"And it moves," Moll said.

Lightborne sat back and crossed his legs, holding the cup and saucer to his belly.

"So," he said, "a small-time dealer in erotic knickknacks, some good quality, some not so good, and here I am with a chance to act as go-between in some monumental pornography caper. I begin to send out feelers, veiled hints, to this part of the country, that part, to this fellow in Dallas, that fellow in Stockholm. As things begin to happen, as the market heats up, my man suddenly disappears. I have no idea how to reach him. He always insisted he would contact me. So I call people, I make inquiries, I hang around our usual meeting place. Finally I hear from the same man who put us in touch at the outset. X is dead, he tells me. Not only dead-murdered. Not only murdered-done away with under strange, very odd circumstances."

"How odd?" Moll said.

"He was wearing women's clothes."

Selvy looked at Moll Robbins, at the same time motioning for Lightborne to pause.

"What's in that case you've got?"

"Nikon F2," she said.

"It stays inside, okay?"

"I don't know, you've got a fairly nice profile, Mr. Selvy. Might look good somewhere near the tail end of a story, just to break up lines of print."

"It stays or you go."

"And a Sony cassette recorder," she said.

"Take it out, please. I'd like to see it."

"Mr. Lightbome, this is your residence. You invited me to come here. You placed no restrictions."

Selvy picked the leather case off the floor, opened it, took out the tape recorder, turned it over, removed the battery case, opened it, took out the four small batteries and set them on the nearest table.

"Quite a routine," she said. "You must be handy around the house."

"No words, no pictures."

"It wasn't necessary, you know. I'm not about to tape your insipid voice if you don't want it taped."

Lightborne reacted to all this by taking his cup and saucer to the sink and washing them out. Returning, he pushed the box of crackers toward Moll. This time she took one, halving it neatly before taking a bite.

"After this depressing turns of events," Lightborne said, "the whole matter dried up and total silence prevailed. But I wanted to give you a little background, Glen, because just yesterday the smallest whisper reached my ear. If things get interesting again, I think your employer ought to be informed."

"Sure, absolutely."

"As for you, Miss Robbins, you'll have to forgive a garrulous old man."

"It's been interesting, really."

"Who do you work for?" Selvy said.

"_Running Dog_," she said.

He paused briefly.

"One-time organ of discontent."

"We were fairly radical, yes."

"Now safely established in the mainstream."

"I wouldn't say safely."

"Part of the ever-expanding middle."

"We say 'fuck' all the time."

"My point exactly."

"Was that your point exactly? I didn't realize that was your point exactly. I didn't know you had a point exactly."

Selvy got to his feet, saying goodnight to Lightborne and then bowing toward Moll Robbins, clicking his heels together as he did so. She followed as far as the gallery area in order to pluck her sweater from the rigid appendage where she'd left it earlier, returning then to thank Lightborne for his time. He watched her replace the batteries in the tape recorder.

"I was wondering," she said.

"Yes?"

"Is he always in that much of a hurry? Could be a plane he's got to catch. Or commuter train maybe."

"Glen's not the type to hang around and make small talk."

"Of course if I found out who he buys for, and if it's someone interesting and important, and if I use this information in one of the pieces I'm doing, it wouldn't do you any good, would it?"

"Wouldn't do me much harm either," Lightborne said. "The collector Glen represents hasn't shown much interest in the stuff I've been coming up with. According to Glen, he may be on the verge of dropping me completely."

They walked out into the gallery and Lightborne went around turning off lights. He looked at Moll from a distance of thirty-five feet or so.

"You mentioned trains and planes."

"Just wondering aloud," she said.

"If you were heading Glen's way, and this is only speculation, you'd probably choose to fly. Although if you didn't like flying, you'd be able to take a train."

"I don't mind short flights. Anything over an hour, I get a little restless."

"I think you'd be all right."

"Trains are fun. I like trains."

"Three and a half hours on a train can be a little tiring."

"You could be right."

"Although Penn Station. If the old structure still stood. That would make it worthwhile. Just walking in the place. A gorgeous piece of architecture."

"I was also wondering," she said.

"What else?"

"What would I need in the way of clothes?"

"It might be slightly warmer."

"Slightly warmer, you say."

The last light went out and Moll stood in shadow in the open doorway, unable to see Lightborne at all.

"I'm only speculating, understand."

"You're not a meteorologist," she said.

"I only know what God wants me to know."

When she was gone, Lightborne locked the door and went back into the living area, where he took off his jacket, his string tie and his shirt. He went to the wash basin, took his razor out of the cabinet and then removed the top on an aerosol can of Gillette Foamy, noting a bit of rust on the inner rim. He had an appointment first thing in the morning and thought he'd save time by shaving now.

Moll Robbins hailed a cab on Houston Street and twentyfive minutes later was on the phone in her West Seventies apartment, talking to Grace Delaney, her managing editor.

"Do we still have a Washington office?"

"It's called Jerry Burke."

"What's the number?"

She put down the phone and dialed again.

"Jerry Burke?"

"Who's this?"

"I understand you have terrific access to the corridors of power."

"What time is it?"

"This is Moll Robbins in New York, Jerry. We haven't met, I don't think, but maybe you can help me."

"You do movie reviews."

"From time to time, yes, but this is a different sort of thing completely. I'd like you to help me track someone down."

"You were full of shit about the new _King Kong_."

"I don't doubt it, Jerry, but listen I'm looking for a man named Glen Selvy, white, early thirties, six feet one, possibly in government down there. There must be some kind of giant directory of government drones that this man's name is listed in. If you could look into it or ask around or whatever, I'd be forever in your debt, within reason."

"Six foot one?"

"I thought it might be important."

"What do I need his height for?"

"Detective work," she said. "All the particulars."

Glen Selvy drove from the airport to a four-story apartment building in a predominantly black area near the Navy Yard. He'd been living here for several months but the place looked recently occupied. It was severely underfurnished. A number' of unpacked cartons were arrayed near the bed. There was a floor lamp with the cord still tied in a neat bundle at its base.

This quality of transience appealed to Selvy. It had the advantage of reducing one's accountability, somehow. If you were always ten minutes from departure, you couldn't be expected to answer to the same moderating precepts other people followed.

He took off his suit coat, revealing a small belt holster that contained a lightweight Colt Cobra,.38 caliber. The Smith amp; Wesson.41 magnum, with six-inch barrel and custom grips, he kept wedged in a carton near the bed.

Late the next day Moll got a call from Jerry Burke.