"I hope you won't mind if I drive fast," Foster said. "I want to be home before dark." We started up and wheeled away from the curb like a torpedo sliding out of the launching tube. * * * * * I got out of the car in the drive at Foster's house, and looked around at the wide clipped lawn, the flower beds that were vivid even by moonlight, the line of tall poplars, and the big white house. "I wish I hadn't come," I said. "This kind of place reminds me of all the things I haven't gotten out of life." "Your life's still ahead of you," Foster said. He opened the slab of mahogany that was the front door, and I followed him inside. At the end of a short hall he flipped a switch that flooded the room before us with soft light. I stared at a pale grey carpet about the size of a tennis court, decked out with Danish teak upholstered in rich colors. The walls were a rough-textured grey; here and there were expensively framed abstractions. The air was cool with the heavy coolness of air conditioning. Foster crossed to a bar that looked modest in the setting, in spite of being bigger than those in most beer joints. "Would you care for a drink?" he said. I looked down at my limp, stained suit, and grimy cuffs. "Look, Mr. Foster," I said. "I just realized something. If you've got a stable, I'll go sleep in it--" Foster laughed. "Come on; I'll show you the bath." * * * * * I came downstairs, clean, showered, and wearing a set of Foster's clothes. I found him sitting, sipping a drink and listening to music. "The _Liebestod_," I said. "A little gloomy, isn't it?" "I read something else into it," Foster said. "Sit down and have a bite to eat and a drink." I sat in one of the big soft chairs and tried not to let my hand shake as I reached for one of the sandwiches piled on the coffee table. "Tell me something, Mr. Legion," Foster said. "Why did you come here, mention my name--if you didn't intend to see me?" I shook my head. "It just worked out that way." "Tell me something about yourself," Foster said. "It's not much of a story." "Still, I'd like to hear it." "Well, I was born, grew up, went to school--" "What school?" "University of Illinois." "What was your major?" "Music," I answered at once. Foster looked at me, frowning slightly. "It's the truth," I said. "I wanted to be a conductor. The army had other ideas. I was in my last year when the draft got me. They discovered I had what they considered an aptitude for Intelligence work. I didn't mind it. I had a pretty good time for a couple of years." "Go on," Foster said. Well, I'd had a bath and a good meal. I owed him something. If he wanted to hear my troubles, why not tell him?