“Seventy-five dollars apiece,” Tim said. “As a donation, a minimum donation. More if the spirit moves them.” He was at the head of the table, as usual, the dinner dishes cleared away, candles burning, wine and beer flowing, a pair of marijuana cigarettes—joints—making their slow way from hand to hand. He’d thought everything out. He was in charge, guru and impresario both, as capable as anybody of finding a way to profit from the inner life, and that was all that mattered now—they had to keep things going. They had to. And while Joanie hated the idea of strangers intruding on them—more strangers—what was the alternative?

“We’ll start,” Dick was saying, “with maybe twenty couples—”

“Which will net us a nice clean three thousand dollars,” Tim said, giving a glance round the table. “Which, I think you’ll all agree, is a nice weekend’s work, no?”

She was stunned. Three thousand dollars. That would solve a lot of problems, one of which was that she hadn’t even begun to look for work yet, though their nest egg was just about gone and she was feeling increasingly guilty about it. Corey needed a new winter jacket. Needed boots. Christmas was coming up. Would she get a share? Would they all? Or maybe a salary—the Castalia Foundation could pay out salaries, couldn’t it?

“What are we going to feed them?” Paulette wanted to know. She was slumped in her chair, glassy-eyed. She’d lost weight, which was evident from the way her sweater hung from her in long depleted folds. And her hair, which had lightened so prettily under the Mexican sun, seemed to have lost its sheen. She looked exhausted. Of all of them, she put in the most time in the kitchen, so it wasn’t just an idle question.

“Same thing we eat,” Tim said, “only more of it.”

“Much more,” Charlie said.

“All that’s wonderful,” Susannah said, “but this isn’t a hotel. Who’s going to do all the cooking, clean the rooms—they’re going to expect clean rooms, aren’t they?”

“We’ll all pitch in,” Dick said. “It’s worth it, isn’t it? I mean, three thousand dollars? And it’s not as if we don’t have all the names and addresses of the people who joined the IFIF and now the Foundation—all we have to do is send out letters and watch the money roll in.”