"Hmm," he said, enjoying the hot, liquid taste of coffee as he ruminated it up into his weary mouth.

"The Los Angeles chief of police estimates that four _million_ people will turn out to see him; he's performing the sacrament of Divine Unification in Dodger Stadium, and of course it'll all be on TV until we're ready to go clear out of our minds. All day long--that's what the 'pape says; I'm not making it up."

"Four million," Tinbane echoed, thinking, professionally, how many peace officers it would take to handle crowd control when the crowd consisted of that many. Everybody on the force, including Skyway Patrol and special deputies. What a job. He groaned inwardly.

"They use those drugs," Bethel said, "for that unification they practice; there's a long article on it, here. The drug's a derivative from DNT; it's illegal here, but when he goes to perform the sacrament they'll let him--them all--use it that one time. Because the California law states--"

"I know what it states," Tinbane said. "It states that a psychedelic drug can he used in a bona fide religious ceremony." God knew he had had this drummed into him by his superiors.

Bethel said, "I have half a mind to go there. And participate. It's the only time, unless we want to fly to, ugh, the F.N.M. And I frankly don't feel much like doing _that_."

"You do that," he said, happily disgorging cereal, sliced peaches and milk and sugar, in that order.

"Want to come? It'll be exciting. Just think: thousands of people unified into one entity. The Udi, he calls it. Which is everyone and no one. Possessing absolute knowledge because it has no single, limiting viewpoint." She came to the kitchen door, eyes shut. "Well?"