‘You should visit Israel,' Stark said. ‘It would interest you. For instance -- ‘

‘For instance I could become converted,' Nicole said. ‘Change my name to Rebecca. Listen, Stark; I've talked long enough with you. I don't enjoy this Wolff Report business -- I think it's too risky, this idea of tinkering with the past on a grand scale, even if it might mean saving six or eight or even ten million innocent human lives. Look what happened when we tried to send assassins back to kill Adolf Hitler in the early days of his career; something or someone baulked us every time, and we tried seven times! I know I'm convinced -- that it was agents from the future, from our time or past our time. If one can play with von Lessinger's system, two can. The bomb in the beerhall, the bomb in the prop plane -- ‘

‘But this attempt,' Stark said, ‘will delight neo-Nazi elements. You will have their co-operation.'

Nicole said bitterly, ‘And that's supposed to ease my worry? You, of all people, should see what a malign harbinger that is.'

For an interval Stark said nothing; he smoked his Philippine handmade cigar and regarded her sombrely. Then he shrugged. ‘I will bow out. I think, Mrs Thibodeaux, at this point. Perhaps you are right. I'd like to ponder this and also confer with other members on my staff. I'll see you at the musicale tonight, here at the White house then. Will there be any Bach or Handel? I enjoy both composers.'

‘We'll have an all-Israeli night, just for you,' Nicole said.

‘Mendelssohn, Mahler, Bloch, Copeland; all right?' She smiled, and Emil Stark smiled back.

‘Is there a copy of General Wolff's report which I can take?' Stark asked.

‘No.' She shook her head. ‘It's Geheimnis -- top secret.'

Stark raised an eyebrow. And ceased smiling.

‘Even Kalbfleisch is not going to see it,' Nicole said.

She did not intend to budge in her position, and Emil Stark could undoubtedly perceive that. After all, the man was professionally astute. Going to her desk she seated herself. Waiting for him to go, expecting him to, she sat examining a folio of abstracts which had been placed for her attention by her secretary, Leonore. They were boring -- or were they? She read the top abstract once more, carefully.

It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great morbidly-neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanatorium for electron-shock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.

Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric flashing, colossal wit.

Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.

‘Does the name "Richard Kongrosian" mean anything to you?' she demanded, looking up.

‘Certainly. For certain Romantic composers -- ‘

‘He's sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn't you know about that? Hadn't you heard the rumours?' Furiously she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. ‘Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he's really got. This week.'

‘Kongrosian is a major artist.' Stark nodded. ‘I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself -- ‘

‘Those creatures,' Nicole said quietly, ‘will not last long. So worry about something else.'

‘You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.' Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.

‘Bertold Goltz is as Be as it's possible to be. Out, un and Be; he's all three. He's a joke. A clown.'

‘Like Goering, perhaps?'

Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.

In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.

And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. ‘Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look, it's the papoola.'

‘By golly,' the man said with a grin, ‘so it is. Look, Marion, there's one of those Martian creatures hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?' He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.

‘Come on, Mom!' the boy urged.

In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs towards the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.

‘Look, Dad, it's following Mom! Hey Mom! Hey Mom, turn around and see!'

The woman glanced back, saw the platter-like organism with its orange bug-shaped body, and she laughed.

Everybody loves the papoola, Al thought to himself. See the funny Martian papoola. Speak, papoola; say hello to the nice lady who's laughing at you.

The thoughts of the papoola, directed at the woman, reached Al. It was greeting her, telling her how nice it was to meet her, soothing and coaxing her until she came back up the sidewalk towards it, joining her boy and husband so that now all three of them stood together, receiving the mental impulses emanating from the Martian creature which had come here to Earth with no hostile plans, no capacity to cause trouble. The papoola loved them, too, just as they loved it; it told them so right now -- it conveyed to them the gentleness, the warm hospitality which it was accustomed to on its own planet.

What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it's not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their endless relpol tests, reports on them to building Security Committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You're your own boss, there, free to work your farm land, believe your own beliefs, become yourself.

Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to.

In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, ‘We'd better ... go.'

‘Oh no,' the boy said pleadingly. ‘I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle there.' The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man's keen, observing scrutiny.

The man said, ‘Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It's working on us right now, softening us up.' The enchantment visibly faded from his face. ‘There's the fellow sitting in there operating it.'

But the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes -- if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that some day, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few -- a few lucky people -- can escape.