“I wanted to study a language that wasn’t Indo-European, just to give me a different slant on things,” Jerry replied. “The more I learn about all the ways people talk, the more I can bring to whale songs. I don’t think they’re speech, exactly, but I’m sure they’re more than grunts and barks.”

John glanced at Fred and Steve. Fred looked back with no expression at all. Jerry wouldn’t have wanted to play poker with him. Steve smiled and nodded. Jerry felt as if he’d passed some kind of small test.

He asked, “Why does the CIA need to know all this stuff about me?”

Instead of answering, John went on, “Along with an article, you’ve also published two science-fiction stories, one in Analog, one in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. They have whales in them.”

“Well, yeah,” Jerry said. “I’m writing about what I know about. I’m not gonna talk about lizards or gophers.”

Steve smiled again. Fred just stood there. John said, “Before we go any further, you have to agree to keep what your hear quiet from everybody. Everybody means everybody. Reporters. Friends. Your advisor, Dr. Krikorian. Your father. Your fiancée, Miss Anna Elaine McGowan. If you make that promise and then break it, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Understand me?”

They’d know when he was sleeping. They’d know when he was awake. They’d probably know when he was bad and good, too. Jerry was Jewish, but he’d learned Christmas carols in elementary school along with everybody else. “I understand,” he said slowly.

“All right. Do you agree?”

Jerry had no great love for the CIA. He also couldn’t imagine why they wanted anything from him. That was the problem. His bump of curiosity itched. If he didn’t scratch it … If he didn’t scratch it, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering what he’d missed.

He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I agree.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” John said, and then, “Fred?”

Fred hefted the briefcase, as if looking for somewhere to set it down. His eyes first lit on the table in the dining nook between the front room and the cramped little kitchen. Jerry worked at that table. His typewriter held pride of place. Papers drowned the rest of the tabletop. He had to shove them aside when he wanted to eat. Fred put the briefcase on the coffee table in front of the ugly couch instead.

Jerry didn’t like that table. It bit him in the shin whenever he wasn’t careful. To open the case, Fred worked what looked like a combination lock. He pulled out some papers and handed them to John.

John passed them to Jerry. “Confidentiality and nondisclosure agreement. You can read it before you sign. I already gave you the gist, though.”