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millionaires, frustrated inventors—not you, of course, Erdosain—plus anyone who's been laid off or else had some run-in with the law, people who're out on the street not knowing where to turn—"
    Erdosain remembered what had brought him to the Astrologer's house, and said: "I have to talk to you—"
    "Just a moment ... I'll be with you," and he resumed his pitch. "The power of our group will come not from member contributions, but from brothels each cell will set up for funding. When I talk about a secret society, I don't mean the classic setup but some supermodern version, where each member and initiate has an interest and shares earnings, since that's the only way to really get them involved in the projects which only a few will be very informed about. Anyway, that's the business side of it. The brothels will fund the growing branches of the society. In the mountains, we'll build a revolutionary training camp. There, we'll school new recruits in anarchist tactics, revolutionary propaganda, military hardware, industrial planning, so as soon as they get out of training they can set up a new cell anywhere. Do you see? The secret society will have its training institute, the Revolutionary Institute."
    The clock on the wall struck five. Erdosain saw there was no time to lose, and burst out:
    "Forgive my interrupting. I came on serious business. Do you have six hundred pesos?"
    The Astrologer put down his pointer and crossed his arms.
    "What's your problem?"
    "If I don't show up with six hundred pesos tomorrow the Sugar Company will send me to jail."
    Both men stared at Erdosain. He had to be in great distress to go blurting out his plea like that. Erdosain went on:
    "You have to help me. Over the past few months, I managed to embezzle six hundred pesos. Somebody turned me in with an anonymous letter. If I don't bring the money in tomorrow, they'll send me to jail."
    "And how did you come to steal all that money?"
    "It just happened, sort of one day at a time."
    The Astrologer fiddled with his beard in dismay.
    "But how did it happen?"
    Erdosain had to explain all over again. Whenever the retailers got a shipment of goods, they signed a receipt showing they owed whatever the price was. Erdosain, along with the other clerks in his department, got a bunch of those receipts at the end of the month and had thirty days to collect.
    The bills which they said they could not collect on just stayed with them until the retailers paid up. And Erdosain went on:
    "Just think, the clerk was so lax about it that he never checked back on the bills we said we couldn't collect on, so if we did collect and pocketed the money, we could just enter it as a regular bill paid and then cover for it using money from a bill we collected on later. See how the coverup worked?"
    Erdosain was the vortex of the triangle formed by the three. The Melancholy Ruffian and the Astrologer exchanged glances from time to time. Haffner flicked the ash from his cigarette and then, with one eyebrow cocked, kept examining Erdosain from head to foot. At last he put a strange question to him:
    "Did you get pleasure from stealing?"
    "No, none ... "
    "But why are you still wearing those wornout shoes?"
    "I didn't make much money."
    "What about all that money you stole, though?"
    "It never occurred to me to buy shoes with that money."
    That was the truth. His initial glee at getting away with spending somebody else's money soon wore out. One day Erdosain noticed he was full of a restless ache that turned sunny skies soot black in a way that only a wretched soul could perceive.
    When he found out he already owed four hundred pesos, the shock plunged him into madness. Then he dashed about in a mad frenzy trying to get the money spent. He bought candy, which he never even liked, lunched on crab, tortoise soup, and frogs in restaurants that charge for the privilege of sitting among the well-dressed, he drank expensive liquors and wines which were wasted on his untrained taste