“You want me to help fight terrorism?”

“No! There’s people all over the country lining up to do that.”

“Well what, then?”

“Well the thing about one big evil taking center stage, it tends to draw attention away from all the other evils. So now somebody’s got to swim against the tide, to make sure those other evils don’t flourish from neglect. You could be a part of that, if you’re interested.”

“But why now?” I persisted. “Those other evils, they were always there, so why didn’t you come for me sooner?”

“Omnes mundum facimus,” he said. “You looked up the translation for that, right? You know it doesn’t mean ‘Wait for further instructions’ or ‘Stand around with your thumb up your ass.’”

“No, but…”

“Let me lay another saying on you: ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ Now the implication is that the few are special—brave enough to answer the call, or worthy enough to be chosen. But there’s another way of looking at it. If many are called, and few are chosen, maybe that’s because most of the many have better things to do.” He shook a pom-pom at me accusingly. “You had a life. It was hoped you’d do something with it.”

“Great,” I said. “So you’re telling me you’re the booby prize?”

He laughed again. “I do like that spirit. I—we—can use that spirit. So the question becomes, are you willing to let it be used? Are you ready to be one of the few?”

“You know I am.”

“All right, then…Tomorrow night, between seven and seven-fifteen, you’re to go to the top floor of this building. Turn left out the elevator, and look for a door marked Examination One. If you come early, or show up late, it’ll be just an empty room. But if you come on time, you’ll meet a man named Robert True, who’ll tell you what the next step is.”

That was all he had to say to me, but still he sat there, watching me and smiling. “Go ahead,” he finally said. “Ask it.”

“OK. Why are you dressed like a cheerleader?”

“You know what a nondisclosure agreement is, Jane? This outfit serves the same purpose. What do you suppose would happen if you told the hospital staff about our conversation?”

“They’d cut off my drugs.”

“You got it,” he said, and winked. A few moments later a nurse came in and gave me a shot; I fell asleep, and when I woke up again, my visitor was gone. But the coin was still there, safe under my pillow.

The next evening, I made sure I was awake. At quarter to seven I hauled myself out of bed, and wheeled my IV stand to the elevator. I went up to the fourteenth floor and found Examination One, and at 7:01, I knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said.

Inside, the room was a lot like this one. Spare, I mean, with just a table and a couple of chairs. Robert True was standing when I came in. He was wearing a gray flannel suit that might have been stylish back when Ozzie and Harriet was a hit TV show; he was short, and heavy, and didn’t have much hair.

“Welcome, Jane,” he greeted me. “I’m Bob True.”

“Hi,” I said. “Omnes mundum facimus.”

“That’s all right. I don’t need the magic phrase. But as long as we’re on the subject, have you worked it out yet?”

I had, finally. “It’s a comeback,” I told him. “To that thing people say when they don’t want to be blamed for a bad situation: ‘I didn’t make the world, I only live in it.’”

“Very good.”

“So that’s what you’re about, your organization? Making the world a better place?”

“By fighting evil in all its forms,” True said, nodding.

“Are you the government?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Does the government fight evil?”

I thought about it. For some reason, the first thing that came to mind wasn’t the FBI or the justice system, but my last trip to the DMV. “Well,” I said, “it can.”

“Lots of things can fight evil,” True replied. “Cinderblocks, for example—if a cinderblock had fallen in Josef Stalin’s crib, the twentieth century might have been a bit more pleasant. Even if one had, though, I doubt most people would say that the purpose of cinderblocks is to fight evil.”

“So you’re not the government. What are you, then? Vigilantes? You hunt bad guys, right?”

“The organization pursues its goal through diverse means, most of them constructive. We employ Good Samaritans, Random Acts of Kindness, Second and Third Chances…” He went on, ticking off more than a dozen of what I eventually understood were division names, actual organization departments that fought evil in positive, life-affirming ways. My eyes must have glazed over, because suddenly he stopped and said, “Am I boring you?”

“A little,” I admitted. “So which are you, a Good Samaritan or a Random Actor?”

“I work for what’s known as the Cost-Benefits division.”

“You handle the money.”

“I help allocate the organization’s resources. Which are substantial, but still finite.”

“‘Resources’ includes people?”

“Of course.”

“Well then, if you know anything about people, you know I’m not a good Samaritan.”

“No,” True said, “I don’t suppose you are…” He placed a green NC gun in the center of the table. “You’ll recognize this.”

“The one I had last time was orange.”

“The one you had in Siesta Corta was standard issue. This is a special model.”

“What’s special about it?”

“We’ll get to that. First I have a hypothetical question for you. A test question.”

“OK.”

“There are two men, both evil. One is a former concentration-camp commandant, responsible for the murder of half a million people; he’s ninety years old, living in hiding in the South American jungle. The other man is much younger—barely twenty-five, in excellent health—and living openly in the middle of San Francisco. He’s only killed once so far, but he’s discovered he has a talent and a taste for it, and it’s likely he’ll kill again many times…though of course, the total number of his victims will never be more than a fraction of the commandant’s.

“The death of either of these men would leave the world a better place. You have the power to kill one of them—but only one. Whom do you choose?”

“That’s easy,” I said. “The young guy.”

“Why?”

“Because killing the Nazi is the obvious choice, and this is a trick question.”

“Clever,” True said, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. “Now how about a less glib answer.”

“In this hypothetical situation, I’m supposed to be you?”

“Someone with my job description, let’s say.”

“Then the answer’s the same. Kill the young guy.”

“Why?”

“His worst days are still ahead of him. With the Nazi, the Holocaust is already out of the barn—killing him might be more satisfying, but the net benefit is smaller.”

“What about deterrence?” True said. “Wouldn’t killing the Nazi discourage other people from following in his footsteps?”

“It might, if it were a public execution. If I were the government, I could put him on trial for genocide and then hang him on pay-per-view. That might turn some heads. Trouble is, I’m not the government, I’m a member of a secret organization that dresses its agents like cheerleaders so people can’t talk about them. An execution that no one knows about won’t deter squat.”

“What about justice?”

“Is this a hypothetical real situation, or a hypothetical comic book?”

“And what about vengeance?”

“It’s fun. But it doesn’t have anything to do with fighting evil.”

“No,” True agreed, “it doesn’t.”

“Does that mean I pass the test?”

“The first half. The second half is less theoretical…” He laid a couple booklets on the table. They looked like those question booklets you get when you take the SATs. A name was written on the cover of each one in felt-tip pen. The one on the first booklet was BENJAMIN LOOMIS; the one on the second was JULIUS DEEDS.

“Two men,” True said. “Both evil. One you’ve already met—”

“Yeah, I have,” I said. “And he’s not ninety years old, if that’s where you’re going with this.”