Mrs. Douglas sighed. «Allie, you are simply wonderful! I don't know how to thank you.»

«Thank the Ancient Masters whose humble student I am.»

«I can't thank them so I'll thank you. This isn't covered by retainer, Allie. There will be a present.»

«No, Agnes. It is a privilege to serve.»

«And it is my privilege to appreciate service. Allie, not another word!»

Madame Vesant let herself be coaxed, then switched off, feeling warmly content from having given a reading that she just knew was right. Poor Agnes! It was a privilege to smooth her path, make her burdens a little lighter. It made her feel good to help Agnes.

It made Madame Vesant feel good to be treated as almost-equal by the wife of the Secretary General, although she did not think of it that way, not being snobbish. But young Becky Vesey had been so insignificant that the precinct committeeman could never remember her name even though he noticed her bust. Becky Vesey had not resented it; Becky liked people. She liked Agnes Douglas.

Becky Vesey liked everybody.

She sat a while, enjoying the warm glow and just a nip more tonic, while her shrewd brain shuffled the bits she had picked up. Presently she called her stockbroker and instructed him to sell Lunar Enterprises short.

He snorted. «Allie, that reducing diet is weakening your mind.»

«Listen, Ed. When it's down ten points, cover me, even if it is still slipping. Then when it rallies three points, buy again … then sell when it gets back to today's closing.»

There was long silence. «Allie, you know something. Tell Uncle Ed.»

«The stars tell me, Ed.»

Ed made a suggestion astronomically impossible. «All right, if you won't, you won't. Mmm … I never did have sense enough to stay out of a crooked game. Mind if I ride along?»

«Not at all, Ed. Just don't go heavy enough to let it show. This is a delicate situation, with Saturn balanced between Virgo and Leo.»

«As you say, Allie.»

Mrs. Douglas got busy at once, happy that Allie had confirmed all her judgments. She gave orders about the campaign to destroy the reputation of the missing Berquist, after sending for his dossier; she summoned Commandant Twitchell-of the Special Service Squadrons — he left looking unhappy and made life unbearable for his executive officer. She instructed Sanforth to release another «Man from Mars» stereocast with a rumor «from a source close to the administration» that Smith was about to go, or possibly had gone, to a sanitarium high in the Andes, to provide him with climate as much like Mars as possible. Then she thought about how to nail down Pakistan's votes.

Presently she called her husband and urged him to support Pakistan's claim to a lion's share of the Kashmir thorium. Since he had been wanting to, he was not hard to persuade, although nettled by her assumption that he had been opposing it. With that settled, she left to address the Daughters of the Second Revolution on Motherhood in the New World.

WHILE MRS. DOUGLAS was speaking freely on a subject she knew little about, Jubal E. Harshaw, LL.B, M.D., Sc.D., bon vivant, gourmet, sybarite, popular author extraordinary, and neo-pessimist philosopher, was sitting by his pool at his home in the Poconos, scratching the grey thatch on his chest, and watching his three secretaries splash in the pool. They were all amazingly beautiful; they were also amazingly good secretaries. In Harshaw's opinion the principle of least action required that utility and beauty be combined.

Anne was blonde, Mirian red-headed, and Dorcas dark; they ranged, respectively, from pleasantly plump to deliciously slender. Their ages spread over fifteen years but it was hard to tell which was the eldest.

Harshaw was working hard. Most of him was watching pretty girls do pretty things with sun and water; one small, shuttered, soundproofed compartment was composing. He claimed that his method of writing was to hook his gonads in parallel with his thalamus and disconnect his cerebrum; his habits lent credibility to the theory.

A microphone on a table was hooked to a voicewriter but he used it only for notes. When he was ready to write he used a stenographer and watched her reactions. He was ready now. «Front!» he shouted.

«Anne is “front”,» answered Dorcas. «I'll take it. That splash was Anne.»

«Dive in and get her.» The brunette cut the water; moments later Anne climbed out, put on a robe and sat down at the table. She said nothing and made no preparations; Anne had total recall.

Harshaw picked up a bucket of ice over which brandy had been poured, took a swig. «Anne, I've got a sick-making one. It's about a little kitten that wanders into a church on Christmas Eve to get warm. Besides being starved and frozen and lost, the kitten has — God knows why — an injured paw. All right; start: “Snow had been falling since — ”»

«What pen name?»

«Mmm…use “Molly Wadsworth”; this one is pretty icky. Title it The Other Manger. Start again.» He went on talking while watching her. When tears started to leak from her closed eyes he smiled slightly and closed his own. By the time he finished tears were running down his cheeks as well as hers, both bathed in catharsis of schmaltz.

«Thirty,» he announced. «Blow your nose. Send it off and for God's sake don't let me see it.»

«Jubal, aren't you ever ashamed?»

«No.»

«Someday I'm going to kick you right in your fat stomach for one of these.»

«I know. Get your fanny indoors and take care of it before I change my mind.»

«Yes, Boss.»

She kissed his bald spot as she passed behind his chair. Harshaw yelled, «Front!» and Miriam started toward him. A loudspeaker mounted on the house came to life:

«Boss!»

Harshaw uttered one word and Miriam clucked. He added, «Yes, Larry?»

The speaker answered, «There's a dame down here at the gate — and she's got a corpse with her.»

Harshaw considered this. «Is she pretty?»

«Uh … yes.»

«Then why are you sucking your thumb? Let her in.» Harshaw sat back. «Start,» he said. «City montage dissolving into medium two-shot interior. A cop is seated in a straight chair, no cap, collar open, face covered with sweat. We see the back of the other figure, depthed between us and cop. Figure raises a hand, bringing it back and almost out of the tank. He slaps the cop with a heavy, meaty sound, dubbed.» Harshaw glanced up and said, «Pick up from there.» A car was rolling up the hill toward the house.

Jill was driving; a young man was beside her. As the car stopped the man jumped out, as if happy to divorce himself from it. «There she is, Jubal.»

«So I see. Good morning, little girl. Larry, where is this corpse?»

«Back seat, Boss. Under a blanket.»

«But it's not a corpse,» Jill protested. «It's … Ben said that you … I mean — » She put her head down and sobbed.

«There, my dear,» Harshaw said gently. «Few corpses are worth tears. Dorcas — Miriam — take care of her. Give her a drink and wash her face.»

He went to the back seat, lifted the blanket. Jill shrugged off Miriam's arm and said shrilly, «You've got to listen! He's not dead. At least I hope not. He's … oh dear!» She started to cry again. «I'm so dirty … and so scared!»

«Seems to be a corpse,» Harshaw mused. «Body temperature down to air temperature, I judge. Rigor not typical. How long has he been dead?»

«But he's not! Can't we get him out of there? I had an awful time getting him in.»

«Surely. Larry, help me — and quit looking green; if you puke, you'll clean it up.» They got Valentine Michael Smith out and laid him on the grass; his body remained stiff, huddled together. Dorcas fetched Dr. Harshaw's stethoscope, set it on the ground, switched it on and stepped up the gain.

Harshaw stuck the headpiece in his ears, started sounding for heart beat. «I'm afraid you're mistaken,» he said gently to Jill. «This one is beyond my help. Who was he?»