Theet Logos shook his head in dismay, holding the letter in his left hand at the breakfast table in his double-wide, and absent-mindedly plucking at his banjo, balanced on the floor beside him, with his right. Dang!! Summonsed as a witness!! How was he gonna squeeze this in, with negotiations with PepsiCo for his faltering rare folk recordings business just comng to the crucial point. He had held out for seven figures, arguing that this particular plateau had personal significance to him and he would settle for anything that met this idiosyncratic standard, and nothing that would not.

He picked up the green Princess phone from the countertop and dialed the number printed on the heavy black-Gothic embossed stationary. While it rang in the distant offices of Scroom, Karmen and Goeing, he made a mental note to buy a new hunting knofe.