The Investigation

6

It was a few minutes to four when Gregory arrived at the Ritz. Glancing at a clock built into a column marking a streetcar stop, he paused in front of a display of still photographs from a new film and casually studied the glass-covered pictures of a long-legged woman in torn underwear, some masked gangsters, and two cars colliding in a cloud of dust. One after another, big American cars pulled up in front of the restaurant. A pair of tourists from across the ocean emerged from a long black Packard: the woman, old and hideously made up, was wearing diamonds and a sable cape; her escort, a slim young man discreetly dressed in gray, held her handbag and waited patiently until she got out of the car. On the other side of the street the neon marquee of a theater flashed on in a burst of light and movement, its bluish reflection glittering in the windows of nearby stores. When the hands of the clock indicated 4:20, Gregory began moving toward the Ritz. The earlier part of the afternoon had gone as he expected. Calls finally came back with a medical report on the body and an account of the circumstances in which it was found, both absolutely worthless, and Gregory was forced to admit that his idea of setting up stake-outs to watch for the returning bodies was fantasy, plain and simple. He couldn’t possibly get enough policemen to cover an area of more than eighty square miles.

A doorman in gold braid opened the door for him. His gloves were more respectable-looking than Gregory’s. Uncertain how the meeting would go, the lieutenant was worried and ill at ease. Sciss had phoned him around noon to suggest having dinner together, trying so hard to be gracious that he gave the impression of having forgotten the events of the previous evening. He hadn’t even mentioned the unfortunate phone call. “The second act,” Gregory mused, looking around the large dining room. He saw Sciss and headed for his table, thus managing to escape from the approaching headwaiter. As he drew closer he saw that there were two other men with Sciss. He didn’t recognize either one. When the introductions were over, Gregory leaned uncomfortably against the red velvet upholstered back of his chair; he was flanked on both sides by majolica potted palms, and from the table, which was situated on a raised platform, he had a fine view of the whole interior of the Ritz: elegant women; brilliantly colored, brightly lit fountains; pseudo-Moorish columns. Sciss handed him the menu. Gregory wrinkled his forehead, pretending to study it. He was beginning to feel that Sciss was out to make a fool of him.

His earlier assumption — that Sciss wanted to have a candid private talk — was clearly wrong. “The ass is using his friends to impress me,” Gregory thought, looking with affected indifference at his table companions, Armour Black and Doctor McCatt. Gregory knew Black from his books and from pictures in the newspapers. About fifty years old, Black was at the height of his popularity. A long series of best-selling novels, written after years of silence, had finally made him famous. The writer kept himself in excellent shape, and in person it was easy to see that the news pictures showing him on the tennis court or with fishing rod in hand were genuine. Black had big, neatly manicured hands; his head was large, with a thick crop of dark hair, a fleshy nose, and thick eyebrows that overshadowed his face; sometimes, when he closed his eyes for a while in the middle of a conversation, his age showed. The other man seemed much younger but probably wasn’t; boyish-looking and very thin, he had close-set blue eyes and a protruding Adams apple that seemed to stretch the skin of his neck. His behavior was eccentric, to say the least. Sometimes he hunched over and stared with glazed eyes at the whiskey glass in front of him; then, seeming to regain his senses, he’d straighten up and sit rigidly for a minute or so. A moment later he would stare around the dining room with his mouth gaping open or would turn, stare persistently at Gregory, then break out laughing like a mischievous child. He seemed the same type as Sciss, and because of this Gregory assumed he was one of Sciss’s students. But while Sciss reminded him of a long-legged bird, there was something reminiscent of a rodent in McCatt.

The drift of Gregory’s zoological associations was interrupted by a slight dispute between Black and Sciss.

“No, anything but Chateau Margot,” the writer stated categorically, shaking the wine list. “That sorry excuse for a wine would kill even the best appetite. It destroys the taste buds and curdles the stomach juices. And in general,” he said, glancing at the wine list with an air of aversion, “there’s nothing here. Not a thing! Of course it isn’t my problem. I’m used to making sacrifices.”

“Oh, please.” Sciss seemed genuinely embarrassed. The headwaiter appeared, his dignified bearing and long, black tails reminding Gregory of a well-known symphony orchestra conductor. Black was still grumbling when the hors d’oeuvres were served. Sciss tried to make conversation, bringing up a recent news item, but his effort was received in silence. Without making the slightest effort to answer, Black turned to Sciss with his mouth full, his eyes blazing in outrage as if the scientist was guilty of some terrible indiscretion. “This famous friend of his certainly doesn’t let him get away with anything,” Gregory thought to himself with satisfaction. The men ate silently against the increasingly noisy background of the other diners. Between the soup and the main course, McCatt lit a cigarette, unwittingly threw the burned-out match into his wine, then had some trouble fishing it out. Gregory, for want of anything better to do, watched him listlessly. The meal was nearly over when Black finally spoke.

“All right, I forgive you. But if I were in your place, Harvey, my conscience would be bothering me. That duck — what did they do to her before she died? There’s something about long-drawn-out funerals that always ruins the appetite.”

“But Armour…” Sciss mumbled, uncertain what to say. He tried to laugh but without much success.

Black shook his head slowly. “I didn’t say anything. Here we are — vultures gathered from the four corners of the earth… and those apples! What an atrocity! To stone a defenseless animal to death with apples! Don’t you agree: oh, and à propos, you’re compiling statistics on supernatural occurrences in cemeteries, if I remember correctly, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I can show them to you if you want. There’s nothing supernatural involved. You’ll see for yourself.”

“Nothing supernatural? How dull! My dear fellow, if there’s no element of the supernatural, I’m not at all interested in your statistics. What good are they?”

Observing Sciss’s agony and his complete inability to defend himself against Black, Gregory finally began to enjoy himself.

“But it’s really a very interesting problem,” McCatt observed good-heartedly.

“What problem? Nothing but some plagiarism from the Gospels, that’s all! Or is there something I don’t know about?”

“Please try to be serious for a minute,” Sciss said, making no effort to disguise his impatience.

“But I’m never more serious than when I’m joking,” said Black.

“You know,” McCatt turned to Sciss, “I’m reminded of a story. You’ve heard of the Elberfeld horses, haven’t you — the ones that were supposed to be able to read and count. The case was very much like the one you’re working on — the only alternatives seemed to be fraud or a miracle.”

“And in the end it turned out that it wasn’t a fraud, right?” Black interrupted.

“No, it wasn’t. The man who trained the horses — I can’t remember his name — wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. He really believed that the horses could talk and count. They tapped out numbers and the letters of the alphabet with their hooves, and they were usually able to hit on the right answer by watching him — not by lip reading or anything like that, but by interpreting various aspects of his outward appearance — changes in his facial expression, unconscious gestures, changes in his posture, movements so slight that human observers didn’t notice them. But of course these performances all took place under strict scientific supervision.”

“And that explanation satisfied the scientists?”

“Yes, by and large. Because in this case the traditional position that you must choose between two possibilities — either a miracle or a bluff — didn’t work. There was a third answer.”

“I have a better analogy,” Sciss said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Table tipping. As you know, even people who don’t believe in spiritualism can lift tables into the air and move them around. From the traditional point of view, you have either another case of fraud or a genuine manifestation from the spirit world. But in actual fact it isn’t a fraud or a spirit that tips the table. The movement results from the combined action of all the microscopic muscle vibrations of each individual in the group of people whose hands are joined above the table. Since each of these individuals is an organism of the same kind, their neuromuscular structures are closely related; thus we see a specific collective process, a definite oscillation of tonus, muscle tension, and nervous impulse rhythm. The people in the circle are completely unaware of the phenomenon, and in effect a combination of forces occurs which brings pressure to bear on the tabletop.”

“Oh, come on,” said the writer, considerably quieter now and showing real interest. “Exactly what are you trying to say? That the corpses disappeared because of an oscillation in the afterworld? That dead bodies rise from time to time to satisfy a complicated statistical procedure? My dear fellow, I much prefer a miracle without the statistical trimmings.”

“Armour, must you make fun of everything?” Sciss flared up angrily, his forehead turning red. “My analogy was elementary and therefore incomplete. This series of so-called resurrections, which really aren’t resurrections at all, presents a specific curve. It isn’t as if all the corpses disappeared on the same day. The incidents began with very slight body movements, then the phenomenon increased, reached a maximum, and began to drop. So far as the coefficient of correlation with cancer is concerned, it is considerably higher than the coefficient of correlation between sudden deaths and sunspots. I already told you that—”

“I know! I know! I remember! It’s a simple case of cancer à rebours: instead of killing things it does the opposite — it brings them back to life. A brilliant scheme, symmetrical, positively Hegelian!” said Black. His left eyelid was fluttering impatiently, making it look as if a black butterfly was sitting just under his eyebrow. This impression was heightened by the writer’s angry efforts to stop the movements of the tic with his finger.

“Nowadays rationalism is the fashion, not the method, and superficiality is always one of the characteristic features of fashion,” Sciss said coldly, ignoring the writer’s sarcasm. “At the end of the nineteenth century it was universally believed that we knew almost everything there was to know about the material world, that there was nothing left to do, except keep our eyes open and establish priorities. The stars moved in accordance with calculations not very different from those needed to run a steam engine; the atoms too, and so forth. A perfect society was attainable, and it could be constructed bit by bit according to a clear-cut plan. In the exact sciences these naively optimistic theories were abandoned long ago, but they are still alive in the thought processes of everyday life. So-called common sense relies on programmed nonperception, concealment, or ridicule of everything that doesn’t fit into the conventional nineteenth century vision of a world that can be explained down to the last detail. Meanwhile, in actuality you can’t take a step without encountering some phenomenon that you cannot understand and will never understand without the use of statistics. And thus we have, for example, the famous duplicitas causum of the doctors, the behavior of crowds, and the cyclical fluctuations of the content of dreams, or such phenomena as table tipping.”

“Fine, fine. You’re right as usual. But what about the cemetery incidents?” Black asked gently. “I’ve heard you out and table tipping will never be a problem for me again, but unfortunately I can’t say the same thing about your resurrections.”

Gregory twisted around in his chair, delighted by the writer’s comments. He glanced eagerly at Sciss. The scientist, having calmed down a bit, was watching the other men with a slight, almost phony smile; the corners of his small mouth turned downward: as always when he was about to say something momentous, his expression combined helplessness with triumph.

“Not long ago McCatt showed me a new electronic computer that uses human language. When he plugged it in, the speaker gave a few grunts and started babbling incoherently. It sounded like a phonograph record being played at the wrong speed, but with a record you can sometimes recognize snatches of music or words; the sounds the computer produced were all gibberish. It took me completely by surprise — I still remember the experience vividly. Incidentals like that sometimes prevent you from seeing the whole picture. In the case of the mortuaries, the corpses are only accessories, shocking perhaps, but…”

“So you still maintain that according to your formula the thing has been solved,” said Black slowly, watching through drooping eyes as Sciss emphatically denied the statement with his head.

“Let me finish. My mass-statistical approach concentrates on the phenomenon as a whole. I admit that we still need an analysis of the individual instances, and a study of the processes which generate the actual movements of the dead bodies, but such a particularized, specific treatment of the problem is outside my field of competence.”

“Now I understand. You’re saying that your theory explains the movement of a large number of bodies taken as a group, but that we still don’t know what makes any particular corpse move?”

Sciss compressed his lips, then pouted again. He answered in a quiet voice, but a slight grimace testified to the feeling of contempt behind his words.

“Any event can be understood on two levels, and this is a fact that you won’t change by ridiculing me. According to statistics, let’s say, a gun is fired once every five days in a big city. But if you’re sitting next to a window and a bullet smashes the pane over your head, you don’t reason this way: ‘A shot has just been fired, there won’t be another for five more days, therefore I’m safe.’ Instead, you assume that someone is after you with a gun, maybe a madman, and that it’s a good idea to take cover under the table. I have just given you an example of the difference between a prediction based on mass-statistics and an individual reaction to a single event; the individual reaction is relatively subordinate to the mass-statistical calculation.”

“What do you think about all this?” Black asked, turning to Gregory.

“Me? I’m looking for a human criminal,” the lieutenant replied quietly.

“Is that so? Yes, of course… naturally, as a specialist in individual occurrences, you wouldn’t believe in a virus.”

“But I do believe in it. It’s a remarkable virus. And fortunately it has many identifiable traits. For example, it likes darkness and solitude, that’s why it only operates at night in godforsaken out-of-the-way holes. It avoids policemen like the plague — evidently because they have some special immunity. Furthermore, it likes dead animals, especially cats. And it has literary interests also, although it limits itself to weather forecasts.”

The writer listened to Gregory with increasing amusement. His face changed, taking on a cheerful expression, and he began speaking quickly.

“You could get a warrant to arrest almost anyone with that description, Inspector. Whoever throws rocks at the Earth, for instance. After all, meteors usually strike the Earth at night, they come down in solitary places where there are no people or policemen to see them — in fact, they almost always hit a little before daybreak, which shows how tricky they are, since night watchmen usually fall asleep just before dawn. If you asked Sciss about this, he’d tell you that the areas most frequently bombarded by meteors lie in a zone of retreating night and thus constitute the forepart of Earth during its cosmic voyage through space — and, since it is a well-known fact that more falling leaves hit the front window of a moving car than the rear window, we have an analogy… et cetera. But you have to find a perpetrator soon, don’t you?”

“Falling meteors and viruses acting up don’t interest me — I’m concerned about the real person behind all this; I may be unimaginative but he’s the only perpetrator I want. I’m not worried about whoever’s responsible for meteors and stars…” Gregory answered, his tone sharper than he intended.

The writer watched him for a moment. “Oh, you’ll get your man all right. I guarantee it. Besides… you already have him.”

“Really?” The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

“It may be that you aren’t going after him the right way — maybe you haven’t collected enough evidence to put the finger on him yet — but that’s not the real point. A culprit who isn’t caught is a defeat for you — it means still another folder in the unsolved cases file. But a culprit who doesn’t exist, who never existed, that’s something completely different, worse than all your records burning up, worse even than confused language in your official reports, it’s the end of the world! For you the existence of the perpetrator of a crime has nothing to do with victory or defeat — it’s a matter of the sense or absurdity of your profession and your daily activities. And because catching him means peace of mind, salvation, and relief, you’ll get him by hook or by crook, you’ll get the bastard even if he doesn’t exist!”

“In other words, I have a persecution mania, I’m obsessed, I’m proceeding in spite of the facts?” said Gregory, closing his eyes. The conversation had gone on long enough — he was ready to end it even if he had to be arrogant.

“The reporters are all eager to talk to that constable who ran away from the mortuary,” said Black. “Are you? Do you expect much from his story?”

“No.”

“I knew it,” the writer said coldly. “If he recovers and says he saw a resurrection with his own eyes, you’ll think he imagined it, you’ll tell yourself that you can’t depend on the testimony of a man who has a serious brain concussion, and all the doctors will say the same thing. Or maybe you’ll say that your perpetrator was even more clever than you assumed — that the constable couldn’t see him because he used some kind of invisible nylon thread or covered himself with a black substance. For you, Inspector, only Barabbas exists; if you had been a witness at that famous scene, and heard a voice saying ‘Lazarus, arise!’ — you’d remain yourself, you wouldn’t change at all. By yourself I mean a victim of hallucination or illusion, or a clever fraud. I say that you will never, never give up the idea that there is a perpetrator because your existence depends on his!”

Although he had told himself not to let Black’s remarks affect him, Gregory could feel his face turning pale. He tried to smile but couldn’t.

“In other words, I’m the kind of policeman who was assigned to guard the Holy Sepulcher,” he said. “Or I’m like Paul — before his conversion. You’re not going to give me a single break, are you?”

“No!” said the writer. “But it’s not me. You yourself won’t. This isn’t a question of methodology or statistics or even of systematic investigation — it’s a matter of faith. You believe in a perpetrator because you have to. We need policemen like you, but we also need Holy Sepulchers.”

“I’ll go you one better,” said Gregory, laughing unnaturally. “You could say that I’m not even doing what I want to do, just acting out a role in a tragedy, or a tragicomedy. Or something, you tell me, since you’re so eager to be the chorus…”

“Why not? That’s my job,” the writer declared.

Sciss had been listening to this conversation with growing impatience. Finally, he could no longer contain himself.

“Armour, my dear friend,” he said in a persuasive voice, “paradoxes are as necessary to you as water is to a fish. I know you enjoy doing it, but don’t reduce things to absurdities.”

“A fish doesn’t create the water,” Black responded, but Sciss wasn’t listening.

“This case has to do with facts, not with drama or lyric poetry. As you know very well, Entia non sunt multiplicanda. Faith is not involved in the analysis of a series of facts. A working hypothesis may sometimes be invalid, but even an invalid hypothesis, if nothing else, affirms that there is a human perpetrator…”

“As long as there are human beings facts don’t exist in a void,” said the writer. “Once a fact emerges into consciousness it is already an interpretation. Facts? A thousand years ago a similar event gave rise to a new religion. And even if it had turned out to be an anti-religion, there would still be the same crowds of believers and priests, the mass hallucinations, the empty coffins pulled apart for relics, the blind seeing, the deaf beginning to hear… I admit that action in this sphere is more limited and less mythologized nowadays, the Inquisitor doesn’t threaten to torture anyone for statistical heresies — that’s why the tabloid papers make such big profits. Facts, my dear friend, are your business as well as the Inspector’s. You’re both the kind of disciples on which our era is founded. Inspector, I hope you aren’t angry at me because of our little disagreement. I don’t know you so I can’t possibly predict whether or not you’ll end up another Paul. But even if you do, Scotland Yard will remain the same. The police are never converted. I don’t know if you ever noticed that.”

“You turn everything into a joke,” Sciss grunted indifferently. McCatt whispered to him for a moment, then they both got up. Outside the checkroom Gregory found himself standing next to Sciss, who suddenly turned to him and said in a lowered voice:

“Do you have anything to say to me?”

Gregory hesitated, then, acting on an impulse, took Sciss’s hand and shook it.

“Please don’t think about me, just go about your work in peace,” he replied.

“Thank you,” said Sciss. His voice was so shaky that even Gregory was surprised and confused. Armour Black’s car was parked in front of the Ritz. Sciss got in with him, leaving Gregory alone with McCatt. Although Gregory would have preferred to say good-bye, McCatt proposed that they walk together for a while.

Both men were the same height; walking side by side, they reluctantly became aware of this fact on several different occasions when each discovered the other peering at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. These unexpected encounters called for a smile, but neither one was willing to make the gesture. After a while McCatt stopped at a vegetable stand and bought a banana. Peeling it, he glanced at Gregory.

“Do you like bananas?”

“Not too much.”

“Are you in a rush?”

“No.”

“Why don’t we try our luck,” McCatt suggested, pointing at the brightly lit entrance of a penny arcade.

Cheered by the thought, Gregory nodded and followed him inside. Several greasy-haired teenagers were watching sullenly as one of their number fired a line of blue sparks at a small airplane revolving behind the window of a glass case. McCatt walked straight to the back of the arcade, passing a row of pinball machines and automatic roulette games. He stopped in front of a glass-topped metal case. Underneath the glass cover there was a green landscape, complete with bushes and trees. He deftly threw a coin into the slot, pulled a lever, and turned to Gregory.

“Do you know this game?”

“No.”

“It’s called ‘Hottentots and Kangaroo.’ There aren’t any Hottentots in Australia, but what difference does it make? I’ll be the kangaroo. Ready?”

He pressed a button. A little kangaroo jumped out of a black slot and fell into a clump of bushes. Gregory pulled his lever — and three funny-looking little black figures slid out on his side. He manipulated the handgrip, moving his Hottentots closer to the place where he thought the kangaroo was hiding. At the last minute the kangaroo jumped out, broke through Gregory’s skirmish line, and again took refuge in the jungle. They wandered that way across the whole plastic map; every time Gregory got too close the kangaroo managed to escape. Finally Gregory worked out a tactical plan: positioning one Hottentot at the place where the kangaroo had disappeared, he held the other two in reserve, aligning them in such a way that McCatt couldn’t possibly escape. He caught the kangaroo on his next move.

“For a beginner you’re very good,” McCatt said. His eyes were sparkling, he was chuckling like a boy. Gregory shrugged his shoulders, feeling somewhat foolish.

“Maybe because I’m a hunter by profession.”

“No, it’s not that. You have to use your mind in this game. There’s no other way to play it. You understood the principle right off. This game lends itself to mathematical analysis, you know. Sciss hates this kind of fun — it’s a defect, a fundamental defect in his personality…”

That said, he walked slowly down the row of slot machines, threw a coin into one of them and jerked the lever, setting the colorful disks into motion: a flood of coins streamed out of the machine into his outstretched hand. The kids up front, noticing this, began to move slowly in his direction, watching as McCatt nonchalantly threw the money into his pocket. But McCatt didn’t try his luck again and the two men left, passing the stubborn dull-witted fellow near the entrance who was still shoving coin after coin into the machine in a desperate effort to shoot down the airplane.

An arcade lined by shops came into view a few steps farther on. Gregory recognized it at once: it was the same one he had wandered into not long before; inside, toward the back, he saw a huge mirror closing off the far end.

“There’s no exit here,” he said, coming to a stop.

“I know. You suspect Sciss, don’t you?”

Gregory paused for a moment before answering.

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“You could say that. But… he really doesn’t have any friends.”

“I know, it’s not very easy to like him,” Gregory said with surprising emphasis. “Only… you shouldn’t ask me questions like that.”

“I only meant it rhetorically. After all, it’s obvious that you suspect him. Maybe not of engineering the disappearances, but, let’s say… of being an accomplice. However, and I don’t mean to sound facetious, only time will tell. I just want to know one thing: would you close the investigation if you witnessed, with your own eyes, something that looks like a resurrection? That is, a dead man sitting, moving around…”

“Did Sciss tell you to ask me that?” Gregory asked in a sarcastic tone of voice. Without realizing it, the two men had walked as far as the center of the arcade, stopping in front of a shop window. Inside it a barefoot window decorator was undressing a willowy blonde manikin. Gregory was suddenly reminded of his dream. He watched attentively as the manikin’s slender, pink body emerged from under the gold lame.

“It’s too bad you understood it that way,” McCatt answered slowly. Bowing his head slightly, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Gregory in front of the shop window.

The lieutenant took a few steps farther into the arcade, but turned back after seeing his reflection in the mirror. On the street outside more and more window displays were lit up, and the noise and bustling had intensified as it usually does in the early evening. Continually jostled as he walked along deep in thought, he finally turned into a side street. After a minute or two he found himself standing at the entrance to a courtyard. The display cases on both sides of the gate belonged to a photographer, and his eyes swept over the rows of wedding pictures, quickly taking in the conventionally retouched happy couples — the brides all smiling shyly behind their veils, the tuxedoed men affecting virile poses. He walked into the courtyard. An old man in a slovenly, unbuttoned leather smock was kneeling beside the open hood of an old car, listening to the purring of its motor with his eyes closed. Behind him there was a garage, its doors open. Gregory could see several other cars inside, as well as empty gasoline cans and piles of spare parts scattered along the walls. The man in the smock, seeming to sense Gregory’s presence, opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. The expression of ecstasy left his face.

“What can I do for you, mister? You want to rent a car?”

“What? Uh… you rent cars?” Gregory asked.

“Of course. Allow me, sir. Would you like a new one? I have this year’s Buick, automatic transmission, the smoothest ride you ever had. How long do you want it?”

“No… uh, yes. Just for tonight. Yes, I’ll take the Buick,” Gregory decided. “Do you want a deposit?”

“That depends.”

Gregory showed him his identity card. The man smiled and bowed.

“You don’t have to leave no deposit, Inspector, it goes without saying. You can pay me the fifteen shillings later. The Buick, right? Should I gas her up?”

“Yes. Will it take long?”

“No… only a minute.”

The man disappeared into the garage. One of the dark cars gave a start and quietly pulled out onto the concrete drive. Gregory paid, placing the money in the proprietor’s chubby, greasy palm. He slammed the door, adjusted the seat, tested the brake, worked the pedals for a moment to get accustomed to them, threw the car into gear, and drove carefully into the street. It was still fairly light outside.

The car was really new and it handled easily. At the first red light Gregory turned around and studied its length through the panoramic rear window. He wasn’t used to such a big car, but he enjoyed the rhythmic throbbing of its powerful engine. The traffic was heavy for a while, but Gregory put on more speed after it thinned out. There were fewer private cars in the street now, and more brightly painted vans, panel trucks, and motorcycles delivering merchandise. He had reached the East End when he realized that he didn’t have any cigarettes.

Gregory drove along several narrow streets posted with no parking signs, finally finding a spot next to a cluster of dry trees enclosed by an old iron grating that looked like a huge bird cage. He backed the Buick in until he could feel the tires bumping gently against the curb, then got out and began looking for a tobacco shop he had seen from the car. He had never been in this neighborhood before, however, and as a result he couldn’t find it. He walked up the next side street. It was beginning to get darker. He saw two or three long-haired youths loitering in the glare outside a small movie house. Their hands crammed into the pockets of their wrinkled tight pants, they were patiently watching the still photographs in a revolving drum that advertised coming attractions. Just past the movie theater Gregory was caught in a blast of hot air from the open door of a cafeteria. Inside he could see some sausages sizzling on an open grill, and through the smoke he made out several more long-haired characters like the ones outside the theater. Finally he found the tobacco shop. The proprietor, a short hunchback with a face as flat as a pancake and almost no neck, handed him a package of American cigarettes. On the way out Gregory encountered another dwarf; this one, unusually fat, with short arms and legs, was removing a tray of sugar-covered pastries from a delivery wagon. Gregory tore the cellophane off the package, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Deciding to return to the car by a different route, he crossed the street and walked straight ahead, looking for a cross street leading to the right. He passed another cafeteria, its door open also, with a narrow, sausage-shaped red, green, and white flag drooping over its entrance like a rag. Down the street there was a penny arcade full of people, a grocery, and a hardware store. Most of the sidewalk outside the hardware store was blocked by piles of merchandise. The proprietor, dressed in a black sweater and smoking a pipe, was sitting under a tree, watching a little cart on the other side of the street. Hearing a catchy tune from that direction, Gregory paused and took a close look. Although the occupant of the cart was standing, only the upper part of his chest was visible; actually, it was an armless torso; the head, swinging to left and right in quick half turns was playing a brisk march on a harmonica mounted on a wire frame. Gregory put his hand in his pocket and toyed nervously with a coin; then, by an effort of sheer willpower, forced himself to walk away. The high-pitched sound of the harmonica followed him for a while. Shuddering as the image of the street musician flashed into his mind, Gregory realized, almost as an afterthought, that he was beginning to feel a little like a dwarf. The idea fascinated him. “A street of dwarfs,” he thought. It suddenly occurred to him that the series of disappearances had to have a clear-cut meaning, even if it was hidden. It would be difficult to discard everything at this point and start all over again on a hunch, he mused. There were no street lamps and it was getting darker and darker — the street was lit only by faint streaks of light from the shop windows. Up ahead Gregory saw a gap in the streaks — the street he was looking for.

The cross street was almost empty, lit more or less by an old-fashioned gas lamp hanging from a spiral iron arm attached to a wall. Gregory walked slowly, smoking his cigarette until the wet tobacco at the end began burning and singed his lips. Just past the corner there was an antique shop, or so the sign claimed, but there was nothing in the window except a dusty pile of cardboard boxes and some old photographs of movie stars scattered about like an abandoned deck of playing cards. At the end of the street he found the little square where he had parked the car.

Some children were playing hide-and-seek near the iron grating, popping out from behind the cagelike structure, which enclosed a statue of someone in a bishop’s miter, to throw pieces of wood at his Buick.

“That’s enough fooling around, you hear me!” he shouted, emerging from the shadows. The children scattered noisily, more exuberant than frightened. He got in and started the motor. Cut off from his surroundings by the car windows, he had a premonition that he was about to unleash something he’d be sorry for later on. The premonition urged him not to go ahead with whatever it was he had just started. He hesitated for a second, but his fingers tightened automatically on the gearshift, and the car began coasting down the slope. Reducing speed gradually, he turned into a broad avenue, passing a street sign but not managing to read it.

The dashboard clock radiated a pinkish color; its hands stood at seven o’clock. Time was really flying today. Various events connected with the case came to mind, but Gregory rejected them — he wanted to push them out of his consciousness, trying hard not to think about the case, as if it was important not to think about it, as if everything would turn out all right if he left it alone; somehow, he felt, all the details would fall into place when he came back to them later on.

He was leaving the East End when the flashing directional signal of a dark car in front of him caught his eye. Recognizing the dented rear bumper, he slowed down and stayed at a safe distance behind the car. He managed without any trouble.

The dark gray sedan turned again into a deserted tree-lined street. Gregory allowed it to get a few more yards ahead; then, to keep from attracting attention, he turned off his lights, following the other car like this for a long time. Once or twice, at intersections, he had to speed up to make sure he wouldn’t lose it but he preferred not to get too close. There weren’t many other cars on the street though, and Sciss was a careful driver, who used his directional signals often. The orange flashes were a big help, but Gregory was a little annoyed because he didn’t always know where he was. Suddenly he recognized the bluish letters of an advertising sign and immediately everything fell into place. There was a branch of the City Bank, next door to it a small cafe he had frequented in his youth. The dark sedan pulled up to the curb. Gregory made a quick decision: at the risk of losing Sciss, who was already getting out of his car, Gregory drove up to the next block. He stopped in front of a big chestnut tree which protected the Buick from the light of the street lamps, slammed the doors, and hurried back, but Sciss was nowhere to be seen. Gregory stopped in front of the cafe and tried to peek through the windows. Some posters pasted on the glass blocked his view, so he raised his collar and went inside, unable to resist the unpleasant feeling that he was doing something ridiculous.

The cafe had several rooms; three or four, he’d never known quite how many. They were spacious, furnished with marble-topped tables; each room was separated from the others by a partition padded with worn-out red velvet, the kind of material used to upholster settees.

Gregory spotted Sciss’s reflection in a narrow mirror on the wall of the passageway between the first and second rooms. He was seated at a table, saying something to a waiter. Gregory backed up, looking for a corner from which he could watch Sciss without being seen. It wasn’t easy. When he finally selected a spot and sat down, he discovered that the partitions blocked his view of Sciss’s table, but he couldn’t move because the waiter was already headed toward him. Ordering a hot toddy, Gregory spread out the Sunday Times, annoyed that he couldn’t see Sciss and that he was sitting like a dog outside a fox’s lair. He forced himself to work on the crossword puzzle, watching the empty space between the partitions and the opposite wall. About ten minutes later, while he was still sipping the sickeningly sweet drink, Sciss suddenly stood up and walked quickly from room to room as if looking for someone. Gregory barely managed to hide himself behind the outspread Times, but Sciss didn’t notice the lieutenant and returned to his “box,” now sitting in such a way that Gregory could see his long legs and his bluish yellow shoes. Another ten minutes went by. In the back, near the billiard table, some students were arguing noisily with each other. Sciss leaned out of his hiding place every time the door creaked. Finally, he stood up, smiling heartily at a girl standing in the doorway. She hesitated, then walked toward him, her flat handbag, hanging on a strap from her shoulder, bouncing against her hips. She was wearing a purple coat, with a hood that covered all but a few wisps of her light-colored hair. Gregory couldn’t see her face. The girl stood in front of Sciss, who began talking very rapidly. He touched the sleeve of her coat. She shook her head as if saying no, then slid in between the partition and the table. Both disappeared from view. Taking advantage of a temporary commotion among the students in the back room, Gregory reluctantly circled the inside of the cafe, and headed back to his table from the other direction, attempting all the while to watch Sciss and the girl through a mirror hanging high on the wall. Pretending to be looking for a particular newspaper, he moved from table to table until he found a good vantage point, then fell into a red settee with protruding springs. It was hard to see the mirror, but at least the dim lighting and the location gave some assurance that Sciss wouldn’t be able to spot him. The mirror enabled Gregory to see Sciss slightly from above. Sciss had moved from his chair to the sofa next to the girl; talking rapidly, without even looking at her, he almost seemed to be directing his words at the table, an impression heightened by Gregory’s foreshortened view of the scene. The girl, full-lipped with a childlike face, was no more than seventeen years old. She still had her coat on, but she had opened it and pushed the hood back, letting her hair spill out over her shoulders. Sitting straight up with her shoulders pressed against the red upholstery, and staring frontward instead of at Sciss, she looked unnaturally stiff and still, conveying the unmistakable impression that she was uncomfortable and perhaps a little tired. Sciss kept talking and talking; at one point he leaned toward the girl, reluctantly pulled back as if his advance had been rejected, then brought his restless thin lips close to her face without looking at her. At the same time, his bony hand moved up and down on the table top in rhythm with what he was saying; clenching and unclenching his fingers, he almost furtively caressed the table. The whole scene was so stupid, so pathetic that Gregory wanted to turn away, but he kept watching. The girl smiled once, but only with her lips, not with her eyes, then continued sitting as before, her head bowed, listening but not saying anything. Gregory could see her in the mirror; her cheeks were cast in shadow by her hair, she had a small, snub nose. For an instant, but only that once, Gregory noticed a sparkle in her eyes. Sciss finally became silent. With his shoulders hunched over and a strained expression on his face, he seemed to be alone even though the girl was still sitting at his side. Staring at the marble table top, he reached for a paper napkin, quickly jotted a few words on it, folded the paper in four parts, and slid it across the table. The girl didn’t want to take it. Sciss quite visibly begged and pestered her. She finally picked it up, then put it down again, unopened, touching him with her fingertips. Sciss grabbed her by the hand. She stiffened, glancing at him with wide-open eyes. It seemed to Gregory that her face had darkened. Sciss listened to whatever she was saying, nodded his head, then leaned toward her and began talking slowly, emphatically, underlining words with gestures of his hand, pressing strongly, urgently on the table as if trying to smash something into the slab of marble with his palm. When he finished, he took hold of the edge of the table with both hands as if he wanted to push it away. The girl’s lips moved. Gregory read them: “No.” Sciss swung around in his chair, turning his face toward the room. Gregory tried to see what had happened to the napkin; it was under the table next to the girl’s foot. Meanwhile, Sciss got up. He put a few coins on the table and slowly made his way to the door. He stopped there. The girl followed, pulling the hood over her head without bothering to arrange her hair. She was slender, in a childlike way, with a teenager’s long legs. The door hadn’t even closed behind them when Gregory was up on his feet; he moved quickly to their table, bent down to pick up the napkin, shoved it into his pocket, and rushed out into the street. The sedan was just beginning to pull away from the curb. The girl was sitting next to Sciss. Without trying to hide, Gregory hurried up the block to his Buick. While struggling with the door lock, he turned around and saw the bright wink of the Chrysler’s directional signals disappearing around a corner — Sciss had made a turn. Gregory jumped into his car, stepped on the gas, and pulled away in pursuit — for a while it looked as if he had lost the Chrysler, and he was beginning to feel a sense of relief and satisfaction, but suddenly he caught sight of the gray sedan in the heavy traffic in front of him. Sciss drove onto the upper level of the northbound highway, but at the third exit turned off onto a winding overpass. Gregory followed close behind — the traffic was so heavy that he could allow himself this luxury without being noticed. He attempted to see through the sedan’s rear window but couldn’t make out much more than two human figures. Before long they arrived in a neighborhood occupied almost entirely by brand-new multistoried housing projects. Sciss came to a sudden stop without pulling over to the curb. Gregory, not wanting to lose him, drove slowly past, then turned around in his seat to watch through his rear window. Sciss unexpectedly accelerated, overtook and passed Gregory’s car, made a U-turn, and drove back in the direction he’d come from, leaving Gregory behind. The street ran alongside the project, following a line of six-story buildings and smaller houses set in a sprawling grassy area surrounded by hedges and wire fences. With Gregory some distance behind him again, Sciss drove into a broad parking lot and got out of the car after the girl. Gregory followed them with his eyes until they disappeared in the semidarkness, trying unsuccessfully to locate them in the faint light of the whitish globes over the building entrances. Meanwhile, a passing constable, noticing that its parking lights were on, stopped next to Sciss’s car, looked it over carefully with a disapproving expression, then continued on his rounds. Although more than five minutes had gone by, Gregory waited patiently, feeling sure, without knowing why, that Sciss would be back soon enough after failing to achieve his purpose. He got out of the car and strolled along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace until he heard footsteps approaching. It was Sciss coming back: his coat was unbuttoned and he was bareheaded; his hair, standing up around his ears in the strong wind, looked like a pair of bat’s wings. Gregory got back into the car, leaving the door slightly open because he didn’t want to attract Sciss’s attention by slamming it. Overwhelmed by an urgent desire to smoke, he watched Sciss while searching in his pockets for a package of cigarettes. Sciss stood next to his car for a long time, his arms dangling limply at his sides, then traced a pattern on the hood with his fingers as if checking to see if it was dusty. He finally got in and turned off the lights. Gregory immediately started his motor and waited. Sciss didn’t move. Gregory put the car in neutral; suddenly reminded of the napkin, he pulled it out of his pocket, unfolded it, and, not wanting to turn his lights on, held it close to the dashboard, barely able to make the words out in the soft glow of the dials and gauges. It was Sciss’s address, phone number, and name. It occurred to Gregory that Sciss might be waiting while the girl changed her clothes, but he rejected the thought at once: he was quite certain that Sciss wasn’t waiting for anything and didn’t expect anything. The dashboard clock showed nine. They’d been sitting this way for a half hour already. Gregory smoked two cigarettes, throwing the butts out the window. He fiddled around with the radio for a while, then, his patience exhausted, got out, slammed the door ostentatiously, and walked over to Sciss’s car. Just before reaching it, however, he hesitated, and walked on past.

Sciss was slumped against the steering wheel with his face cradled in his arms. A beam of light from a street lamp, partly cut off by the roof of the car, shined on his silvery hair, making a bat’s wing pattern on his temple. Gregory stood watching him, not certain what to do. Suddenly he backed away, returned to the Buick as quietly as possible, and, taking a careful look to make sure nothing was moving in Sciss’s car, got in and quickly drove away. He made a left turn, went around in a wide circle, and headed back to the same place at high speed. The dark mass of the Chrysler suddenly loomed before him; just as a collision seemed unavoidable he stepped hard on the brake and squealed to a short jerky stop, ramming solidly into Sciss’s rear bumper with a metallic grating sound. He jumped out and ran over to the Chrysler.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he called out. “My brakes didn’t hold. I hope I didn’t do too much damage. Oh, it’s you,” he said quietly.

Sciss, who had been thrown forward by the impact, opened his door, extended one leg as if about to get out but didn’t, and instead stared at Gregory, who was affecting a stupid expression.

“You? How did you… Gregory, huh? What is this — the police making trouble for law-abiding citizens?” he said.

They walked around to inspect the rear of the car; it was undamaged; as Gregory had planned, the impact had been absorbed by the bumpers.

“Exactly how did you manage to do this?” Sciss asked, straightening himself up.

“I’m driving a rented car and I’m not used to the brakes,” Gregory explained. “To tell the truth, I always drive that way — it’s a weakness of mine, probably because I’m unfulfilled in some way. You see, I don’t have a car of my own.”

Deciding that he was probably talking too much, Gregory abruptly became silent.

“You don’t have a car?” Sciss repeated. He spoke mechanically, his mind on something else. He pulled on his right glove, buttoned it, and slowly rolled up his left glove. The two men stood side by side next to the cars.

“I’ll invite him now,” Gregory decided.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “Poverty is a virtue, so we make a point of being diligent about it in the police department. Look, this was all my fault. Maybe it’s in the stars for us to spend the evening with each other since we started it by having dinner together. It’s supper time, why don’t we have something to eat?”

“Maybe in a cafeteria, considering the poverty,” Sciss mumbled. He looked up and down the street as if searching for someone.

“I’m not that poor. How about a moonlight drive to the Savoy? What do you say? They have a few quiet tables up on the balcony, and the wine there is very good.”

“No, thank you. I don’t drink. I can’t. I don’t know.” Sciss got back in the Chrysler and said quite calmly, “It’s all the same to me.”

“So you’ll come. Wonderful. You go first, I’ll follow, all right?” Gregory spoke quickly, pretending to think the scientist had accepted his invitation. Sciss scrutinized him carefully, leaned out of the car as if to get a better look at his face, then slammed the door without warning and pushed the starter. Sitting behind the wheel of his own car, Gregory had no idea whether Sciss was going to head for the Savoy and, pulling out after the Chrysler, he began to hope that he wouldn’t. But at the first intersection he realized that Sciss was indeed going to have supper with him.

The drive to the Savoy took less than ten minutes. They left both cars in the parking lot and went inside; it was about nine-thirty. An orchestra was playing on the mezzanine; the dance floor, on a rotating platform in the center of the room, was illuminated from underneath by colored lights. Passing through a row of columns, the two men made their way upstairs. The balcony afforded an excellent view of the whole nightclub, except where the line of sight was impeded by chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Gregory ignored the waiter, who was trying to lead them to a back table already occupied by a group of noisy people, and, with Sciss behind him, headed for the far end of the balcony, where he found a small table standing by itself between two columns. Two waiters in full dress immediately stepped over to them, one holding the menu, the other the wine list; the list was very thick.

“Do you know wines?” Sciss asked, closing the leather-bound menu. Gregory smiled.

“A little. How about some Vermouth for a start? Do you take it with lemon?”

“Vermouth? Vermouth is too bitter. Oh, never mind. I’ll try the lemon.”

Gregory nodded to the waiter — it wasn’t necessary to say a word. The second waiter stood patiently a short distance away. Gregory deliberated carefully before ordering, making sure to ask Sciss if he liked salads and if fried foods agreed with him.

Leaning toward the railing, Sciss stared without much interest at the whirling heads below. The orchestra was playing a slow fox-trot.

Gregory watched the dancing for a while, then held his glass of Vermouth up to the light.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” he said, speaking with difficulty. “I… owe you an apology.”

“What?” Sciss looked up with a distracted expression. “Oh,” he said, thinking he understood what Gregory meant. “No, no. Don’t mention it. It’s not worth making a fuss.”

“I know now why you left your post with the General Staff.”

“So you know,” Sciss said indifferently. He downed his Vermouth in three gulps as if it was tea. The piece of lemon ended up in his mouth; he removed it, held it in his fingers for a moment, then put it back into the empty glass.

“Yes.”

“It’s no secret. I’m surprised you didn’t know all along since you did everything but put me under a microscope…”

“The stories that circulate about someone like you are always contradictory,” Gregory continued, as if he hadn’t heard Sciss’s last remark. “And it’s all either hot or cold, there’s no in-between. Everything depends on the informant. Maybe you’d like to tell me. Why did they take the Operations command away from you?”

“And label me red,” Sciss added. Despite Gregory’s eager interest, he didn’t seem any more lively. Hunched over in his chair, he leaned an arm on the railing. “Why do you want to know?” he asked at last. “It doesn’t make any sense to dig all this up.”

“Did you really predict some kind of holocaust?” Gregory asked in a lowered voice. “Please, this is very important to me. You know how people distort and twist everything. Tell me what really happened.”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“Frankly, I want to find out exactly who you are.”

“That’s an old story,” Sciss said despondently, still squinting at the dancers downstairs. The naked shoulders of the women on the dance floor were bathed in red light. “No, it has nothing to do with a holocaust. Do you really want to know?”

“Very much so.”

“You’re that curious? It was sometime around 1946. The nuclear race was just beginning. I knew that sooner or later a saturation point would be reached — I mean the achievement of maximum destructive force. Then a means of delivering the bombs would be developed… that is, missiles. This had to reach the saturation point also… both sides armed with thermonuclear missiles, the control panels on both sides safely hidden, each one with its infamous button ready. Push the button and the missiles move. Twenty minutes later, the end of the world, both sides — finis mundi ambilateralis…”

Sciss smiled. The waiter brought a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured a few drops into Gregory’s glass. Gregory tasted it, wet his lips, and nodded his head.

The waiter filled both glasses and walked away.

“That was your opinion in ’46?” Gregory asked, toasting Sciss. The latter tasted the ruby liquid with the tip of his tongue, sipped it carefully, then emptied the glass in one gulp, took a deep breath, and, with a look that was either surprise or embarrassment, put his glass back on the table.

“No, those were only premises. Don’t you understand? Once the race begins, it can’t stop. It has to go on. If one side invents a big gun, the other retaliates with a bigger one. The sequence concludes only when there is a confrontation; that is, war. In this situation, however, confrontation would mean the end of the world; therefore, the race must be kept going. Once they begin to escalate their efforts, both sides are trapped in an arms race. There must be more and more improvements in weaponry, but after a certain point weapons reach their limit. What can be improved next? Brains. The brains that issue the commands. It isn’t possible to make the human brain perfect, so the only alternative is a transition to mechanization. The next stage will be a fully automated headquarters equipped with electronic strategy machines. And then a very interesting problem arises, actually two problems. McCatt called this to my attention. First, is there any limit on the development of these brains? Fundamentally they’re similar to computers that can play chess. A computer that anticipates an opponent’s strategy ten moves in advance will always defeat a computer that can think only eight or nine moves in advance. The more far-reaching a brain’s ability to think ahead, the bigger the brain must be. That’s one.”

Sciss spoke faster and faster. Gregory sensed that he had already forgotten everything, including to whom he was speaking. He poured some wine. Sciss played with his glass for a while, moving it back and forth along the tablecloth and tipping it over precariously. Suddenly, he picked it up and drained it in one gulp. Downstairs, the dance floor was immersed in yellow light and mandolins were crooning a Hawaiian melody.

“Strategic considerations dictate the construction of bigger and bigger machines, and, whether we like it or not, this inevitably means an increase in the amount of information stored in the brains. This in turn means that the brain will steadily increase its control over all of society’s collective processes. The brain will decide where to locate the infamous button. Or whether to change the style of infantry uniforms. Or whether to increase production of a certain kind of steel, demanding appropriations to carry out its purposes. Once you create this kind of brain you have to listen to it. If a Parliament wastes time debating whether or not to grant the appropriations it demands, the other side may gain a lead, so after a while the abolition of parliamentary decisions becomes unavoidable. Human control over the brain’s decisions will decrease in proportion to the increase in its accumulated knowledge. Am I making myself clear? There will be two growing brains, one on each side of the ocean. What do you think a brain like this will demand first when it’s ready to take the next step in the perpetual race?”

“An increase in its capability,” Gregory said in a low voice, watching the scientist through half-closed eyelids. An unexpected silence prevailed downstairs for a moment, followed by an outburst of applause. A woman’s voice began singing. A young man in tails set up a small side table on which the waiters placed a tray full of silver serving dishes: carefully heated plates, napkins, and silverware followed.

“No,” Sciss answered. “First it demands its own expansion — that is to say, the brain becomes even bigger! Increased capability comes next.”

“In other words, you predict that the world is going to end up a chessboard, and all of us will be pawns manipulated in an eternal game by two mechanical players.”

Sciss’s facial expression was arrogant. “Yes. Only I’m not predicting, I’m drawing conclusions. We are already at the end of the first stage and the rate of escalation is beginning to increase. All this smacks of the improbable, I admit. But it’s happening, believe me. It is.”

“Yes…” Gregory murmured. He leaned across his plate. “Uh… what would you suggest… about all this?”

“Peace at any price. You may find this odd, but all things considered it seems to me that even extermination would be a lesser evil then the chess game. I’m only drawing conclusions. I don’t have any illusions. That’s pretty awful, you know… not to have illusions.” Sciss poured himself some more wine. Reluctantly, almost compulsively, he kept drinking. Gregory didn’t have to worry about keeping his glass filled. Downstairs, the orchestra started playing again. A couple walked past their table: the man was swarthy with a thin mustache, the paleness of his face emphasized by the bluish streaks of his beard. The girl, very young, had a white stole over her bare shoulders; it was embroidered with gold threads the same color as her hair. Sciss watched as they went by, staring at the girl with his lips contorted in a pained expression. He pushed his plate away, closed his eyes, and hid his hands under the tablecloth. It looked to Gregory as if he was checking his own pulse rate.

“And what shall we do next on this lovely evening that began so splendidly?” Sciss said after a while, raising his eyelids. Smoothing down his gray hair around his ears, he straightened up in his chair. Gregory crossed the silverware on his plate. The waiter came over at once.

“Would you like some coffee?” Gregory asked.

“Yes, good idea,” Sciss agreed. He kept his hands hidden under the tablecloth.

“I think I’m drunk…” he smiled in embarrassment, looking around with a surprised, uncertain expression.

“It does you good every once in a while,” Gregory said, pouring only for himself.

The coffee was hot and strong. They drank it in silence. It was stuffy and getting stuffier. Gregory looked around for the waiter and, not seeing him, stood up. He found him behind a column near the bar and asked to have the windows opened. By the time he got back to the table a cool, delicate whiff of air was already moving the steam rising above their coffee cups. Sciss was still in his chair, leaning against the railing, his red eyes drooping. He was breathing heavily and the small hard veins of his temple were protruding.

“Do you feel all right?” Gregory asked.

“I can’t take alcohol,” Sciss said with his eyes closed. “That is, my organism can’t. My insides are all muddled, simply muddled, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gregory.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sciss kept his eyes closed. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Were you against a preventive war? I mean back in ‘46.”

“Yes. But no one really believed it would work, even the people who were advocating it. There wasn’t any psychological readiness at the time. We were all under the spell of a universal peace euphoria. You know, if you proceeded gradually, you could lead anyone — even the College of Cardinals — into the practice of cannibalism. But you must move slowly, step by step. Exactly like now.”

“What did you do then?”

“Various things. I started many things but actually wasn’t able to finish any of them. I was the proverbial stone on which the scythes were sharpened, you see, and nothing much ever comes from that. I won’t finish this last case either. I always run into a dead end. Bah, if only I believed in determinism… but with me it’s all due to a character defect — I can’t compromise.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

Sciss gave Gregory a suspicious look.

“Why do you ask?”

Gregory shrugged his shoulders.

“Simply… I wanted to know. Excuse me if—”

“Outmoded institution…” Sciss muttered. “I don’t have any children either, if you want all the details. Well, maybe if they could be created intellectually… I don’t care too much for this genetic lottery, you see. It looks like I’m your guest — shall we leave now?”

Gregory paid. As they were going down the stairs the orchestra bid them farewell with some ear-piercing jazz. They had to slip around the edge of the dance floor, jostled by the dancing couples. Once through the revolving doors, Sciss, with a sigh of relief, took a deep breath of cool air.

“Thank you… for everything,” he said languidly. Gregory followed him to the cars. Sciss had some trouble finding the key in his pocket. He opened the door, unbuttoned his coat, then took it off and threw it onto the back seat. He sat down behind the steering wheel. Gregory stood beside the car.

Sciss didn’t close the door and didn’t move.

“I can’t drive…” he said.

“Move over, I’ll drive you,” Gregory offered.

He bent down to get in.

“But what about your car?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can come back for it.”

Gregory got in, slammed the door, and quickly pulled away from the parking spot.