I've never been a particularly insightful observer of women's clothing, as all the women in my life have made clear to me.) A youngish man followed her, but stayed in the background, keeping his hand close

to the opening of his jacket. I didn't even bother trying to calculate my chances of taking him-not when I had no idea of where I was, or how to get out of it."How are you feeling?" asked "Miss Smith" in a tone that pa.s.sed for cordial with her."Never better. And now that we're among your friends, and I'm completely helpless, could you please tell me your real name?"

She blinked with surprise. "Well, I suppose it can do no harm. I'm Renata Novak. And I'm as human-and as American-as you, in case you'd wondered."

"Actually, I hadn't." This was true-surprisingly, inasmuch as I was something of a science-fiction fan.

If I'd been a real hard case, maybe my mind would have strayed into wild speculations. Fortunately, the completely prosaic aspect of everything about Renata Novak except her hardware had kept me anch.o.r.ed securely in what I still fancied to be reality.

She resumed briskly. "At any rate, Mr. Devaney-"

"Ah, so you know my name."

"Of course. As I was saying, we find ourselves faced with the problem of what to do with you."

"You seemed to know just what to do with me, in that elevator."

"Do I detect a note of resentment? I should think you'd be more appreciative. I could have simply

activated the privacy field for myself in that alley, after you had gotten me safely to it, and left you

behind to deal with those who were following us."

There seemed no good answer to this, so I contented myself with my best glare. Irritatingly, she seemed not to notice, but continued without a break.

"So you see, Mr. Devaney, we're not without some concept of ethics. But you've seen things you have no business seeing, and become involved in matters whose importance you can't possibly imagine."

"Oh, I think I can imagine the importance of the Presidential succession."

This brought her up short. "What makes you say that?"

"It has to have something to do with the fact that Lyndon Johnson has abruptly become President.

Remember the address I was originally supposed to take you to? Besides, something has got George Stafford on the verge of wetting his pants. What else could be involved, at this particular time?"

"Very clever, Mr. Devaney. You're even right, as far as you go. That is the reason for my presence in Washington-and, by extension, for the attack on me. There are, you see, certain things that Mr. Johnson needs to be made aware of. But the problem is the nature of those 'things'-secrets that must be kept. The importance of this is such that the a.s.sa.s.sination of one American president and the accession of another becomes a trivial matter by comparison."

So I can just imagine the triviality of an individual life, I thought. Mine, for instance. "You mean," I

asked aloud, "the stuff I saw you use?""Again, Mr. Devaney, that's just one facet of the secret of which I speak. You shouldn't have seen that 'stuff,' and wouldn't have had it not been for the attack on us. But, through no fault of your own, you didsee it."

"Hold that thought about 'no fault of your own.'"

"Unfortunately, that alters nothing. Now," she continued briskly, "our options are limited. There are techniques of memory erasure by which you could be made to forget everything that has happened to you since just before Stafford approached you about this job. This, however, has at least three disadvantages. First, it isn't absolutely foolproof; some residue of memory might remain. Second, some kind of cover story would have to be devised to account for the loss of a couple of days from your life.

And third, the procedure is not entirely without risk of permanent brain damage, possibly leaving the subject in a vegetative state."

I got the distinct impression that she had listed the disadvantages in descending order of importance,

from her standpoint. I also had the uncomfortable feeling that she'd just dug the hole I was in even deeper, if possible, by telling me about this memory erasure business-something else I had no business knowing.

"You mentioned 'options,' plural," I said carefully. "That's just one option. There must be at least one other."

Renata Novak didn't reply. And her dark eyes, usually so direct, didn't meet mine.

There was, I realized, no need to go into details about the second option.

In spite of everything, I sensed that this woman wasn't evil or bloodthirsty or anything like that. But she had the ruthlessness of someone in the service of an absolute: a cause whose importance transcended all ordinary social rules and moral standards, an end that justified any means.

She seemed to reach a decision. I had a pretty good idea of what that decision was. She opened her

mouth to speak."Who are you people?" I blurted.She looked surprised. "We're called the Prometheus Project . . . not that that will mean anything to you.

And now, Mr. Devaney-"

The door opened. Novak turned with an expression of annoyance at the interruption. That expression smoothed itself out at the sight of the late-middle-aged gent who entered-a tall, lantern-faced guy with slightly receding gray hair and blue eyes whose mildness was, I thought, probably deceptive. He motioned Novak to join him in a corner. They spoke in undertones for perhaps two minutes, while the young guy watched me with a degree of concentration that decided me against attempting any funny

business. Instead, I tried to eavesdrop on the conversation in the corner. But I only caught two words, because Novak p.r.o.nounced them with a startled rise in volume: "Mr. Inconnu."

Finally, she turned back to me. "It seems, Mr. Devaney, that you've suddenly acquired a new option.

Actually, it's not even an 'option'; it's simply what's going to happen. You are to be recruited."

"Recruited?" I echoed faintly.

"For the Prometheus Project," she explained, in the tone one uses with a not-terribly-bright child. "That

is the decision of an important-a very important-individual who has somehow become aware of your case and for some unaccountable reason taken a personal interest in it."

"Mr. Inconnu?" I ventured.My shot in the dark evidently connected, for she gave me a look of concentrated and distilled venom. "You have an instinctive affinity for things that are none of your business. But then, I suppose it is your business now, isn't it? And yes, he evidently insists on it. Very well; you will be transported to-"

"Wait just a G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute! What if I don't want to be recruited? Ever think about that?""Are you sure you don't want to be?" she asked silkily. "Considering . . . ?"This, undeniably, was food for thought.The elderly man stepped forward and spoke into the silence. "I tell you what, Mr. Devaney: suppose we take you to the destination Miss Novak was about to describe to you, and there explain to you what the Prometheus Project is all about? If, after hearing what we have to say, you don't wish to partic.i.p.ate, then we will make every possible effort to devise a solution that enables you to keep both your life and your sanity, while maintaining inviolate the secret we exist to keep." He raised a forestalling hand as Novak appeared ready to erupt with indignation. "This is Mr. Inconnu's wish. In fact, I'm almost quoting him verbatim." He turned back to me. "Well, Mr. Devaney?"

Did I believe him? To this day, I'm not sure. But, as Novak had put it, my options were limited.

Within twelve hours, I was on the first of a series of planes to Alaska.

CHAPTER THREE.

The final hop was by a helicopter we boarded at a totally nondescript little airfield in British Columbia. It took us over the mountain boundary between Canada and southeast Alaska, whose craggy peaks protrude above vast fields of ice and snow. But as one descends to the labyrinthine coastline of Alaska 's Inside Pa.s.sage, the landscape changes dramatically. Indeed, in the summer, few from the "lower forty-eight" are prepared for the lushness of the temperate rain forest-a gift of the kuroshio, the Pacific's equivalent of the Gulf Stream.

Our low-flying helicopter was approaching Juneau from the southeast. But Juneau wasn't our destination. Instead, the pilot pa.s.sed it northward, proceeding over the t.i.tanic Mendenhall Glacier and up the Lynn Inlet in the direction of Skagway-which wasn't our destination either.

In later years, we would have looked down on cruise ships off the dramatic fjord coast. But at that time Alaska, nearing the end of its fifth year of statehood, was still out of the way to the point of near inaccessibility. No works of man were to be seen as we pa.s.sed Point Bridget, and Berners Bay opened out before us. At this point the pilot took a turn to starboard and we headed east following one of the streams that fed the bay, upcountry into regions that would remain remote even in the busiest years of the tourist boom. Soon a small, level valley opened out before us, almost entirely occupied by what was, to all appearances, a military post about as undistinguished as the Canadian landing strip had been.

"Why don't you people just make this whole base invisible?" I asked Renata Novak, shouting above the noise of the descending chopper. She'd said as little as possible, or maybe even a little less than that, in the course of the trip, and I wanted to get a rise out of her. I failed.

"It would be expensive," she explained shortly. "Also superfluous, given the remoteness of this location." I couldn't disagree with that. I also reflected that the place would soon be practically inaccessible, with winter coming on. These people-the "Prometheus Project," about which I still knew nothing more than the name-could do anything to me they d.a.m.ned well wanted, in total privacy. That didn't bother me as much as you might think. I'd had time to pretty much adjust to being at their mercy. Besides, they weren't all like Renata Novak, if the older guy I'd encountered under Washington's Chinatown was any indication. I consoled myself with the thought as I got out of the helicopter, zipping up my parka against the Alaskan November. The installation was mostly Quonset huts, but there were a few honest-to-G.o.d buildings. Renata Novak led me to one of these, through a chill drizzle that was rapidly turning to snow. Inside, it looked as standard-issue as everything else. There was no magic in evidence, and not even any obtrusive security-it probably wasn't necessary here. Most of the people I saw wore utilitarian military-style dress, but without insignia. This wasn't really a military base, at least not of the military as I knew it.

Renata Novak left me in what was clearly a waiting room, to do what one spends most of one's time doing in inst.i.tutional settings: wait. I did just that, not even wasting mental energy by contemplating escape. I had no desire to try and traverse the Alaskan boonies on foot-not, I suspected, that I had the slightest real chance of getting far enough to make the attempt.

After a while, Renata Novak returned and motioned me through an inner door. I entered an office so bare of all personal touches and work-related clutter that it clearly had no purpose except interviews. A man seated behind a small desk motioned me to take a chair. My escort sat in another, in a posture of icy

primness.

"Welcome to the Prometheus Project, Mr. Devaney," the man greeted, extending his hand. I saw nothing to be lost by taking it. He was well into distinguished-looking middle age. He wore a rea.s.suring smile and the first suit I'd seen here.

"So this is it?" I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice as I made a gesture that took in the

installation around us."Oh, there's more to the Project than this. A lot more." He chuckled. "This is just one facility. It houses Section One, which is devoted to administrative functions, including indoctrination and training. You'll be staying here a while. Oh, by the way, my name is Dennis Dupont. I'm responsible for orientation of newly recruited personnel like yourself. I say 'like yourself' even though your case appears to be somewhat unique."

"Because I was invited here by Mr. Inconnu?"

Dupont gave me a sharp look. "So you know about that. Tell me, Mr. Devaney, how much do you know about Mr. Inconnu?"

"Not a d.a.m.ned thing," I admitted cheerfully, "aside from the obvious fact that it's a pseudonym. I was

hoping you'd tell me who he is . . . and what the h.e.l.l the 'Prometheus Project' is."

"The answer to the second question is bound up with the answer to the first." Dupont appeared to consider his options. "Let me ask you this: what do you think the Prometheus Project is all about?"I considered what I'd seen, and made a wild stab into facetiousness. "Men from outer s.p.a.ce?""Quite right." Dupont smiled, and spoke into the stunned silence he'd created. "Or, at least, man, singular. Mr. Inconnu is quite human, but of unknowable origin. His own explanation-which we have no basis for doubting-is that he is a descendant of humans transplanted from Earth to an extrasolar planet by aliens, for reasons of their own, in the distant past. He himself, he tells us, was able to escape from his people's servitude to warn us of the danger which the Project was subsequently founded to meet.

"And speaking of unusual backgrounds," Dupont continued, for I was still in no condition to interrupt him, "I've been studying your own dossier, which arrived while you were in transit." He peered at a stack of papers on his desk. "Let's see: you were in the Army, a.s.signed to the Special Forces, until fairly recently, when-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Suit yourself. But I can hardly help observing that you were no ordinary soldier-even on the standards of the Special Forces. Your education, for one thing, was such that the Army considered it worth extending still further, particularly in the direction of Asian languages and cultures. All in all, you have

quite a variety of skills for a man your age." Dupont gave me an odd look. "A pity for the Army that you didn't stay in."

"I said I don't-"

"Yes, I know. At any rate, ever since your separation from the service you've operated a one-man private