'What? What? I don't understand, Jonathan.'
'You see? You remember my name.'
'Yes, of course. Of course I know your name. You're—'
He kissed her. She hummed and drew him down to her.
He was painfully tired, but sleep was evasive. The open microphone was like a living thing in the dark, straining to catch their words, and the presence of it was palpable and uncomfortable. Maggie slept. The drugs had been good for her in one way. They had liberated her even beyond her usual abandoned and inventive lovemaking, and climax had been a total and body-shuddering thing for her, as though the sensation had begun in the small of her back and gushed outward. She had worked hard at it, and then she had slept, curled up on her side, sitting in his lap, his arms around her, completely and safely wrapped up by him.
He did not know she had awakened when she spoke softly. 'Jonathan?'
He instantly thought of the bug—probably in the headboard to catch guests' quietest words. 'Go to sleep, honey,' he said rather harshly.
'I love you, Jonathan.' It was a declarative sentence. A matter of fact. She might have said it was Tuesday, or raining.
'Well, that's just great, honey. You're a warm, wonderful, loving person. Now please let me get some sleep, will you?' But the microphone could not transmit the message in the way he hugged her in and buried his cheek in her hair.
He wondered if he would ever get to sleep, get the rest his body demanded. He was still wondering this when he awoke to find it was full day and there was a brilliant bar of sunlight across the bed. He opened his eyes and looked up. Maggie was there, sitting on the edge of the bed. She had been awake for some time, looking at his sleeping face, occasionally touching his hair gently, fearful of disturbing him, but desiring the possessive contact.
'Good morning,' he said feebly, and he took her hand, only to find that his grip was too weak to squeeze it. The efforts of the past two days had caught up with him, and he had slept at coma depth.
'Good morning,' she said, the brogue dealing carelessly with the vowels. She put her finger to her lips and pointed to the headboard, where a small core of metal shone dully in the center of a carved decoration.
He nodded and brought her with him as he turned around in the bed, lying with their heads at the footboard. They kissed good morning, and he brought his lips into contact with her ear and whispered to her soundlessly. 'Play it out. Good girl wakes up in bed with strange man.'
'Don't!' she said aloud. 'Please don't.'
He made a wry face at her histrionics. She shrugged; she had never pretended to be an actress.
'Do you remember last night?' he asked aloud. Then whispering he added, 'You were fantastic.' The danger of this double-talk was mischievously exciting, and they were in a docilely playful mood.
'Yes, I remember,' she said aloud, as though ashamed. 'I remember your name and... what we did. But how did I get here?'
'You don't recall that?'
'Something... a needle. I can't remember all of it.' She whispered, 'The Vicar wants to see you this evening at his place. Something important has come up.'
'Well, don't worry about it, honey,' he told the microphone. 'I'm sure they'll pay you for your trouble. And it really wasn't all that bad, was it?'
'Was I... was I good?' Her voice carried that tone of nuzzling coyness Jonathan associated with sticky mornings after, once the phase of self-recrimination had been passed. He was sorry she knew it.
'Don't worry about it,' he said aloud. 'You're probably a fine cook.'
By way of punishment, she ran the tip of her tongue into his ear.
'Hey!'
'What is it?' she asked aloud, all innocence.
'I just remembered the time. It's late and I have worlds to conquer.' He rose from bed and went into the bathroom to bathe and shave.
'Will I see you again?' she asked, enjoying the game of acting for the microphone.
'What?' he shouted from the next room over the rush of water.
'Will I see you again?'
'Certainly. Certainly. I'll look you up!'
'You don't even know my name!'
'That's all right. I'm not nosy!'
'Bastard,' she muttered quietly, feeling clever about introducing just the right note of the girl whose innocence has been around.
He arrived for breakfast in the paneled dining room to find that Strange and Grace had finished and were having a last cup of tea—Earl Grey for her, rose hip for him.
'Good morning,' Jonathan said cheerily. 'Sorry I'm late. Slept like a hammered steer.'
'Doubtless the effect of a clear conscience,' Strange observed, as he broke off a bit of dry toast and put it into his mouth, rubbing his fingers together lightly to flick off crumbs that might otherwise have dropped onto his spotless white flannels.
Jonathan lifted the covers of serving dishes on the sideboard and found some eggs with chives. 'And how are you this morning—or early afternoon?' He addressed Amazing Grace, who was sitting nude in a broad shaft of sunlight, her body stretched out to receive the warmth, her eyes almost closed with feline pleasure. Her tea saucer was balanced on her ecu, and from Jonathan's angle it seemed that her crotch was steaming into the sunlight. He crossed to her and cupped one of her conical breasts in his palm. 'I'm going to get you one of these days,' he warned.
She opened her eyes. 'God, you're a horny one. Didn't that Irish bit drain you off a little?'
'She's an hors d'oeuvre type; you, on the other hand, are meat and potatoes.'
'You sure got a sweet way with words, honey bun.'
Jonathan sat across from Strange and began to eat his eggs with appetite.
'You are in high spirits today, Dr. Hemlock.'
'There's been a big load lifted from me.'
'You speak of the official in Washington you intend to silence?'
'What else?' He poured himself some coffee. 'Say, that girl was an odd one. Do you know what she said to me, right off the bat?'
'That she loved you?' Strange asked, unable to pass up the opportunity to show off.
Jonathan set his cup down and looked up in surprise, 'Yes. How did you...?' Then he laughed. 'The room was bugged. Of course.'
'They all are. I listened to your tapes this morning as I went over my accounts. A kind of Muzak to lighten my labors.'
'I'll be damned. That should have occurred to me. How do you think the girl will take being jabbed full of junk, then drilled by a stranger?'
'The process differs from romantic love only in degree and efficiency. She's a modern young lady. I judge she'll be satisfied with a handsome bonus. By the way, she called you a bastard while you were in the shower.'
'Is that right? And I thought I had her by the heart. Just goes to show how vulnerable the congenital romantic can be. Would you pass the toast?'
Breakfast progressed with small talk of the kind designed to cover meaning. It was not until Grace left to dress and return to the Cellar d'Or that Strange got down to business.
'I assume you have thought about the task before you, Dr. Hemlock?'
'I have some ideas. If things work out just right, we should be able to get your asking price for the Horse without government inquiry. But I'll have to play it largely by ear, and I'll need your permission to use a free hand in making the arrangements.'
Strange glanced at him. 'What kind of arrangements?'
