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towel from a waiting stack and tossed another to Ben. "Miss Li arrive?"

    "She did. Charming girl!"

    "M'm'm'm! Her dad's quite a guy, too. He stayed in town, though. Be out here early this evening. Business kept him." Farr laughed, for some undiscernible reason, and then eyed the scientist candidly. "What fools men are! 'Business,' I said. Actually Sam Li had a girl friend he wanted to visit. His wife--Lodi's mother--is still in Hong Kong. I wouldn't divulge Sam's pleasure to my wife. Or Faith. But why should I push alibis with you?"

    Ben smiled but never made a reply; Paulus Davey appeared soundlessly and said,
    "Telephone, Mr. Farr."

    The redheaded businessman excused himself. He was gone for some time-time enough for Ben to decide, after Paulus had made the suggestion, to have breakfast on the terrace and in the garment he wore-bathing trunks. He was eating an omelet with strawberry jam in its fluffy middle when Farr returned.

    A different Farr. Pale. Stiff. Remote. Silent.

    A Farr who rang for the butler, said, "The usual," and then sat in silence broken only by sudden exhalations from his puffed-out cheeks . . . the half-comic but seriously-intended antic of a man preoccupied by something very disturbing. Finally he gave Ben a partial explanation. "Friend of mine, a senator, phoned just now from Washington. New crisis blew up last night."

    Ben's calm eyes met the other man's blue gaze. "Serious?"

    "Aren't they all?"

    "Potentially." A long pause. "What happened? Or is it a confidential thing?" Ben asked.

    Farr was scowling with inner concerns and he looked at the scientist now almost as if he'd forgotten he was there. Forgotten--in seconds. But remembering, recognizing, he smiled faintly. "'Liberation army' marched into Yugoslavia, yesterday. Still under wraps, Ben. But, I daresay, you're a bank vault of much greater secrets."

    "A few," Ben agreed. "Though since I left Los Alamos, since I gave up weapons work, I--"

    Farr nodded rather curtly and excused himself. "Think I better put in a call or two." Ben was left facing an empty chair, a half-eaten croissant, and a partly-drained coffee cup.

    By and by he completed his solitary meal and entered the house through a
    "sunroom" adjacent to the terrace. Covered walks led to his quarters; Ben dressed quickly in his coolest slacks, lightest sports shirt, and loafers without socks. From the library corner of his chambers he selected a book, after deciding his initial impulse to pick a volume from one of the many, leather-bound sets of classics would seem ostentatious.
    Too academic. Anti-weekend in spirit.

    So he scanned a shelf of recent novels of at least some importance and chose the first attempt at fiction to be made by William Percival Gaunt, the popular philosopher. It had proven already that he was even more popular as a novelist. The book was called, The Laser of Lemuel Lett. It concerned, Ben knew, the imaginary events that ensued upon the establishment of communications with an earth-bound space ship coming in from one of the planets in a system known for some years to exist around Proxima Centauri. The tale was, essentially, a spoof of the current, wasteful, hostile, and emperiled societies on Earth.

    Ben went back to the terrace and read until half-past ten. Nobody, the butler excepted, appeared there. Music from somewhere in the house suggested that others were awake and, perhaps, breakfasting in bed. A sensible way, Ben thought, of starting a day that was, according to all meteorological predictions, sure to break the all-time Weather Bureau heat records for the date, in New York City and south to Philadelphia and Washington, as well as throughout most of New England.

    When the moving sun touched him, Ben pushed his chair into the remaining shade. He was eventually relieved by the starting of the terrace air-conditioner, which soon reduced the terrace temperature from a (guessed) ninety-five to a very comfortable eighty--again, at a guess.

    In the