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I’m right. You see, I’m not saying that you have any or use any—I’m only saying that it stands to reason, you being very well traveled and in with all the people who know about this type thing, that you’d be able to get me some.”
    Alec thought of the half-kilo “egg” carefully wrapped inside the snap-open transformer coil of his electric guitar amplifier. The amount Farber had asked for would scarcely make a dent.
    “And I think you’ll agree,” Farber was saying, “that my offer is fairly generous. A thousand now, to cover expenses, and a thousand on delivery. Doesn’t that seem fair?”
    Two thousand. Alec thought of the memorable evenings that would be possible while Rachel was at the studio with her nightly taping schedule. “If you’re looking for really top-quality stuff, I would think three would be closer to the mark,” he said, and then mentally kicked himself for using the word “mark.” He added a bit hastily, “Overseas, I’m told, it’s more difficult to obtain. And the Spanish laws are very repressive.”
    Farber’s freckled pink hand slipped beneath his jacket lapel and emerged a few moments later, apparently empty. “I used to practice with a mail-order magic kit when I was a boy,” Farber said. “Comes in handy now and again.” The warm fingers pressed folded paper into Alec’s palm and squeezed lightly, a handshake of sorts. “They say never count your money in a crowd, but when you do, you’ll find fifteen hundred. Now tell me when and where.”
    Alec was about to reply when he noticed the host, a tall, graying Britisher, bearing down on them. “Company,” he said quickly. Our host. Name is Harry.”
    “I know him,” said Farber. After a hello and a handshake, Farber thought it was time to divert Harry’s attention from their current conversation. He nodded in the direction of one member of the British team, a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested gorilla of a man who stood in one of the front rows before the TV screen, holding a wad of bills and a stopwatch, taking bets on how long Italy would need to get off a shot at the goal.
    Farber said, “One of your players seems to be going into business.”
    Harry gave a grandfatherly, boys-will-be-boys chuckle. “That’s our Derek. Plays a fine defense.” He ordered whiskey and soda and added convivially, “And he’ll be wearing Far-lite shoes on Tuesday, when we go against the Tunisians down on the coast. That might do you a bit of good, Jackie boy.”
    Farber, whose European distribution accounted for only three percent of his total sales, was not impressed. He had cultivated the British team only as a fall-back, guessing that the British would be the team most American soccer fans would follow if the U.S. team failed. The real money was in equipping the American team, because Far-lite sports shoes lived and died on their U.S. sales. Unfortunately, Farber had been able to convince only one of the U.S. players, the goalie, that an American player ought to be wearing an American-made shoe. The others on the team were all kids who thought Europeans like Adi Dassler were the only ones who could make shoes fit for champions.
    He grinned at Harry. “I hope he’s not wearing a pair of my cleats in here.”
    “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. Last year, yes, but not now. Our Derek’s become vastly more civilized since his wedding last month. His wife’s the sort who can teach him a few things. That’s Mrs. Bates over by the buffet, with those other chaps.”
    Alec, who had been looking for an opportunity, stole a glance at the bills in his hand. And smiled. Fifteen hundred it was.
    “Incidentally, Alec,” Harry was saying, “she’s asked to meet you. Says she was one of your greatest fans when she was growing up. Name’s Helen. Why don’t you come over with me and I’ll introduce you?”
    Alec looked up. The sight of Helen Bates, even from across the room, made him catch his breath. A tall brunette, dark eyes wide and