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so perpendicular,' " Pete said, quoting the great old-time composer and poet of the last century, Marc Blitzstein.
    Flaring up, Miss Bedouin said, "I am too perpendicular. That's what I just now told you. And not only that—"
    She ceased, because a small, elderly man with the final glimmerings of white hair coating irregularly a pinkish, almost glowing scalp, had abruptly appeared by their booth. He wore ancient lens-glasses, carried a briefcase, and his manner was a mixture of timidity and determination, as if he could not turn back now, but would have liked to.
    Pete said, "A salesman."
    "No," Miss Bedouin said. "Not well dressed enough."
    "Process-server," Lars said; the elderly, short gentleman had an official look to him. "Am I right?" he asked.
    The elderly gentleman said haltingly, "Mr. Lars?"
    "That's me," Lars said; evidently his guess had been correct.
    "Autograph collector," Miss Bedouin said, in triumph. "He wants your autograph, Mr. Lars; he recognizes you."
    "He's not a bum," Pete added reflectively. "Look at that stickpin in his tie. That's a real cut stone. But who today wears—"
    "Mr. Lars," the elderly gentleman said, and managed to seat himself precariously at the rim of the booth. He laid his briefcase before him, clearing aside the sugar, salt and empty coffee cups. "Forgive me that I am bothering you. But—a problem." His voice was low, frail. He had about him a Santa Claus quality, and yet he had come on business, something firmer and without sentiment. He employed no elves and he was not here to give away toys. He was an expert: it showed in the way he rooted in his briefcase.
    All at once Pete nudged Lars and pointed. Lars saw, at an empty booth near the door, two younger men with vapid, cod-like, underwater faces; they had entered along with this odd fellow and were keeping an eye on matters.
    At once Lars reached into his coat, whipped out the document he carried constantly with him. To Miss Bedouin he said, "Call a cop."
    She blinked, half-rose to her feet.
    "Go on," Pete said roughly to her; then, raising his voice, said loudly, "Somebody get a cop!"
    "Please," the elderly gentleman said, pleadingly but with a trace of annoyance. "Just a few words. There's something we don't understand." He now had in sight pics, glossy color shots which Lars recognized. These consisted of KACH-accumulated reproductions of his own earlier sketches, the 260 through 265 sequence, plus shots of final accurate specs drawn up for presentation to Lanferman Associates.
    Lars, unfolding his document, said to the elderly man, "This is a writ of restraint. You know what it says?"
    Distastefully, with reluctance, the elderly man nodded.
    "Any and every official of the Government of the Soviet Union," Lars said, "of Peoples' China, Cuba, Brazil, the Dominican Republic,—"
    "Yes, yes," the elderly gentleman agreed, nodding.
    " '—and all other ethnic or national entities comprising the political entity Peep-East, is restrained and enjoined during the pendency of this action from harassing, annoying, molesting, threatening or striking the plaintiff—myself, Lars Powderdry—or in any manner occupying him or being upon or within proximity so that—' "
    "Okay," the elderly gentleman said. "I am a Soviet official. Legally I cannot talk to you; we know that, Mr. Lars. But this sketch, your number 265. See?" He turned the KACH-manufactured glossy for Lars to examine; Lars ignored it. "Someone in your staff wrote on this that it is—" the wrinkled, plump finger traced the English words at the foot of the sketch—"is 'Evolution Gun.' Correct?"
    Pete said loudly, "Yes, and watch out or it'll turn you back into protoplasmic slime."
    "No, not the trance-sketch," the Soviet official said, and chuckled slyly. "Must have prototype. You are from Lanferman Associates? You make up the model and prove-test? Yes, I think you are. I am Aksel Kaminsky." He held out his hand to Pete. "You are—?"
    A New York City patrol ship flopped to the