The night before, he had taken a long, very hot bath in a bathroom so cool that it rapidly filled with thick swirling steam. He had lain soaking in the deep tub, the open hot tap keeping the temperature of the water high, until the stresses and fatigues of the day had seeped out of his body. His skin glowing from the bath, he had gotten into bed naked between stiffly starched sheets. He would need rest when the business began again tomorrow, so he emptied his mind and set his breathing pace low as he folded his hands together and brought on sleep through shallow meditation. Each stray thought that eddied into his mind he pushed aside, gently, so as not to disturb the unrippled surface of the pond in his imagination. The last conscious image-Maggie's imperfect but pleasing face-he allowed to linger before his eyes before easing it aside.

Whatever happened, he had to keep her to the lee of trouble.

Luncheon at the Embassy was, as always, both vigorously animated and abysmally dull. Jonathan considered his attendance at such functions the price he had to pay for their lavish support of his stay in England, but he made it a practice to be dull company, talking to as few people as possible. It was in this mood that he carried his glass of American champagne away toward the social paregoric of an untrafficked corner. But it was not sufficiently insulated.

"Ah! There you are, Jonathan!"

It was fforbes-Ffitch, whom Jonathan seemed fated to encounter at every function.

"Listen, Jonathan. I've just been in a corner with the Cultural Attache, and he gives his support to this idea of mine to send you off for a few lectures in Sweden. The American image isn't particularly bright there just now, what with the Southeast Asia business and all. Could be an excellent thing, jointly sponsored by the USIS and the Royal College. Sound enticing?"

"No."

"Oh. Oh, I see."

"I told you the other evening I wasn't interested."

"Well, I thought you might just be playing hard to get."

Jonathan looked at him with fatigue in his eyes. "Don't rush at it, f-F. You'll make it. With your hustle and ambition, I have no doubt you'll be Minister of Education before you're through. But don't climb on my back."

fforbes-Ffitch smiled wanly. "Always straight from the shoulder, aren't you? Well, you can't blame a fellow for trying."

Jonathan looked at him with heavy-lidded silence.

"Quite," f-F said perkily. "But you will honor your commitment to lecture for us at the Royal College this afternoon, I hope."

"Certainly. But your people have been remiss in their communications."

"Oh? How so?"

"No one has told me the topic of my lecture. But don't rush. It's still an hour away."

fforbes-Ffitch frowned heavily and importantly. "I am sorry, Jonathan. My staff has been undergoing a shake-up. Heads rolling left and right. But I've not put together a trim ship yet. In any department I run, this kind of incompetence is simply not on." He touched Jonathan's shoulder with a finger. "I'll make a call and sort it out. Right now."

Jonathan nodded and winked. "Good show."

fforbes-Ffitch turned and left the reception room with an efficient bustle, and Jonathan was in the act of retreating into another low traffic corner when he was intercepted by the host, the Senior Man Present. He was typical of American Embassy leadership-a central casting type with wavy gray hair, a hearty handshake, and an ability to say the obvious with a tone of trembling sincerity. Like most of his ilk, his qualifications for statesmanship were based upon an ability to get the vote out of some Spokane or other, or to contribute lavishly to campaign funds.

"Well, how's it been going, Dr. Hemlock?" the Senior Man Present asked, pulling Jonathan's hand. "We don't see enough of you at these affairs."

"That's odd. I have quite the opposite impression."

"Yes," the Senior Man Present laughed, not quite understanding, "yes, I imagine that's true. It's always like that though, really. Even when it doesn't appear to be. That's one of the things you learn in my line of work."

Jonathan agreed that it probably was.

"Say," the SMP asked with a show of offhandedness, "you're out in the wind of public opinion. What kind of ground swells do you get concerning the American elections?"

"None. People don't talk to me about it because they know I wouldn't be interested."

"Yes." The SMP nodded with profound understanding. "No-ah-no comments about the Watergate bugging business?"

"None."

"Good. Good. Nothing to it, really. Just an attempt to implicate the President in some kind of messy affair. Between you and me, I think the whole thing was cooked up either by the other party or by the Communists. I imagine it will blow over. This sort of thing always does. That's one thing you learn in my line of work."

"Good Lord, Jonathan, there's been a ballup." fforbes-Ffitch was back. "Ah!" He smiled profuse greetings to the SMP. "Did I catch you two chatting about my plans for a lecture series in Sweden?"

"Yes, you did," the SMP lied with practiced insouciance. "And I'm all for it. If there's anything my office can do to move things ahead..."

"That's awfully good of you, sir."

After shaking hands with warm cordiality, both his hands cupped around Jonathan's, the SMP returned to his hostly duty of pressing a drink on a visiting Moslem.

"You say there's been a ballup?" Jonathan asked.

"Yes. I am sorry. Our fault entirely. I'll cancel, if you want."

Jonathan had been looking forward to seeing Maggie in the audience during this lecture, perhaps even meeting her in the cafe afterward.

"What's the trouble?" he asked.

"They've advertised that you're going to lecture on cinema.I've got the title here: 'Criticism in Cinema: Use and Abuse.'"

Jonathan laughed. "No problem. Not to worry, I'll vamp it."

"But... cinema? You're in painting, aren't you?"

"I'm in just about everything. And, despite Godard, cinema is still essentially a visual art. Do you have a car here?"

"Why, yes." fforbes-Ffitch was surprised and pleased. "Could I run you over to the college?"

"If you would." f-F's lickspittle conversation would be fair pay for the cover of traveling with him, in case Aloha Shirt and Bullet Head should be hanging about outside the post office bulk of the Embassy.

"...which rhythms are established by cutting rate and cutting tone. While the intensity of the visual beat is a function of what Whitaker, in his lean description of film linguistics, has called 'cutting volume.' Does that answer your question?"

Jonathan scanned the packed audience for a glimpse of Maggie while he responded automatically to the questions. The hall was filled, and a few people were standing at the back of the house. Because of the overcrowding, a policeman was present. In his tall hat and stiff uniform, he was in sharp contrast to the earthy-arty appearance of the audience.

Someone with a thin nasal voice in the back of the hall was proposing a question when Jonathan caught sight of Maggie against the back wall. She stood under one of the conical light fixtures set in the ceiling of the overhanging balcony, and the soft narrow beam isolated her from the mass and mixed with the amber of her soft hair. He was pleased she was there.

"...and therefore ineluctably interrelated with it?"

He had not caught the whole of the question, but he recognized the style of inquiry: another involute question asked by a bright young person, not to learn, but to demonstrate the level of his recent reading.

Jonathan faked his way out. "That's a sinewy and complicated question with ramifications that would take more time than we have to explore adequately. Suppose you break off the fragment that most puzzles you and phrase that concisely."