SIXTEENThe smile had surprised him, but Mike got over it. He was starting to get an inkling of something, something that would explain a lot. He hesitated to think too hard on it, though; it is a capital mistake to theorize without data.
He looked around. Connie had found herself a drink somewhere and was chatting up the nongendered beatnik, who had ditched the fake glasses and picked up a small fedora. Sandie and the Nacho person had moved off to talk business with a woman whose shirt urged readers to “Eat At Mag’s.” A low murmur had sprung up in the Zone, but still, everyone remained mostly seated. It looked as though no one could work out an appropriate reaction to what they had just heard.
John, meanwhile, had been forgotten. He stood still on the dais, bathed in a halo of dull, yell
