Late Friday morning, a guard rattled the bars of Bert's cell and told him he had a visitor.

"That'd be my wife," opined Bert, with obvious relief. Good old Benita. You had to give her credit, by God. She was a good old girl.

"Not unless she has a bigger mustache than my wife," said the guard, unlocking the cell and standing aside. He and Bert knew one another in the relationship of miscreant and warder, one that had been renewed periodically over the last several years. "I've met Benita, and this guy's not her."

Bert, confused, shambled after the guard into the visitors' room where he took a seat opposite a stiffly upright man garbed in a three-piece suit and an air of unassailable rectitude.

"Bert Shipton?"

"Yeah."

"Mr. Shipton, my name is Prentice Arthur. I'm with one of the national security agencies, and I flew in this morning particularly to talk to you. We've just recently become aware that your wife has become involved with some very . . . well, they're foreigners, actually, people who may be very dangerous. I doubt very much she even realizes what trouble they may cause, but we're very worried about her. If you can tell us how to reach her, just so we can protect her, we'd be glad to offer you some help in your present situation."

"I don't know where she is," Bert responded in a guarded voice. "She left last Saturday. Left me a note. Said she'd be in touch later."

Arthur nodded. "We're aware you don't know where she is right now, but you may be able to help us find her. We'd be happy to help you out with your bail, if you'd like to assist us."

"Bail?" He thought about this long enough to flavor it with his usual bias. "Well, if you'd like to include a little something for my time and effort, I might be able to help you."

His mustache hiding a lip sneeringly lifted at one corner, the visitor said, "Of course. A hundred a day for your trouble."

Bert smiled, disclosing teeth evenly coated with ocherous velour. "Happy to be of help to my country," he said, puffing a miasma into his visitor's face.

"We'll take care of it," said Arthur, not breathing as he turned his face aside. "Here's my card. We'll call you at your home tonight."

"Yeah, sure," said Bert, with another smile, from which his visitor hastily averted his eyes. "I hate to mention it, but I'm ... a little short right now. And since my car's . . . out of commission, I'll need a little cash to get home."

"I'll leave some money with the people up front." The visitor rose and left, while Bert watched him every step of the way. So little old holy-cow Benita was in trouble! Benita was never in trouble. With some effort, he focused on the card which gave him no information except the name, Prentice Arthur, Security and, in the lower left corner, an Albuquerque phone number. Now why in hell did a national security suit have a local number?

Half an hour later, supplied with a hundred dollars in twenties, Bert headed unerringly for the nearest bar. When he soared out, two hours later, who should he run into but one of those fags his wife worked for.

"Good afternoon, Bert," this person said. "I got a postcard from Benita today. Seems she's taken a new job in Denver. We'll miss her. Nice to see you. Bye." The person, conscious of being watched, then walked to the corner, and when around the corner and unobserved, vanished.

Bert hadn't been able to bring the face quite into focus. Which one was it? Was it Goose or was it the other one? Never mind which one. So she was in Denver. Sure, that made sense. Not too far away to take the bus. When he'd talked to Carlos this morning, Carlos said she'd taken a bus wherever she was.

Bookstore job made sense, too, sure, big city like that had lots of bookstores. And Carlos said it had to be someplace on mountain time.

Well, so there he was, he already had it half figured out! He sure as hell wasn't going to tell Mr.

What's-his-name about Denver, though. Not when they were paying him a hundred a day to find her.

Wait a week. String him along. A hundred a day was too good to pass up.

Across the street, in the front seat of a large van, Prentice Arthur asked, "Dink, who's he talking to?"

Dink flipped through a notebook. "Looks like the guy that runs the bookstore where the target used to work. Rene Guselier, usually called Goose."

"Did you pick up the conversation?" asked Arthur, over his shoulder.

"Got it," said a disembodied voice from the back of the van. "The woman's got a job in Denver."

"He didn't say what kind of job?"

"No mention. Wouldn't it be another bookstore? That's the only place she's ever worked. How many can there be? Denver's a sports town, isn't it? Sports fans don't read, do they?"

"Their wives probably do," said Arthur. "Since they have a great deal of time on their hands. Get us on the next plane to Denver."

As the car pulled away, the voice asked, "Didn't you tell the guy you'd meet him this evening?"

Prentice Arthur shook his head. "Look at him! By evening he won't be in condition to meet anyone.

It's only a two-hour flight if we have to come back to pick him up."

"Morse still wants the family?"

"Well, before I left Washington, I managed to convince him that since he really wants the woman, the man and the kids will be more use to us helping find her than they will be locked up somewhere. The way Morse wants to disappear people left and right, you'd think this was Argentina!"

While the men in suits were on their way to the airport, the subject of their surveillance managed to locate a cab, more by luck than effort, and went home, arriving there at five. It was an hour earlier in California, he told himself foggily. Carlos would be home, but Angelica wouldn't. Good time to call.

The phone rang a dozen times before Carlos answered. "Yeah."

"Hiya Carlos. How's everthing?"

"Dad? Are you out of jail?"

"I am oh-you-tee out. This guy from some federal office, he bailed me out. He says your mom's been makin some . . . dangerous friends. That's a ruckin kick, huh? Mama moocow, with dangerous friends."

"What are you talking about, dangerous friends? She's got a job in Denver."

"I know that. How did you know?"

"I figured it out. She said she took a bus, and she was on Mountain Time, so I figured Denver. You know, big city, lots of places to work. Then I ran into Mr. Marsh, Walter Marsh, on my way home this afternoon. Funny thing, there he was, right in front of me when I came out of the union. He said he was in town at a booksellers' convention. Him and Goose got a postcard from her. From Denver. After he left, I thought, wow, maybe he has her address, but when I went chasing after him, I couldn't find him."

". . . sright. S'what the other one said. Postcard from Denver. So, anyhow, the guy from the whatever it is, he bailed me out. I'm gonna help find her." He giggled. "Not too fast. They got me on the payroll, so not too fast. If they call you, you don't know. They'll pay you, f'you play it right."

"Right, Dad. Thanks for the tip. Now you'd better have a nap."

"Right. Right." He hung up and staggered off to the bedroom. Funny. Usually beers didn't hit him like this. Musta been all those days without any. Out of shape, that was it. Days in jail could leave you out of shape.

And in California, Carlos hung up the phone, frowning to himself. What the hell did "dangerous friends" mean? She'd said she'd gone out to dinner the other night, with people she'd met on the bus.

She'd been delayed getting back. But she'd just met those people. How could other people know she had dangerous friends if they didn't even know where she was? And where the hell had Walter Marsh disappeared to? He'd chased after him within ten seconds and the guy had just vanished!

And where could he find this guy who was willing to pay him?

From Chiddy's journal At one point in our careers, Vess and I were assigned to the offices of the Confederation, where we were to represent the Pistach people in working with other races. We of the Pistach have a unique place in the Confederation as we are the only race that is largely undifferentiated at birth, the only one that selects persons to perform specific functions on the basis of ability. Alas, such is not the case with certain other races, some of whose diplomats would be better employed turning compost on a swamp planet.

The variety found within the Confederation is interesting. There are, for example, the Credons, a differentiated people, though their differentiation happens before they are hatched, rather as it does to your bees and ants and termites. What they are when they are hatched is what they will continue to be: egg layer, fertilizer, light worker, heavy worker, engineer, thinker, and fighter. They have no differentiation equivalent to diplomat or representative, and they are inclined to send whomever is standing about at the time. When they send thinkers to work with us, we manage to cooperate, but when they send workers or engineers, our functioning is less felicitous. Their first question is always, "What are you for?" A question which persons of other races may find some difficulty in answering.

Another differentiated race is the Oumfuz, which is as close as we can get to pronouncing the gulp they use for a label. They are a swamp-living race, one that cannot work in dry or high-gravity situations.

They are born either grubbers, workers, or reasoners, a deeply philosophical group, much concerned with the thoughts and plans of other races and how those have changed over time. The Oumfuz create no artifacts. The grubbers feed both themselves and the reasoners, whose philosophies are communicated orally to one another. In fact, the great library on Pistach-home contains the only recordings extant of Oumfuz thinking. They were crystallized by one of our explorers and are being slowly translated by a team of athyci who speak Oumfuzziza, though they admit that no Pistach can ever really understand the Oumfuz.

An interplanetary people who do not themselves build or maintain ships are the Flibotsi, a joyous winged race, not winged as we are, at intervals, depending upon our selection, but capable of flight during their entire lifetimes. Whenever I am around them, I am reminded of panel eight of the Fresco, The Birth of Kasiwees, for in that panel he is surrounded by little winged forms, rejoicing at his birth. So do the Flibotsi rejoice, almost constantly. They work well with swimming or flying peoples, particularly those who are not troubled by purpose. Quite frankly, the races untroubled by purpose are by far the happiest! The Flibotsi, I must confess, find the Pistach stodgy, and we, whose humor is mostly language dependent, do not much appreciate the purely physical fun of which the Flibotsi are capable, what you on Earth call slapstick.

The Thwakians are an aquatic race who build tunnel complexes beneath their seas, where they tend submarine gardens. The Vixbot are among my favorite aliens because of their choral singing, which puts that of any other race to shame, though in truth, your symphonic orchestras would be good competition for them. The In-kleozese, well, the interesting thing about the Inkleozese is that we and they descended from a common interstellar ancestor. Many of their characteristics are similar to ours. Instead of depositing their eggs in nootchi, however, they lay their eggs in the bodies of domestic animals, quodm or geplis or nadgervaks. After a lengthy parturition, about thirteen of your months, the young chew their way out of the animal, which, since the young Inkleozese secrete substances that control bleeding and stimulate healing in the host, almost always fully recovers.

The Inkleozese have an inborn love of order and correctness, and because they are an elder race, with widely recognized wisdom, the Inkleozese are our monitors. Even among the aged athyci of Pistach, the Inkleozese are recognized as having excellent though rather elucubrative ideas. Our philosophers struggle with their logic and, having done so, are amazed at the clarity and good sense of their thought. The rules of Tassifoduma were constructed largely by the Inkleozese, and they will visit us while we are with you, as the Confederation has assigned them the duty of reviewing work done between two or more races to assure compliance with Neighborliness.

The Xankatikitiki, the Fluiquosm, and the Wulivery are starfaring predators, not the only ones by far, but the only ones in this sector of the galaxy. Despite their predatory natures, they too have agreed to the principles of Tassifoduma in order to benefit from our association. They have made a treaty with us, promising not to invade or harvest from planets that are part of the Confederation or those that are being helped toward membership.

The Xankatikitiki are warriors, furry and small, about the size of your middle-large dogs, but very fierce, supplied by nature with weapons superior to those found on many technological worlds. They hunt in small packs or family groups and their manner is consistently ferocious. Whenever I meet with them, they remind me of panel eleven in the Fresco, where the fierce Pokoti attack the peaceful Jaupati.

The Fluiquosm are lone hunters. They are what you might call chameleons, so nearly invisible as to make locating them difficult. Their females have hypnotic abilities and both sexes are vampiric in nature.

The Wulivery are stalkers,- vast, invulnerable, and voracious.

These three races, though fearsome, have generally avoided incursions upon others. The few lapses by the Fluiquosm seem to have been spurred by curiosity, not hunger, and the Wulivery are split into so many tribes that they always have trouble with their communications, so that orders issued by their Sn'far, or Council of Elders, do not always reach the lower levels in time to avoid intrusion. Still, they are always contrite when these things happen, and we manage to work things out. I must confess, however, that the three predatory races constitute a voting bloc in the Confederation that continues to press for more freedom of action on the part of individual members. Don't you find that predators are those who most often assert absolute rights to personal freedoms?

We consider that our current rules provide freedom enough. The predatory races may not prey upon races we are helping, though their predation upon races they discover is not subject to our review. These are usually, though not always, non-technological races or even non-intelligent ones. Even with them, the predators are required to exercise moderation and not to prey so heavily as to drive any species or its culture into total extinction. The Confederation submits to natural law in which the strong eat the weak, but it does not allow extinctions of any species. We regard those who wipe out other species as being, as you might say, the very bottom of the barrel.

Benita-FRIDAY.

Benita had planned to spend a couple of days in delicious sloth, though her desire for rest unraveled as she watched CNN try to explain the disappearance of the Old City of Jerusalem. She knew at once who'd done it, though she had no idea why. With such an uproar going on, she thought it would probably be impolite to inquire from any of the people from Wednesday night's dinner, even Mr. Riley, and she had no way to reach the two individuals she really wanted to ask.

When she went out for lunch, there were sign carriers on the street, most of them claiming the imminent end of the world. Newspaper headlines were huge, and the stories about Jerusalem took up the first four pages of the Washington Post. Everyone was chattering about what it meant or who had done it, being either angry or awed or both. Benita tried to ignore it as she made a stop at the bank and went shopping for work clothes. She had to haul a saleswoman away from a group with their heads together in the corner. First things first. Until the world actually ended, people still had to go to work, and Benita had not brought enough clothing to get through a work week.

That evening the panic continued, with all the world's pundits appearing over and over, different combinations of them, most of them contradicting one another and some even contradicting what they'd said earlier in the day. Elaine Pagels was asked to comment on the happening in the light of Gnosticism.

The head of Union Theological Seminary warned against nihilistic millennialism. The news covered nuts in Jerusalem, both Jewish and Islamic, who were protesting or affirming God by throwing themselves into the hole, only to turn up unhurt out in the desert a little while later. While the religious scholars were careful not to cast doubt on divine motives, the religious profiteers were soliciting money like mad so they could "carry the message of salvation in these final days." Most of the TV partisan-pundits were blaming more earthly forces. The left wingers agreed that secret research must have taken place, that secret weapons had been developed, and that the military industrial complex might be responsible, though the right wingers thought other countries had probably done it. For a wonder, nobody accused ET's, possibly out of fear of ridicule. Benita wondered how long the president could or would keep the truth under his hat.

Simon left a peremptory voicemail message at the hotel, asking her to come to the shop. When she arrived, he was obviously unnerved as he showed her upstairs to the apartment.

"These people showed up at the crack of dawn yesterday," he said in the elevator, shaking his head.

"Their spokesman said they were from some Sephardic Foundation I've never heard of. They provide services for worthy Hispanics of all faiths who are, as they put it, 'Hard working and honest.' They quoted Maimonides at me. Evidently he advocated anonymity in philanthropy. Are you Jewish?"

She gaped. "Well ... a lot of Spanish settlers in the new world were secretly Jewish, because of the Inquisition, you know. But if my family was, they kept it a secret from me."

"No lighting candles on Friday nights? No keeping two sets of dishes?"

She shook her head. Actually, Grandma had lighted candles on Friday night, and every other night.

They hadn't had electricity until just a few years before she died.

Simon continued, "I just thought it might explain something. The spokesman wouldn't tell me how they found out about you, and he said you knew nothing about them, but nonetheless, the crew poured in all day yesterday, nobody would talk to me except the one older guy, who looked awfully familiar, come to think of it, and they didn't leave until dawn."

"What on earth were they doing?"

"Wait until you see!"

She smelled it first. A strong combination of new paint, new carpet and sawdust. The loft had been transformed. The ceiling had been lowered and covered with drywall dotted with recessed light fixtures.

Along the line of columns, all the way to the ceiling, a substantial partition had been built that included bookshelves on the living room side as well as a built-in desk with computer terminal and modem. The bedroom had a closet and a door and both rooms were now furnished tastefully. Curtains on traverse rods covered the windows, and two colorful oriental rugs covered most of the living room floor, which had obviously been sanded and waxed. Another big rug softened the bedroom.

A washer-dryer had been installed. New light fixtures glowed discreetly. The bed was made up and covered by a colorful spread. Extra linens and towels were stacked in the cabinet. Kitchen equipment, dishes, pots and pans were on the shelves. Here and there were Mami's things. Her sewing basket. The little carved box she'd kept her few treasures in. A quilt Mami's grandmother, Benita's great-grandmother, had made. Everything had been furnished, even a large dog bed and FIDO food and water dish.

"They got everything," she said. "Except the dog."

He muttered in a dazed voice, "The guy said he had specific instructions how it was to be finished, and he told me to tell you the dog would be here as soon as you move in."

"What was this outfit called?" she asked, awed.

He pulled a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. "Fundacion Circulo del Alto Mando. He said in English it means the Brass Ring Foundation." Simon tented his eyebrows at her.

"Yes, it means that, sort of," she said, hiding her amusement. It sounded like General Wallace was the alto mando, or "big brass," who had done the talking. She couldn't imagine General McVane making puns for her benefit.

"He said you caught the brass ring on the merry-go-round. Have you ever heard of them?"

"Never before now," she told him. "How strange. And wonderful, of course. For me."

"Well, me too. It saved me a hell of a lot of work. And money. I never knew the place could look this great. I told the guy I'd have to raise your rent, and he told me not to try it unless I wanted a great deal of trouble. When he said it, he sounded more like a ... commanding officer than a representative of some charity. With the dark glasses and the hat pulled down, I couldn't really see who he was.

She said sympathetically, "They'd gone to so much trouble, I suppose they didn't want anything to spoil it."

There was no reason not to move in at once and no reason to go back to the hotel except to pick up her bag. Simon drove her over and waited for her. As she paid the bill, however, she remembered the furniture and supplies she'd ordered by catalogue. From a lobby pay phone she called the store and spun them a story. Family emergency. She had to go back to Colorado. Would they refund? Yes, the woman said, on non-sale items. Where would the check come from? From their warehouse complex in Atlanta, where all the computers were. Fine, said Benita. Cancel the order and refund what they could, please, in care of Angelica Shipton, at such-and-such an address in California.

After dropping her bags in the apartment and opening the windows to air out the fresh paint srnell, she went down to the bookstore to start learning the routines. It differed from the store in Albuquerque in many details, but basically it was the same old job. She thought it would be more fun, however, since many of her pet gripes were eliminated. The computers were better, faster, and the software was easier to use. The bookkeeping system was very high tech and three-quarters automatic, and there were scanners for perpetual inventory. She had been telling Goose for years that they needed scanners. These shops even had a reorder program integrated with the inventory, one that printed out the reorder lists by jobbers for any books that had sold off the shelves within a specified period of time. All the stores were coordinated, for accounting purposes, and all the accounting was done here.

The Washington store stayed open until 7:00, to catch the afterwork shoppers and late calls or Web orders, many of them from congressional offices.

"The legislature being here, with all the lobbyists in the world hovering like bees over honey, that's where we got the name, The Literary Lobby," Simon muttered, interrupted by a huge yawn. "Sorry. I suppose I could have gone home to bed last night, but I didn't want to leave the workmen alone in the building, even with the connecting doors locked. I bunked in the office, but with this Jerusalem thing, I left the TV on in case the world ended. I didn't want to sleep through it."

"Why don't you go on home now," she suggested.

"I am. Your keys are on your desk: they're labeled. Don't unlock the outside front door until ten, Monday through Saturday. Sundays, we don't open until noon. First one in makes the coffee."

He left, locking the door behind him, and she went back through the stockroom to the elevator and up to her own apartment, where she found two dead male movie stars sitting next to one another on the couch. She screamed and her balance shifted, making her stagger.

They apologized in Chiddy and Vess's voices.

She couldn't name either of their likenesses, but the faces were familiar. "You startled me," she cried, collapsing on the sofa. "You know, it'd really be helpful for me if you'd settle on a shape. If you won't do that, at least give me a way to know which of you is which. You know you've got everyone in the world upset. Why are you doing it?"

"Why are we doing what?" asked the larger famous person, smiling tenderly at her. Benita had seen that smile somewhere. Late movie. Old movie, black-and-white. She shook her head, trying to concentrate. Not Gary Grant. Gregory Peck? No. Who was that other one? The dark, incredibly handsome one? Like the heartthrob guy on ER, only more so. She came to herself with a start.