple fanned through the sheaf. Words jumped out at her: illusion, show, St. Louis, Missouri ... somebody's "Aunt Velda," housing doves, Houdini, Citizen Kane , mention of cemeteries ... some dialogue, as if from an interview or a ... a novel.

"This is a jumble of everything. It doesn't make sense."

"Except that it's a jumble," Max agreed.

He leaned his elbows on the padded wrist rest. The supernaturally smooth hair at his temples was roughened, as if gophers had been burrowing into it.

"Maybe you'd like me to run the computer--*

"No, I'm doing fine. It's just that there's so much, and Gary used some cryptic naming and filing system that would baffle anyone else. I don't think he really meant for me to unlock this stuff, only he couldn't hide it from me. It's all done like stage magic, with the assumption that the abnormal pertains, and I'm used to thinking like that... "

After another minute or two, when the only sound was the clatter of the computer keyboard now and again as Max moved through directories and files, Temple pulled a chair over to the pizza table and tried to install order among the abused diskettes.

Like men not used to typing and computer keyboards, Max punched each key with his forefingers. But otherwise he seemed to be navigating the screen just fine.

"This is incredible, Temple."

She nodded, unnoticed, behind him. Max, mesmerized by something other than magic. And it wasn't her. It was whatever had been on Gandolph's apparently overworked hard drive.

"It'd take months," he went on, "to decipher and untangle this stuff. Everything's misdirection. Two files in a naming sequence match, and the third is totally unrelated."

When she didn't answer the silence, Max actually turned from the screen-to look at her.

"Sorry. Rapture of the Deep. This is something I'd never imagine Gary doing."

"This is something I'd never imagine you doing. You gave my home computers about as much attention as a dust mote."

"I had to learn a bit about them during my... leave of absence. Some of them have too much information about me for comfort, and some of them have information I need. I can't just whisper in Molina's ear when I want an inside track."

"Stop grinning like the Microsoft mouse that ate a conglomerate. Your keyboard technique may be strictly Rocky Marciano, but you obviously are no longer a stranger in the land of Cyberspace, where the local gods are Byte and Megabyte."

"Have some pizza," he suggested in an absently placating tone. "There's some ... something to drink somewhere."

"This cold... slab of cholesterol and sodium on cardboard? You want me to eat it? I might as well chew on one of these not-so-floppy disks."

"No, don't fool with the disks!"

But when he looked up, he saw she was stacking disks, and not into a Dagwood sandwich.

"Max, computer nerding does not become you. Get off-line for a minute and tell me what you've found so I can see what I can find."

"Okay." He uncoiled from Gandolph's big leather desk chair, then winced as he realized what several hours hunching over a hot computer screen will do to muscles and joints.

"Grab those papers," he told Temple. "Let's go into the kitchen where we can get some good light, and maybe something warm to eat or drink. Or both."

"Thank you," Temple said devoutly, casting her eyes to the ceiling. "Thank you, gods of the Computer Kind."

"Somebody out there scuff your shoes?" Max asked curiously as he led her into the house's large and... wow!... superbly equipped kitchen.

"You did say that Orson Welles lived here, didn't you, and he was quite a gourmet."

"I think the exact word is 'gourmand,' but words are your business."

"No, you're right. 'Gourmand' it is." Temple opened a stainless-steel door and found an upright freezer filled with catering-firm entrees. "Gandolph apparently was no slouch in the food department either."

"No, that's why he was so ideal for the house. I felt secure leaving it in his care."

Max probed the various clear plastic boxes, tubs and containers. "So what went wrong today?"

"Nothing. It's what might go wrong tonight."

"How so?"

"Oh, Crawford Buchanan is boasting that his spot on Hot Heads will have startling information about what he calls the 'Halloween Havoc.' "

"Awful Crawford is on Hot Heads now?"

"Oh, yeah. And he really pulled a dirty trick at the Gridiron Show, getting me to write a bunch of skits just so he could have the pleasure of not using them."

Max leaned against the marble-topped counter and folded his arms. "Old C.B. sounds like he's taking over the world."

"Not the world, only my part of it. I just had a run-in with him at the Las Vegas Scoop . He is so scummy. Half the time he acts like he's coming on to me, and half the time he acts like he wants to stomp me flat; either mode is equally unwelcome."

Max smiled tolerantly. "You have been dealing with elevated media. Temple, Buchanan thrives on riling you. Just regard him as a kid in sixth grade who figures the way to tell a girl he thinks she's cute is to put garter snakes into her lunch bag."

"It's not so harmless when that kid grows up still feeling he has to put down women to feel superior enough to hit on them. And I don't want him thinking I'm cute!"

Max shook his head. "Oh, he's a sleazebag, but not worth worrying about. Concentrate on something crucial: what do you want for dinner?"

He unfolded one arm and then the other to reveal two of Temple's favorite cold-weather comfort foods, genuine Kraft macaroni and cheese (lots and lots of cheese) and linguini Alfredo (lots and lots of Alfredo.)

"I haven't had macaroni and cheese in ages. I don't know! Choosing between two equally tempting dishes is not my strongest point."

"I hope you don't mean that." Max's most piercing look always thrilled 'em in the twelfth row. Up close it was a lot less enjoyable.

She realized she had blindly walked right into his allusion. Maybe she could talk her way right out of it.

"The linguini needs reheating. The macaroni has to be boiled from scratch, sort of, as convenience food goes, but... oh, heck, the macaroni."

"Ah, yes." Max turned for the pots hanging high on a rack. "The unassuming, all-American staple, not some pretentious, somewhat pricey item with antecedents abroad. Good choice."

"Just get the damn pot down, and I'll start the water boiling. What's for dessert?"

Max was opening another series of cupboards. He produced a brown glass bottle.