“Lot of hot blood stirred up in political discussion.” Paul said. “Everywhere you go. Essential to keep head.”

“Yes,” Childan agreed. “Calmness and order. So things return to customary stability.”

“Period after death of Leader critical in totalitarian society,” Paul said. “Lack of tradition and middle-class institutions combine—” He broke off. “Perhaps better drop politics.” He smiled. “Like old student days.”

Robert Childan felt his face flush, and he bent over his new drink to conceal himself from the eyes of his host. What a dreadful beginning he had made. In a foolish and loud manner he had argued politics; he had been rude in his disagreeing, and only the adroit tact of his host had sufficed to save the evening. How much I have to learn, Childan thought. They’re so graceful and polite. And I—the white barbarian. It is true.

For a time he contented himself with sipping his drink and keeping on his face an artificial expression of enjoyment. I must follow their leads entirely, he told himself. Agree always.

Yet in a panic he thought, My wits scrambled by the drink. And fatigue and nervousness. Can I do it? I will never be invited back anyhow; it is already too late. He felt despair.

Betty, having returned from the kitchen, had once more seated herself on the carpet. How attractive, Robert Childan thought again. The slender body. Their figures are so superior; not fat, not bulbous. No bra or girdle needed. I must conceal my longing; that at all costs. And yet now and then he let himself steal a glance at her. Lovely dark colors of her skin, hair, and eyes. We are half-baked compared to them. Allowed out of the kiln before we were fully done. The old aboriginal myth; the truth, there.

I must divert my thoughts. Find social item, anything. His eyes strayed about, seeking some topic. The silence reigned heavily, making his tension sizzle. Unbearable. What the hell to say? Something safe. His eyes made out a book on a low black teak cabinet.

“I see you’re reading The Grasshopper Lies Heavy,” he said. “I hear it on many lips, but pressure of business prevents my own attention.” Rising, he went to pick it up, carefully consulting their expressions; they seemed to acknowledge this gesture of sociality, and so he proceeded. “A mystery? Excuse my abysmal ignorance.” He turned the pages.

“Not a mystery,” Paul said. “On contrary, interesting form of fiction possibly within genre of science fiction.”

“Oh no,” Betty disagreed. “No science in it. Nor set in future. Science fiction deals with future, in particular future where science has advanced over now. Book fits neither premise.”

“But,” Paul said, “it deals with alternate present. Many well-known science fiction novels of that sort.” To Robert he explained, “Pardon my insistence in this, but as my wife knows, I was for a long time a science fiction enthusiast. I began that hobby early in my life; I was merely twelve. It was during the early days of the war.”

“I see,” Robert Childan said, with politeness.

“Care to borrow Grasshopper?” Paul asked. “We will soon be through, no doubt within day or so. My office being downtown not far from your esteemed store, I could happily drop it off at lunchtime.” He was silent, and then—possibly, Childan thought, due to a signal from Betty—continued, “You and I, Robert, could eat lunch together, on that occasion.”

“Thank you,” Robert said. It was all he could say. Lunch, in one of the downtown businessmen’s fashionable restaurants. He and this stylish modem high-place young Japanese. It was too much; he felt his gaze blur. But he went on examining the book and nodding. “Yes,” he said, “this does look interesting. I would very much like to read it. I try to keep up with what’s being discussed.” Was that proper to say? Admission that his interest lay in book’s modishness. Perhaps that was low-place. He did not know, and yet he felt that it was. “One cannot judge by book being best seller,” he said. “We all know that. Many best sellers are terrible trash. This, however—” He faltered.

Betty said, “Most true. Average taste really deplorable.”

“As in music,” Paul said. “No interest in authentic American folk jazz, as example. Robert, are you fond of say Bunk Johnson and Kid Ory and the like? Early Dixieland jazz? I have record library of old such music, original Genet recordings.”

Robert said, “Afraid I know little about Negro music.” They did not look exactly pleased at his remark. “I prefer classical. Bach and Beethoven.” Surely that was acceptable. He felt now a bit of resentment. Was he supposed to deny the great masters of European music, the timeless classics in favor of New Orleans jazz from the honky-tonks and bistros of the Negro quarter?

“Perhaps if I play selection by New Orleans Rhythm Kings,” Paul began, starting from the room, but Betty gave him a warning look. He hesitated, shrugged.

“Dinner almost ready,” she said.

Returning, Paul once more seated himself. A little sulkily, Robert thought, he murmured, “Jazz from New Orleans most authentic American folk music there is. Originated on this continent. All else came from Europe, such as corny English-style lute ballads.”

“This is perpetual argument between us,” Betty said, smiling at Robert. “I do not share his love of original jazz.”

Still holding the copy of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, Robert said, “What sort of alternate present does this book describe?”

Betty, after a moment, said, “One in which Germany and Japan lost the war.”

They were all silent.

“Time to eat,” Betty said, sliding to her feet. “Please come, two hungry gentleman businessmen.” She cajoled Robert and Paul to the dining table, already set with white tablecloth, silver, china, huge rough napkins in what Robert recognized as Early American bone napkin rings. The silver, too, was sterling silver American. The cups and saucers were Royal Albert, deep blue and yellow. Very exceptional; he could not help glancing at them with professional admiration.

The plates were not American. They appeared to be Japanese; he could not tell, it being beyond his field.

“That is Imari porcelain.” Paul said, perceiving his interest. “From Arita. Considered a first-place product. Japan.”

They seated themselves.

“Coffee?” Betty asked Robert.

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Toward end of meal,” she said, going to get the serving cart.

Soon they were all eating. Robert found the meal delicious. She was quite an exceptional cook. The salad in particular pleased him. Avocados, artichoke heart, some kind of blue cheese dressing… thank God they had not presented him with a Japanese meal, the dishes of mixed greens and meats of which he had eaten so much since the war.

And the unending seafoods. He had gotten so that he could no longer abide shrimp or any other shellfish.

“I would like to know,” Robert said, “what he supposes it would be like in world where Germany and Japan lost the war.”

Neither Paul nor Betty answered for a time. Then Paul said at last, “Very complicated differences. Better to read the book. It would spoil it for you, possibly, to hear.”

“I have strong convictions on the subject,” Robert said. “I have frequently thought it over. The world would be much worse.” He heard his voice sound out firm, virtually harsh. “Much worse.”

They seemed taken by surprise. Perhaps it was his tone.

“Communism would rule everywhere,” Robert continued.

Paul nodded. “The author, Mr. H. Abendsen, considers that point, as to unchecked spread of Soviet Russia. But same as in First World War, even on winning side, second-rate mostly peasant Russia naturally takes pratfall. Big Laughingstock, recalling Japan War with them, when—”

“We have had to suffer, to pay the cost,” Robert said. “But we did it for a good cause. To stop Slavic world inundation.”