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orchestra without removing his angry eyes from mine. “This I prefer. If men kill each other, so what?”
    â€œSoviet ground, sea, and air forces are about to occupy Hokkaido and neighboring islands of Japan. They will thus command the Sea of Japan and sever sea links between the United States and China. I was returning from a conference on the Moon deciding the future conduct of war in the Japanese theater; it is essential I report back at once. Too much time has been lost to the enemy already.”
    Dart considered this sullenly. Then he spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “I saw a bulletin this morning. A tremendous strike against Japanese cities and ports has just started. Give me some details about yourself, just to put me in the picture.”
    I clutched my knees. The nightmare, the closing agony of the twentieth century, was unrolling, and here I sat humoring some petty madman.… Briefly, I gave him a few details. Born on a farm in Connecticut, only son. Ambitious father of German descent, mother Scottish Presbyterian. Both sides of the family affluent. Father’s connections enabled me to go into politics straight from university. A minor post in the Ammader Administration enabled me to go on a mission to Peking when the Russo–Chinese campaign along the Ussuri flared up. Was in Helsinki at the time of the Helsinki Incident marking the start of active Soviet expansionism. Escaped Finland and Europe with certain vital memory discs from NAPA HQ. Given governmental post shortly after, under President Willson.
    To this account, Dart listened intently, head on one side. I felt that he was struggling to decide whether or not to believe my story. What I said was convincing, and near enough to the truth.
    â€œYou’ve been adventurous. Managed to move round the world, despite all the travel restrictions, East–West, North–South, all that red tape.… Your years have been active, according to you, up to the hilt. Real value for money, if you’re not making it up.” He sighed. “Just for the record, how old are you, Mr. Roberts?”
    I took care not to let my growing impatience show.
    â€œI’m thirty-five, getting a bit long in the tooth. Born 24th May, 1961. Married four times, divorced four times. No offspring. Anything else you want to know? I don’t need a passport for Moreau Island, I guess?”
    He made another circuit of the room, the machine taking a wide sweep, and bringing him back before me with an abrupt halt. Dart’s face was grim, his brow wrinkled with a scowl.
    â€œWe are the same age, Mr. Roberts. Born on the same day of the same month. Is that a coincidence, a bad joke, or a frameup of some kind? While you’ve lived your life to the full—cities, women, that stuff—I’ve had to drag myself through existence on crutches, or in this cart, or worse. Same day. Glory for you, humiliation for me …”
    â€œGlory …”
    â€œYou don’t know the half of it, you four-limbed bastard.” The words were spoken almost without emphasis; it was just something he habitually thought when confronted by ordinary people. He looked me in the eye as he said it. I dropped my gaze. Dart’s face, under its puffiness, was striking. He had a heavy formidable skull with plenty of jaw and nose, and a pair of deep-set malignant eyes with which to look out at the world. His hair was dark and carelessly but rather elegantly tumbled about his forehead. Maybe he was going to run to fat.
    â€œAs you must have anticipated, I feel uncomfortable, Mr. Dart. So our lives have been very different. Don’t imagine mine has not had its problems. Everyone’s has. You don’t need me to explain how mysterious are the ways of God, who communicates through suffering very often.”
    â€œGod!” he echoed, and made a blasphemous remark. Although not only weak men swear, I consider the trait a sign of weakness.