“Sure.” Jerry wondered what would happen if he tried that. Maybe the CIA guys would just lock him up and throw away the key. Or maybe somebody with a scope-sighted rifle on a rooftop across the street would blow his head off as soon as he stepped out of the conference hotel. John P. didn’t seem like somebody who kidded around about secrecy.

He said his good-byes and went up a flight of stairs to his own office. They crammed half a dozen TAs into a space no bigger than one professor got, separating desks and chairs with three-quarter-height walls made of varnished plywood and frosted glass. If you ever needed to be reminded of your status, academia knew how to do it.

A couple of other grad students were in there, either waiting for students or doing some work. After the usual greetings and grumblings, Jerry sat down to see whether anyone from his Biology 101C sections would show up. Nobody did. Having wasted an hour of his life, he headed to the parking lot and drove home.

The southbound San Diego Freeway turned out to be a lot more exciting than his office hour. Some idiot towing a big boat had managed to flip his car and the boat trailer sideways across three lanes of traffic. Along with half the other people in the world, Jerry had to funnel through the single lane that remained open. A good time was had by none.

He anxiously watched the needle on his temperature gauge creep up. The Rambler didn’t like crawling along. If the radiator boiled over, he’d add one more stuck car to the freeway nightmare.

But he made it past the clog. After that, he sailed down to El Segundo, where he got off. He headed east, past Inglewood, past Hawthorne Boulevard, past Prairie, till he came to the little street he lived on. Two minutes later, he was parking his car. He affectionately patted the door when he got out. He’d got back again.

He checked his mailbox in the foyer. The new Fantasy and Science Fiction was there. That would give him something to kill time with tonight. And a bright green flyer told him a Mexican restaurant was opening on Prairie. He tossed it in the trash.

As soon as he walked into his place, the phone rang. He trotted into the bedroom. “Hello?”

“Are we on, Stieglitz?” That could only be John P.’s raspy voice.

“Uh, yeah,” Jerry answered. The CIA guy hung up. More slowly, Jerry did, too. Big Brother really was watching him.

II