“Use this, you can quote this bit direct,” he said, as Prentiss came around the desk to look over his shoulder. “‘... startling adaptation syndrome, which does not conform so much to the concept of mutation as of controlled evolution.’ Hey, you know this stuff is pretty jazzy, Al. Come to think of it, we better leave out the last bit--What the hell does he mean, ‘controlled’ evolution? Who’s doin’ the damn controlling?--Never mind. Just make it, ‘does not conform entirely to the usual concept of mutation.’ Leave out all this part about the Earth-normal environment--that’s _really_ secret. Here, this bit won’t hurt anything, ‘... genetic relationships between species ...’ and if you just change this about capacity for cross-breeding to something about experiments at cross-breeding--make it sound like Luther Burbank or something--you follow all this?” “From a distance,” Al Prentiss said dourly. “Or maybe through a glass, darkly.” “Okay. Now this chromosome chart bit I guess is pretty touchy too, but there’s no reason we can’t say something like ‘unusual’ or ‘unanticipated’ chromosome count. What do you think?” “I’d hate to say--_sir_. But if you mean, do I think I can write a story out of this that sounds like telling something without actually anything classified--sure. Just let me run home for my trusty old bio notebook, so I know what I’m talking about, and I’ll whip right out--one, two, three.” The General put down the memo, stood up, and laughed. “In your own unpleasant way, Al, you’re a good boy. Drink up, you’re too slow.” He took the empty glasses back to the bar, and immersed himself once more in his elaborate martini ritual. “I take it,” Prentiss said thoughtfully, “that when I get this written, you’d like to see it in print somewhere?” “Probably.” “I see. Following the same thought, I come up with the notion that you’d want to see it--if you did--in some paper whose publisher does not play golf with you?” Harbridge nodded solemnly. “Not even the editor,” he said. “Right. I assume then....” The phone buzzer sounded. Harbridge lost all interest in the bar. He picked up the phone, leaving his inscreen dead. “Hello.” “Jed? Hi. Listen--” “I’ve got company,” Harbridge said. “I think he’d rather not know who called. What’s the word?” “No dice. I spent five hours and had a lovely time. Nice wife. Or whatever she is. But no dice. Stone cold dead, I’d say. You better take the ball.” “Okay. You know this can get rough?” “I’ve got callouses.” “You’re on, man.” He hung up, wondering just how sure young Prentiss was as to Chris’ identity: and whether it mattered. “In short,” said Prentiss smoothly, “I assume that once the thing’s planted, we never _heard_ of it. Do I dig you, sir?” “Right where I live,” said the General. “And, by the way--I _do_ want to see it in print, for _sure_.” PART FOUR _June 28--August 4, 1977_ _Rockland--Tuesday, June 28_