“Days” in the Dome were marked off by Mexcity’s Central Time; but without external dark-and-light cycles to pattern the twenty-four hours, the Dome worked round the clock, each person fitting his own preferred schedule into the complex of work-to-be-done. Ordinarily, only one section of the dining room was in use; and it was in use at all hours, as groups came and went to and from their elected shifts. But on Wednesdays, any one not absolutely required at his job was fairly sure to attend seven P.M. dinner, after the shuttles came in. This Wednesday night, in particular, the Dome was out in full force--in party mood, party dress, party manners--to welcome Congressman Ramon McLafferty and his picked crew of super-snoopers. Dr. Kutler was seated with four of the congressional investigators and three higher-echelon Dome scientists at a round table so close to the speakers’ table that he was literally back-to-back with Lisa Trovi. He confined his own part in the dinner talk to polite replies and concentrated on his uneasy appraisal of the behavior of the Dome people at large, and an amused, but equally uneasy, eavesdropping on the exchanges between Lee and the visiting congressman. Lisa’s attitude seemed to be in keeping with the peculiar response of the Dome as a whole to the invasion: a sort of high faith that warm welcome and willing liking were enough to absorb anything from outright ill will to malicious fancy to simple self-interest. That McLafferty fell short of sharing this feeling was evident. _He knew_ the dinner, the gaiety, the enthusiasm that greeted him, were put-up jobs; he accepted them gracefully as his due. And he maintained this knowledge, based on experience, at least half the way through the meal. By that time he was so thoroughly conscious of the deep sincerity of Lee Trovi’s empathetic interest, that the stanchions of isolation supporting his cynicism were sorely shaken. And when he rose to say the expected few words after dinner, he was much too practiced an orator to misinterpret the swell of applause that surrounded him for either the patter of polite boredom, or the too-regular thumping of planned demonstration. Chris used the moment to lean across and say a single word in Lisa’s ear. From where Phil sat, turned around, right behind her, the word looked like, “Thanks.” She turned to Chris, eyebrows raised, baffled. He nodded toward McLafferty. She cocked her head, shrugged bare shoulders: _What?_ He shook his head slightly. “Later,” he murmured, and sat back, watching her and the speaker, his face carefully neutral. But Phil thought he saw an echo of the same unease he felt himself.