“Why did you want that answer?” I asked. “When they’re left alone, people often do . . . well . . . things that aren’t very attractive at all. Picking your nose with your finger is nothing, really.”

“Of course,” agreed Las. “But it’s indicative! The overwhelming majority of people will defend a footling little lie like that to the death. They don’t deny that they peep at immature nymphets, avoid paying their taxes or scheme against their colleagues at work, but they do deny something banal and funny that does no one any harm—picking their nose with their finger! That tells you a lot about people.”

“Next time ask about them picking a different place with their finger,” I replied somberly. “What about our business?”

Las shrugged.

“The plane was normal. They checked it out, just like they’re supposed to, no faults at all. By the way, did you know that planes can be allowed to fly when part of their equipment isn’t working? Well, everything was working on this one. And it’s a brand-new plane, made three years ago, not some old secondhand junk from China.”

“So no way was it going to crash, then?” I asked, to make absolutely sure.

“Everything is in God’s hands,” Las said, with a shrug, and then flaunted his brilliant knowledge of the Bible: “ ‘And a bird shall not fall from the sky without the will of the Lord!’ And even more so an airplane. Well . . . and it didn’t fall.”

“But the boy prophesied it,” I said. “And the lines of probability indicated an inevitable disaster . . . All right. The plane was in good condition, the crew was experienced. Was there anything strange at all?”

“To do with the plane, or in general?” Las asked.

“In general.”

“Well, a local polizei shat himself this morning.”

“What?”

“He couldn’t get to the toilet in time. Dumped in his trousers. They found him an old uniform in the duty office and he washed himself off in the shower . . .”

“Las, what is it that attracts you to all sorts of low crudity?” I asked indignantly. “Even if an employee of the Ministry of the Interior did suffer an attack of dysentery, it’s not a fit subject for discussion—let alone for irony! You’re a Light One! A Light Other!”

“Well, I feel sorry for both the polizei,” Las remarked casually.

My heart skipped half a beat.

“Both? Did they eat the meat pies at the local cafe?”

“Oh no, the other one’s digestion is fine,” Las reassured me. “The other one went insane.”

I waited. In anticipation of more specific questions, Las was clearly doling out the information in small doses quite deliberately—to heighten the drama.

“Aren’t you interested?” asked Las.

“Report in due form,” I told him.

Las sighed as he scratched the back of his head.