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bright one, all right.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean he’s got more insight into me than I do.”
    “You mean you don’t want the Pittsburgh job?”
    “I’m not sure. He apparently knew that before I did.”
    “You’re tired, darling.”
    “I guess.”
    “You need a drink. Come home early.”
    “All right.”
    “I love you, Paul.”
    “I love
you
, Anita. Goodbye.”
    Anita had the mechanics of marriage down pat, even to the subtlest conventions. If her approach was disturbingly rational, systematic, she was thorough enough to turn out a creditable counterfeit of warmth. Paul could only suspect that her feelings were shallow—and perhaps that suspicion was part of what he was beginning to think of as his sickness.
    His head was down, his eyes closed, when he hung up. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at the dead cat in the basket.
    “Katharine!”
    “Yessir.”
    “Will you have somebody bury this cat.”
    “We wondered what you wanted to do with it.”
    “God knows what I had in mind.” He looked at the corpse and shook his head. “God knows. Maybe a Christian burial; maybe I hoped she’d come around. Get rid of it right away, would you?”
    He stopped by Katharine’s desk on his way home and told her not to worry about the glowing jewel on the seventh meter from the bottom, fifth row from the left, on the east wall.
    “Beyond help,” he said. Lathe group three, Building 58, had been good in its day, but was showing wear and becoming a misfit in the slick, streamlined setup, where there was no place for erratic behavior. “Basically, it wasn’t built for the job it’s doing anyway. I look for the buzzer to go off any day now, and that’ll be the end.”
    In each meter box, in addition to the instrument, the jewel, and the warning lamp, was a buzzer. The buzzer was the signal for a unit’s complete breakdown.

2

    T HE S HAH OF B RATPUHR , spiritual leader of 6,000,000 members of the Kolhouri sect, wizened and wise and dark as cocoa, encrusted with gold brocade and constellations of twinkling gems, sank deep into the royal-blue cushions of the limousine—like a priceless brooch in its gift box.
    On the other side of the limousine’s rear seat sat Doctor Ewing J. Halyard, of the United States Department of State, a heavy, florid, urbane gentleman of forty. He wore a flowing sandy mustache, a colored shirt, a boutonniere, and a waistcoat contrasting with his dark suit, and wore them with such poise that one was sure he’d just come from a distinguished company where everyone dressed in this manner. The fact was that only Doctor Halyard did. And he got away with it beautifully.
    Between them, nervous, grinning, young, and forever apologetic for his own lack of éclat or power, was Khashdrahr Miasma, the interpreter, and nephew of the Shah, who had learned English from a tutor, but had never before been outside of the Shah’s palace.
    “Khabu?”
said the Shah in his high, frail voice.
    Halyard had been with the Shah for three days now and was able to understand, without Khashdrahr’s help, five of the Shah’s expressions.
“Khabu”
meant “where?”
“Siki”
meant “what?”
“Akka sahn”
meant “why?”
“Brahous brahouna, houna saki”
was a combination of blessing and thanks, and
Sumklish
was the sacred Kolhouri drink which Khashdrahr carried in a hip flask for the Shah.
    The Shah had left his military and spiritual fastness in the mountains to see what he could learn in the most powerfulnation on earth for the good of his people. Doctor Halyard was his guide and host.
    “Khabu?”
said the Shah again, peering out at the city.
    “The Shah wishes to know, please, where we are now,” said Khashdrahr.
    “I know,” said Halyard, smiling wanly. It had been
khabu
and
siki
and
akka sahn
until he was half out of his mind. He leaned forward. “Ilium, New York, your highness. We are about to cross the Iroquois River, which divides the town in two. Over there on the