Ransvestia

biting the carpet when she talked to me. You know," he laughed, "she was a dead ringer for Angie Saunders."

"Angie Saunders?" Glen was very doubtful. "Oh, come on. No-one looks like her. She'd have to have been fantastic."

"She was! She was!" The salesman was becoming belligerent. "She was even better than Angie."

"So, didn't you try for her?" Lincoln was still very doubtful.

"Course," said the salesman. "But you know girls like that. Much too high class for the likes of us." His eyes flickered from Lincoln to the glass wall that showed his own reflection—and then came back again.

"Why'd she sell the car?" asked Lincoln.

The salesman shrugged. He was watching an older couple who were standing outside the window looking at the newer models on show. The husband was obviously trying to persuade his reluctant wife to enter the showroom. "How should I know?" the salesman asked.

Lincoln considered. "Well, I guess she didn't intend to stay around here if she sold the car."

"Right," said the salesman. "She said she wouldn't be needing the car back home-wherever that was."

It hadn't taken Glen Lincoln more than a phone call to find out that the studio handout on Angie Saunders was completely false. She wasn't born on the day, or in the place, that the studio said that she was, nor even in that state. With Robert Cort locked into meetings with Pacific's Board, Lincoln took the opportunity to look over Angie's most recent film, which had been set up for a private showing to VIPs, critics, and friends, in the small theatre in Pacific's twin-towered administrative complex.

Within minutes, Glen Lincoln found himself absorbed in the

30