He poured himself a stiff drink. Glenlivet was his only expensive luxury. He sat down to savor it and perhaps think a little about Bruce. There was no solid reason why the boy should have made so large a niche in Kintyre's existence, but somehow he had. The emptiness hurt. When the phone rang, Kintyre was there picking it up before consciousness of the noise registered. He was not surprised to hear Margery Towne's voice. "Bob? You know?" "Yes. I'm sorry. I wish to hell I could tell you just how sorry." "I can guess." Her tone was flattened by the control she must be keeping on it. "We both loved him, didn't we?" "I think everybody did." "Somebody didn't, Bob." "I suppose you heard through the police?" "They were here a few minutes ago. Do they know _everything_?" "Probably I gave them your name. They came to me first, for the identification." "They were very nice about it and all that, but--" Silence whistled remotely over the wires. "Bob, could you come talk to me? Now?" "Sure, pony. Give me half an hour." Kintyre hung up one-handed, starting to undress with the other. He went through a shower and put on a suit in ten minutes. Margery's apartment was catercorner from his, with the University between. He parked his battered '48 De Soto on the near side of the campus and walked across, hoping to hoof out some of the muscular tightness and set his thoughts in order. Level yellow light came through eucalyptus groves to splash on a cropped greensward and pompous white buildings, almost bare of mankind in this pause between baccalaureate ceremonies and summer classes. Kintyre reflected vaguely that he would have to go through Bruce's desk, finish his work, yes, and complete his study of the Book of Witches.... His mind drifted off toward a worried practical consideration. What could he do about Margery? He wanted to help her, if he could--double damnation, hadn't he tried before? At the same time he was not, repeat not, going to get himself involved. It would be unfair to both of them. There were rules of the game, and so he had played it with her. You left wives and virgins alone: well, she was long divorced, and had slept around a bit since then. You neither gave to nor took from a woman. You made it perfectly clear you weren't interested in anything permanent. And when you broke it off, after a pleasant few months, you did it cleanly: he had the best excuse in the world, back in 1955, an academic grant that returned him to Italy for a year of research in his specialty, the Renaissance. (But she had been very quiet, the last few weeks; sometimes at night he had heard her trying not to cry.) Back home again, you didn't resume old affairs: you were simply friendly, on such occasions as you happened to meet.