“An intense sensation of well-being and optimism, sir. Elation. Confidence.”

“How good to know one can purchase such things.”

“Together with a marked physical improvement, sir. The effect is temporary, but the renewed energy is visible. Radiance is imparted to the skin and…”

“The eyes?”

“Just very slight contraction of the pupils, sir. Nothing too marked, and perceptible only at close range.”

“Speech? Movement?”

“Unimpaired, sir.”

“You tested the product yourself?”

“Yes, sir, as instructed.”

Bertrand kept his eyes fixed on Lazare’s, as he found it prudent to do whenever he lied to this man. “I took one tablet yesterday morning.”

“One whole tablet?”

“Yes, Monsieur Lazare.” He had in fact taken half. “I took the medication at ten A.M., after a meal in my hotel room. The effects were almost instantaneous, and startling—”

“I don’t require detail. The desired result was achieved?”

“Yes, sir. Dramatically so. There was an immediate release from all tension and anxiety. A sensation of calm and confidence. A heightened spatial awareness. Colors and sounds became extraordinarily intense, and…”

“Could you rest?”

Lazare posed the question with sudden intensity. Bertrand stopped short.

“Rest? Well, yes, eventually. I went to sleep around midnight—”

“You slept well? No dreams?”

“Only pleasant ones, sir.” Bertrand risked a smile. “They were the kind of dreams I’d welcome any night…”

“I don’t understand you.”

“All five senses are stimulated, Monsieur Lazare. The effects are erotic. I did notice, shall we say, a marked and immediate increase in libido. Had I not been alone, I…”

“You may go.”

The dismissal was curt. Bertrand, who had thought even Lazare might be amused by his last remarks, realized he had misjudged his tone badly. A closed, forbidding expression now masked Lazare’s face. He bent his head to examine the boxes once again. Bertrand looked at the sleek gleam of his black hair in the lamplight. He began to back away from the desk. Overfamiliarity was something Lazare did not tolerate: with luck, he thought, he might just make it to the door before Lazare’s temper snapped. He had been fortunate earlier, when his lateness went unrebuked. He could scarcely expect to be spared twice. Moving toward the door, he braced himself for the dressing-down, the icy sarcasm. One of the most fearsome aspects of Lazare’s temper was its coldness: he could reduce a man to zero without ever raising his voice.

“Wait,” Lazare said.

Bertrand paled, and turned to face him.

“Tell me…” Lazare was still examining the parcels. He was holding one of them, turning it this way and that.

“These little miracle pills—have they christened them? Have they given them a name yet?”

Bertrand, almost overcome with relief, confirmed that indeed, the little miracles had been christened. Their creator, the young Dutch chemist, had been in favor of a hard-edged, aggressive name, something that would give his new product immediate street cachet. His long-haired, spaced-out American partner had dissuaded him. What they needed, he argued, was a name that conveyed both the initial rush and the sensation of deep feathered calm that succeeded it.