He riffled through the thick stack of cards on the table. Statistically, the results were not only interesting but slightly phenomenal. During the three years or so that Pendleton had been on Tunpesh, he had met and known approximately seven hundred of the natives. By far the greater majority of these, of course, were purely casual and meant nothing. Almost a hundred, though, had had extended relations with Pendleton in business or social affairs. Of this hundred, none--not a single one--would admit that he had known Pendleton well or could be considered a friend of his. About all they had to say was that Pendleton had been healthy and easy to get along with, and one warm night he had shocked the community by going off and shooting himself. "Like Richard Cory," Eckert said aloud. "Like who?" Templin asked. "Richard Cory. A character in a poem by a Twentieth Century poet, Edwin Arlington Robinson. Apparently he had everything to live for, but 'Richard Cory, one calm summer night, went home and put a bullet through his head.'" "I'll have to look it up some day," Templin said. He pointed to the stack of cards. "That's so much waste paper, isn't it?" "Yes, it is," Eckert said reluctantly. "To be frank, I had hoped we'd know a lot more by now. I still can't understand why we haven't dug up anybody who will admit having been his friend." "How do you know they're telling the truth? Or, for that matter, how do you know that the ones we've seen so far are the ones who _actually_ knew Pendleton?" Eckert drummed his fingers on the table. _You handle different human cultures for twenty-five years and you get to the point where you can tell if people are lying or not. Or do you? Maybe just an old man's conceit. Age alone never lent wisdom. Regardless of the personal reasons that Templin might have for thinking the Tunpeshans are lying, the fact remains that they very easily could be. And what should you do if they are?_ There was a polite knock at the door. "We've got another visitor," Templin said sarcastically. "He probably saw Pendleton at a _halera_ four years ago and wants to be sure we know all about it." The Tunpeshan looked faintly familiar to Eckert. There was something about the man's carriage.... "I met you the day you landed," the Tunpeshan began, and Eckert remembered. Jathong, the guide who had shown them to the house. "You knew Pendleton?" Jathong nodded. "I and a fellow weaver took over his small office after he had left it." Eckert recalled the small office in the square with the bolts of cloth on display, and the small mud brick on the window ledge with the incised lettering reading: DONALD PENDLETON, SERVICE ATTACHE. "Why you didn't tell us this before?" "I didn't know what kind and how much information you wanted." _We didn't ask him_, Eckert thought, _so he didn't volunteer any information. Polite, to say the least._ "How long did you know him?" "Since he landed. I was the one appointed to him."