Dovenil. Moore II, eh? Obviously, there was something special about the situation, and Mary was leaving the decision to him. He scanned through his memorized star catalogues, trying to find the correlation. "Mr. Secretary?" Marlowe grunted. "Still here. Just thinking. Isn't Dovenil that nation we just sent Harrison to?" "Yes, sir. On the same exchange program." Marlowe chuckled. "Well, if we've got _Harrison_ down there, it's only fair to let their fellow learn something in exchange, isn't it? What's his name?" "Dalish ud Klavan, sir." Marlowe muttered to himself: "Dalish ud Klavan, Irish, corn beef and cabbage." His mind filed it away together with a primary-color picture of Jiggs and Maggie. "All right, Mary, I'll talk to him, if you can find room in the schedule somewhere. Tell you what--let him in at fifteen-thirty. Mead and I can furnish a working example for him. Does that check all right with your book?" "Yes, sir. There'll be time if we carry over on the Ceroii incidents." "Ceroii's waited six years, four months, and twenty-three days. They'll wait another day. Let's do that, then, uh ... Mary." "Yes, sir." Marlowe switched off and picked up a report which he began to read by the page-block system, his eyes almost unblinking between pages. "Harrison, eh?" he muttered once, stopping to look quizzically at his desktop. He chuckled. III. At fifteen-fifteen, the light on his interphone blinked twice, and Marlowe hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching the switch with his left. "Yes, Mary?" "Mr. Mead, sir." "O.K." He switched off, pushed the directive into his OUT box, and pulled the GenSurv and the folder on Martin Holliday out of the HOLD tray. "Come in, Chris," he said as Mead knocked on the door. "How are you today, Mr. Marlowe?" Mead asked as he sat down. "Four ounces heavier," Marlowe answered dryly. "I presume you're not. Cigarette, Chris?" Apparently, the use of the first name finally caught Mead's notice. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it. "Thanks--Dave." "Well, I'm glad that's settled," Marlowe chuckled, his eyes almost disappearing in crinkles of flesh. "How's Mary?" Mead grinned crookedly. "_Miss Folsom_ is in fine fettle today, thank you." Marlowe rumbled a laugh. Mead had once made the mistake of addressing the woman as "Mary," under the natural assumption that if Marlowe could do it, everyone could. "Mary, I fear," Marlowe observed, "lives in more stately times than these. She'll tolerate informality from me because I'm in direct authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is Law. But you, Mead, are a young whipper-snapper." "But that's totally unrealistic!" Mead protested. "I don't respect her less by using her first name ... it's just ... just friendliness, that's all."