“You don’t know the half of it, Fitz—this is going to be the biggest adventure of your life, of all our lives, and we’re really going to have a chance to assess the potential of these chemicals, not simply for clinical use but for mind expansion. Do you believe in group consciousness—I mean, that it’s possible?”

“Truthfully? I don’t know.”

Tim let out a laugh. “Always the scientist, right? But we’re going to find out, Fitz, that’s for sure. Now, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind doing me a little favor?”

A little favor? Tim could have asked him anything—sprint to Mexico and back, jump out the window, strangle McClelland, Kellard and Mortenson in their sleep—and he would have done it without question. “Sure,” he said, “what is it?”

“It’s the house. It’s gotten a bit out of hand, really, and Professor Sokoloff’s coming back from sabbatical next week and I won’t be here to give him the key because I’ll be down in Zihuatanejo—setting things up for everybody. You understand? I’m going to need someone to deal with that. Oh, Ken and Fanchon are going to tidy up, but they’ve got to be in Connecticut for his sister’s wedding and my kids aren’t going to be there—they’ll be staying with Royce Eggers and his wife till they fly down first week of July, so you see my predicament?”

“Sure,” he heard himself say, “sure, I’ll take care of it. No problem.”

From the outside, the house looked fine. It really was impressive, a three-story Georgian revival mansion crowning a hill with a series of stone steps leading up from the street. The lawn was ragged and there were branches and leaves scattered across the expanse of it, but the shrubs were in bloom and the flowers in the neglected beds were pushing through the weeds to lend a little color and scent the air. Inside, it was different. The house held the chill of the night and the pervasive odor was of the cold ash that lay six inches deep in the fireplaces—that and the urine the dog had been so conscientious about depositing on the carpets. And something else too—was that marijuana or just the stale reek of cigarettes? Cigarettes, he decided as he pulled the door shut behind him, because Tim forbade marijuana on the premises, for the very good reason that marijuana was illegal and the last thing he needed—any of them needed—was to give the police a reason to come knocking at the door.