Plymouth was a fitness nut. He went every day, seven days a week, to an athletic center called the Blockhouse.

She followed him through the fading sunlight. The area was filled with public buildings, city hall, the courthouse, the licensing commission, the board of trade, the national legislature, the National Art Gallery. Plymouth moved swiftly, and his long legs gobbled up the ground. Kim had to hurry to keep up. Once she glimpsed Solly standing unobtrusively beside a tree.

But Plymouth wasn’t heading in the right direction. He was walking north, away from the Blockhouse, up one avenue, across a park, past a fountain. Eventually he turned into a clothing store. Moments later he came out with a plastic bag, and stopped again to buy something at an electronics outlet.

Plymouth’s muscles rippled while he walked. He was big, in a world full of big people, with an extraordinarily narrow waist and wide shoulders. Once he glanced back, and she pretended to be gazing into the treetops. Then he was moving again, this time walking south, past the Klackner Museum, where he turned onto a long pathway that led directly through a patch of wood to the Blockhouse. Reassured, she now dropped back and stayed discreetly out of sight.

Despite its name, the structure was flared and curved, three stories high in front, lower in back, with a lot of dark glass. A dozen wide steps led up to a portico. Plymouth took them two at a time and disappeared inside.

She strolled casually in behind him. He was gone, into the men’s locker room. But she was reasonably sure she knew his ultimate destination.

There were probably twenty people in the women’s area, changing clothes and showering. Kim claimed a locker, picked up a towel, switched into a gym suit, and, following Solly’s instructions, went into the Total Workout section. There were a dozen people of both sexes using the machines. Plymouth was not one of them.

She did a few knee-bends to loosen up while she waited. Presently he emerged in shorts and a pullover, with a towel draped around his neck. He glanced at her and she smiled, inviting his approach.

“Hello,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“First time. Thought I’d try it.”

“It’s a good spot.” He offered his hand. “Name’s Mike.” She knew he didn’t like Manville, and never used it.

“Hello, Mike,” she said, taking the hand. “Kay Braddock.”

“You new to the area, Kay?” They picked a couple of the duroflexes and climbed onto the tables.

“Just moved in. From Terminal City.”

“You’ll like Salonika,” he said. “It’s a good cultural city. There’s lots to do here. It’s a little less commercial—” He hesitated, suddenly worried that he might be giving offense, but he’d gone too far to back off. “—Less commercial than most other places.”

She understood he’d intended to say than Terminal City. Not too quick on his feet, this guy. Just as well. She reassured him, set the timer for twenty minutes, and climbed on board. If he was still in the duroflex when the time expired, she’d simply extend it.

The machine adjusted to her dimensions. Coils settled around her wrists and ankles. Pads pressed against thighs and buttocks.

“Do you do this regularly?” he called over to her. It was difficult to carry a conversation while the machine was in operation, but he wasn’t going to be discouraged.

The duroflex began to move, gently at first, tugging at arms and legs, rolling her shoulders, squeezing her knees, massaging her buttocks.

“Yes,” she said. “I like to work out.”

Kim listened to occasional remarks about theaters and museums, how he’d come to Salonika at the end of the war, had found a home, and wouldn’t live anywhere else, and how good the weather was. Eventually he got around to inviting her out to dinner. “There’s a great place on the lakefront—”

He was likable enough for her to overcome her prejudice against bureaucrats, notwithstanding the fact that she was one herself. And he did have a modicum of charm.

“Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.” Yes. Dinner would not be a major sacrifice. That satisfied him and he quieted, surrendering himself to the machine.

So did Kim.

The duroflex gradually picked up the tempo. It stretched whole groups of muscles and ran a series of sit-ups at a reasonably fast pace. It chimed to warn her of a change in routine and then she was touching her toes.

She just rode with it for the most part, eyes closed, relaxed, feeling the glow that comes with moderate exercise. Kim was not an enthusiast of the machines; she preferred to get her exercise the old-fashioned way, but this system did indeed have its advantages. It was almost possible to sleep while you did push-ups.

It went on until she began to ache. Sensing her discomfort, it slowed somewhat, but not enough. Then she was aware that Plymouth’s machine had stopped. He was climbing down, covered with sweat, wiping his head and neck with his towel. “Meet you in the lobby?” he asked.

The device was putting her through a series of knee-bends. It wasn’t conducive to maintaining her dignity, or even at this point to getting out an intelligible answer. So they both laughed, and he glanced at her timer, which still showed six minutes. She nodded. She’d be there as soon as the system shut down and she’d changed.

“That’s good.” He tossed the towel in a bin, offered her a broad smile, and strode out of the room. As soon as he was gone, she hit the STOP button. The duroflex coasted to a halt and released her.

She would have preferred to lie quietly in the mechanism and wait for her back and shoulders to stop hurting. But there was no time for that. She climbed down and limped over to the bin, trying to look casual. The room had emptied somewhat and none of the three or four people rocking back and forth in the devices seemed to be paying any attention to her. She held her towel over the bin, retrieved Plymouth’s, and dropped hers.

Ten minutes later, she handed a container to Solly in the lobby and then turned back to wait for her date.

By evening’s end she felt uncomfortable about taking advantage of Mike Plymouth.

The restaurant he selected was a quaint little bistro called The Wicket. It had a lovely view of a lake and hills. It was all candlelight and soft music and logs on the fire. The food was good, the wine flowed freely, and Mike exhibited a wistfulness that first surprised her and then captured her imagination.

Born on Pacifica, he’d been in the war.

“Their side—” she said.

“Of course.” There was an intersection here: He’d been on board the Hammurabi when Kane’s small squadron blitzed it. He was cast adrift in an escape capsule, and had been rescued after eleven days by a “Greenie” patrol boat. “I never went home,” he explained.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I made friends. Liked where I was. Everyone accepted me.” The experience in the capsule, he added, had changed him.

“In what way?” asked Kim.

“I think I got a better idea of what I wanted out of my life. What counts.”

“What does count?”

“Friends.” With a grin: “Beautiful women. And good wine.” His eyes drifted to the candles burning overhead in a wall rack. “The smell of hot wax.”

This was a guy she could really learn to like.

My God, she told herself, he’s a bureaucrat. Worse, he works for the government. He’s an exercise nut. Probably has this basic routine he uses on everybody.

He reached across the table and shyly touched her hand. She caught her breath, felt her pulse begin to pick up, imagined herself swept away by him, carried off to an island somewhere. She pictured them walking on a moonlit beach.

Right. He’d really be interested in a woman who’s playing him for a fool.

She briefly considered abandoning the project. But she couldn’t. No way she could do that. It was too late anyhow. She’d already lied about her name.