“Those bastards,” Lucia says. She looks at me and her face changes from the tight knots of anger, smoothing out around the eyes. “Lou — Lou, listen: I am not angry with you. I am angry with people who hurt you or do not treat you well… not with you.”

“I should not have said this to you,” I say, still uncertain.

“Yes, you should,” Lucia says. “We are your friends; we should know if something goes wrong in your life, so that we can help.”

“Lucia’s right,” Tom says. “Friends help friends — just as you’ve helped us, like when you built the mask rack.”

“That is something we both use,” I say. “My work is just about me.”

“Yes and no,” Tom says. “Yes in that we are not working with you and cannot help you directly. But no when it is a big problem that has general application, like this one. This isn’t just about you. It could affect every disabled person who’s employed anywhere. What if they decided that a person in a wheelchair didn’t need ramps? You definitely need a lawyer, all of you. Didn’t you say that the Center could find one for you?”

“Before the others get here, Lou,” Lucia says, “why don’t you tell us more about this Mr. Crenshaw and his plans?”

I sit down on the sofa, but even though they have said they want to listen it is hard to talk. I look at the rug on their floor, with its wide border of blue-and-cream geometric patterns — there are four patterns within a frame of plain blue stripes — and try to make the story clear.

“There is a treatment they — someone — used on adult apes,” I say. “I did not know apes could be autistic, but what they said was that autistic apes became more normal when they had this treatment. Now Mr. Crenshaw wants us to have it.”

“And you don’t want it?” Tom asks.

“I do not understand how it works or how it will make things better,” I say.

“Very sensible,” Lucia says. “Do you know who did the research, Lou?”

“I do not remember the name,” I say. “Lars — he’s a member of an international group of autistic adults — e-mailed me about it several weeks ago. He sent me the journal Web site and I went there, but I did not understand much of it. I did not study neuroscience.”

“Do you still have that citation?” Lucia asks. “I can look it up, see what I can find out.”

“You could?”

“Sure. And I can ask around in the department, find out if the researchers are considered any good or not.”

“We had an idea,” I say.

“We who?” Tom asks.

“We… the people I work with,” I say.

“The other autistic people?” Tom asks.

“Yes.” I close my eyes briefly to calm down. “Mr. Aldrin bought us pizza. He drank beer. He said that he did not think there was enough profit in treating adult autistic persons — because they now treat pre-borns and infants and we are the last cohort who will be like us. At least in this country. So we wondered why they wanted to develop this treatment and what else it could do. It is like some pattern analysis I have done. There is one pattern, but it is not the only pattern. Someone can think they are generating one pattern and actually generate several more, and one of those may be useful or not useful, depending on what the problem is.” I look up at Tom and he is looking at me with a strange expression. His mouth is a little open.

He shakes his head, a quick jerk. “So — you are thinking maybe they have something else in mind, something that you people are just part of?”

“It might be,” I say cautiously.

He looks at Lucia, and she nods. “It certainly could be,” he says. “Trying whatever it is on you would give them additional data, and then… Let me think…”

“I think it is something to do with attention control,” I say. “We all have a different way of perceiving sensory input and… and setting attention priorities.” I am not sure I have the words right, but Lucia nods vigorously.

“Attention control — of course. If they could control that in the architecture, not chemically, it’d be a lot easier to develop a dedicated workforce.”

“Space,” Tom says.

I am confused, but Lucia only blinks and then nods.

“Yes. The big limitation in space-based employment is getting people to concentrate, not be distracted. The sensory inputs up there are not what we’re used to, what worked in natural selection.” I do not know how she knows what he is thinking. I would like to be able to read minds like that. She grins at me. “Lou, I think you’re onto something big, here. Get me that citation, and I’ll run with it.”

I feel uneasy. “I am not supposed to talk about work outside the campus,” I say.

“You’re not talking about work,” she says. “You’re talking about your work environment. That’s different.”

I wonder if Mr. Aldrin would see it that way.

Someone knocks on the door, and we quit talking. I am sweaty even though I have not been fencing. The first to arrive are Dave and Susan. We go through the house, collect our gear, and start stretching in the backyard.

Marjory is next to arrive, and she grins at me. I feel lighter than air again. I remember what Emmy said, but I cannot believe it when I see Marjory. Maybe tonight I will ask her to go to dinner with me. Don has not come. I suppose he is still angry with Tom and Lucia for not acting like friends. It makes me sad that they are not all still friends; I hope they do not get angry with me and quit being friends with me.

I am fencing with Dave when I hear a noise from the street and then a squeal of tires moving fast. I ignore it and do not change my attack, but Dave stops and I hit him too hard in the chest.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he says. “That sounded close; did you hear it?”

“I heard something,” I say. I am trying to replay the sounds, thump-crash-tinkle-tinkle-squeal-roar, and think what it could be. Someone dropped a bowl out of their car?

“Maybe we’d better check,” Dave says.

Several of the others have gotten up to look. I follow the group to the front yard. In the light from the streetlight on the corner I can see a glitter on the pavement.

“It’s your car, Lou,” Susan says. “The windshield.”

I feel cold.

“Your tires last week… what day was that, Lou?”

“Thursday,” I say. My voice shakes a little and sounds harsh.

“Thursday. And now this…” Tom looks at the others, and they look back. I can tell that they are thinking something together, but I do not know what it is. Tom shakes his head. “I guess we’ll have to call the police. I hate to break up the practice, but—”

“I’ll drive you home, Lou,” Marjory says. She has come up behind me; I jump when I hear her voice.

Tom calls the police because, he says, it happened in front of his house. He hands the phone to me after a few minutes, and a bored voice asks my name, my address, my phone number, the license number of the car. I can hear noise in the background on the other end, and people are talking in the living room; it is hard to understand what the voice is saying. I am glad it is just routine questions; I can figure those out.

Then the voice asks something else, and the words tangle together and I cannot figure it out. “I’m sorry…” I say.

The voice is louder, the words more separated. Tom shushes the people in the living room. This time I understand.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” the voice asks.

“No,” I say. “But someone slashed my tires last week.”

“Oh?” Now it sounds interested. “Did you report that?”

Yes, I say.

“Do you remember who the investigating officer was?”

“I have a card; just a minute—” I put the phone down and get out my wallet. The card is still there. I read off the name, Malcolm Stacy, and the case number.

“He’s not in now; I’ll put this report on his desk. Now… are there any witnesses?”

“I heard it,” I say, “but I didn’t see it. We were in the backyard.”