It was nine A.M. when I finished. The good news was that I could put the new parts, all sixteen of them, in an envelope identical to the one I’d given Fumio, because that too had originated at RC Copying. The shade of score paper was likewise identical, and I’d done a good job of counterfeiting Haffner’s hand in music notation, certainly well enough to pass inspection from the musically illiterate Fumio. These new parts of mine weren’t going to be played, after all. I’d created them solely to be decoded—or, rather, to keep those decoding them stymied.

I had a chance to shower, take a nap, and change into my dress suit for Swing’s debut on Treasure Island. I called Gail at both her numbers. I got no answer, but I hadn’t expected to.

The afternoon concert in the rock garden of the Japanese Pavilion felt very much like the Junior League lawn parties at which I’d occasionally played. The consul general and his charming wife appeared nicely sunned and perfectly suited for an afternoon of canapés and croquet.

When I spotted Fumio, I apologized to him for Gail’s sudden departure, as well as my own, the previous afternoon. “She was terribly distraught,” I said. “It had been a mistake for her to attempt to come here yesterday.”

He asked me what the envelope I had under my arm was. I told him it was a little surprise for the Pan-Pacific’s band boy.

Fumio looked about, concerned. “I hope we will not have so much laughter today. It would make things very bad.”

You bet it would, I thought to myself. It would look bad if people thought Swing was a strange piece to win such a competition. It might make them suspicious.

I’d had a good chance to dope it all out while I was copying the mindless music contained in the envelope under my arm. The contest had clearly been a ruse to enable the transfer to enemy agents of detailed information about the future conversion of a world’s fair into a strategic naval base. How do you get such information—a full year before the public would know of it—out of the country and to Japan, whom F.D.R. and his cabinet already viewed as our future adversary? You could bet that anything heading off to Tokyo, including the luggage of the Pan-Pacific Orchestra, would be thoroughly examined and screened by the government. But how many customs agents or feds would find anything suspicious about Gail’s Swing Around the Sun? They could hold it up to the light, search for microfilm in its folds, test it for invisible ink. But the information, reams of it, was all right there, as plain as day, if you knew what you were looking at and how to rearrange it.