It was happening: His belly had lost that explosive bulge, his thighs had shrunk, and his neck had reappeared. No longer did he look like a giant pink bullfrog. Even the beer wings had begun to melt despite the suspicion that he had been born with beer-wing genes.

All the weight machine activity had given definition to his arms and shoulders. His breasts began to give way to pectorals, and, remarkably, he could make out the physique he had inhabited as a younger man.

Even more remarkable, he could fit into 36-waist pants-down three inches. In another month he'd be a svelte 34. And maybe by summer, a dashing 32-his college waistline. The speculation sent a thrill through his loins.

There is a God! And He/She dropped Roger Glover into my lap.

The best part was how he felt: confident, light-hearted, funny, and quick with the old wit. He had also stopped thinking old. In a word, Wally felt happy. Happy, as he hadn't known since the early days of his marriage to Marge. Or even earlier, because this form of happiness was the kind reserved for the young who drank life to the lees from bottomless cups. When friends and colleagues remarked how good he looked, he simply told them that he'd joined a health club and gone on a diet.

Of course, only Roger knew the truth-and Roger's wife. Wally wished he could see Wendy again; it had been thirty years. Roger admitted it would be fun to share old times, but it was dangerous. Even though the Feds had apparently called off the investigation, were they to spot the three of them whooping it up in a bar, they would smell a rat. You don't accuse a people of mass murder, then retract your claim only to become drinking pals.

Wally opened the window. Cool just-spring air flooded in. Amazingly, it even smelled different-the way it did when he was a kid. Elixir was like a transfusion of new blood. Heightened vision, brighter eyes, smoother skin, higher energy level. And a blazing libido. "A couple more injections," he had told Roger, "and I'll probably grow another penis."

Last week Wally had leased himself a second car-a shameless look-at-me-red convertible Porsche Boxster. And next Tuesday he had his first appointment at a hair transplant clinic. He also put his lonely-guy divorce house on the market and planned to move into a city condo next month. And that afternoon he had converted three hundred thousand dollars in bonds to aggressive-growth mutual funds.

Life was good. And getting better by the day.

He got dressed. Although he had designs on the kinds of outfits old rockers wore to the Grammys-a black pullover under an unstructured black sportcoat-he needed to drop another few pounds. Soon enough, he told himself-Keith Richards, Paul McCartney, and Wally Olafsson.

Tonight he would suffer tradition in a dark pin-stripe by the Brooks Brothers. As a concession to impending youth, he shocked his white shirt with a here-I-come polychrome Jerry Garcia tie. The final touch was an expensive pair of slick black dress boots. He hadn't had a pair since the Roy Roger specials when he was nine.

When he finished, he looked in the mirror and in his best Jack Palance voice said, "Shane, this town ain't big enough for the two of us!" and he snapped off the light.

He headed out to the garage and hopped into the Porsche. He checked himself in the mirror then drove across town feeling like Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

They were going to dinner. Le Bocage, the fanciest new restaurant in town. He and Sheila Monks, aka Wonder Woman.

"So you like older men? Heck, you had me fooled."

"It was a bad day. I had just broken up with a guy and had sworn off the entire male race."

"You mean that densely wadded dude I used to see you with?"

"Yeah, that's him. Tory. After we broke up, he joined another club."

Tory: The beefcake Alpha with the baseball biceps, bumped by middle-aged-but-on-a-comeback Wally Olafsson. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly came between you and old Tor?"

"His snowboard."

Wally looked at her blankly. "His snowboard," he repeated, as if taking an oath.

"Yeah, and his Roller Blades, tennis racket, golf clubs, shotgun, and mountain bike."

"This guy some kind of sports-equipment fetishist?"

Sheila chuckled. "Kind of. All we ever did was some form of athletic competition. He was a nice guy, but he was more committed to his hunting dog than me. When he joined a rugby team, I cashed in. I lacked the leather balls."

Wally smiled and sipped his champagne. Beauty, brains, and wit to boot. Sheila was the producer and host of a local cable TV program with dreams of moving to the networks. Her latest show was on the failure of America to adopt the metric system. It wasn't a barn-burner, but next week she was interviewing Mikail Gorbachev who was coming to UW Madison to accept an award.

"I know how corny this sounds, but, frankly, I prefer older men. Men in their forties."

Wally smiled. Thank you, God. December-May rapidly becoming November-May. It crossed his mind that if things continued with Sheila, they would eventually reach May-May.

Yikes! Then what?

But Wally was savoring life from moment to moment. And at the moment, it was very sweet.

"So how old are you exactly?"

Wally had expected that. Even though this was their first official date, they grew friendly at the club and had gone for coffee. He looked about ten years younger. But he couldn't lie because if their relationship continued, she would meet his friends and son and learn his real age. If they became "serious," he'd have to explain the "cell plateau" down the road. Fifty-seven would shock; forty-seven would be a lie. Already he was sensing dilemmas.

As they sat there smiling into each other's eyes over champagne and trout amandine with white asparagus, Wally had to remind himself that although Sheila was a delightful young woman, there were many other delightful young women in the world-and so much time.

It was hard to comprehend, but Wally Olafsson's life was becoming an infinite moment.

Suddenly Wally saw himself from afar, sitting in this elegant room full of other couples sipping from each other's eyes, and it occurred to him just what a strange and wondrous thing he was becoming. They were mere mortals, while he was experiencing an apotheosis. He felt like an extraterrestrial sitting among them. No, like some kind of secret deity.

"Well?" Sheila said.

Wally giggled to himself. "I've never had a problem converting to metric."

She frowned. "I don't follow you."

"You asked my age."

"Yeah?"

"Twenty-nine Celsius."

Sheila laughed and dropped the subject.

27

Something told Roger that he was being watched. Call it a sixth sense or psychic powers or conditioned paranoia, but he was like one of those delicate seismographic devices that picks up tremors just below the threshold of human perception.

It didn't go off very often, but when it did he knew it-like that time last month when the two Feds had put the shop under surveillance. They dropped out of sight a couple days later, probably convinced they were tailing an innocent all-American family going about its business of being unremarkable.

Now the needle was jumping again while he and Brett stood in a line of other runners at the registration table for the 7K Town Day Charity Race.

He looked around, trying to determine the epicenter. Lots of people milled about-runners, spectators, photographers-but nobody seemed to be paying them particular attention. No one but Laura who waved from the gallery at the start and finish line.

False alarm, he thought.

It had happened before in crowds. And this one was alive with nervous energy. Runners were jumping in place, pacing, stretching, getting in some last carbo kicks from PowerBars and O. J. Just the collective electricity of the mass, Roger decided, and got back to the moment.