“He’s here? What’s he doing here?” Even as he posed the question he knew the answer—these people, these clowns in motley, thought they had something in common with Millbrook, thought they’d be welcome, but that wasn’t the case at all, not even close. Didn’t they belong in California? Wasn’t that where they’d come from? Well, let them go back there—and the sooner the better. He went to the swinging door and peered into the big room beyond and there they were, milling around, smirking, picking things up and setting them down again as if they were in a thrift store. He saw now that some of them were wearing face paint though it was three months to Halloween yet and that one—a man—had hair to his shoulders and a crow’s feather cocked behind his ear. Another, incredibly, had a movie camera balanced on one shoulder, recording every slouch and gesture.

“So is Tim home?” the one in the cowboy hat asked. “I mean, can we see him? You know, get together?”

“Wild times,” somebody said. “Let’s do it.”

There was a burst of ragged laughter. They all seemed to be leaning on one another.

Tim, as everybody in the house knew, was riding out the second day of a projected three-day trip by way of purifying himself and he’d given strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed. Which made it difficult for Dick, who gave an equivocal answer and wondered if he could show them around the estate, the meditation house, the lake—did anybody want to see the lake?