Without waiting to be asked, he advanced straight into Ted’s study, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the hall. He proceeded steadily between piles of books, diagrams, sketches, and printouts on the floor until his progress was blocked by the massive desk on which stood Ted’s word processor. He peered without permission at a mysterious green-and-black graph that was flickering on the screen. Joking about his hopelessness with computers, he began to urge Ted politely, as if he himself were the host and the other the guest: “Sit down, Teddy, sit down; make yourself at home.” And without hesitating he grabbed the office chair in front of the computer screen.

Ted asked what he would like to drink. Fima answered:

“Anything. A glass of water. Don’t waste any time. Or some brandy. Or else something hot. It really doesn’t matter. I’ve only dropped in for a moment anyway.”

With his broad, slow accent, with the dryness of a telephone operator, without a question mark at the end of any of his sentences, Ted stated:

“Okay. I’ll get you a brandy. And you’re sure, positive, you’ve had some supper.”

Fima had a sudden urge to lie, to say no, though actually he was dying of hunger. But he chose to restrain himself.

Ted, in the rocking chair, swathed himself in silence and tobacco smoke. Despite himself, Fima enjoyed the smell of the fine pipe tobacco. And he noticed that Ted was observing him calmly, with a faintly anthropological curiosity. He looked as though he would not raise an eyebrow if his guest suddenly burst out singing. Or crying. Instead of doing either, Fima remarked:

“So Yael’s out and so is Dimi. I forgot to bring some chocolate for him.”

“Right,” said Ted, stifling a yawn. And he exhaled another cloud of pleasant blue smoke.

Fima fixed his eyes on the pile of computerized plans, flicked through them as though they were his own, and made a special point of comparing pages six and nine, as though he had just made the decision to qualify, instantly, as an aeronautical engineer himself.

“And what are you concocting for us here? A spacecraft that fires rubber bullets? Or a flying gravel gun?”

“It’s a paper we’re writing for a British journal. Something quite experimental, actually: jet-propelled vehicles. As you probably know, Yael and I have been working on that for quite a few years now. You’ve asked me several times to explain it to you, but after a couple of minutes you always beg me to stop. I’m committed to finishing this paper by the weekend. There’s a deadline. Can’t you teach me the Hebrew for ‘committed’ and ‘deadline,’ by the way? You must know, being a poet. Don’t you?”