ON BOGART CURVE, a large cat with a brown bowler hat stood alone by the pinnacles. She had big mascaraed lashes, two little red dots on her cheeks and she wore long ginger robes. She was waving to Andy and Vivienne.
They got out of the car.
The cat waved them closer. From behind one of the classic western rocks an item dollied forth: an orange toadstool with a green-coloured baby reclining on it, smoking a hookah. “I like to lie on the Big Lie,” the green baby said. “How about you?”
On closer examination, the baby looked more like a caterpillar. The legs did not exist. It had multiple shortened hands, stubs. Its face was lined, leathery. Its eyes were rheumy. “The plutonium?” the caterpillar said. “Dude, nothing but Pluto with some knee ’em.” He, she, it pressed a button, and out of the
