A foreign accent. Unable to place it, Etan felt his impatience grow. The spot where they were standing, on a slope on the edge of the settlement, was deserted. Some thirty meters beyond them was the perimeter fence, through whose rusty coils of barbed wire a dim light showed. The concrete path at their feet was covered with a layer of muck. Every step squished and gurgled with a foul, suppurating sound.

Once, Etan R. recalled, Stutchnik had told him about some student living on the kibbutz thirty years ago who had run amuck with a revolver and fired at anyone who came near him.

A wind was blowing. The air was raw. Frost-stricken lawns on the hillside were gradually sinking into darkness. Shade trees mourned their lost leaves. Even the nearest houses seemed to be not near the two men, but far away and far apart. Mist rose from the large puddles of water at the bottom of the hill. A girl laughed somewhere in the distance.

The young man shifted the guitar case back to his right hand. Etan R. bent his head to make out the time on his watch. His work clothes reeked of sweat, sour milk, and manure.

“All right,” said Etan. “That’s fine.”

“It’s all right? I can stay? I’m ready to start work tomorrow. Any work. I have all my papers with me, and a letter of recommendation.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Etan R. “Look. Follow that path until you reach the bakery. There’s a sign on the bakery that says bakery. That’s how you know it’s the bakery. Just past the bakery there’s a fork. Bear left along the cypress trees. When you get to the end of them you’ll see two houses. Is that clear so far?”

“So far it’s fantastic.”

“Hold on a minute. Don’t run off. I’m not done yet. When you get to the two houses, cut between them. You’ll see a long, raised building with four porches. Past it you’ll see a second building, also on pilings with four porches. Knock on its next-to-last door. That’s Yolek’s. Yolek is the secretary. He’s your man, the head of the kibbutz you said you were looking for.”

“The man you said was critically ill?”

“Ill. I don’t know about the critical. One look at you will revive him. You’ll get all your questions answered, and he’ll tell you what to do. Are you sure you won’t get lost?”

“Never!” answered Azariah in a pale fright, as though he had just been asked whether he intended to make off with something valuable. “In the army I was almost sent to a special reconnaissance course. Well, it was a pleasure meeting you. ‘The smiling face is hard to erase,’ they say. My name is Azariah. Will you allow me to thank you?”