'I don't care for it,' Molinari decided. 'But I guess I've got to do it. How's your wife Katherine?'

'The antidote—'

'I mean your relationship.'

'We're separating. It's decided.'

'Okay.' Molinari nodded briskly. 'You write out the address you have for me and in exchange I'll write out a name and address for you.' He took pen and paper, wrote rapidly. 'A relative of Mary's. A cousin. Bit player in TV dramatic series, lives in Pasadena. Nineteen. Too young?'

'Illegal.'

'I'll get you off.' He tossed Eric the paper. Eric did not pick it up. 'What's the matter?' Molinari shouted at him. 'Has using that time-travel drug scrambled your wits, you don't know you've got only one tiny life and that lies ahead of you, not sideways or back? Are you waiting for last year to come by again or something?'

Reaching out, Eric took the paper. That's exactly right. I've been waiting a long time for last year. But I guess it's just not coming again.'

'Don't forget to say I sent you,' Molinari said, and beamed broadly as Eric put the paper in his wallet.

It was night and Eric walked the dark side street, hands in his pockets, wondering if he was going in the right direction. He had not been in Pasadena, California, for years.

Ahead a major conapt building rose squarely against the sky, more dense than the atmosphere behind it, windows lit like the eyes of some great block-shaped synthetic pumpkin. Eyes, Eric thought, are the window of the soul, but a conapt is a conapt. What lies inside there? A bossy – or perhaps not so bossy – black-haired girl whose ambition it is to appear in one-minute beer and cigarette commercials on TV or whatever it is Molinari said. Someone to goad you to your feet when you're sick, travesty of the marital vows, of mutual help, protection.

He thought about Phyllis Ackerman, their conversation at Wash-35, not so long ago. If I really want to repeat the pattern stamped on the matrix of my life, he thought, I need only look her up; Phyllis is just enough like Kathy to attract me. As both of us understand. And enough different from her so that it would seem – I say seem – like something new in my life. But then all at once he thought, This girl here in Pasadena; I didn't pick her out. Gino Molinari did. So perhaps the matrix breaks here. And can be discarded. And I can go on in something that does not merely seem new but is new.

Locating the front entrance of the conapt building, he got out the slip of paper, again memorized the name, then found the proper button among the host of identical rows in the big brass plate and gave it a vigorous, Gino Molinari inspired push.

A ghostly voice presently issued from the speaker and a microscopic image formed on the monitoring screen set in the wall above the buttons. 'Yes? Who is it?' In such absurd miniature the girl's image could not be deciphered; he could not tell a thing about her. The voice, however, sounded rich and throaty and although nervous with the typical caution of the unattached girl living alone it had its warmth.

'Gino Molinari asked me to look you up,' Eric said, supporting his burden on the rock they all depended on in this, their collective journey.

'Oh!' she sounded flustered. 'To look me up? Are you sure you have the right person? I only met him once and that was casually.'

Eric said, 'May I come in for a minute, Miss Garabaldi?'

'Garabaldi is my old name,' the girl said. 'My name, the name I work under when I do TV shows, is Garry. Patricia Carry.'

'Just let me come in,' Eric said, and waited. 'Please.'

The door buzzed; he pushed it open and entered the foyer. A moment later by elevator he had ascended to the fifteenth floor and was at her door, ready to knock but finding it ajar in expectation of him.

Wearing a flowered apron, her long dark hair hanging in twin braids down her back, Patricia Garry met him, smiling; she had a sharp face, tapered to a flawless chin, and lips so dark as to appear black. Every feature had been cut cleanly and with such delicate precision as to suggest a new order of perfection in human symmetry and balance. He could see why she had gone into TV; features like that, when ignited even by the ersatz enthusiasm of a mock-up beer-bust on a Californian ocean beach, could impale any viewer. She was not just pretty; she was strikingly, lavishly unique and he had a precognition as he looked at her of a long and vital career ahead, if the war did not catch her up in tragedy.

'Hi,' she said gaily. 'Who are you?'

'Eric Sweetscent. I'm on the Secretary's medical staff.' Or, was, he thought. Up to a little earlier today. 'Could I have a cup of coffee with you and talk? It would mean a lot to me.'

'What a strange come-on,' Patricia Garry said. 'But why not?' She whirled about, her long Mexican skirt spinning out, and bobbed her way down the hall of her conapt, with him following, to the kitchen. 'I have a pot on, in fact. Why did Mr Molinari tell you to look me up? For any special reason?'

Could a girl look like this and not be conscious of what an overriding special reason she constituted? 'Well,' he said, 'I live out here in California, in San Diego.' And he thought, I guess I work in Tijuana. Again. 'I'm an org-trans surgeon, Miss Garry. Or Pat. Okay to call you Pat?' He found a seat at the bench table, clasped his hands before him, resting his elbows against the hard, irregular redwood.

'If you're an org-trans surgeon,' Patricia Garry said as she got the cups from the cupboard over the sink, 'why aren't you at the military satellites or at the front hospitals?'

He felt his world sink from beneath him. 'I don't know,' he said.

There is a war on, you realize.' Her back to him, she said. The boy I was going with, he was mangled when a reeg bomb got his cruiser. He's still in a base hospital.'

'What can I say,' he said, 'except that maybe you've put your finger on the great central weak link of my life. Why it hasn't got the meaning it should have.'

'Well, who do you blame for that? Everyone else?'

'It seemed to me,' he said, 'at the time anyhow, that keeping Gino Molinari alive somehow contributed to the war effort.' But, after all, he had only done that for a short time and had gotten into it not by his own efforts but by Virgil Ackerman's.

'I'm just curious,' Patricia said. 'I just would have thought that a good org-trans surgeon would want to be at the front where the real work is.' She poured coffee into two plastic cups.

'Yes, you'd think so,' he said, and felt futile. She was nineteen years old, roughly half his age, and already she had a better grasp on what was right, what one ought to do. With such directness of vision she had certainly patterned her own career out to the last stitch. 'Do you want me to leave?' he asked her. 'Just say if you do.'

'You just got here; of course I don't want you to go. Mr Molinari wouldn't have sent you here if there hadn't been a good reason.' She eyed him critically as she seated herself across from him. 'I'm Mary Reineke's cousin, did you know that?'

'Yes.' He nodded. And she's quite tough, too, he thought. 'Pat,' he said, 'take my word for it that I have accomplished something today that affects us all, even if it isn't connected with my medical tasks. Can you accept that? If so then we can go on from there.'

'Whatever you say,' she said with nineteen-year-old nonchalance.

'Have you been watching Molinari's TV cast tonight?'

'I had it on a little while earlier. It was interesting; he looked so much bigger.'

'"Bigger."' Yes, he thought; that described it.

'It's good to see him back in his old form. But I have to admit – all that political spouting, you know how he does, sort of lectures in that feverish way, with his eyes flashing; it's too long-winded for me. I put on the record player instead.' She rested her chin in her open palm. 'You know what? It bores the hell out of me.'