Harry's home was a spacious split-level "stick-built" ranch house from the early 1960s, wandering over much of a eucalyptus-covered quarter-acre lot in Tarzana. He had purchased the home in 1975, before his marriage to Ithaca; it had seemed hollow then, with only one occupant, and was still a place of vast white walls and rug-dotted linoleum floors, a little chilly and severe for Arthur's taste.

Ithaca beyond any doubt ruled the roost. Tall, with dark red hair and features more suited to a Shakespearean actress than a Tarzana homemaker, her quiet presence balanced the broad rooms. Harry had once told Arthur, "Wherever she is, there's enough, and never too much." Arthur had known exactly what he meant.

She opened the door at Arthur's knock, smiled warmly, and extended her hand. Arthur took the fingers and kissed them solemnly. "Milady," he said ceremoniously. "Is the good doctor in?"

"Hello, Arthur. Good to see you. He's in and being insufferable."

"His treatments?"

"No. Something else, having to do with you, I presume." Ithaca would never inquire. "Can I get you coffee? It's been cold this winter. Today is especially dreary."

"Yes, please. The office?"

"Sanctum sanctorum. How's Francine? Marty?"

"They're fine." He stuck his hands in his pockets, obviously anxious to join Harry. Ithaca nodded.

"I'll bring the coffee into the office. Go."

"Thanks." He always felt like complimenting Ithaca on her appearance, which was, as usual, wonderful—but she did not take kindly to compliments. How she looked and dressed was as natural to her as breathing. He smiled awkwardly and headed down the hall to the office.

Harry sat in an overstuffed chair, fire crackling brightly in the grate. His office had originally been the master bedroom, and after his marriage, he had kept it there. There were three large bedrooms with fireplaces in the house, enough to go around. Stacks of books rose beside his chair, some of them huge, old, and well thumbed. An Olympia typewriter hung keyboard down over the fireplace like a hunting trophy, while from its return key dangled three carbon-encrusted test tubes looped together by a red ribbon. The story behind this had to do with Harry's doctoral thesis and was seldom told when Harry was sober.

In Harry's lap rested a copy of Brin and Kuiper's book on the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. McClennan and Rotterjack had kept copies of the same book on their office desks. Arthur also noticed Hicks's novel on the corner of a roll-around table, almost crowded off by stacks of infodisks.

"Finally, by God," Harry said. "I've been stuck here getting over nausea and waiting for the word. What's the word?"

"I'm to go to Australia with most of the task force. I'm leaving in three days, with a couple of hours stopover in Tahiti. We should just be able to put out a short report."

"The newshounds are on our trail," Harry said, raising his thick eyebrows.