"And she doesn't work?"

"No," he said. "That's part of the problem."

"Do you have a picture of her?" Benita asked curiously.

He dug it out of his wallet. She was blonde, blue-eyed, with a face like an angel. Everyman's everywoman.

"She's beautiful."

"Yes," he said with an aching sigh. "She certainly is. I sometimes look at that face and think I'm the luckiest man in creation. On the phone, however, I sometimes get a more . . . accurate picture."

He went down in the elevator alone. Benita took a few moments to repack the small bag she had packed two days ago, adding casual clothes and another pair of shoes, thinking as she did so that she had never seen any advice about packing for interstellar travel. No raincoat, obviously, or boots. No warm sweaters. No tank tops for sunning. Slacks. Shirts. Sox. Shoes. Underwear. Nightgown. Nothing sexy.

Not that she owned any such thing.

While she didn't think she'd sleep, she dozed off as soon as she lay down. She didn't wake up until evening, when Chad rang her on the phone. He'd be over in half an hour.

She called Simon, who was still downstairs in the office doing something or other, and told him she'd be down. When she came in, he was staring at the TV which was rerunning her brief interview by the press that morning. He turned from the screen and stared at her.

"So that's what it was all about," he said.

She fumbled for something to say. He shook his head. "The apartment renovation? All the comings and goings?"

She sat down across from him. "Yes, Simon. But, I had no idea all this would happen when I applied for the job."

"I know." He shuffled the papers in front of him. "I was angry at first. Because you didn't tell me.

But then, I thought why would you? You wouldn't want to tell anybody, for fear they'd get at you. The press, I mean. Right?"

"Right."

"And you're doing a good job here. The best. I can't imagine where you found the time, with all this going on . . ."

"There was plenty of time, Simon. It doesn't take long to pass on a message or talk to the ET's.

Mostly that stuff happens in the evenings, after we're closed."

"Well, everything you've done so far is great. Your files are up to date. Your work is accurate. Are you going to go on working for me?"

"Simon, I would very much like to go on working for you. However, I can't work for you this week.

The president has asked me to go to the Pistach home world and look at it. The FBI man who's been guarding me..."

Simon's eyes flickered sideways. "Oh. That's who he is. I wondered."

"He's been working as liaison. He'll go with me on the trip, so he can verify what I see."

"What do they think you'll see?"

"Our government, part of it, anyhow, is worried it's a conspiracy. The predators. The Pistach. The Inkleozese."

"Why doesn't the president go?"

"Who'd believe him? He's trying to work inside the politics of mistrust, Simon. The other side has only one agenda, to discredit him, falsely if necessary, and they don't care if it hurts the country. I have no ax to grind. I'm not a political person. If Bert can be muzzled, they'll have a hard time discrediting me because there's nothing there to discredit."

He nodded sympathetically. "Well, you know, if they can get the public lined up to peek through bedroom windows, it makes it easier for them to rob the rest of the house!"

She smiled. "I'll be away for a few days. I came down to ask if you'll feed Sasquatch."

"I will feed and exercise Sasquatch. And I'll be glad when you come back, Benita." He held out his hand, and she took it. He pulled her across the desk and kissed her cheek, quite gently. "Very glad," he said.

She went back upstairs and waited for Chad, looking out the little window in the elevator hall, her hand on the cheek that Simon had kissed. What a strange man. Or not. He was really very nice, wasn't he? Thoughtful. Considerate. Appreciative. Undemanding.

Chad always parked where she could see him from the elevator hall, so she could come down to unlock the door. He arrived bearing two small suitcases and a paper bag of Chinese takeout. When Benita smelled it, she realized she hadn't eaten all day, not even breakfast, and Chad hadn't either. They set it out on the table in the living room and munched without talking for some time.

"I wonder where Chiddy is?" she said finally, surfeit with sesame shrimp, asparagus and rice.

"On his way, I should imagine," he said, putting down his fork with a sigh. He wiped his mouth thoroughly on a paper napkin. "I wonder what they'll feed us on Pistach-home."

"If they take us," she amended.

"I think they'll take us. If only because they're so embarrassed over this predator business."

"Or over the Inkleozese."

"My guess would be that doesn't embarrass them at all. The envoys took it for granted that intelligent people mean what they say, and somebody who says he's pro-life means it."

"How do we go about finding out whether the Pistach are as represented?" she asked him. "If we depend on them to show us the world, won't they just show us what they want us to see?"

"There are ways," he said. "Dissonances one can listen for. Differences of opinion one can ferret out.

Are you frightened, Benita?"

"A little." It was true. But the apprehension was accompanied by a bubbling feeling, as though she'd swallowed a little volcano, something that was building up toward an eruption. The feeling was vaguely familiar, and at last she tracked it back to a day in summer when Mami had taken her to the amusement park for her birthday, and she had ridden the roller coaster. Fear, and pleasure, and joy. Pure joy. It was such a lovely feeling! Why had it been such a rare one?

The evening grew late, and Chad took off his jacket and shoes and lay down on the couch in the living room, while she stretched out on the bed, Sasquatch at her feet. They had both dozed for some little time when Sasquatch roused them with a rumbling growl and a couple of firm woofs. It was Chiddy, back again, and he had Carlos and a girl with him. Of the two, the girl was in better shape. She looked tired, dirty, and a little frightened, but she was very much herself, ready to get angry the moment she thought it wouldn't endanger her life.

Carlos had evidently not been so sensible. He'd been battered here and there. Benita cautioned herself and did not shriek, did not sympathize, did not question. He wasn't hurt any worse than she had been, many times, with similar bruises darkening under his skin, and a black eye beginning to bloom.

"Mom," he cried, making a run for her and half knocking her down in the process. She fended him off, fighting down an urge to say, "Down, heel," except that he'd seldom listened to her in the past and was unlikely to do so now.

She put her hands on his shoulder to hold him up and away, hugs from Carlos had always been rare, usually confined to times he was frightened. "Are you all right, Carlos?"

He blubbered something, "Okay. All right. Not . . . they didn't . . . they were going to!"

She raised her eyebrows at Chiddy, who said with considerable distaste, "The Fluiquosm and Wulivery threatened to eat him. The Wulivery do that sometimes, teasing. I think he believed they would eat him."

"I saw them," he cried. "Eating people. They've got a storage place near the camp, and it's all full of dead people!"

"That's quite true, but they were under instructions not to eat you," said Chiddy, firmly. "Settle down."

"You don't know what they were like," Carlos screamed.

"I know exactly what they were like," snapped Benita. "I was eaten by a Wulivery. Stop dramatizing yourself."

Benita turned from Carlos to the girl, holding out her hand. "I think you were taken because you were mistaken for my daughter."

"Sonia Bigg," she said. "They were determined to make me tell them I was Angelica Shipton, if that's your daughter. As for him," she gestured toward Carlos, "he told them to start with me, if they were going to eat us."

"Sonia . . ." Carlos wailed. "I didn't mean that. I love you, I wouldn't say anything like that."

"You're . . . Carlos's friend?" asked Benita, with a disbelieving glance at her son.

"Was," said Miss Bigg.

"Well, well," Carlos babbled, "if they were going to eat us both anyhow, it didn't make any difference which of us was first, and I was just trying to keep them talking."

Chiddy saw the look of total dismay on her face and patted her shoulder soothingly. "As it happens, the predators did not at that time intend to eat either of them, and Miss Bigg is unhurt."

The girl said in a firm voice, "Unhurt! Hah." She turned to Benita. "May I use your bathroom, please?"

Benita indicated where it was, saying, "I can also lend you a clean shirt." She turned to Chiddy, whispering, "Can you take her back where she was taken from? What about Carlos? Is it safe to send him back?"

"She, yes. Not him, just yet. I spoke previously of needing a chaperon. I should imagine he will serve. If we take him with us, it will keep him out of circulation for a few days."

"What about Bert?"

"The Inkleozese are working on him. Arranging to straighten out the misinformation that was broadcast."

Chad said, "You want me to arrange for Miss Bigg to get back home?"

He accepted Chiddy's nod and began phoning. While he was busy, the girl came out of the bathroom.

Benita fetched a clean shirt for her, and by the time they emerged from the bedroom, Chad had arranged for her to be picked up. "If you need anything, a change of clothes or any necessaries, they'll provide it, and you'll be on a flight back to California today."

She thanked him, then turned to Carlos. "If you come back, don't call me."

A car came, the girl departed. Chiddy asked, "Are you and Chad ready to depart?"

Carlos interrupted to whine, "I'm sure as hell not. I don't even have a change of underwear."

"We can provide whatever you need," said Chiddy. "I need to provide proper costumes for all of you, anyhow. It is considered polite to wear garments suitable to one's station in life."

Carlos glowered, obviously getting ready to explode, and Chad took him by one shoulder, asking, "How far do we go to your ship?"

Vess laughed.

Chiddy bowed them into the elevator. "Not far," he said. "Not far at all."

In Afghanistan-TUESDAY Mustapha ibn Daud shut his door against the noises in the room beneath him where a rancorous debate continued, without letup, as it had for hours.

"If we do not feel lust, it is the will of Allahl" the old imam was still saying, over and over. Likely it had been decades since he had been able to feel anything of the kind, but now he championed the cause of the hideous women. "If these otherworldly afrits have changed our women, then they have done Allah's work whether they know it or not! Nothing happens that is not the will of Allah! We are being rebuked for our lusts, which burned more hotly the more the fuel was hidden!

"Listen to me! We refused to see our women as people like ourselves,- we hid them to make them titillating, to think of them only as vessels for our lusts, servants for our kitchens, breeders of our sons!

Let us free the women to walk as we do, with their faces uncovered. Let us see if this does not please Allah."

And, as he had done over and over, another, younger man attacked him: "Though he cannot lastingly prevail, Satan can do what Allah does not will! We are being tested! We should never change our ways!

In time, Allah will restore our own to us."

"And if He does not?" asked the old man. "If our women continue as they are? If my sons are unable to beget children? Is our lineage to stop with this generation? Do not say we are not changing our ways. It was agreed in the Taliban that we would eschew all modern gadgetry, was it not? And yet now, we have laptops. We have telephones. These things are needed in a modern state. Why should we not have modern women, too? They can be modern and still virtuous . . ."

Mustapha had held up his hand for silence, waiting until it fell. "I disagree. Our wives have been replaced by demons. Since Satan makes it impossible for us to kill these demons who have taken the places of our wives and daughters, let them go where they will! Some of our men have already gone to the Pakistan border to take women from there. We will bring women from elsewhere to serve our needs.

Our ways are righteous! Our ways are proper! To protect the purity of our womenfolk..."

"They are pure now," shouted the old man, shaking his fist at Mustapha. "They are not demons. I have talked with them. They are our women, and they are more pure now than they have ever been!

When they were hidden, they were lusted after. Now, no one lusts afar them!"

A murmur of discontent ran through the room. No man here had touched a woman for some time.

Every one of them had in his house at least one woman of supreme and utter repulsiveness, a woman he gagged to look at or smell. A woman who was hideous to the senses.

The old man spoke again. "Listen to me. You cannot deny that the women in our houses are pure.

Untouched. Let us achieve some consistency. We have said this is what we desire, that our wives and daughters be pure. That they not be raped, that they not be looked upon with lascivious eyes. Well, now they are pure, they are not raped, no one looks at them with desire, yet we complain! This causes me to wonder whether their purity was really our aim. Or did we want something else? By hiding them did we increase their erotic allure? Did we arouse ourselves with the idea of their subjugation? Is this something of which Allah approves?"

That was when Mustapha ibn Daud had left the room in disgust. To hear a teacher of the Koran speak so! To hear their culture so disparaged! He stood in the window looking out at the silent darkness. There was something here he did not understand, an enemy he could not bring down with a gun, and it made him feel trapped and angry.

Someone spoke at the doorway. Ben Shadouf. He came in, was offered a place to sit and did so.

"You have heard, my wife is gone?" he said.

"We do not speak of women," Mustapha answered loftily.

"Oh, but we do," said Ben Shadouf. "We always have. We talk of the dancers we have seen. We go to prostitutes and talk of them to our friends. We talk of women."

"We do not talk of our wives and daughters!"

"True. Except, when we first marry, or when we grow weary of our wives, we ask our friends if they have marriageable daughters. Young ones. Healthy ones. Frightened ones who would be sure to obey."

He spoke bitterly and his hands twisted in his lap. "I loved my wife, Mustapha. She was gentle and kind.

She cooked well. She was considerate of my feelings and well being. I loved my little daughters. Their faces made a garden in my house."

"You love them even now?" barked Mustapha, with a laugh. "Then you are a saint."