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She had minute steaks in the refrigerator. She had decided to cook one of these, open a can of peas, and dine at her desk, when someone knocked. She supposed it was Callie Kantor, who worked for Interior and lived down the hall and sublimated, so she said, by raising parakeets and walking to work every morning. If it was Callie, she'd invite her out for a lobster dinner. "Come in," she called, and opened the door.

Major Price came in, bulking ominous and piratical in the shadowed hallway, his cap tilted over his eye patch and scar. He lived only a few blocks away, on R Street, and he had been to her apartment with a few of the others for a Sunday brunch two weeks before. She was not surprised at his call. The relations of seven people who three days a week face each other across a conference table, as equals, are naturally informal. She said, "Sit down, Jess, and I'll make you a drink. Bourbon?"

"With water. I saw your lights were on. I wanted to talk."

"Go ahead, talk." She went into the kitchen alcove and brought out ice and glasses and mixed drinks at her combination tea table and portable bar.