Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled the mineral fish food around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from the liquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air. “They’re so very strange,” Orison said. At the bottom of the tank she thought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubbling life. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.

  Dink took her to the elevator and pressed the “Down” button. “Don’t come up here again unless I bring you,” he said. “The Microfabridae aren’t dangerous, despite what my brother told you, but some of our processes might involve some risk to bystanders. So don’t take any more tours above the fifth floor without me as your guide. All right, Orison?” “Yes, Dink.”

  The elevator stopped. “Take the lady to her office,” Dink told the bowing, earmuffed operator. “And Orison,” he said, just before the door closed, “I’m really not a Bluebeard. See you this evening.”

  Dink Gerding, wearing an ordinary enough suit, well-cut, expensive, but nothing extraordinary for a banker, called for Orison at seven. He’d look well, she thought, slipping into the coat he held for her, in a white uniform brocaded with pounds of spun gold, broad epaulettes, a stiff bank of extravagantly-colored ribbons across his chest; perhaps resting his right hand on the pommel of a dress saber. “Dink;” she asked him, “were you ever in the Army?”

  “You might say I’m still in an army,” he said, turning and smiling down at her from that arrogant posture of his. “I’m a corporal in the army of the gainfully employed; an army where there’s little glamour but better pay than in the parades-and-battles sort. What makes you ask, Orison?”

  “Because of the way you stand and walk, Dink,” she said. “Like an infantry captain from Texas.”

  “I’m flattered,” Dink Gerding said, holding open the lobby door for her. “The car’s just around the comer.”

  “I met your brother, Kraft, earlier today, just before he and the Earmuffs caught me up on eighth floor,” Orison said. “He’s no Texan, that one. A Junker, maybe. I’m afraid I don’t much care for your brother, Dink.”

  “To be my elder brother is Kraft’s special misfortune,” Dink said. “I understand he was quite loveable as a boy. Here’s our transportation.”

  The car was a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, splendidly conspicuous beside the curb of the Windsor Arms, reducing that nobly-named establishment by contrast to more democratic proportions. The ubiquitous Mr. Wanji, liveried in a uniform nearly as ornate as the one Orison had visualized for Dink, only his earmuffs clashing with the magnificence of his costume, sprang from the driver’s seat, raced around the limousine and stood at attention holding the door for Orison and her escort. The front door of the Rolls was marked, she observed, with a gold device of three coronets. At the center of the triangle they formed was the single letter “D.”

  The Rolls negotiated the city streets with the dignity of the Queen Elizabeth entering a minor harbor. “I thought you bankers aspired to the common touch,” Orison remarked. “I expected you to come for me in a taxi, or perhaps a year-old Ford you drove yourself.”

  “Wanji is a better driver than I. So I have him drive me,” Dink explained. “We each do the work we’re trained for. I assist Wanji in balancing his checkbook, for example. As for this car, it belongs not to me, but to my family. My family owns most of the toys I play with.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking, Orison, of acquiring a most valuable property for myself alone.”

  “A nice little seventy-meter yacht?” Orison inquired. “Or the island of Majorca, perhaps?”

  “Something even grander,” Dink said. “You, Miss McCall.”

  “But, Dink!”

  The Rolls glided to the curb. Wanji jumped out and snapped open the door. “Sire!” he said, and saluted as Dink disbarked. Orison took Dink’s hand and stepped to the curb, acknowledging Wanji’s bow to her with a princess smile. She’d come a long way from the secretarial pool.

  The doorman of the restaurant, instructed as to the importance of these clients by their tableau at the curb, ushered Dink Gerding and Orison McCall into the presence of the maitre d’. When the doorman had been rewarded with a crackling handshake, the headwaiter led them through the crowd of groundlings as though they were accompanied by fife and drums. The table to which he bowed them, while not the most conspicuous, was without doubt the finest the management had to offer. The Reserved sign was swept aside with a gesture that indicated that there were no reservations where Mr. Dink Gerding was concerned. Mr. Gerding justified the mâitre’s confidence in him with another green-palmed handshake.

  “Dink,” Orison whispered across the table. “That was a fifty-dollar bill you gave him.”

  “Yes, it was,” Dink admitted. “I felt that fifty was enough.”

  “Quite enough,” Orison assured him.

  The wine-steward, wearing a chain that could have held a tub to mooring, absorbed Dink’s instructions with the air of a chela attending the dying words of his guru. The two waiters poised themselves reverently at his shoulders, waiting the revelation of his order. “We’ll begin . . Dink began. “Dink, I’d like a lobster,” Orison said.

  “I’d not advise lobster,” Dink said thoughtfully. “I’m afraid that lobster won’t agree with you this evening.”

  “Dink, lobster is what I want,” Orison insisted. “Haven’t you heard of the Nineteenth Amendment?”

  “Very well, feminist,” Dink said. He turned to the waiter at his right. “The lady will have a lobster.” He turned to the left. “As for me, a saddle of venison, and such accessory furniture as you may choose to accompany it.” The waiters bowed and retreated.

  “Why do you insist on being boss, even after banking-hours?” Orison asked.

  “Being boss is not my nature, but is my training,” Dink said. “It seems to me, Orison, that you American women resent the dignity of being served by an adoring man.”

  “I prefer dignities to be more democratic,” she said. “Why, in any case, should you be exercised by my choosing lobster for dinner? My digestion is my own affair, isn’t it?”

  “Your question,” Dink said, resting his elbows on the table, “requires a two-part answer. Imprimus: everything you do interests me, Orison, inasmuch as you are my future bride. Please make no comment at this point. Allow me to enjoy for the moment the male privilege of unimpeded speech. Secundus: I once wished to be a doctor, had not my career been chosen by my father. I still pursue the study of medicine as a hobby. I didn’t wish you to order lobster because I’m certain that you’ll be unable to enjoy lobster.”

  “I’ve eaten it before,” Orison said. “Except for the engineering difficulties in getting through the shell with all those little picks and nutcrackers and nail-clippers, I had no trouble to speak of. Dink, are you a foreigner?”

  “What makes you think I may be?” he asked.

  “The crest of your car, the earmuffs on most of your staff at the Bank and the fact that you seem to think a woman’s opinion is nothing more than a trifle. There’s a beginning,” Orison said.

  “What’s wrong with earmuffs?” Dink demanded. “Everybody wears earmuffs.”

  “Not everybody,” Orison said. “Not in April. Not bank officials. Not indoors, in any case.”

  “Must report this to the Board,” Dink said, taking a notebook from his pocket and scribbling. “Must find alternative. No earmuffs indoors.”

  Perfect, Orison thought, near tears. He’s perfect. He’d sit astride that milk-white charger like a round-table knight, sturdy and lean and honest-eyed. Dink is perfect, she thought,

  . except only that he’s insane.

  Dink tucked his notebook back into his vest-pocket. “If I were a foreigner,” he asked, “would it make any difference to you?”

  “Your nationality should concern me as little as my diet concerns you,” Orison said.

  “You said shouldDink pointed out. “That means that you are concerned with me. Therefore, I will formally invite you to marry me.” He held up his hand as Orison began to speak. “I warn you, Orison, there are only two answers possible to my proposal. Only yes or some day”

  “What if I said no?” Orison asked.

  “I’d interpret it as some day,” he said, and smiled.

  “You know nothing about me,” Orison protested.

  “But I do,” Dink said. “I know you’re good. I know that you’ve fallen half in love with me, and I entirely in love with you, in this half-day in April that we’ve known each other.”

  “No,” Orison said, gripping tightly the edge of the table.

  “That means, some day,” he said.

  The lobster arrived in post-mortem splendor, borne on a silver tray, brick-red, garnished with sprigs of parsley and geranium, served with the silver instruments designed for his dissection and the bowl of baptismal butter. “Oh …” Orison said, turning her eyes away from the supper she’d selected. “It’s horrible!”

  “You’ve no appetite for lobster?” Dink asked.

  “I’d as soon eat boiled baby,” Orison said, pressing her napkin against her lips.

  “Take it away,” Dink instructed the waiter. “The lady will have the same order as I.” The crustacean, red but un-dismembered, was again borne aloft by the waiter to be returned to the scene of his martyrdom. “Try a little of the wine, Orison,” Dink suggested, tipping a splash of the Riesling into her glass. “It will clear your head.”

  She sipped. “It helps,” she admitted. “What do you suppose happened to me, Dink? It’s as though all of a sudden I’d become allergic to lobster.”

  “In a sense you are, darling,” Dink said.

  “Such a strange thing,” she said.

  “Don’t let these strange things worry you, Orison,” Dink said. “Think this: for everything in the universe, there’s an explanation. If you understand it or not, the explanation’s still there, curled up in the middle of the mystery like Pinocchio in the belly of his whale. Just have faith in the essential honesty of the universe, Orison, and you’ll be all right.”

  “A comforting philosophy,” Orison said. “I can’t imagine an explanation for my sudden distaste for lobster, though.” “Such things happen,” Dink assured her. “I have a friend, for instance, who holds life in such reverence that he eats only vegetables. Isn’t that strange? And he worries, this very good friend of mine, that perhaps vegetables have souls, too; and that perhaps it is no more moral to destroy them for his food than it is to roast and ingest his fellow animals.”

  “So what does this friend of yours eat?” Orison asked. “Vegetables,” Dink said. “But he worries about it. He’s now proposing to confine his diet to cakes made from- algae. His argument is that if vegetables have souls, algae have very small souls indeed; and that they suffer less in being eaten than would, say, a cabbage or an apple. His guilt may be numerically greater, eating algae. But it will be qualitatively less.” .

  “Has this micro-vegetarian friend of yours thought of psychotherapy?” Orison asked.

  “Often,” Dink said. “But he maintains that he’s much too old to pour out his mind to a stranger; too set in his patterns to change. He fears most of all, he says, that he might be made uncomfortable in new ways.”

  “We all do,” mused Orison.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable in a new way?” Dink asked.

  “You’re strange,” Orison said. “Your Bank is fantastic. All in all, this is the most peculiar day I’ve ever lived.”

  “I promise you, Orison, that someday you’ll understand why the sight of lobster made you ill this evening, why so many of the people at the Bank wear earmuffs, why I seem foreign. You’ll understand the work of the singing Microfabridae and you’ll meet Elder Compassion; you’ll know why Wanji was excited about the escudo green; and someday soon, this most of all I promise you, you’ll love me, and be my wife. Hah! Here are the comestibles. Let’s talk of topics less vital than

  love and earmuffs. Let’s talk of the weather, and Mr. Kennedy, and the orchestra.”

  IV

  Abstract of Transcript, Monitor J-12, to U.S. Treasury Department Intelligence:

  “Miss Orison McCall’s report from Potawattomi, Indiana, was delayed by one hour. Contact was established at 00:10 hours. Details follow herewith:

  “J-12: CQ, CQ, CQ, CQ.

  “Miss McCall: If you’d been a minute later, I’d have been sound asleep, dreaming bad dreams.

  “J-12: Is the job wearing you down?

  “Miss McCall: It’s exciting and mysterious. Nothing like Washington. The boss of Taft Bank appears to be a man named Dink Gerding. He’s six feet tall and slim, his hair is clipped short as a dachshund’s, and he walks like an Olympic skier. The other men at the bank bow when they meet him, and some of them get all the way down onto the floor when he’s angry. Do you suppose this means something?

  “J-12: Everything means something.

  “Miss McCall: He said that. Dink did. For everything in the universe, he said, there’s an explanation.

  “J-12: Not so. I mean that everything that people do in banks is explainable. Not all the universe is logical—the tax-structure, for instance, or the ways of women.

  “Miss McCall: I’m not required to put up with male chauvinism from a pillow, Mister, no banns having been published between us.

  “J-12: Sorry, beautiful. Here are instructions from the Chief. He wants to know why some members of the Taft Bank staff wear earmuffs, and he wants details of what goes on upstairs. He wants you to get to know this Dink Gerding better. Over.

  “Miss McCall: Roger, Wilco, and Aye-Aye. Meanwhile, get philologists working on this. The sentence, Wanji e-Kal, Datto. Dink ger-Dink d’summa, means, more or less, ‘This is Wanji. I’d like to speak to Dink Gerding.’ This message was received by me at Taft Bank this morning, evidently by accident. Check also possible meaning of the phrase, “Escudo green is pale.’

  “J-12: Will do.

  “Miss McCall: Good night, then; wherever you are.

  “J-12: Good night, beautiful. Out.”

  Report of Treasury Intelligence on six words of presumed foreign-language message-.

  “Datto may be Tagalog chief. Summa is Latin sum. Total message is nonsense in fifty languages. The clear message, Escudo green is pale probably a code. Escudo is Portuguese currency presently equal to U.S. $0,348. End of Report.”

  Confidential report (on scratchboard) of Elder Compassion to H.R.H. Dink ger-Dink, Prince Porphyrogenite of Empire, Heir-Apparent to the Throne, Scion of the Triple Crown, Count of the Northern Marches, Admiralissimo of the Conquest Forces of Empire, Captain-Commander of the XLIIth Subversion-and-Conquest Task Force (Sol III):

  “She whispered to her pillow, local time 2 A.M., ‘I love him.’”

  Orison hadn’t gone to sleep easily. She’d suppressed information from J-12, saying nothing to him about the Microfabridae, surely the most striking objective discovery of her two days’ spying within the Taft Bank. More central in her thoughts than her disloyalty to the Treasury Department, though, was Dink Gerding. He’d told her that she was half in love with him. He was half wrong, she thought. “I love him entirely,” she whispered, not knowing that J-12—in carelessness, not subterfuge—had left the receiver-switch open to the pillow she’d made her confidante.

  The Wall Street Journal greeted her the next morning, curled up in her “In” basket. She’d just switched on her microphone and said “Good morning” to her invisible listener when Mr. Wanji stepped from the elevator. His ears, she saw, were bare today. But they were pink—a shocking porcelain, opaque, Toby-mug shade of pink.

  She looked away from this latest manifestation of peculiarity in banker’s ears. “Good morning, Mr. Wanji,” she said.

  “Hi, doll,” Wanji said. “The brain-guy says you don’t have to read out loud any more. Just read quiet-like. Dig?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Shall I take notes on anything in particular?”

  “Naw,” Wanji said. “The brain-guy, he remembers everything.”

  “The brain-guy?” Orison asked. “Is that Dink Gerding?”

  “Naw. Dink’s the boss. The brain-guy is the man who makes the wheels go round,” Wanji said. He pressed the “Up” button of the elevator. As Wanji embarked, Orison observed that the elevator operator had the same shocking-pink ears.

  Had those earmuffs been designed to hide this pinkness, the symptoms of some rare and disfiguring disease? Orison returned to her newspaper, reading silently as ordered, wondering what obscure Pinocchio of sense was curled up in the belly of this whale of illogic. The elevator, she noticed with the housekeeping bit of her mind, was running much more than usual today, up and down like a spastic yo-yo. Whatever the mysterious business of the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company might be, there was a lot of it being done.

  Her telephone buzzed. Orison switched off her microphone. “Miss McCall here,” she said, feeling very efficient and British.

  “This is Mr. Kraft Gerding,” she was told. “I need you at the National Guard Armory right away, Miss McCall. Will you come right over?”

  “Yes, sir,” Orison said. She gathered up her purse and coat and pressed the elevator button. The operator ushered her into his car as though she were his queen, and the elevator the paramount plane of the royal flight. Standing behind him as he piloted them downward five floors, Orison studied the man’s ears. They were that awful, artificial pink, as though enameled. Pancake makeup? Orison wondered. The ears, now the earmuffs were off, might be the clue to that fish-of-understanding she sought. Orison dampened a fingertip and applied it to the edge of the man’s ear.