The VMR Theory (v1.1) by Robert Frezza Page A

out “Vanity of vanities” or “Insanity of insanities”—both of which applied to my situation—when God finally came through. I heard a voice say, “Psst. Ken!”
    “Oh, great.” I rubbed my sore neck. “Now I’m hallucinating.”
    “You’re not hallucinating. It’s me.”
    ‘”Even better. My hallucinations are arguing with me.” The ladder came floating down, and Catarina followed. “We’re here to get you out, Ken.”
    “Great.” I staggered to my feet and leaned against the wall for a moment. “You should have rung me up and told me you were going to drop in.”
    She let it slide. Catching me by the arm, she handed me a carton of Leopard Milk. “Here, drink this.”
    “Can we send out for Chinese?” I downed the Leopard Milk and swayed. “I don’t think I’m thinking too well. You’ll have to think for both of us.”
    She steered me toward the ladder. “I didn’t realize the danger you were in until Trixie called me.”
    Trixie appeared at the trapdoor in a gas mask with a submachine gun in her hand. “Oh, poor Ken. You look terrible.”
    I put my foot through the ladder. “Fortunately, I look much better than I feel.”
    “Come on, Ken, it’s better when you help,” Catarina coaxed. When we reached the top, she handed me a squeeze bottle. “Here, drink this.”
    I downed it. “Tell Harry to stop trying to make beer in the sink.”
    “That was medicine.” She unwrapped a chocolate bar and gave it to me. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”
    “My neck is killing me.” While I was trying to figure out which end of the chocolate bar to stick in my mouth, a second Macdonald appeared, also wearing a gas mask.
    Catarina gently guided my hand. “Ken, this is Battalion Leader Tskhingamsa from Army Intelligence.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Mr. T. Excuse me for talking with my mouth full. Isn’t Army Intelligence a contradiction in terms?”
    Catarina tightened her grip. “Ken, please don’t make any jokes.” She turned me over to Trixie for a second, hilling on the counterweight to haul the ladder up, she locked the trapdoor and carefully stuffed the keys into i he pocket of one of my guards who was slumped against the wall snoring.
    “Sleep gas,” Tskhingamsa explained. “Very effective. Please come t’is way.”
    He led us down the hall to a broom closet. When Trixie opened the door, I saw narrow steps leading away from a false back and my head started to clear. I looked at Tskhingamsa. “I, uh, appreciate your helping me escape, but aren’t you going to get in trouble for this?”
    “I must help to prevent tee ephors from making irreversible mistakes,” Tskhingamsa said stiffly as Catarina and Trixie helped me down the steps and he sealed up the back of the broom closet behind us.
    Catarina smiled grimly. “The navy and the Special Secret Police back the war faction, while the army sup-|x>rts the peace faction.”
    Tskhingamsa added, “It is my sworn duty to protect our people from all foreign and domestic enemies, especially tee navy and tee Special Secret Police. If t’eir plannings are not disconcerted, t’ey will drag our people into a senseless war wit’ tee Confederation, and wreck tee army’s budget.”
    “You guys in Army Intelligence don’t think I’m James Bond, do you?”
    “Army Intelligence has grasped tee essential distinction between fiction books, which are artistic lies, and nonfiction books, which are only partly artistic lies.” Tskhingamsa cocked his head the way Catarina does. “However, we have noticed in tee category of autobiographies, t’is distinction tends to blur.”
    I stopped to rest for a moment when we reached the bottom of the staircase. Trixie cooed, “Poor Ken. What did t’ey do to you?”
    I’m always polite to women carrying submachine guns, so I did my best to recount my combat with the shadur in the Vor’dur. As I described the shadur’s final belly flop into the dirt in moderately graphic detail, I noticed