Their beliefs were even more impenetrable to the average outsider. Everyone knew that the whole thing was a confused mishmash of UFO lore, Elvis Presley, and the Book of Revelations, but from that point on, the labyrinth of testament, epistle, and commandment became so complicated that only the faithful could even partially grasp what it was really about. Although technically it could be said that the Elvi had been born the night that Elvis Presley finally keeled over in his toilet at Graceland, the full-blown cult had not really taken hold until the mid-'90s. For a number of years, the media had gradually elevated obsessive fan behavior to a quasi-religion, but it was the publication of Dean Anthony's Book of the King that really twanged the string of fervent irrationality that appeared to run through all of the hard-core Presley fans. Dean Anthony was actually a drunken ex-rock writer who pulled together the mythology in the hope of making as much money as L. Ron Hub-bard. The fat, twelve-hundred-page tome contained everything from the power of positive thinking to the second coming of the King and the rise of Atlantis. It was shameless in its plundering of virtually the entire catalog of twentieth-century weirdness, but the Elvi swallowed it whole and began to reshape their lives according to its convoluted tenets. The doctrine had been truly nailed down when Anthony had been shot dead in a fight in an East Memphis barroom. His plan had been to build a giant pyramid on a landfill just outside the city. He had been locked in a protracted legal battle with both Elvis Presley Industries and environmental groups that feared that the weight of the structure would force even more toxins into the Mississippi River. Although the police report said that he had been involved in an alcoholically escalating argument with a neighborhood pimp, the true believers smelled conspiracy. That was understandable. The Book of the King was chock-full of interlocking conspiracy theories. Anthony was canonized as the first martyred prophet of the Elvi, and Elvis Presley Industries, as the prime target of Elvi paranoia, lost all control of the Elvis iconography and subsequently went bankrupt.

With the coming of the Faithful administration, the Elvi had been forced to weather a series of storms. There had been more than one attempt to have them labeled as heretics, and Vanson Crowell, a syndicated faith healer out of Bloomington, Indiana, had even gone as far as to organize burnings of the Book of the King. Crowell had been the first to learn the lesson that one did not screw around with the Elvi. The moment he started his campaign, his grass-roots following vanished like the morning mist, and his cash contributions dropped away to nothing. The intense competition in the God business did the rest. Vanson Crowell vanished from sight and the airwaves. The truth was that Middle America rather liked the Elvi. They were different, maybe crazy, but they seemed harmless and good-natured. They were also rooted in a phenomenon that, for over half a century, had been very dear to the heart of blue-collar America. They worked alongside everyone else on the factory floor. They bitched about the pay cuts and the rising prices. After work, they went to the bar. They were permitted to get drunk, arm wrestle, and hold their own in a fight. Anthony, renowned for his bleary, saloon macho, had allowed himself plenty of slack when drawing up the Elvi moral code. The Elvi religion, above everything else, demanded that its members be good ol' boys and gals.

A ripple ran down the line. One of the Elvi grinned amiably at Speedboat. "Figure we should be getting inside pretty soon."

Speedboat nodded. It did not cost anything to be civil to the natural cover. He held up his computicket. "Says the doors open at five."

The Elvi consulted a huge, antique Rolex that was strapped to his left wrist. "Five on the nail."

As they filed forward, the Elvi kept up a stream of small talk. One thing that Speedboat thoroughly detested was non-conversations with total strangers. It was made worse by the fact that the line moved excruciatingly slowly. This Elvi might have been good-natured, but he was also extremely boring. It was the fate of many with fixed beliefs. Speedboat felt that it was best to humor the man, but even his minimal grunted replies came to an abrupt stop when he was confronted by the battery of security equipment that was deployed around the entrance.

"Holy shit."

The Elvi smiled indulgently as if to signify that he had heard a few cuss words in his time. "They do seem to be taking real good care of someone. I guess there's all kinds of nuts about. They say that Elvis himself was kind of leery about the possibility of a sniper trying for him from the audience."

Speedboat was about ready to bolt. The only thing that stopped him was that by the time that he actually saw the battery of security checks, it was already too late. There was no way that he could turn back without attracting attention. He was carried into the process by the momentum of the crowd. He dropped his ticket into the hopper and had its genuineness confirmed. Next he passed between a double line of armed and armored riot cops who stared impassively from behind dark visors. Speedboat could feel himself starting to sweat. The sensor banks were mounted in a cylindrical aluminum and plastic frame that formed a tunnel through which everyone in the line had to pass. Speedboat recognized some of the equipment. The mass detectors that ferreted out concealed weapons were larger versions of the portable frisk units that the deacons used. There were these dull black ceramic tubes that he could only assume sniffed for explosives. There was other stuff he had never encountered before – multiple lenses like the eyes of insects, tremor scoops, and curved ceramic panels. He could not start to guess at their function, but he did not like the look of them at all. Finally he was through the tunnel. The last obstacle was a huddle of Garden rentacops who amounted to very little after what had gone before. And then Speedboat was on his way down the tunnel that led into the main arena. If everything went according to plan, he had passed the first short stretch of a road that would lead all the way to Canada.

Mansard

The crowd was coming in like a flowing disorganized mass, spoiling and humanizing the symmetry of the ranked tiers of empty seats.

Charlie Mansard sighed. "I guess it's time for the preflight." Jimmy Gadd placed his arm on the back of the coordinator's console chair and leaned forward so only Mansard could hear him. "You're certain you want to run the program yourself?"

Mansard scowled and nodded. "I want to run the program myself."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You've been bitching all afternoon about how you can't do it because you're not up to it and you don't feel well."

"It's my way of psyching myself up for the show. Some people pace, others meditate. I whine and complain."

"You've got a couple of drinks in you."

"Did you ever know me to do a show without a couple of drinks in me?"

Jimmy Gadd shrugged. "Just checking."

"Stop treating me like you're my nanny."

"Did you hear anything more from the cops?"

Mansard slowly pulled off the two strips of fake plastic skin that hid the DNI input receptors behind each ear. "I didn't hear anything new. It's pretty clear they feel that Proverb is some major assassination target."

"How do you feel about that?"

"The money's in escrow. We're covered."

"But if it happens, it's liable to happen during the show while you're jacked into the board."

"So with my luck, I'll be in the middle of a straight D-interface. I'll overload, produce clear white light, and fuse both halves of my brain."