At four o'clock that afternoon, a long white envelope crossed Tom's blotter. There was a check to the amount of a month's salary enclosed, and a briefly-worded message from the office of the president. When he left the office, Ostreich's rolling phrases buzzed in his head like swarming gnats. "... a mockery of a great profession ... lowering of dignity ... incompatible with the highest ideals of ..." At ten o'clock that night, Tom was telling his troubles to a red-coated man behind a chromium bar on Forty-ninth Street. The man listened with all the gravity of a physician, and lined up the appropriate medicine in front of his patient. By midnight, Tom was singing Christmas carols, in advance of the season, with a tableful of Texans. At one o'clock, he swung a right cross at a mounted policeman, missed, and fell beneath the horse's legs. At one-fifteen, he fell asleep against the shoulder of a B-girl as they rode through the streets of the city in a sleek police vehicle. That was all Tom Blacker remembered, until he woke up in Livia Cord's cozy two-room apartment. He moved his head and winced with the pain. * * * * * "Hi," the girl said. She was smiling down at him, and for a moment, her floating face reminded Tom of the episode which had just cost him twenty grand a year. He groaned, and rolled the other way on the contour couch. "Hair of the dog?" she said. There was a gleaming cannister in her hand. "No, thanks." He sat up, rubbing the stiff red hair on the back of his head. One eye seemed permanently screwed shut, but the other managed to take in his surroundings. It explored the girl first, and appreciatively. She was wearing something black and satiny, cut in the newest Dallas-approved style, with long, tantalizing diagonal slashes across the breast and hips. Her hair was strikingly two-toned, black and blonde. Her teeth were a blinding white, and had been filed to canine sharpness. "My name's Livia," the girl said pleasantly. "Livia Cord. I hope you don't mind what I did." "And what was that?" Tom's other eye popped open, almost audibly. "Bailing you out of jail. Seems you got into a fracas with a mounted cop. I think you tried to punch his horse." "Nuts. I was trying to hit him." "Well, you didn't." She chuckled, and poured herself a drink. "You've had quite a day, Mr. Blacker." "You said it." There was a taste in his mouth like cigar ashes. He tried to stand up, but the weight on his head kept him where he was. "You wouldn't have an oxygen pill around?" "Sure." She left with a toss of her skirt and a revelation of silky calves. When she returned with the tablet and water, he took it gratefully. After a few minutes, he felt better enough to ask: "Why?" "What's that?" "Why'd you bail me out? I don't know you. Or do I?"