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Godzilla.
    Easing to the kitchen in her black sneakers, she pulled out the stove and unplugged it. If her mother woke up and discovered her gone, Natalie would put a pan of grease on the stove and try to burn the house down. Then she would claim that Andromeda had tried to burn her up in the house. Wily old Natalie had a million ways to punish her daughter for leaving her. It was all a game, a test of wills.
    When she finished with the stove, Andromeda lifted a small pocket camera and clicked off a shot of the empty burners and the stove canted in the center of the room.
    Document
That’s what she’d learned. Document, document, document! She no longer argued with her mother; she simply handed over her photos and walked away.
    Andromeda checked her black military wristwatch with the night dial and the calculator embedded in the watch face. She punched in a small series of numbers and determined that if she rode an average of thirty-eight miles an hour to the restaurant, she would arrive there in thirteen point twelve minutes. It was time to leave. She would arrive exactly on time. Not late. Not early. Exactly on time.
    Timing was crucial. In life and in fiction. Tom Clancy understood timing. He could appreciate that while the commander of a submarine might explode a nuclear warhead at thirteen hundred on the nose, time meant something else to Betty Boop in Cleveland, Ohio, or Johnny Jones in Eastabutchie, Mississippi. That one second had a million repercussions, and what each person was doing at that exact second would forever change their future.
    It was a broad theme, to be sure, but one that Andromeda knew was the key to her own work. She might be able to put it aside when she wrote fantasies of her mother being abducted by aliens, but that was just a made-for-television movie. Her real work, her SF saga, dealt with time and the ability to control it. Mathematicians were already close. She kept up with the latest research, and she was one step ahead of the physicists and scientists who labored in the field–she had imagination.She could conceive of a place and future where time would become a salable commodity, like cocaine or diamonds. Precious, pleasurable, very expensive. Her work would be the groundbreaking movie that introduced the amoebae-brained public to the potential riches of time.
    Glancing at her watch again, she found that her fantasy had eaten up three precious minutes–she had to hustle if she was going to make it on time. This small delay meant she’d have to drive forty-one miles per hour. Still within the legal allowance, but it was cutting it close. She felt her belt where her keys hung from a leather strap and started for the doorway. Just as her hand touched the knob, she hesitated. On her silent rubber soles she slipped back into the living room where the television blared. A shelf beside the TV contained a selection of tapes, and she pulled one from the top.
    With a sly grin, she inserted it in the tape deck and stepped back. In a few moments the credits for
Throw Mama From the Train
would begin to role. Andromeda would be safely gone, and her mother might wake up to a subliminal message. It wasn’t freedom, but it was pleasurable.
    She slipped from the room and ran down the front steps. Her Harley Roadster was old, but it was perfect for scooting around the Gulf Coast. She felt the vibrations of the powerful machine beneath her.
    Sometimes, it was enough.
    “You’re not going to leave me like this?”
    Mona d’la Quirt lifted one high-booted foot to the bed and nudged the man who’d spoken in such a tone of disbelief edged with fear. It was the fear that excited her. It was almost a pity that she had to leave, but first things first. She nudged him again and there was the merry jingle of her silver spur.
    “The ropes aren’t tight enough to cut off your circulation.” She smiled. “Unless you struggle.” She removed the black silk scarf from around her waist and tossed it over the