He went outside and got the coffee cup from the grass. Took it in to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. Scrubbed the cup by hand, and filled it up again, with just coffee. Got out another tape, a new piano boogie revival, and started the player again--loud. He went into the work room and sat down at the drafting board, with its half-finished sketch. Lisa would be in any minute now. He got up and opened the door from the kitchen. Make her feel good to find him working.... He stared at the sketch, trying to feel like a man who was working. Then something hit him--the ghost of an idea. Or the memory of one? There was a picture in back of his mind of what the sketch _should_ be. The memory was of a time when the pictures were always there, waiting, ready to go onto paper, into wire and contacts and complex machines. This picture was not shiny-new, the way they used to be. This was remembered, a legacy from himself. But it was sharp and clear. It was good design. It would work. He ripped the old sheet off the drawing board, pinned on a fresh one, and started sketching. The coffee got cold between sips. The boogie tape came to an end, and began playing over. After a while, the kitchen door closed, or almost did. He looked up. Lee was home. Going to start supper, he thought, didn’t want to disturb him. _Hah! That’s a good one!_ He looked at the drawing. What the hell had he been trying to do? _What for?_ But he felt good. He went out and watched her move, wifely, around the room. When she came within reach, he grabbed her and pulled her down on his lap. Laughing, she told him about the morning session, about the pickup she’d watched on Sixty-third Street, the weird redhead salesgirl at Best’s that afternoon. Something nagged at his mind; then he remembered. It wouldn’t be one of their good nights at home after all. “Oh, I should have told you before, I guess. Pete Christensen called. You know, Moon Lab guy? He’s coming for dinner--?” “_Dinner?_” she pushed away, and stood up. “What _time_?” “Seven-ish.” He looked at the clock. It was almost a quarter of. He grinned. “Well,” he said, “I forgot. I’m sorry, babe.” Then he pulled her back on his lap, and kissed her. _Rockland_--9 P.M. (_E.D.S.T._) “I heard about this place,” the big blond man said slowly, “But I don’t think I really believed it before.” _I like him_, she thought. And he _really_ liked the house. Lisa piled the last of the dinner dishes into the conveyer, and followed Christensen’s gaze out across the patio to the pink and purple glory of the fading sun reflected in the river far below. She hadn’t seen any of it this way for a while. The house, the river, the sheer brown cliff on the other side that was the twin of the one on which their house stood. The food, the furniture, the porch on which they sat. All this, through the stranger’s eyes, re-acquired meaning.