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He laughed inwardly and finally answered: “Friendship. Mutual interest in high ion colloidal suspensions and complex synthesis.” Impatience suddenly mastered him. “Exactly what is it you wish to know, Senor? Perhaps I could inform you if I knew the reasons for your interest.”

Camba chose a piece of salad with great care. “We have reason to believe that he is Syndrome Johnny.”

Alcala waited for the words to clarify. After a moment, it ceased to be childish babble and became increasingly shocking. He remembered the first time he had met John Delgados, the smile, the strong handclasp. “Call me Johnny,” he had said. It had seemed no more than a nickname.

The investigator was watching his expression with bright brown eyes.

Johnny, yes ... but not Syndrome Johnny. He tried to think of some quick refutation. “The whole thing is preposterous, Senor Camba. The myth of Syndrome Plague Johnny started about a century ago.”

“Doctor Alcala”—the small man in the gray suit was tensely sober—”John Delgados is very old, and John Delgados is not his proper name. I have traced his life back and back, through older and older records in Argentina, Panama, South Africa, the United States, China, Canada. Everywhere he has paid his taxes properly, put his fingerprints on file as a good citizen should. And he changed his name every twenty years, applying to the courts for permission with good honest reasons for changing his name. Everywhere he has been a laboratory worker, held patents, sometimes made a good deal of money. He is one hundred and forty years old. His first income tax was paid in 1970, exactly one hundred and twenty years ago.”