traffic to the Bay Bridge and for a moment decided that it was best

to forget about the Brazilian and head for home, when unexpectedly a

billboard loomed up before them, a glaring six-color solido advertising,

of all things, the Imperial Hotel. They were right around the corner from

it, apparently.

The Imperial was all gla.s.s and concrete, with what looked like giant

mirrors at its summit, high overhead. It must have been two or three

hundred years old. They hadn't built buildings like that in San

Francisco for a long time. Carlotta got Uncle James out of the car,

told the driver to wait across the street, and signaled to a doorman

to help them go inside.

"I'm here to see this man," she announced, producing Magalhaes's card.

"We have an appointment. Tell him that General James Crawford is

waiting for him in the lobby,"

The doorman seemed unimpressed. "Wait here," he said. Carlotta waited a

long time. Uncle James muttered restlessly.

Some hotel official appeared, studied the Brazilian's card, studied her,

murmured something under his breath, went back inside. What did they

think she was, a prost.i.tute? Showing up for a job with an old man in a

life-support chair to keep her company? Another long time went by. A

different hotel person came out.

"May I have your name," he said, not amiably.

"My name doesn't matter. This is General James Crawford, the famous war

hero. Can you see the imperial medal around his neck? We've just been at

the Armistice celebration, and now we're here to see the delegate from

Brazil, Mr. Humberto Maria-"

"Yes, but I need to know your name." "My name doesn't matter. Just

tell him that General James Crawford-"

"But your name-"

"Carlotta," she said. "Oh, go to h.e.l.l, all of you," She pressed the palm

control and started to turn Uncle James around. There was no sense

enduring all this grief. Just then, though, an enormous black limousine

glided up to the curb and Humberto Maria de Magalhaes himself emerged.

He sized up the situation at once.