Small gusts of wind had been tumbling bits of paper along the streets. Random flakes of snow had angled by, turning to damp splotches wherever they touched. Later, the middle state was omitted and cold raindrops alternately sprayed, dripped, ceased altogether, drifted in patches of mist.

The wind whistled as it slipped about the door, and even with my jacket on I felt chilly. So ten or fifteen minutes later when I'd finished the beer, I went looking for a warmer bar. That was what I told myself, though from some more primitive level the flight impulse still operated, assisting in the decision.

I hit three more bars in the next hour, drinking one beer per and moving on. Along the way, I stopped in a package store and picked up a bottle, as it was late and I was loath to go too blotto in public. I began thinking about where I would spend the night. I'd get a taxi by and by, I decided, let the driver find me a hotel and complete the intoxication business there. No sense in speculating what the results would be and no need to hurry things along. At the moment I wanted people about me, their voices, walls that echoed a tinny music. While my last memories of Australia were messy and blurred, I had been bright-eyed and strung tight as a tennis racket on departing the hall. I could still hear the snap and the brittle notes of the glass. It is not good to think about having been shot at.

The fifth bar that I hit was a happy find. Three or four steps below street level, warm, pleasantly dim, it contained sufficient patrons to satisfy my need for social noises but not so many that anyone begrudged my taking up a table against the far wall. I took off my jacket and lit a cigarette. I would stay awhile.

So it was there that he found me, half an hour or so later. I had succeeded in relaxing considerably, forgetting a bit and achieving a state of warmth and comfort, let the wind go whistle, when a passing figure halted, turned and settled onto the seat across from me.

I did not even look up. My peripheral vision told me it was not a cop and I did not feel like acknowledging an unsolicited presence, especially the likely weirdo.

We sat that way-unmoving-for almost half a barbed minute. Then something flashed on the tabletop and I looked down, automatically.

Three totally explicit photos lay before me: two brunettes and a blonde.

"How'd you like to warm up with something like that on a cold night like this?" came a voice that snapped my mind through years to alertness and my eyes forty-five degrees upward.

"Doctor Merimee!" I said.

"Ssh!" he hissed. "Pretend you're looking at the pictures!"

The same old trench coat, silk scarf and beret ... The same long cigarette holder ... Eyes of unbelievable magnitude behind glasses that still gave me the impression of peering into an aquarium. How many years had it been?

"What the devil are you doing here?" I said.

"Gathering material for a book, of course. Dammit! Look at the pictures, Fred! Pretend to study them. Really. Trouble afoot. Yours, I think."

So I looked back at the glossy ladies.

"What kind of trouble?" I said.

"There's a fellow seems to be following you."

"Where is he now?"

"Across the street. In a doorway last I saw him."

"What's he look like?"

"Couldn't really tell. He's dressed for the weather. Bulky coat. Hat pulled down. Head bent forward. Average height or a bit less. Possibly kind of husky."

I chuckled.

"Sounds like anybody. How do you know he's following me?"

"I caught sight of you over an hour ago, several bars back. That one was fairly crowded, though. Just as I'd started toward you, you got up to leave. I called out, but you didn't hear me over the noise. By the time I'd paid up and gotten out myself you were part way up the street. I started after you and saw this fellow come out of a doorway and do the same. I thought nothing of it at first, but you did wander awhile and he was making all the same turns. Then when you found another bar, he just stopped and stared at it. Then he went into a doorway, lit a cigar, coughed several times and waited there, watching the place. So I walked on by as far as the corner. There was a phone booth, and I got inside and watched him while I pretended to make a call. You didn't stay in that place very long, and when you came out and moved on, he did the same. I held off approaching you for two more bars, just to be positive. But I am convinced now. You are being followed."

"Okay," I said. "I buy that."

"Your casual acceptance of the situation causes me to believe that it was not wholly unexpected."

"Exactly."

"Does it involve anything I might be able to help you with?"

"Not in terms of the headache's causes. But possibly the immediate symptoms ... "

"Like getting you away from here without his noting it?"

"That is what I had in mind."

He gestured with a bandaged hand.

"No problem. Take your time with your drink. Relax. Consider it done. Pretend to study the merchandise."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"What happened to your hand?"

"Accident, sort of, with a butcher knife. Have they graduated you yet?"

"No. They're still working on it."

A waiter came-by, deposited a napkin and a drink before him, took his money, glanced at the photos, gave me a wink and moved back toward the bar.

"I thought I had you cornered in History when I left," he said, raising the drink, taking a sip, pursing his lips, taking another. "What happened?"

"I escaped into Archaeology."

"Shaky. You had too many of the Anthro and Ancient History requirements for that to last long."

"True. But it provided a resting place for the second semester, which was all I needed. In the fall they started a Geology program. I mined that for a year and a half. By then, several new areas had opened up."

He shook his head.

"Exceptionally absurd," he said.

"Thank you."

I took a big, cold swallow.

He cleared his throat.

"How serious is this situation, anyway?"

"Offhand, I'd say it's fairly serious-though it seems to be based on a misunderstanding."

"I mean, does it involve the authorities-or private individuals?"

"Both, it seems. Why? You having second thoughts about helping me?"

"No, of course not! I was trying to estimate the opposition."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I guess I do owe you an appraisal of the risk ... "

He raised a hand as if to stop me, but I went on anyway.

"I have no idea who that is outside. But at least a couple people involved in the whole business seem to be dangerous."

"All right, that is sufficient," he said. "I am, as always, totally responsible for my own actions, and I choose to assist you. Enough!"

We drank on it. He rearranged the pictures, smiling.

"I really could fix you up for tonight with one of them," he said, "if you wanted."

"Thanks. But tonight's my night for getting drunk."

"They are not mutually exclusive pastimes."

"They are tonight."

"Well," he said, shrugging, "I'd no intention to force anything on you. It is just that you aroused my hospitality. Success often does that."

"Success?"

"You are one of the few successful persons I know."

"Me? Why?"

"You know precisely what you are doing and you do it well."

"But I don't really do much of anything."

"And of course the quantity means nothing to you, nor the weight others place upon your actions. In my eyes, that makes you a success."

"By not giving a damn? But I do, you know."

"Of course you do, of course you do! But it is a matter of style, an awareness of choice-"

"Okay," I said. "Observation acknowledged and accepted in the proper spirit. Now-"

"-and that makes us kindred souls," he went on. "For I am just that way myself."