Billy has no idea how they got here. That part is blank, like a concussion knocked him clean out of time's flow into the next half hour, for he finds himself deposited on the playing field. The Bravos, Norm & Co., they are milling around the flats near the end zone, deep in the stadium's horseshoe curve where the wind tears around in stinging freshets and flukes, a regular toilet bowl of rotary action down here. The transect of sky through the open dome is the color and texture of rumbled pewter, an ominous boil of bruised sepias and ditchwater grays that foretells all kinds of weather-related misery. "Gonna snow," says Mango, their winter-conditions expert, "I can smell it," but nobody pays any attention to him. Their little huddle is a-swirl with movie talk. Something has happened, Billy infers, new developments have been breaking while he was otherwise engaged. Howard and Grazer are out, apparently. Hanks is definitely out, Stone was never in, and Clooney's people keep assiduously not returning Albert's calls, but suddenly looming in the breach is Norman Oglesby with the promise, or let's say the potential, or at least the not-so-far-fetched possibility, of robust millions in production financing --

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