18 DATE WITH THE GODS
"Try me; I'm open," I coaxed.
"To answer that, we'd have to chat for the next few
days," she said mysteriously.
I gathered from this brief conversation that she was a
well educated American girl, more or less in her twen
ties. She had fair skin, a very pretty face and long black
hair. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, a swiss army
shirt, and a heavy army coat with synthetic fur around
the hood. Her appearance was pleasant, but for some
reason, I immediately judged she wa s one of those
American hippie pot heads who roam around the world
hitchhiking and asking for spare change.
I asked my questions cautiously, but she remained
aloof, answering with a mischievous smile and a mys
terious expression. There was something strange about
her eyes that I found disturbing, but I couldn't quite
figure out what it was. Since she didn't appear very
willing to talk about the police bike, I changed the
subject.
"Are you with the Peace Corps?"
"No," she answered simply.
"Then you must be with the CIA."
"No," she said emphatically, "I am certainly not with
the CIA."
"Are you an American?"
"No."
My patience running out, I decided to end this brief
conversation. I started to walk away. She stopped me
with a question, "You'd really like to know, wouldn't
you?"
"As a matter of fact, I would."
"Okay, what would you like to know?"
"First, how did you get that bike away from the fuzz?"
"Oh, that was easy. One day a few friends and I were
driving on the Hollywood Freeway in California, mind
ing our own business, when a policeman comes up