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Chaplin’s footprint square at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and in fact that square isn’t in the theater forecourt anymore, it was removed in the 1950s when everybody was saying Chaplin was a communist, and then it got lost. We’ve already got a couple of sayanim trying to trace where it went.”
    Malk sighed heavily. “She’d be eighty- five this year, actually. Born in ’02.” He pulled his sweaty shirt away from his chest to let the fan cool the fabric. “Why wouldn’t Sam try to read the writing on the stone?”
    â€œIt’s like trying to read in dreams, apparently—if you engage the part of the brain that knows how to read, you fall out of the projected state. Ideally we’d have totally illiterate remote viewers, who could just draw the letters and numbers they see, with no inclination to try to read them. But I think it obviously said something like ‘To Sid Grauman, from Charlie Chaplin.’”
    â€œI think this is in L.A., not Shasta,” Malk said. “The guy didn’t say ‘the Chinese Theater in Hollywood,’ he just said the Chinese Theater, like you’d mention a restaurant in your area.”
    â€œMaybe.” Lepidopt looked at his watch. “This here tape is only…fifty-five minutes old. Scoot right now to the Chinese Theater and see if there’s a man and a little girl there, looking for the Chaplin footprints or asking about them.”
    â€œShould I yell ‘Marity,’ and see who looks?”
    Lepidopt paused for a moment with his cigarette liftedhalfway to his mouth. “Uh—no. There may be other people around who are aware of the name. And don’t be followed yourself! Go! Now!” He stood up and opened the bedroom door.
    Malk hurried past him to the apartment’s front door and unbolted it; and when he had left, pulling it closed behind him, Lepidopt walked over and twisted the dead-bolt knobs back into the locked positions.
    â€œOne minute,” he said to Glatzer and Bozzaris, and he strode past them into the spare bedroom and closed the door. The faint music still vibrated in the aluminum foil over the window.
    Lepidopt crouched by the bedside table, ejected the new tape and then slotted the cassette they had made at noon—the session that had made him send Malk off on his aborted trip to Mount Shasta—and pushed the play button.
    â€œâ€”goddamn machine,” said Glatzer’s voice. “I’m seeing an old woman in a long tan skirt, white hair, barefoot, she’s just appeared on a Navajo-looking blanket on green grass, beside a tree, lying on her back, eyes closed; it’s cold, she’s way up high on a mountain. There are people around her—hippies, they’re wearing robes, some of them, and face paint—beards, beads—very mystical scene. They’re all surprised, asking her questions; she just appeared in the meadow, she didn’t walk in. They’re asking her if she fell out of the tree. She’s—lying on a swastika!—made out of gold wire; it was under the blanket, but they’ve moved her, and they’ve seen the swastika. Now one of the hippies is taking a cellular telephone from his backpack—some hippie—and he’s making a call, probably 911. Uh—‘unconscious,’ he’s saying; ‘In Squaw Meadow, on Mount Shasta…ambulance’—now she’s speaking—two words? ‘Voyo, voyo,’ she said, without opening her eyes. Ach! Her heart is stopping—she’s dead, and I’m out, it’s gone.”
    Lepidopt pushed the stop button, and slowly stood up. Yes, he thought, it was her. We found her at last, just as she died.
    He walked back into the living room.
    â€œCan I go too?” asked old Sam Glatzer, getting up from the couch. “I never did get any lunch.”
    Lepidopt paused and looked over his shoulder at him. Glatzer reminded him of