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Show Page 153 Mr. Cicerone's ears had perked up the first time back in Chicago when ixelrad had asked about the possibility of his doing some writing on Cheyenne Mountain. "What kind of writing?" the old man had asked, and at first seemed a bit disappointed to hear that Axelrad's interests were exclusively scholarly. "I had in mind a different kind of writing to go with this particular project," he said, and suddenly got this bright-eyed "esoteric" look that said he was about to toss a crazy idea out merely for chit-chat's sake. "You know, it would be possible to throw together a kind of book about this project, wouldn't it? Possibly something aimed at the paperback racks. Somebody might write all of this up for some future generation when popular opinion has finally come around to seeing the Tightness of what our Companions are doing at the encampment." It hadn't even vaguely occurred to Axelrad in that initial meeting to ask the old man what, exactly, in the name of Christ, were the Companions ioing at this ostensible encampment. He'd been too busy watching and listening to the many colors and sounds of this brilliant old businessman, so ioubly successful in the mutually hostile worlds of business and academe: ie'd actually been invited to the university as a guest lecturer. That's how they'd happened to meet in the first place, and how this strange, ronderful chapter of Axelrad's life had been opened. "You've apparently spent a good deal of time on university campuses, son," continued Mr. Cicerone. "Do you know of any cheap, unemployed ghostwriters - preferably young and ideologically malleable?" The old man intoned that question with exaggerated earnestness, like 3 joke, and they both laughed. "Save that idea for future reference," he |