Up above in his living room, he had one of the new autobars. You could dial any one of more than thirty drinks. Autobars were all the rage. The Boss had one that gave a selection of a hundred. But what difference did it make when nobody but eccentric old-timers or flighty blondes drank anything except vodka martinis? He didn’t like autobars anyway. A well mixed drink is a personal thing, a work of competence, instinct and art, not something measured to the drop, iced to the degree, shaken or stirred to a mathematical formula. Out of the tiny refrigerator he brought a four-ounce cube of frozen pineapple juice, touched the edge with his thumbnail and let the ultra thin plastic peel away. He tossed the cube into his mixer, took up a bottle of light rum and poured in about two ounces. He brought an egg from the refrigerator and added that. An ounce of whole milk followed and a teaspoon of powdered sugar. He flicked the switch and let the conglomeration froth together. He poured it into a king-size highball glass and took it over to his chair. Vodka martinis be damned, he liked a slightly sweet long drink. He sat down in the chair, picked up the book and scowled at the cover. He ought to be reading that Florentine history of Machiavelli’s, especially if the Boss had got to the point where he was quoting from the guy. But the heck with it, he was on vacation. He didn’t think much of the Italian diplomat of the Renaissance anyway; how could you be that far back without being dated? He couldn’t get beyond the first page or two. And when you can’t concentrate on a Western, you just can’t concentrate. He finished his drink, went over to his phone and dialed _Department of Records_ and then _Information_. When the bright young thing answered, he said, “I’d like the brief on an Ernest Self who lives on Elwood Avenue, Baltimore section of Greater Washington. I don’t know his code number.” She did things with switches and buttons for a moment and then brought a sheet from a delivery chute. “Do you want me to read it to you, sir?” “No, I’ll scan it,” Larry said. Her face faded to be replaced by the brief on Ernest Self. It was astonishingly short. _Records_ seemed to have slipped up on this occasion. A rare occurrence. He considered requesting the full dossier, then changed his mind. Instead he dialed the number of the _Sun-Post_ and asked for its science columnist. Sam Sokolski’s puffy face eventually faded in. Larry said to him sourly, “You drink too much. You can begin to see the veins breaking in your nose.” Sam looked at him patiently. Larry said, “How’d you like to come over and toss back a few tonight?” “I’m working. I thought you were on vacation.” Larry sighed. “I am,” he said. “O.K., so you can’t take a night off and lift a few with an old buddy.” “That’s right. Anything else, Larry?” “Yes. Look, have you ever heard of an inventor named Ernest Self?”