He walked past Bunche Hall on his way to the library. Everyone called the building the Waffle. The red-brown granite on the south-facing side was punctuated by a grid of square, dark windows. It had been the Social Sciences Building when he got to UCLA in 1966. They rechristened it for the diplomat two years later and put his bust, his name, and, below it, 1904– near the elevators. Bunche’s birth year was set asymmetrically under the name. That had pissed Jerry off: it was as if they were waiting for Bunche to die. When he did, near the end of 1971, symmetry was restored.

When Jerry turned in the request form, the woman who took it said, “You understand, it won’t come in right away. Three weeks if you’re lucky, six if you aren’t.”

“I know,” he answered resignedly. “I’ve done this before. I’m just glad I’ll get my hands on it sooner or later.”

She nodded. “That’s the right attitude. Interlibrary loan is marvelous, but sometimes people expect too much of it.” Even librarians got excited about what they did.

Instead of driving straight home after finishing his morning errand, Jerry took the Santa Monica Freeway west from the San Diego. Ten minutes later, he was in Santa Monica and the freeway was ending. Not far from where it did, the RAND Corporation had its headquarters. The curving gray stone walls, the sheer size of the building, and where it was declared that RAND wouldn’t be out begging on the sidewalk with a tin cup and sunglasses any time soon.

A single entrance channeled visitors to a reception area. “What can I do for you today, sir?” asked a man about Jerry’s age when Jerry came up to his desk.

“My name is Jerry Stieglitz. I’d like to talk with Doctor Stephen Dole for a few minutes, if that’s possible.”

“About what?”

“Some business we were both doing this summer.”

“Let me check.” The man picked up a phone and punched in a number. He spoke briefly, then hung up and again acknowledged that Jerry was there. “Yes, he’ll see you, Mr. Stieglitz. How do you spell your last name?” When Jerry told him, he typed it on a square of cardboard and put that in a plastic holder. He spoke into the phone again before handing Jerry the badge. “This is your visitor’s display. Please show it as you walk through the hallways. Your escort will be here in a moment.”

Jerry pinned the badge to his shirt. He wondered whether different days had different-colored holders so you couldn’t use today’s next Tuesday. RAND seemed to take security as seriously as the CIA did.

The escort was a black woman a couple of years older than he was. She had a badge, too. It bore her photo and the name Angela Simmons. “Come with me, please,” she said, and led Jerry past the receptionists.