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separated, reluctantly, like the fibers of a rope being parted.
    Until now, Leslie had kept his thoughts away from Jan with scrupulous success. But images of her, accumulated for almost twenty-five years, welled up in his mind. Amd despite all the funerals of friends and pilots he had attended, despite the calloused surface of his mind that should have been inured to the tragic losses, he turned away from everyone and slipped into the cemetery's groves to walk alone with his grief.

    ROLL. He dashes past the Institute with a flurry of pleasure, confident in his strength. Bill is a runner, a marathoner. He understands the pain that accompanies an effort too great—a pain almost as great as the pleasure of making that effort. For now, there is only pleasure.
    The air melts as he passes, carrying away his perspiration. A wind gusts against him, full in the face, twisting through the curls of his hair. He presses against it, exultant with the knowledge that the gust cannot obstruct his passage. He continues, several laps across the entrance to the Institute.
    Thirty-five minutes. Five miles. A year before, he had made similar runs in 32 minutes. A year before that, he had made them in 30 minutes. The difference, he concludes, is statistically insignificant. He feels as strong as he has ever been. That is the truth, not to be confused with the fact.
    Bill showers and dresses. Invigorated, he returns to the Institute.
    The Institute building shares no architectural theme with the other structures in this industrial park. In the late morning light the building glows a soft salmon color, its gentle contours reaching out warmly to those who pass by. The soft-gray windows contrast with the glaring mirrored portals of other nearby buildings, suggesting that quality can nonetheless be quiet. This building seems somehow friendlier than the others. Bill shakes his head and remembers that this building houses his target.
    To the left of the driveway stands a small bronze sign with a curious emblem. An arrow points up at a 45 degree angle, soaring over a pair of embellished steps. After a moment of squinting in the brightness, Bill realizes the two steps form the letters "ZI" in a script almost completely lost in the design.
    A shadow falls across him. He is not yet psyched up for confrontation; he steps to the side and looks at the man who stopped next to him.
    The man smiles and points at the sign. "The Zetetic Institute invites you to take the next step."
    Bill stares, his mouth suddenly dry. The man seems familiar. He is tall, though not so tall as Bill. A relaxed alertness sets the lines of his body, similar to the lines of the building itself. The man's smile is sincere; his gray eyes probe the wide-eyed awareness in Bill's own eyes. The honesty in those eyes strikes a chord of guilt in Bill's mind.
    The man raises an eyebrow. "Sorry if I surprised you. It's just that you looked so unhappy, staring at our sign."
    Bill frowns.
    The man puts out his hand. "I'm Nathan Pilstrom,"
    Nathan Pilstrom—Bill knows the name. He knows he will remember why in a moment. Nathan Pilstrom grips his hand firmly. The man seems disgustingly natural , the caricature that gives the term nice a bad reputation. Bill has never encountered a better facade.
    Nathan leads him down through the courtyard, where a pair of earth-colored toy robots hum to and fro. They seem silly, hovering among the well-trimmed trees and shrubs. Then he realizes that the robots are doing the trimming.
    "So what's your interest in the Institute?"
    Bill snaps back to awareness of the man beside him. His throat still feels parched. His cover story resembles his news stories: at its heart lies a vague form of the facts, richly articulated, with statements that are not false. "I saw one of your Zetetic engineers at a meeting near Hanford recently. He really carved the audience to shreds, and so I figured I should come and see if I can learn how he did it."
    Nathan stops; Bill turns to