"His sold better than mine."

"But it's not even the sales that bother him. He doesn't care about the money, doesn't spend half of what he earns. What matters to him is that the music was better when the two of you made it together."

"I can't disagree with that," said Dave.

"He's got some songs he'd like to share with you. You could get Lew and Buzz over from London. We could all live here at Daisy Farm. Then, when the album comes out, maybe you could do a reunion concert, even a tour."

Against his will Dave felt excited. Nothing had ever been as thrilling as the Plum Nellie years, all the way from Hamburg to Haight-Ashbury. The group had been exploited and cheated and ripped off, and they had loved every minute of it. Now he was respected and fairly paid, a television personality, a family entertainer, a show business entrepreneur. But it was not half so much fun.

"Go back on the road?" he mused. "I don't know."

"Think about it," Beep pleaded. "Don't say yes or no."

"Okay," Dave said. "I'll think about it."

But he already knew the answer.

He walked her out to her car. There was a newspaper lying on the passenger seat. Beep picked it up and handed it to him. "Have you seen this?" she said. "It's a photo of your sister."

*

The picture showed Evie Williams in camouflage fatigues.

The first thing that struck Cam Dewar was how alluring she looked. The baggy clothing only reminded him that underneath was the perfect body the world had seen in the movie The Artist's Model. The heavy boots and the utilitarian cap just made her more cute.

She was sitting on a tank. Cam did not know much about armaments, but the caption told him this was a Soviet T-54 with a 100 mm gun.

All around her were uniformed soldiers of the North Vietnamese army. She seemed to be telling them something amusing, and her face was alight with animation and humor. They were smiling and laughing the way people anywhere in the world did around a Hollywood celebrity.

She was on a peace mission, according to the accompanying article. She had learned that Vietnamese people did not wish to be at war with the United States. "There's a fucking surprise," Cam said sarcastically. All they wanted was to be left alone, Evie said.

The picture was a public relations triumph for the antiwar movement. Half the girls in America wanted to be Evie Williams, half the boys wanted to marry her, and they all admired her courage in going to North Vietnam. Worse yet, the Communists were doing her no harm. They were talking to her and telling her that they wanted to be friends with the American people.

How could the wicked president drop bombs on these nice folks?

It made Cam want to puke.

But the White House was not taking this lying down.

Cam was working the phones, calling sympathetic journalists. There were not too many of those: the liberal media hated Nixon, and a part of the conservative media found him too moderate. But there were enough supporters, Cam thought, to start a backlash, if only they would play along.

Cam had in front of him a list of points to make, and he chose from the list depending on whom he was talking to. "How many American boys do you think have been killed by that tank?" he asked a writer for a talk show.

"I don't know, you tell me," the man replied.

The correct answer was probably none, since North Vietnamese tanks generally did not meet American forces, but engaged the South Vietnamese army. However, that was not the point. "It's a question liberals ought to be asked on your show," Cam said.

"You're right, it's a good question."

Speaking to a columnist for a right-wing tabloid he asked: "Did you know that Evie Williams is British?"

"Her mother is American," the journalist pointed out.

"Her mother hates America so much that she left in 1936 and has never lived here since."

"Good point!"

Speaking to a liberal journalist who often attacked Nixon, Cam said: "Even you have to admit she's naive, to let herself be used like this by the North Vietnamese for anti-American propaganda. Or do you take her peace mission seriously?"