"I'm not a hero," I said nastily. "I'm a coward. I just came here to find out what the joke is." I moved sideways while slapping that monstrous piece of ordnance the other way, chopped his wrist, and caught it. Then I handed it back to him. "Don't play with that thing, or I'll shove it up your deposition. I'm in a hurry. You're Doctor Balsamo? You ran that ad?"

"Tut, tut," he said, not at all annoyed. "Impetuous youth. No, Doctor Balsamo is in there." He pointed his eyebrows at two doors on the left waft, then pushed a bell button on his desk—the only thing in the room later than Napoleon. "Go in. She's expecting you."

" ‘She'? Which door?"

"Ah, the Lady or the Tiger? Does it matter? In the long run? A hero will know. A coward will choose the wrong one, being sure that I lie. Allez-y! Vite, vite! Schnell! Get the lead out, Mac."

I snorted and jerked open the right-hand door.

The doctor was standing with her back to me at some apparatus against the far wall and she was wearing one of those white, high-collared jackets favored by medical men. On my left was a surgeon's examining table, on my right a Swedish-modern couch; there were stainless-steel and glass cabinets, and some framed certificates; the whole place was as up-to-date at the outer room was not.

As I closed the door she turned and looked at me and said quietly, "I am very glad that you have come." Then she smiled and said softly, "You are beautiful," and came into my arms.

About a minute and forty seconds and several centuries later "Dr. Balsamo-Helen of Troy" pulled her mouth an inch back from mine and said, "Let me go, please, then undress and lie on the examining table." I felt as if I had had nine hours of sleep, a needle shower, and three slugs of ice-cold akvavit on an empty stomach. Anything she wanted to do, I wanted to do. But the situation seemed to call for witty repartee. "Huh?" I said.

"Please. You are the one, but nevertheless I must examine you."

"Well...all right," I agreed. "You're the doctor," I added and started to unbutton my shirt. "You are a doctor? Of medicine, I mean." "Yes. Among other things."

I kicked out of my shoes. "But why do you want to examine me?"

"For witches' marks, perhaps. Oh, I shan't find any, I know. But I must search for other things, too. To protect you."

That table was cold against my skin. Why don't they pad those things? "Your name is Balsamo?"

"One of my names," she said absently while gentle fingers touched me here and there. "A family name, that is."

"Wait a minute. Count Cagliostro!"

"One of my uncles. Yes, he used that name. Though it isn't truly his, no more than Balsamo. Uncle Joseph is a very naughty man and quite untruthful." She touched an old, small scar. "Your appendix has been removed."

"Yes."

"Good. Let me see your teeth."

I opened wide. My face may not be much but I could rent my teeth to advertise Pepsodent. Presently she nodded. "Fluoride marks. Good. Now I must have your blood."

She could have bitten me in the neck for it and I wouldn't have minded. Nor been much surprised. But she did it the ordinary way, taking ten cc. from the vein inside my left elbow. She took the sample and put it in that apparatus against the wall. It chirred and whirred and she came back to me. "Listen, Princess," I said.

"I am not a princess."

"Well...I don't know your first name, and you inferred that your last name isn't really ‘Balsamo'—and I don't want to call you ‘Doc.' " I certainly did not want to call her "Doc"—not the most beautiful girl I had ever seen or hoped to see...not after a kiss that had wiped out of memory every other kiss I had ever received. No.

She considered it. "I have many names. What would you like to call me?"

"Is one of them ‘Helen'?"

She smiled like sunshine and I learned that she had dimples. She looked sixteen and in her first party dress. "You are very gracious. No, she's not even a relative. That was many, many years ago." Her face turned thoughtful. "Would you like to call me ‘Ettarre'?"

"Is that one of your names?"

"It is much like one of them, allowing for different spelling and accent. Or it could be ‘Esther' just as closely. Or ‘Aster.' Or even ‘Estrellita.' "

" ‘Aster,' " I repeated. "Star. Lucky Star!"

"I hope that I will be your lucky star," she said earnestly. "As you will. But what shall I call you?"

I thought about it. I certainly was not going to dig up "Flash—I am not a comic strip. The Army nickname I had held longest was entirely unfit to hand to a lady. At that I preferred it to my given name. My daddy had been proud of a couple of his ancestors—but is that any excuse for hanging "Evelyn Cyril" on a male child? It had forced me to Team to fight before I learned to read.

The name I had picked up in the hospital ward would do. I shrugged. "Oh, Scar is a good enough name."

" ‘Oscar,' " she repeated, broadening the "O" into "Aw," and stressing both syllables. "A noble name. A hero's name. Oscar." She caressed it with her voice.

"No, no! Not ‘Oscar'—‘Scar.' ‘Scarface.' For this."

"Oscar is your name," she said firmly. "Oscar and Aster. Scar and Star." She barely touched the scar. "Do you dislike your hero's mark? Shall I remove it?"

"En? Oh, no. I'm used to it now. It lets me know who it is when I see myself in a mirror."

"Good. I like it, you wore it when I first saw you. But if you change your mind, let me know." The gear against the wall went whush, chunk! She turned and took a long strip from it, then whistled softly while she studied it.

"This won't take long," she said cheerfully and wheeled the apparatus over to the table. "Hold still while the protector is connected with you, quite still and breathe shallowly." She made half a dozen connections of tubes to me; they stuck where she placed them. She put over her head what I thought was a fancy stethoscope but after she got it on, it covered her eyes.

She chuckled. "You're pretty inside, too, Oscar. No, don't talk." She kept one hand on my forearm and I waited.

Five minutes later she lifted her hand and stripped off the connections. "That's all," she said cheerfully. "No more colds for you, my hero, and you won't be bothered again by that flux you picked up in the jungle. Now we move to the other room."

I got off the table and grabbed at my clothes. Star said, "You won't need them where we are going. Full kit and weapons will be provided."

I stopped with shoes in one hand and drawers in the other. "Star—"

"Yes, Oscar?"

"What is this all about? Did you run that ad? Was it meant for me? Did you really want to hire me for something?"

She took a deep breath and said soberly, "I advertised. It was meant for you and you only. Yes, there is a job to do...as my champion. There will be great adventure...and greater treasure...and even greater danger—and I fear very much that neither one of us will live through it." She looked me in the eyes. "Well, sir?"

I wondered how long they had had me in the locked ward. But I didn't tell her so, because, if that was where I was, she wasn't there at all. And I wanted her to be there, more than I had ever wanted anything. I said, "Princess...you've hired yourself a boy."

She caught her breath. "Come quickly. Time is short." She led me through a door beyond the Swedish modern couch, unbuttoning her jacket, unzipping her skirt, as she went, and letting garments fall anywhere. Almost at once she was as I had first seen her at the plage.

This room had dark walls and no windows and a soft light from nowhere. There were two tow couches side by side, black they were and looking like biers, and no other furniture. As soon as the door was dosed behind us I was suddenly aware that the room was aching, painfully anechoic; the bare walls gave back no sound.