
                   Space is For Deadheads 
 
     "Hello, Grant?  Grant Thomas?" 
     "Yes?" 
     "Hey, Grant, how the hell are you?  Watcha' been up to, man?" 
     "Do I know you?" 
     "Oh, yeah, sorry, man.  I keep expecting people to know everything 
without me telling 'em anything, y'know?  Just 'cause I'm talking to 'em. 
Hey, sometimes it works, y'know.  How could you know who I am -- man, we 
haven't seen each other in, god, how long has it been?  Eight years?  Ten? 
I lost track . . . What?  Oh, yeah, sorry.  Look, Grant, it's George, your 
sophomore roomate at the old U, bargin' back into your life with a business 
proposition, you up for it?  I'm in the neighborhood, man, how 'bout I pick 
you up, ok?  We'll get a beer or something.  Where y'at, now?" 
     "George?  God, I thought you disappeared off the face of the earth." 
     "Pretty close, man, pretty close.  Sick of corporate life yet?" 
     "Hmmph" 
     "Have I got a deal for you!  Give me directions, ok, and I'll come 
get you, we'll go have a beer, relive some old times and lay the best deal 
of your life on you, ok?  You're, like, Santa Monica, right?  Hey, forget 
directions, we got a Thomas Guide, so just lay you're address on me and I'll 
come getcha, ok?" 
     "Uh, I don't know about this, George.  I seem to remember you being into 
some pretty weird stuff.  Maybe I'd better just . . ." 
     "Hey, relax, man.  Gotta law student on it, he's pretty sure it's all 
legal -- what?  Cool!  Oh, Grant, we found you in the phone book, so, um, 
yeah, Navy, ok, we'll be there in fifteen, ok?  See ya." 
     Grant stared at the phone for a full minute before his brain clicked 
back into gear.  Then he just shook his head, stretched back out on the 
couch and started flipping channels. 
     The knock at his door took him entirely by surprise. 
     George looked the same as he had the day after they'd both graduated -- 
same long hair, same beard, same faded jeans and Jefferson Airplane T-shirt. 
God, those were exactly the same clothes.  Convinced this was a dream, Grant 
allowed himself to float on George's steady stream of mindless babble out to 
the mini-bus parked in front of the street-sweeping sign.  He let himself 
be ushered into the opium den that the back of the van seemed to metamorphose 
into.  A couple of girls lounged silently on the cushions scattered across the 
floor.  He followed their example. 
     Maybe this was a flashback, best to just go with it.  George kept 
rattling on as he got into the driver's seat and started up.  The kid in the 
passenger seat appeared to be meditating. 
     " . . . so I figured, hey, goats are cool, but what we really need is 
our own renewable energy source.  I haven't perfected it yet, but we do a 
helluva lot better than the rest of the world.  Yeah, we're still pretty 
dependent on fossil fuels for transportation, but we're working on . . ." 
     "George," Grant broke in, "are you kidnapping me?" 
     "Well, yeah, I guess, if you want to get technical.  But, man, Grant, 
you never have any fun unless I kidnap you.  Remember how I had to trick you 
into your first Dead show?  You had a great time, though, right?  Trust me, 
man, I'd never kidnap you for something you didn't really want to do." 
     The kid in the passenger seat opened his eyes, turned off the air 
conditioning and smiled beatifically.  "First round's on me," he said, opening 
the door, "but it's gonna be Goat Scrotum Ale." 
     The girls got up and followed him, so Grant did, too. 
     He drifted with the foursome to a corner table, sipped a beer someone 
handed him and decide this wasn't a dream after all.  His companions were 
all silent.  So, the reality was, he'd been off work less than an hour, 
shanghaied by crazed hippies, and served a surprisingly good beer.  Not a 
normal Friday afternoon in the world of Grant Thomas. 
     "This is pretty bizarre, George, even for you," he said finally.  "What 
do you mean, bringing me to an empty bar?" 
     George relaxed some.  "The Pig'll fill up some after sundown, you'll 
see.  No half days on Annemaria's spread." 
     He winked at the blond. 
     "Welcome to the Blind Pig," she said gravely.  "What kind of beer do you 
like, Mr. Thomas?" 
     "Uh, Moosehead."  Was he ever going to follow a conversation with these 
people? 
     She nodded.  "Lager, then."  She stood up, poured the last of the pitcher 
into her glass, took the empty behind the bar and pulled a much paler beer. 
Grant noticed that there were no bartenders or cocktail waitresses, as well 
as no other patrons. 
     "Have you heard of Lightning Bolt express?" 
     "Sure, we use it at the office to zap rush orders around.  What's this 
all about?" 
     The meditating kid's smile got broader.  "We're the board of directors." 
     Grant stared at him for the full thirty seconds required by law.  "You 
smile an awful lot." 
     "I'm a happy guy." 
     "What's the kid on, George?" 
     "What?  Nothing man.  We all agreed we oughta be totally straight to 
talk to you, except, of course, for the beer.  Figured you'd need some 
loosening up.  Jason doesn't use anything, anyway, right Jase?" 
     "Not much point." 
     "Are you seriously trying to tell me that one of the fastest growing 
courierservices in the country is owned by a bunch of neo-hippies?" 
     "Owned and operated, Grant, owned and operated.  We're good at it -- 
well, Annemaria's good at keeping it going.  And we have an amazing edge, 
which I'll explain to you after a while.  What we need, though, is a 
figurehead CEO, a guy who can talk to these fortune 500 types, throw the 
first pitch out at baseball games, you know, be a suit." 
     "So who are you gonna get, Lee Iacocca?" 
     George was silent for a moment, looking surprised.  "I thought I 
explained that.  Honest, I thought we had that all cleared up and out of the 
way.  This is your deal of a lifetime, Grant, you're the guy." 
     Grant choked on his beer.  "Me?  CEO?  Hey, I'm strictly middle 
management, take orders and have someone else carry them out, show up at 
meetings and dunk doughnuts." 
     "See, man, already it's obvious you're intensely more corporate than 
any of us.  Doughnuts!  Man, what a revelation!  Hey, do you really always 
get chicken at company dinners?" 
     "Look, uh, Grant."  The dark girl finally broke her silence.  "We'll still 
run things, really.  You don't have to *do* anything.  Just PR, and you get 
whatever perks are necessary for the image, and a nice salary.  Lightning Bolt 
makes a lot of money and we don't need all of it." 
     Grant frowned and stared into his mug, watching the bubbles slide up the 
side and burst at the top.  "This is impossible," he said finally."This can 
not be happening." 
     "Yeah, man, it's totally wild.  But you don't know the whole story.  I 
said we got an edge, right?  We are in possession of a scientific breakthrough. 
Industrial revolution scale stuff, man, and we are the only people on the 
planet who know about it."  Jason giggled a little. 
     George didn't seem to notice.  "Don't ask me to explain it, 'cause I 
can't, I don't think anyone can, but, damn! it's easy to use.  Listen to me, 
Grant, I speak the gospel truth when I tell you, we have broken the light 
barrier." 
     Grant abandoned the bubbles and stared at George, who met his gaze 
calmly and went on.  "Faster than light travel, superluminal velocity.  We 
can get anywhere, Grant, *ANYWHERE* in ninety seconds." 
    Grant kept staring and finally spoke.  "You are full of shit, George." 
    Jason grinned some more.  "You're gonna love it when we explain about 
the pigs." 
    Annemaria stood up again.  "Mr. Thomas," she said,"you'd better come 
outside.  There's something outside you have to see."  She turned and walked 
to the door, and he followed.  The others stayed at the table. 
     The sun was a lot closer to the horizon than it should have been.  The 
moon was almost directly overhead, a thin crescent, pale blue. 
     "My God!"  Grant reminded himself that he wasn't dreaming.  This was 
reality.  "Where do I sign?" 
     In the East, a few degrees above the horizon, a second moon faintly 
gleamed. 
======================================================================== 126 
 
     "Annemaria, honey, I hope your evening's free, you really oughta talk 
to Jason, here." 
     Silence didn't really descend on the bar.  It didn't even hover 
around and think about it.  Silence knows that there's some places it 
can only visit occasionally, and doesn't want to wear out its welcome. 
Something like silence was there, though, a heightened awareness.  Everyone 
there was keeping careful track of what was happening, whether they 
thought they were paying attention or not. 
     "He was telling me all about this Golden Fleece on the way up, sounded 
like something you'd be into.  Yeah, yeah I know, that's sheep, but sheep 
and goats are kissing cousins, right?  Split hooves, chew the cud, you know, 
I never understood that separating the sheep from the goats stuff, but, hey, 
that's not my thing, what do I know, right?  Hey, Dolores?" 
     "Chili fries with zucchini and I just tapped the stout." 
     "Dolores, darling, you are can angel from Vishnu bearing the food of the 
gods on a sacred white elephant!" 
     "There you're wrong, George.  The food of the gods is broccoli.  Very 
health concious, you're average immortal.  Cheese and onions for your friend?" 
     Silence dipped a cautious toe into that corner of the room.  Even George 
expected Jason to answer, onions aren't something you can speak for someone 
else about, not with a mere six hours acquaintance.  Jason, however, was 
distracted by the neon sign on the far wall, where it glowed and hummmed with 
prophetic power.  He'd never seen such a clear omen.  Yes, that sign was a 
sign all right. 
     "Cheese and onions, kid?" 
     "What?  Sure, sure."  Someone handed him a bowl and he sat down where 
he was to ponder. 
     "He was a helluva lot more interesting on the road.  Oh, man, I almost 
forgot, we got two hundred from Wild and Wooly for last month and they want 
to take us off consignment -- bought the whole load for what you wanted." 
     "That'll cover my property tax!  Dolores, have you figured out champagne, 
yet?" 
     "Some of the cider's fizzy." 
     "Well break it out!" 
     Suddenly, the awareness that they had all been teetering on the brink 
of a party all evening washed over the room.  Silence found it's shoes and 
went home.  Instruments appeared from nowhere, joints began making wider 
circuits, the gate to the bar got moved into the kitchen while Dolores 
was dancing, several people forgot they were ready to head out and 
everyone forgot how early sunrise would come. 
     A few people started transforming into lumps on the floor and the music 
and dancing moved outside, where everyone wondered why they hadn't been out 
there all night.  The ground was soft, not too dusty, not too damp, the moon 
was full and high and before too long a priestess appeared from the 
shadows to lead the masses to the creek for ritual purification and general 
frollicking. 
     Bodies were everywhere by the time Annemaria, George and the priestess 
made their way back into the bar.  Jason drifted behind them, still pondering 
and dancing, a little. 
     "Annemaria," George was saying, "Annemaria, infinite goddess of all things 
wise and wonderful, did you know that your eyes are two limpid pools of 
mercury, tempting the unwary swimmer to dive to his doom?  Do something about 
it, okay?" 
     "Only if you tell me what limpid means..." 
     "Damn, woman, play fair!  My plants okay?" 
     "Just beautiful.  Jason!  You're still awake?  Tris, this is Jason. Look, 
Jason, it's not always like this, you can't expect it, okay?" 
     "Hmmm? Sure, sure.  Where'd you get that sign?" 
     "What sign, the Blind Pig?  Somebody knew someone who knew someone who 
makes 'em.  Jason, listen to me, before that this-is-heaven-i'm-never-gonna- 
leave look freezes on your face, whatever you're thinking, it's probably 
wrong, okay?  Any ideas you have, whatever George told you, don't set yourself 
up to be disappointed, okay?  I really hate that, so remember, this is just 
another place to be, okay?" 
     "No, this is the place for me, Annemaria.  I'll take care of the pigs." 
     "We don't have any pigs." 
     "We will."  His face had the serene complacency of a madonna and child. 
Annemaria closed her eyes and let every molecule of air in her lungs escape 
into the atmosphere. 
     "I have to raise pigs," Jason said as she started breathing in. 
     Her eyes glazed over.  "Tris," she said, kicking her, "Tris, wake up. 
Jason has to raise pigs." 
     "Mmhmm." 
     "No, Tris, he *has* *to* raise pigs, *has* to." 
     The priestess propped herself up on her elbow, cast an envious glance 
at George still snoring gently and turned her attention to Jason.  He smiled, 
still obviously as young as he used to be and not needing any sleep.  She 
sighed deeply and lay back down to contemplate the ceiling. 
     "Alright, Jason, if that's your real name -- why do you have to raise 
pigs?" 
     "What do you mean, real name?" he asked, his face a little less like 
a slow stream bubbling through a meadow and a little more like a glacier 
gliding across tundra. 
     "She's kidding," Annemaria cut in. 
     "Just fill us in," Tris finished as she slid along the floor to lean 
against the bar. 
     "Well," Jason began, relaxing a bit but still looking as if he was in 
a hostile personnel department, "a while ago a friend of mine turned me on 
to Barry Hughart.  I read all his stuff in a couple of days.  Then I went 
to a Floyd concert, under a few influences, and it came to me, the 
Transcendent Pig!  It's my destiny.  And it didn't go away, y'know?  So 
I'm on a quest.  I've been wandering, pretty aimlessly, really.  I had no 
clue how to go about it.  But fate hooked me up with George, and brought 
me to the Blind Pig.  I can't ignore a sign like this."  He settled 
himself into half-lotus and sat beaming at the two women. 
     "So," Annemaria said slowly, "you don't actually have any pigs?  Or 
know where to get any?  It would be," she went on, as he shook his head, 
still looking far too pleased, "too much to ask that you could acquire these 
pigs on your own, I know, but do you know *anything* at all about raising 
them?" 
     "No," he said cheerfully, as if this was finally going the way he 
expected. 
     "You realize," Tris interjected, watching Jason intently, "pigs are no 
use at all unless you kill them.  You can't milk them, they don't produce 
anything but manure, and we have plenty of that already, and they don't work. 
Have you ever butchered anything?" 
     Jason chewed his lower lip.  "I never killed anything bigger than a 
cockroach," he finally admitted.  "I hadn't thought of that.  I've got to 
do this, though.  I need to get myself a flock of pigs.  I'll do what I have 
to do."  His expression of grim determination looked like it had gotten lost 
on it's way to a more appropriate face, but no-one noticed. 
     Tris and Annemaria exchanged a meaningful glance before Tris sank back 
to the floor.  Annemaria sat very still, counting something on her fingers. 
George rolled over and rumbled. 
    "Man," he mumbled into Annemaria's thigh, "a ham sandwich would be 
perfect right now..." 
======================================================================== 98 
 
anyway, the original (Space is for Deadheads)  took place after the second 
(EPTP I) and now we return to an area within a sphere of diameter delta 
around the point in space-time at which the original ended.  yeah, i've 
spent way too much time around mathematicians... 
 
so we now join the story already in progress: 
 
 
     Grant hadn't seen a sunrise in five years. 
     That last time, he'd had a fight with his girlfriend and gone to the 
office.  He'd finished two weeks of work before walking out to his car in 
the faint morning light, still mad but far more tired. 
     This sunrise was completely different.  Different mood, different view, 
different sun. 
     He was supposed to be meditating.  George had assured him that sunrise 
on the Spring Equinox was the optimum time for making life-changing decisions. 
Then he'd started talking about how astronomers were natural shepherds, or 
was it the other way around?  In any case, Grant never found out why this 
morning he'd be able to make up his mind.  He'd have to, though.  Around 
lunch time it would be nine in the morning back in Santa Monica.  He'd 
have to either be there or not be going back. 
     He didn't want to go back.  No question.  He'd never wanted to go 
back to work.  It wasn't that he hated his job, he actually kind of 
enjoyed it.  It was just, well, it was his job.  He was exected to complain, 
it was one of his duties as an American citizen.  He wasn't expected to 
take up with a bunch of bohemians and their sacred pigs on an entirely 
different planet.  What would his mother say? 
     "My son, the CEO..."  She'd be thrilled.  She could successfully 
ignore all this weirdness even if he told her about it.  She'd just have 
to tell her friends' daughters that he was a little eccentric as she picked 
out likely prospects for him. 
     No, Mom wasn't the problem.  Neither was this place.  He didn't have to 
live here if he didn't want to.  Wasn't it part of the corporate image to 
have stylish homes in expensive neighborhoods and offices on the top floor 
of huge buildings?  Lightning Bolt wouldn't exactly narrow his options for 
living arrangements. 
     When he'd first seen that second moon, he'd have agreed to anything. 
George and the rest were obviously geniuses who owned the future.  Half 
an hour later he started looking for reasons to back out.  He suspected an 
elaborate plot, though for what purpose he couldn't imagine.  It was all 
just so strange.  Faster than light minibuses.  The first interplanetary 
corporation run out of a brew pub.  George, for god's sake, actually 
changing the world, just like he always said he would.  Pink and gold 
sunrises, roosters crowing, a pretty young woman bringing him breakfast -- 
these things happened to other people, not Grant Thomas. 
     "Morning," Tris said, handing him a bucket.  "The bread's local.  We 
figured, if the goats can eat the grass, we can probably eat the seeds. 
Noone's died of it, yet.  The bacon's Samson.  No coffee, but the milk's 
only been out of the goat long enough to get cold.  Happy equinox."  She 
sat down and munched on her own hunk of bread.  He continued to stare out 
over the landscape.  "You have to turn off the cruise control, Grant," she 
said suddenly.  "You're off the freeway, it's raining, and there are curves 
and deer for the next six miles." 
     "I'd rather pull over and let someone else drive." 
     "Ha!  You don't deserve a rest, this is the first challenge you've had 
in a long while.  Time to let the clutch out." 
     Grant sat silently, trying to remember what Ruth had said about the 
alien corn.  He was eating something he had definitely not been meant by 
evolution to eat.  It would be better with butter. 
     "Of course," Tris went on, "you have a certain amount of philosophical 
support for your stance.  Do nothing and nothing will remain undone, all 
that.  The strength of being like water, succumbing eternally to the whim 
of gravity and the contours of the land, but every stream carves it's own 
bed, changing it's route even as it follows it.." 
     Grant stared at her.  "Where do you get this stuff?" 
     "I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees..." 
     He followed her line of sight out to the horizon.  "I am the walrus," 
he muttered.  "Koo-koo-kajoo." 
     "Face it, Egg-man, you're staying.  You've always been the bamboo that 
bends while the mighty oak is toppled, and right now we're the wind.  So 
bend.  You know you want to do it, and you don't have one good reason not 
to.  You don't even have a bad reason.  Besides, if you back out now, 
Annemaria will never call you anything but Mr. Thomas."  She finished her 
bread and snagged his bacon. 
     "How can you eat anything you used to be on a first-name basis with?" 
     "What, Samson?  He saw the world, sired lots of fine piglets and made 
it past the average life expectancy.  And he's real tasty, to boot.  I make 
it a rule to never eat anyone I don't know..." 
     Grant stared out over the valley.  If he stayed, he'd just have more of 
these conversations he only half understood.  He'd end up getting to know 
his sausage--hell, Tris and George would probably out in the  fields 
introducing him to hops and blackberries.  He thought about coffee, real 
coffee, not the dandelion root imitation they drank here.  There was a 
capuccino maker right down the hall from his office, next to the microwave. 
He had a view of the beach.  He always had plenty of time to sip coffee, 
watch sunbathers and have conversations he understood about nothing 
important. 
     "I have to go back," he said, absent-mindedly eating the piece of 
bacon Tris handed him.  "I have to clean out my desk." 
========================================================================== 
 this is a pre-grant bit, for those 
of you keeping score at home.  if you've forgotten what the hell is going 
on, it shouldn't make a lot of difference, but i'm always happy to send 
out previous parts...  i'm still barely on speaking terms with my editor, 
please forgive typos, etc. 
 
           The Eightfold Path to the Transcendent Pig   III 
 
 
     "Finally got a mutant with usable wings..." 
     "I heard he bred 'em up to produce THC in the chops and LSD 
in the bacon..." 
     "Finally taught one to sing Cracklin' Rosie..." 
     "Nah, he twisted one into the lotus position and it started 
spouting Sanskrit..." 
     "Come on, George, you've been helping him, what's the 
scoop?" 
     "Believe it or not, I don't want to hazard a guess.  He's 
got a bunch of old perpetual motion machine parts, but that's all 
I know." 
     "Well, that explains everything.  Obviously, cold fusion 
only works in the presence of pork..." 
     "Close but no cigar."  Jason stood in the doorway with a 
beautiful spotted sow.  "Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, 
children of all ages, may I present Maybelline, the first 
transcendent pig!" 
     Amid wild applause he strode boldly across the floor and, with 
a theatrical flourish, whipped a tarp off the pile of mysterious 
equipment it had covered.  Maybelline calmly began eating peanut 
shells.  Jason adjusted some duct tape, tweaked a few wires, and 
whistled softly.  Maybelline trotted over and stood patiently 
while he strapped her into the contraption.  No one seemed to 
have anything to say. 
     Glasses stopped clinking when Jason flicked a switch and a 
low hum filled the bar.  The soft glug-glug of fermenting cider 
was lost in the insidious white noise as Jason scratched the pigs 
ample back.  Even the neon sign seemed to hold it's buzzing 
breath while Jason strolled back to the doorway.  The very 
molecules of the air muted their vibrations to see what was about 
to happen. 
     "Come here, girl.  C'mon, Maybelline.  Come to papa..." 
     A light breeze lifted Jason's floating hair, light caught 
his flashing eyes.  The impossible occurred, the silence got 
deeper.  There was a lump of empty space where the pig and her 
accessories had been.  A moment later, Maybelline was in the 
doorway, munching sweet corn.  Jason switched off the machine and 
all the stilled voices rushed back to fill the void that the hum 
had left. 
     "Does it work on people?" 
     "How far does it go?" 
     "What can she carry with her?" 
     "That didn't really happen, did it?" 
     "When do we start glowing and sprouting extra arms?" 
     "How do we know she didn't bring back a lectroid from the 
eighth dimension?" 
     "My god, did you see that?" 
     "It's black magic, run for your lives!" 
     "When can I try it?" 
     Jason unstrapped the pig and leaned against the wall, 
smiling.  Maybelline didn't say a word. 
     After a while, all those questions got lonely without any 
answers and stopped coming out to play.  Maybelline went back to 
snuffling around in the peanut shells.  Jason drew himself a beer 
and perched on a stool next to the bar. 
     "What we should do," he said, quaffing his ale, "what we 
should do is study Maybelline until we're sure there aren't any 
evil side effects and then do some experiments with human 
pilots." 
     He finished his beer and poured another.  "What will 
actually happen," he went on, "is we will do that as long as we 
can stand it.  So, in a couple of weeks..." 
     All those questions came rushing out to gyre and gimbol in 
the wabe.  Speculation ran rampant.  Beer flowed like, well, like 
beer on a good night at the Blind Pig.  Several excellent plans 
for world conquest were outlined and forgotten.  Someone figured 
out how to move all the ozone out of Los Angeles and into the 
hole above Anarctica.  Myriad plots to disarm nuclear missiles 
and free political prisoners were hatched.  At any given time, at 
least one person would be saying "What a great way to trade 
tapes!" and another would answer "Can you imagine going on tour?" 
     Even Maybelline didn't notice when Jason took his beer out to the 
porch steps.  Tris's eyes, or perhaps some other sense she'd been 
honing caught the motion and followed him out into the starry 
night. 
     "Well," she said.  "You've transcended your pig.  What do 
you do now?" 
     "I'm going to Disneyland..." 
     "Seriously.  Your quest is over, isn't it?" 
     "Oh no," he said softly, "I'm only now starting to realize 
what I'm after.  We've got a long way to go." 
     Tris smiled in the darkness.  She had a fondness for plural 
pronouns. 
 
======================================================================== 20 
 
      "Pigs and goats and fish better scurry..." 
      "George..." 
      "When I take you out in my surrey..." 
      "George!" 
      "When I take you out in my surrey with fringed 
 rag-top..." 
      "George!" 
      "What?  Oh, hi Grant.  Wanna help muck?" 
      "Um, sure.  Look George, I'm kind of troubled." 
      "Shovel's against the wall.  What's the problem?" 
      "Well, when you guys hired me, I figured I was helping 
 you do big things.  You know, the stars, the future, all 
 that stuff." 
      "You are, Grant, you are.  Couldn't do it without ya." 
      "That's good to know.  The thing is--could you stop 
 humming, George?  The thing is, well, as far as I can tell, 
 um, that is, whatever I'm helping you to do, well, the fact 
 is, I don't see anything happening." 
     "Well, we're all just cogs in the wheel, man, it's hard 
 to see the big picture when you're part of it." 
      "Yeah, well, if you say so.  I just don't get it.  I 
 mean, all this agriculture ... I had the impression that there 
 was something bigger than raising goats and baking bread 
 going on. 
      "Well, some would say that there is nothing bigger than 
 raising goats and baking bread.  After all, what could be 
 more important than providing wholesome food and doing 
 everything that needs doing.  Relax, man, I'm just 
 prolonging the suspense.  The Plan's in motion, and I don't 
 see one damn reason why you shouldn't get all the details. 
 So, I think we've earned an ice cold Dharma Lager or two, 
 gotta few stashed in the creek for just such an emergency. 
 Just leave the shovel where you found it, I'll deal with it 
 later.  C'mon, my friend, let us be findin' that rope." 
      Bits of muck and grime swirled away from their calves 
 as they waded in search of the cache of beer, and they both 
 quickly succumbed to the waters gentle seduction and 
 reclined full length on the creekbed, their toes pointed 
 toward the sea.  They relaxed in companionable silence. 
      "But you were wantin' to know about the Plan," George 
 said, exactly as if he had been talking non-stop about 
 something else entirely.  "The truth is, we don't know what 
 it is, yet." 
      "You mean you don't have one?" 
      "Well, truthfully, there's piles of 'em floating 
 around.  Scads of plans.  None of 'em quite work, though. 
 There's always someone, for example, that wants to fix up 
 all of earth's society, set up some kind of fair and 
 equitable global government and expand from there.  Most of 
 their ideas just won't work, though.  We'd get bogged down 
 for generations trying to do that.  A few of 'em have 
 workable plans of attack, but their ideas of fair and 
 equitable don't pan out, y'know?  So, they don't get the 
 go-ahead." 
      "What do you mean, get the go-ahead?  What stops them?" 
      "Hmm?  Well, yeah, I guess you wouldn't know about all 
 that, would ya?  Well, all these plans hinge on the pilots; 
 stands to reason, that's the only edge we got, what else ya 
 gonna use?  Well, there's only a few pilots.  There's Jason, 
 of course, and there's me, and we're sure as hell not gonna 
 do anything we don't think we oughta be doing, and to be 
 perfectly honest with you, neither of us is about to cross 
 either Tris or Annemaria, and their ethics are a little more 
 stringent than mine.  The others, well, piloting is pretty 
 much all they care about.  They won't do anything that might 
 keep 'em from crawling back into one of those busses or bugs, 
 though i suppose they could always steal one ... now that you 
 mention it, I don't know.  I guess someone could stage a 
 coup if they were determined enough, but no-one's that 
 determined.  These folks, nothin' against 'em, their fine 
 people, and I'm just like 'em, but not one of 'em is any 
 good at organizing anything.  There's Annemaria, of course, 
 but she's not bent on takin' over the world or she'd a done 
 it by now.  And, just between you and me, I think the words 
 gotten out that we can set our sights a little higher?" 
      "I don't understand.  Didn't you just say fixing the 
 world was too much to pull off?  What bigger fish are you 
 going after?" 
      "Well, yeah, fixing what's wrong with the world is too 
 tall an order.  Just think for a moment, though, what if it 
 wasn't all wrong yet?  What if we could start from scratch 
 and make the rules from the beginning?  We have the whole 
 universe, Grant!  We can go out there and get it right!" 
      "How?" 
      "Well, like I said, we haven't exactly ironed that out, 
 yet.  The only thing we're really sure of is that we don't 
 want to turn the Pig Drive over to the world with no strings 
 attached.  I'm pretty much a fan of pure chaos, but Jason 
 doesn't want his invention used for evil, and I guess we 
 gotta respect that, even if he doesn't know how it works any 
 more than anyone else, he did discover the thing.  That's 
 kinda why we're here, y'know?  I mean, sure, originally we 
 just wanted to get out from under the various governments 
 and such like and do our own thing, but it's the perfect 
 place for us to figure out what to do next." 
      "I'm almost following you.  Open me another." 
      "Here ya go.  Where was I?  Well, see, we all kinda 
 know that this is Annemaria's world, y'know?  Just like it 
 was her place back in Oregon.  She never claimed it, it's 
 just hers.  So the question came up pretty fast, what about 
 all the people who don't fit in here, but who need some 
 place to go other than old Mother Earth?  What to do?  It 
 doesn't seem right to just send people out to randomly 
 despoil other planets like we did our own, but we don't want 
 to go around classifying and dividing and tellin' 'em they 
 gotta live like we say, or what's the point of givin' 'em 
 somewhere else to go?  It's a conundrum." 
      "What did they do with problems like this on Star 
 Trek?" 
      "Didn't have 'em, far as I can remember, just had to 
 try to not interfere with another species culture.  Similar, 
 but we don't have the cultures to not interfere with, yet, 
 if ya follow me." 
      "Good lord, George, what about other species?" 
      "Hmm?  Oh, doesn't come up.  See, it's a quirk of the 
 drive that you only find the kinda world you're looking for, 
 so we won't stumble onto another civilization till we're 
 ready for first contact.  I guess they could always find us, 
 but they could find us here, or in San Mateo, for that 
 matter." 
      "If you say so.  I guess you'd know more about that 
 than me.  Let me see if I've got this straight, you want to 
 open up more worlds for colonization.  You don't want to 
 just open the floodgates and set everyone out to the 
 frontiers to fend for themselves, but you also don't want to 
 hamstring everyone into following your way of life, which, 
 presumably, they don't want to follow or they'd stay here." 
      "Absolutely.  That's it in a nutshell all right. C'mon, 
 man, it's gettin' chilly out here.  Let's stash the shovels 
 and go find some food.  Dolores might let even let us dry 
 off by the stove if you sweet talk her." 
 
======================================================================== 141 
this is a short one.  for those of you in the know, we now return to a 
time after pigs have flown, so to speak, and before the illustrious 
grant left santa barbara. 
 
     The Eightfold Path to the Transcendent Pig, Part Five 
 
     She scraped her knee, again, in the last few feet. 
Every time she scraped her knee she promised herself she'd 
remember and be more careful, but she never was.  She 
sometimes liked to think of it as a necessary blood 
sacrifice to get to her retreat.  Only sometimes, though. 
If she thought about it more often, she'd probably remember 
to do something about it. 
     She had told someone about the sacrifice theory, 
though.  It added to the mystique that surrounded her 
retreat, or, at least, her retreating.  Everyone knew where 
she was.  She let it be known that she came to contemplate 
weighty matters, not to mention perform arcane rituals 
having to do with phases of the moon.  Sometimes she even 
did those things.  Sometimes she did them in the retreat. 
Usually, though, she sat and, after giving appropriate 
thanks, let her mind wander. 
     "Whew," she began her traditional thanksgiving, "alone 
at last!"  She gracefully collapsed in a heap to complete 
the ritual. 
     Her mind promptly wandered over to sex. 
     It hadn't come up for a while.  Once upon a time, she 
had almost constantly thought about sex.  Early on, she had 
bought into the whole dairy analogy and virtuously "saved" 
herself.  In retrospect, that period hadn't really lasted 
that long.  It had seemed like eternity at the time.  Then 
came the guy who seemed like he was worth it.  He wasn't, 
but it was.  So, logically, since such a jerk could be worth 
screwing, any other jerk would be, too.  Standards were, 
obviously, passe.  It didn't take many jerks for Tris to 
pass through that particular bardo state.  She then 
determined that she *could* sleep with whomever she wanted, 
but if she had reservations, she wouldn't.  That was easy to 
carry out, since there didn't happen to be anyone around 
that she was tempted to ravish. 
     That was no longer the case. 
     It was ridiculous, really.  She was opposed to pig 
farming, for pity's sake.  Though, she had to admit, the 
critters weren't as useless as she had thought.  And those 
pork chops with peach brandy were worth some bad karma. 
     "I should never have allowed this to happen," she told 
the sky.  The puffy, white clouds looked properly 
sympathetic. 
     "Never, never, never, never, never." 
     She frowned.  The sky hadn't answered before.  At 
least, not so clearly. 
     "Who said that?" she asked. 
     "Shakespeare.  I think King Lear..." 
     "That's not--never mind.  What are you doing here?" 
     Jason, the erstwhile object of her meditations, blinked 
twice. 
     "Should I leave?" 
     A bird should have twittered musically while Tris 
considered this question.  Unfortunately, the only bird 
nearby was a scrub jay, who obligingly squawked, but was 
unable to produce the proper pastoral ambience. 
     "I, um," Jason went on, as Tris showed no sign of 
reaching the end of her consideration, "I mean, we..." 
     The jay left, in search of something small to 
terrorize. 
     "We finished modifications," he finished, wondering why 
the announcement had gotten so difficult.  It had seemed 
extremely easy at the bottom of the hill.  Especially when 
George was doing the announcing.  That had been simplicity 
itself. 
     "I'll be making the test flight in a few minutes.  I 
thought you'd be interested," he finished again. 
     Tris crinkled up around the eyes.  "Nervous?" 
     "Who, me?  What do I have to be worried about? 
Throwing myself headfirst into a mysterious dimension that 
apparently allows pigs to travel really fast but has 
probably never contained a human before is child's play." 
     "Have faith in the quest." 
     "I do, I just have this nagging feeling that the 
purpose of the quest might be to get me off this plane of 
existence.  Or that this might be some elaborate test that 
I'm about to fail by not realizing some crushingly obvious 
reason why I shouldn't go." 
     "No, I think the worst that could happen is you'll come 
back married to a witch who will eventually kill your 
children." 
     "Oh, well, that's a relief." 
     Tris stood up and brushed herself off. 
     "Tell you what," she said, smiling.  "If you meet any 
likely looking witches, tell them you've got a hot date when 
you get back." 
     Jason raised his eyebrows.  Funny, he couldn't remember 
ever seeing Tris smile before, not with her whole face. 
     "And that'll keep me safe?" 
     "I guarantee it." 
     The jay returned and squawked romantically while she 
kissed him.  It was really trying hard. 
     The shakedown run was something of an anti-climax. 
     The jay, for example, missed the whole thing. 
     Jason and Tris didn't find out 'til the next morning 
that George had taken the contraption to Paris and bought 
champagne with Annemaria's sweater money.  Or that he had 
placed ads in several magazines and newspapers announcing a 
cheaper alternative to Federal Express. 
     And no one found out about the promise he had made to 
some folks with a newly deceased school bus in Ohio for 
another month. 
     Lightning Bolt Express, fast transport extraordinaire, 
was in business. 
 
======================================================================== 155 
       "George!  You old imperial pig-dog!  And Annemaria the Great!" 
       "I really wish you'd stop calling me that, Grant.  Makes me feel 
 like I should be bathing in blood or seducing horses." 
       "Sounds more like a circus act, to me.  See Annemaria the Great 
 perform Amazing Marvels of Prestidigitation!  Goggle as Jason's Mystical 
 Pigs tempt Fate with Feats of Daring and Wonder!" 
       "You aren't helping, George." 
       "Annemaria the Conqueror?  The face that launched a thousand 
 mini-buses?  Annemaria the Bringer of Goats to the New World?" 
       "You're more . . . convivial than usual, Grant." 
       "I am feeling pretty good, oh Queen of a Thousand Dairy Products. 
 Rotarians never let your glass get empty, and they never let you leave. 
 This figurehead thing involves a lot more gin and tonics than I ever 
 expected . . . Dolores, my barleywine angel, do we have some more 
 peanuts?" 
       "Y'know, Grant, you really oughta work dragons in somewhere.  Did 
 wonders for King Arthur.  Didn't really make old Vlad popular, but it 
 got him respect.  Too bad she can't be a son of the dragon--daughter of 
 the dragon just doesn't have the right ring to it . . . " 
       "Ha!  You just want something to slay so you can get canonized, St. 
 George the Ineffable!" 
       "Hey, cool!  St. George the Ineffable.  Man, I'm puttin' that on my 
 door.  If I ever get a door.  Yo, Tom, think ineffable would look good 
 on a door?" 
       George wandered further into the bar, muttering to himself.  Grant 
 watched him waft into a cloud of smoke in the corner, wondering if that 
 insight about Brownian motion would make sense if he were sober.  A bowl 
 of peanuts thwacked into his arm and he realized that Annemaria was 
 watching him intently.  She had eyes like quicksilver and storm clouds, 
 her regard could not be ignored.  He very carefully shelled another 
 peanut. 
       "Are you happy, Grant?" 
       "What, right now?" 
       "In general.  Are you glad you joined us?  Do you like your job and 
 everything that goes with it?" 
       He frowned into his glass.  Those little bubbles kept creeping to 
 the top and bursting, just like they always did.  "Sure," he said 
 finally.  "I like it here.  And it's fun being a big shot back in the 
 States.  I kinda hoped to be more involved in this conquest of the stars 
 thing, but I can see that, well, we also serve who also stand and wait, 
 I guess."  Damn bubbles.  He finished the glass.  That'd show 'em. 
 Annemaria tapped a shell against the bar.  "Come outside, Grant. 
 Let's look at the stars." 
 
       They stood together in a fallow field, looking at the sky.  Grant 
 automatically tried to find familiar constellations.  He'd probably 
 never stop hoping they were there, maybe a little warped or compressed. 
 They were still stars, the same as when he'd watched them from his 
 mother's backyard, they ought to make up dippers and warriors and women 
 on thrones. 
       The only queen around was Annemaria.  She was looking at the stars, 
 as well.  In the faint light of the stars, her eyes and hair were solid 
 moonlight.  "There are so many," she said in a small voice he hadn't 
 heard before.  "Think of all the worlds out there.  Every time we look 
 for one, we find it, exactly what we need.  Do you know how to knit them 
 together, Grant?" 
       He sat down and leaned back on his elbows.  "Are you asking me," he 
 said slowly, "how to run some kind of galactic empire?" 
       "It isn't an empire, and we aren't sure 'galactic' is accurate, 
 but, yes, I want to know if you have any ideas." 
       He reclined more completely and stared at the stars.  They still 
 wouldn't form into orderly patterns.  Supposing he was running some kind 
 of, well, she said it wasn't an empire.  It must be something.  Or it 
 would be something, once his imagination gave it shape.  That was the 
 idea, surely.  She nudged him with her foot and raised an eyebrow. 
       "Sorry, Annemaria.  I'm not the finest swordsman in all of France, 
 after all." 
       She grinned, a fleeting smile that lingered in her eyes.  Laughing 
 pools of mercury took his mind off astronomy.  "Are you saying you 
 haven't been nursing a secret vision of how to lead humanity in the 
 paths of righteousness?  You don't have a plan to use the Pig Drive to 
 make the universe more ideal?" 
       He squirmed.  "No." 
       She sighed and sat down.  "Me neither.  I think you and I are the 
 only two people involved with Lightning Bolt that don't." 
       "You don't?  You, the mastermind behind the conspiracy to unite 
 thousands of as yet unpopulated planets under the benevolent rule of 
 Lightning Bolt Express, courier service-cum-rod of empire?  Sorry, 
 not-empire.  I thought this was all your idea!" 
       "Grant, if I was in any kind of control, do you honestly think the 
 biggest advance in transportation technology since domesticated animals 
 would be called the 'Pig Drive'?  Sounds like it runs on Spam.  No one's 
 running this mad house." 
       "Wait a minute.  I'm sure George said there was a plan.  If you 
 don't know what it is..." 
       "Oh, sure, there're several.  We're surrounded by visionaries and 
 prophets.  Everybody has a dream.  Pilots make practice runs to rescue 
 refugees from various places, and someone cut a few deals with Japanese 
 corporations to . . . maybe you shouldn't know about that.  There's a 
 group that decided this world is too technologically advanced -- they're 
 pioneering a planetwide nomadic hunting-gathering culture on a world 
 Jason found specifically for them.  They'll probably be as stable as we 
 are here, soon.  This interplanetary commonwealth thing is happening, 
 with or without our plans." 
       "So, what, we don't need to do anything to control anything? 
 Pretty soon you'll dissolve Lightning Bolt and give me a gold watch and 
 whatever happens happens?" 
       She didn't answer right away.  He didn't want everything to end. 
 There had to be something more -- George and Tris weren't the kind of 
 people to let a chance to reinvent society get away.  No one would go to 
 all this trouble and then walk away. 
       "When I first went to Oregon and it was just me and the goats, I 
 had everything I'd ever wanted.  I was perfectly content.  After George 
 showed up and started bringing me strays, I didn't miss my solitude. 
 And I've never been sorry I came here and became this bizarre 
 semi-colonial quasi-governor.  I am exactly as happy as I used to be.  I 
 never wanted any of those changes.  I didn't look for them.  George, 
 Tris, just about everyone who has anything to do with Lightning Bolt; 
 they all know what they want to happen. 
       "When we first brought you here, Tris was afraid that your plans 
 for the Pig Drive wouldn't mesh with what we were doing.  I've been 
 watching you, and it seemed to me that you didn't *have* plans.  And I'm 
 very glad you just confirmed that. 
       "You and I, Grant, people with no agenda of our own, we're going to 
 determine the course of humanity's expansion to the stars." 
       "To shape destiny, have no goal?  That's very Zen.  I don't get 
 it." 
       "Sure, put it like that and it sounds mystical and ridiculus.  Let 
 me try again. 
       A society is evolving under our noses, a society formed out of the 
 dreams of some really great people, a community spanning distances we 
 can't conceive.  You and I are going to pay attention to the unwritten 
 laws that are unfolding and record the most important so they can last 
 the centuries after Tris is just a mysterious legend." 
       "Most important laws?  Last for centuries?  You think big for 
 someone with no dreams . . . " 
       She grinned and tossed him a peanut.  "Guess I need you to keep me 
 honest.  I'm trying to do the Voltaire thing, make my only dream be that 
 other people can create theirs.  You're right, it's hubris.  But . . ." 
       Grant stood and dusted off his pants.  "Somebody's got to do it," 
 he said, holding out his hand.  "Let's go save the world, grey-eyed 
 Annemaria." 
 
. 
