Major Bronstein made small talk till they’d nearly finished eating. Then he said, “You are wondering what Anatoly Fyodorovich wishes of you.”

“Oh, I may be, just a little bit,” Jerry said.

The Soviet officer studied him, head cocked to one side like an inquisitive sparrow. He looked more like Danny Kaye than ever when he did that. After a moment, he chuckled. “You have an interesting sense of humor. I saw it in your writing, too. You might almost belong to my country, not your own.”

“I don’t. I don’t want to, either.”

“I understand that. I respect it. What I said is still true. And you speak our language.”

“Not very well.”

“Few Americans speak it at all. And this matters for what Ambassador Dobrynin has in his mind.”

“What has he got in mind?” Jerry asked, as of course he was meant to do.

“The Soviet Union will be sending a team to join in research on the Midlothian object. You will have heard last night that your president has agreed to this?”

“Oh, sure. Most of the people in the country heard him say so, I bet. But what’s it got to do with me?”

“Anatoly Fyodorovich has suggested that you go out to the Hughes Glomar Explorer as a member of the Soviet research team.” Major Bronstein still looked like Danny Kaye to Jerry: an animated Danny Kaye cat blowing a feather off its nose. “I think this is an excellent idea myself, a most excellent idea.”

Jerry peered down at the table. He was sure he’d find his jaw lying there. He’d felt it drop, long and hard. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve got to be making that up.”

“By no means,” Bronstein said. Jerry understood him, though no native speaker ever born would have come out with By no means. The Soviet major went on, “For one thing, as I told you before, I understand why the CIA chose you in the first place. You have the training and the imagination to belong with such people, whatever country they come from.”

“I’m only a goddamn grad student,” Jerry said, as if that explained everything. To him, it did.

Yakov Bronstein ignored him. “You also have some insight into the way the aliens think. If you did not, you would never have realized how to persuade their ship to open to you. That was not artisanship. That was genius. What is genius except doing what is unexpected but correct?”

That was dumb fucking luck, nothing else, Jerry thought. He almost said so, but something about Bronstein’s expression made him hold back. The major still looked uncommonly like a canariophagous cat. Instead of po-mouthing himself, Jerry asked, “What aren’t you telling me?”