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superhero?”
    “You can’t be a weak one.”
    “Why not stop at fewer orgasms per month?”
    “Fewer orgasms than necessary.”
    “That quota is just enough to keep your equipment in working order.”
    “Just enough.”
    “You could masturbate to do that.”
    “Sex is better than masturbation.”
    “You’re a romantic,” she said.
    “The world depends on it.”
    “This is for you and this is for America” Mona Doll said. “You save the world. AXIS is good. Therefore sex with you saves the world. Sex is good.”
    Now they both were dolls acting out like collected smooth porcelain collected and saved from childhood taken out for play in bedroom wonderland, equally dead and long lost except to a still throbbing instinctual association with the ever-known. It persisted ever more with time, instincts associated with being human. They positioned each other like doll figures. In her curves he sought a lost self. He was still allowed to wonder in his thoughts whether he was more real a person than the doll his nerves circuited. He would act out the act of love with no one else. A doll shaped from vague memory retention from forty years past and across the divide of the Twentieth Century. She released the alien colored mystiques fluttering the birdcage of his psyche. She was as mythic as his first ticket from home. She was all he had to connect with his existence as though he had before now. Today he was old enough to be his own parent. She was a doll he could poison at will with his touch.
    There was music between the temple-white walls of the Oval Office. It was late and beyond the white walls was the blackness of midnight. He was delivering a report to President Richard M. Nixon who sat with both ears cocked. The music was the infinite opening to the Isaac Hayes cover of
“Walk On By.”
He was part of the contingent sent by Kinner & Membert Industries. Catherine Birkin sat to one side, Simon Stranko to the other. Nixon wanted to see them. Nixon had been to China and Brutalia was next. But the memory was unconfirmed and unreliable.
    Thirty minutes later his pulse slowed back to an assumption. Mona Doll faded into the air like dream vapor then was gone. He switched off the TV. On one level he had to admire the Puritanism of it. Once reality took you there you had no actual reason not to spend your life fighting evil.
    Spector went to the bathroom to take a leak. Again he studied the face in the mirror. Every time at first look it was the face of someone he did not know. But that happens anyway whenever a person steps outside the continuous assumption of his or her identity; for something that absolute its border is surprisingly close.
    He drank three more martinis. Then he slept. Sleep was different now. Crossing that border was now like switching off a machine. When he was switched off
the city was a throb underneath the blankness. Here it flickered with a billion myths, cave drawings and magic. Then the city faded to darkness like the vacuum tubes inside a space age TV set.
    His subconscious had no chance to shape his dreams, was given no time for surrealism. Sleep was now an abstract version of waking. His brain restlessly tracked the shadowy self of decades past for missed information. His subconscious had been reduced to the decorator’s role of dream-coloring that obsession with the absurd, appearances by the long dead. Once in a while it had the boldness to cast Mona Spector in roles that had them meeting for the first time. She would be so close to him to touch. He would be a few trembling breaths from asking her out for a first date. The dream would never last those breaths before it took her away.
    Crossing the border to waking was now a machine switching on itself. He awoke with unspeakable freedom. He had the freedom to lie there until the scale of what he had become stretched out around his body then settled upon him. Then the scale shrank to what he was that day like there had never been anything