The driveway cut into the hillside. The maglev parked itself and Hector reached into his suit pocket and took out his yarmulke. It had been given to him by his father at his bar mitzvah. The once-sumptuous blue velvet had faded and taken on a silvery sheen, much like his hair, but the feel of the worn fabric as he slipped it over his bald spot recalled to him the awkwardness of puberty and his nervousness at standing before his family’s congregation to read from the Torah.

Setting the memory aside, Hector got out of the maglev and climbed the flagstone steps to the doorway of his sister’s house. Recessed in an alcove and overshadowed by the low hanging roof, the entrance was virtually invisible from the road. He raised his hand to the knockpad but the door opened before he could strike it.

“Hector, gebubulah!” His sister Cerise greeted him with outstretched arms. Hector paused on the threshold to kiss the mezuzah, and entered her welcoming embrace. “Come in, come in,” she said, drawing him down the hallway. “I’m so glad you could break away from your busy schedule to visit us.”

The roof over the living room was dotted with colored glass tiles which painted the floor and walls with a kaleidoscope of light. Cerise’s husband, Paul, was there, and their children, Rachel and Naomi. Cerise brought a tray of vegetables and walnut dip from the kitchen and set it down on the coffee table. “So, Hector,” she said, “What’s new with you?”

“Oh nothing much,” he lied, “working hard, as usual.”

Cerise shook her head. “Working, that’s all? There aren’t any nice middle aged ladies at GeneSys to go to the movies with, or take out to dinner?”

Hector shrugged, “I suppose there are, but-”

“But what? What does a woman have to do to get your attention? Split an atom?”

“Cerise-” Paul gave her a warning glance. “And she wonders why you hardly ever visit,” he said to Hector. “Would you like a whiskey?”

“Thanks, with soda, please,” he said.

The girls showed him the holo pictures they’d been painting, and Cerise told him of the latest happenings at her job at Detroit Edison. “There’s a very nice woman in the finance department. She’s about your age, Hector, and she’s single too. Her name is Ilene, and she’s always reading Scientific American. I’m sure you two would hit it off. If you’d like me to set something up...”

“Cerise,” Paul lifted his eyes to the kaleidoscope ceiling, which was growing dim in the fading light. Cerise smiled, “It’s time to light the candles.”

They went into the dining room, where the sabbath candles stood waiting on the side board beside the wine, the kaddish cups, and the challah bread. Cerise lit the candles, covered her eyes, and recited the blessing. “Baruch Atah Adonai Elohanu Melech ha’olam asher kidshanu bemitzvotoav vetzivanu lehedlikner shel Shabbat.”

Hector’s Hebrew was rusty, but he had no difficulty remembering the meaning of those words. “Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us by commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath candle.”

Paul said the kiddush blessing over the wine, and poured a cup for each of the adults, and smaller portions for the girls. They drank, and then Paul lifted the white cloth covering the challah, and recited the berachah, “Baruch Atah Adonai Elohanu Melech ha’olam hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.” Each of them grabbed hold of the braided loaf, pulled a piece off and ate it.

Paul and Cerise then turned to their daughters, “May God make you as Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah. May the Lord bless you and care for you. May the Lord cause the light of His countenance to shine upon you and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace,” they prayed.

Hector prayed too, though silently and not to God. He prayed to one who he knew would answer his prayer, because she had the time before, when he hadn’t even known he was beseaching her. She had heard him then, and given him the dream. With all the fervency of a parent praying for his child he prayed to her, the first person wronged by God, to deliver his project from the arbitrary judgement of Nathan Graham.

oOo

They were all there when Graham got to the table; Russ Giacona and Tina Marples and Pauline Zimmerman, all of them sparkling in their suits like the polished crystal goblets on the table. And then there was Kent, leaning back in his seat, his jacket unbuttoned, lazily swirling the scotch in his glass. He didn’t sparkle, he didn’t have to, he was the chief executive of Detroit operations and he answered to no one but Anna Luria herself.

“Oh good, Nathan’s here,” said Tina brightly as he approached, and they all stood.

“Hi Kent, it’s good to see you again,” he said shaking his hand, “Russ, Tina, Pauline.” Everybody shook his hand, everybody avoided knocking over any goblets or candlesticks. As he sat down, Graham glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He was on time, goddamn it. They were early. It was probably Tina’s doing, trying to make him look bad. At least they’d had the decency to leave a seat next to Kent open so he didn’t have to talk to the man from the other side of the floral centerpiece.

“The waiter was on us like a starved vulture the minute we sat down,” said Kent, leaning over and speaking conspiratorially out of the side of his mouth, “so we went ahead and ordered drinks.” He waved his hand, and a red jacketed waiter hurried to his side. “What would you like, Nathan?”

“Scotch and soda,” he said to the waiter, who scurried off again. He could have stood a double, without the soda, but it wouldn’t have looked good, to order the same thing Kent drank. Kent opened his menu, and everyone else followed suit. “I’ve heard that the salmon is very good here,”

Graham told him. Actually, he’d called up the chef this morning and demanded that he have it sent in fresh from Alaska. Salmon was Kent Carlysle’s favorite fish.

He pursed his lips, his grey eyes scanning the menu. “Mmm, not really in the mood for fish tonight. Think I’ll have the filet.”

“They get it straight from Mitsubishi’s own farms,” said Russ, leaning over his menu, “it’s very fresh.”

Graham stared at him. The conniving little assassin. He’d probably known Kent wasn’t in the mood for fish today, and had exploited that knowledge by talking to the chef, finding out where he got his beef, maybe even demanding that he order it from Mitsubishi. Of course he pretended not to understand the significance of Graham’s look, sitting there gazing at the menu, smugly, innocently, knowing all the while what he’d done. What was worse was that the chef knew all about it, and had, in fact, sided with Russ. They were probably laughing at him right now in the kitchen. When the waiter returned for their dinner selections, Graham could swear he was smirking.

Pauline had the wild mushroom flan, an appropriate choice for her position. Tina ordered prawn souffle, a bit of a risk, but she was a climber. Russ and Kent both ordered the filet mignon, which left Graham in a difficult position. He could stick by his guns and have the salmon, or he could back off and opt for some neutral entree; roast duck or pork loin. There was a nice leek and chestnut saute on the menu, but a vegetarian choice was out of the question. He didn’t know which way he’d go until he said it, “I’ll have the salmon.”

After dinner they retired to the club bar. To Graham’s surprise, Kent took him by the arm and led him away from the others, to the opposite side of the room. They sat on stools, Graham facing the length of the bar. He saw Russ and Tina and Pauline at the far end, in an irresolute little knot, casting pathetic glances of resentment his way. He looked back at Kent.

“They’ll find out about it soon enough, let them sweat in their little bean counter undies for one night. I’ve got a favor to ask.”