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had an innate sense about tools and technology。 Mechanical； electrical； digital； if it got up and ran； Gary Taylor could figure out what made it tick。
He was bench engineer for WPAL。 Mostly； he did equipment repairs； transformer maintenance； a monthly checkup of the broadcast tower and the microwave uplink； but he was pretty much qualified to handle any broadcast situation。
It was a good gig； as gigs go。 But it was still just a job。
Gary worked to live； and not vice versa。
He'd grown up on farms； the son of migrant workers； which was a romantic way to say he'd grown up hard。 A lot of drifting； a lot of backbreaking； monotonous scrabbling in the dirt； with very little return to speak of。 On more than one occasion he'd had to lend a hand in birthing cattle and then drown a batch of kittens in the very same day。 He'd known hunger…not the what's for supper not hamburger again kind but the real thing； the bottomless dull…knife gnawing in your belly that's the last thing you feel at night and the first thing that greets you in the morning。 He'd known hardship and hopelessness and despair； and by his own bootstraps he'd hauled himself out of all of it。
The experience had； if nothing else； given him a useful perspective。 When life deals you shit； make fertilizer。 If the nukes hit tomorrow； and they survived； he'd raise mutant cows with Gwen and be just as happy。
Gary reached under the block and freed the crankcase bolt； nudging the catch pan under the engine block with his knee。 On the outside the softtail looked bone…stock； but he'd tweaked and cranked it until it was two…hundred and forty horses of flat…out drag bike； street legal but just barely。 It could do a buck and a half without even breaking a sweat； though Gary'd never really cranked it past one…twenty； and not much over ninety since Gwen put the bun in the oven。
Oh well 。。。 ； he thought。 Must be gettin' conservative in my old age。
Little Feat was on the radio。 Let It Roll。 The garage door was open； and bright streamers of light filtered in。 The day had turned Indian summer…warm； and Gary was looking forward to one last ride before the cold： burning down some back roads； heading nowhere and loving every minute of it。
〃Hey； Dad；〃 Gwen said； appearing behind him； a steaming mug already in her hands。 〃Want some coffee？〃
〃Thanks； Mom。〃 Gary stood and turned toward her； accepting the Java and a kiss。
〃Ick； you're all slimy；〃 she said； pulling away。
〃Thought you liked slimy；〃 he said； nuzzling her。
〃Not like that；〃 she said； pushing away and moseying over to the door。 〃Better get cleaned up； babe。 We gotta be at the airport by eleven 。。。 〃
〃Blech！〃 Gary cut in。 He made a sour face and stared at his cup。 〃What's with this coffee？〃
〃I just made it；〃 Gwen said； perplexed。 〃What's wrong？〃
〃It tastes like shit。 That's all。〃 He held out the cup to Gwen； she sniffed it。 There was an ugly； bitter taint。
Gwen shrugged； hurt。 〃I don't know； I got it at a little shop at the Galleria。 It's expensive enough。〃
〃Yeah； well；〃 Gary said。 〃It tastes like they got it from the wrong Valdez。〃 He hoisted the steaming mug sarcastically。 〃Coffee by Exxon； the richest kind of coffee。〃
She didn't laugh。 He sniffed the coffee again。 〃Yech；〃 he said； recoiling。 The milk had curdled into a mottled curlicue shape like a question mark； spinning slowly in the center of the cup。 〃Fuck it；〃 he muttered； pouring the remainder into the waste…oil pan。 Then he held the empty cup up to Gwen。 〃Thanks anyway； babe。〃
She took it and shrugged。 〃Make it yourself next time。〃
〃Shit； babe； I didn't mean nothing by it；〃 he said； but she had already turned away。
〃Better get ready；〃 she called over her shoulder； and shut the door just a little too hard。
Gary winced。 〃I'M SOR…REEE 。。。 ！〃 he wailed。
The thud of cupboard doors slammed in response。 〃Shit；〃 Gary sighed； scooping up a glob of GoJo from the can at the utility sink to wash up。 〃You can't win。〃
Pregnant women go of on the weirdest things； he thought miserably。 Fucking hormones； it seemed like every time he turned around he was stepping on another emotional punji stick。 In the shithouse for insulting her stupid special…occasion fifteen…dollar…a…pound yuppie coffee； for christ sakes。 God I'll be glad when this is over。
In the meantime； there was not much to do but practice his eggshell softshoe and hope nothing else went wrong。
The phone rang。
〃Oh； no；〃 he gasped； eyeing the Cobra cordless on the workbench。 There was only one reason why the phone would ring this early on a Sunday； and it wasn't to wish him a nice day off。 He rinsed his hands； wiped them off on his pants； and finger…bed his hair； giving the caller time to give up。
It was no use。 He picked up on the fourth ring。
〃What is it； Bob 。。。〃 he sighed。
〃How'd you know it was me？〃 Bob Dobberman asked； genuinely incredulous。
〃Experience；〃 Gary said。 〃Cut to the chase； Bob。〃
Bob 〃The Knob〃 Dobberman was Gary's boss； a rotund and genial technogeek； right down to his pocket protector and basementful of ham radios。 He was 'PAL's head engineer； and he did live for his job： Sigma Delta Theta； Society of Broadcast Engineers； the works。 〃We got a little emergency down at the station；〃 he said。 〃Something screwy with the news department's edit deck。 Can you do it？〃
〃Bob；〃 Gary groaned； drawing his name out into two exasperated syllables： Bah…ahb。 〃Jeezus。 I just worked two shifts； back to back； and I've got to pick up Gwen's friend at the airport in less than an hour。
〃What about Brian？〃 Gary offered。 〃He ought to be able to fix a fucking jammed deck。〃
〃Yeah； sure；〃 Bob scoffed。 〃Brian couldn't find his own ass with both hands and a map。〃
〃How 'bout you？〃
〃I would if I could；〃 Bob said。 〃But Penny's sick； and who's gonna take care of the kids？ They can't finish editing without it。 They won't be able to do the news 。。。 〃 He laid it on with a trowel； delivering the last bit with an air of genuine dread。
Gary smiled despite himself； God knows； where would we be without the eleven o'clock news。
〃Alright；〃 he conceded。 〃But that's it！ Fix the deck and I'm gone。 No bullshit。〃
〃You got it！〃 Bob said； relieved。 〃Thanks； Gar； you're a pal。〃
〃Yeah； yeah；〃 Gary groused。 〃You owe me； motherfucker。〃
He clicked off and walked into the kitchen to break the news。 Gwen was quietly banging things around； taking the dishes out of the drying rack； clicking cups and plates with a deliberate intensity。
〃Uh； babe 。。。 〃
〃I heard；〃 she said。 〃Mr。 Dedicated。〃 She swished soapy water in the now…emptied coffee carafe； rinsed and racked it。 She said everything in those two words that he needed to know。 Eggshell City。
〃It's just a jammed deck；〃 he offered apologetically。 〃I'll be back in plenty of time to make it to the airport。〃
〃It's okay；〃 she said； meaning it isn't。 〃I'll get her myself。〃
〃I don't want you driving；〃 he blurted； instantly regretting it。
She grabbed a glass； went swish swish swish。 Meaning I don't care what you want。
Gary took a step toward her； Gwen racked the glass almost hard enough to chip it。 The translation was the aloha of unspoken marriage…speak； and its meaning was crystal…clear。
Touch me； you die。
Gary backed off。 There was nothing else for him to do； or say。 This was one storm front that had to blow off of its own hormonal accord。
〃I'll be back in a flash； darlin'；〃 he said。 〃Promise。〃
Gary grabbed his leather jacket off the peg by the garage door entrance and closed the door quietly behind him。 Gwen was still washing and rinsing； but her shoulders were shaking ever so slightly。 She cried silently； covered it with dishwashing clatter。
Gary refilled the oil and readied the bike； heart aching。 Poor baby； he thought。 Sure gonna be a better world when Spike finally pops。 The homestretch was the hardest； for both of them。
He donned his leather and riding gloves。 His helmet sat on the passenger hump of the seat。 It was a ninja…black road…warrior style fiberglass monstrosity； a precautionary pie…Father's Day gift from Gwen。 It encased his whole head and face； with just a little snap…on plate for his eyes； the kind of helmet only rice…burner riders thought was cool。 He hated it； but loved her for giving it to him。
Gary straddled the softtail； keyed it on； and kicked it over； the engine roared to life。 It thrummed between his legs； Gary felt instantly better； his head clear。
Fuck it； he shrugged。 Into each life； and all that shit。 If the gods of expectant fatherhood were with him； the sun would be shining when he got back。
Gary gunned the engine； eased out of the garage； and rode。
Right into the thick of it。
Twelve
The muter flight from Philly to Paradise sucked； and by ten thirty…five； despite her best efforts to remain in good cheer； Micki Bridges had pretty much exhausted her options。 She was too tired to read； too wired to sleep； and way too close to blowing chunks for her to sit back and enjoy the ride。
The turbulence； of course； was at the root of her distress。 Every sledgehammer thud against the little plane's fuselage helped inch her stomach a little higher up into her lungs。 She groaned as the plane lurched abruptly toward sea level； caught itself hard。
Soft laughter emanated from the curtained…off cockpit： the pilot and copilot； yocking it up。 She could barely hear it over the drone of the engines； but it dragged a nervous； involuntary smile to her lips。 〃Glad somebody's enjoying this；〃 she muttered to herself。
〃Sorry about that folks。〃 The tiny inter buzzed to life with the pilot's voice。 〃We're just passing through some rough air here； there's a little storm front moving by overhead。 Not to worry； though； estimated E。T。A。 in Paradise is approximately twenty…seven minutes。 So hang in there； and thank you for flying US Air。〃
Another thud rocked the plane。
〃Oh； great；〃 Micki moaned； trying to keep her digestive system moored。 Her long ebony hair； laced with premature gray； spilled over her face； she brushed it back and groaned some more。
Micki Bridges was a handsome woman； agelessly attractive； youthful and mature by turns； one could guess ten years to either side of her thirty…three years and not seem too far off the mark。 But now her riveting； deep…set eyes were etched with the shadow of fatigue； and nausea had leeched off some of the healthier tones from her naturally olive skin； leaving her a tad on the greenish side。
She was ing down from Amherst； straight off the New World Symposium on EcoHarmony； with no breakfast and very little sleep under her belt。 All in all； she was glad she'd gone。 It was a chance to throw support behind a worthy cause； get together with handfuls of people she admired； meet her public； promote her books； and network like crazy。 All expenses paid。
For four days； she had done just that。 The organizers had outdone themselves； securing everyone from John Denver to Jean Houston； Carl Sagan to Stewart Brand； with a sobering keynote speech by Bill 〃The End of Nature〃 McKibben。
The speakers were passionate。 The cause was just。
And； in the end； very little had really changed。
Because half the people in attendance had e to see the world saved for them； by famous stars and noted authors。 A large percentage had e to hawk their ecologically correct wares： the water purifiers and solar conversion kits and biodegradable； nonphosphate； lemon…fresh detergents for the modern New Age lifestyle。 A far smaller percentage had e in the hope of finding support for their own little homegrown save…the…world strata gems： each one grandiose； sweeping； and impossibly naive； and all structured so as to place themselves squarely at the imaginary helm of Spaceship Earth。
But the real problem； Micki mused； was the perennial problem with the New Age： in its boundless optimism； its proponents had a tendency to offer far too much； make extravagant claims and promises they could never in a million years live up to； thereby turning love of the Mother Earth into so much New Age snake oil。
The hype surrounding this show； for example； promised that monies earned would go straigh