about when you put that dress on this evening?"
    She blushed. "I don't know. I didn't think..."
    Gene took her hand again. "Honey," he said, "I think you'd better tell me your name. 
It's going to make life a lot easier."
    "All right. I'm Lorie Semple."
    Gene frowned. "Semple? Wasn't your father-"
    "Jean Semple, yes, the French diplomat"
    Gene squeezed her fingers gently. "I was sorry to hear about that. I never met him, 
but a few of my friends said he was a terrific guy. I'm sorry."
    "You don't have to be. He always knew that he was living dangerously. My mother says 
that he is probably more fulfilled now than he ever was."
    Gene managed to catch the sleeve of a passing waiter, and say "vodkatini" before the 
man dashed off. Then he turned back to Lorie.
    "Are you sure I can't persuade you to come and lave dinner? I've been meaning to test 
my teeth on the gigot at the Montpellier for months." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, 
Gene."
    "I don't understand why," he said. "I may not be Rock Hudson, but I'm still pretty 
chunky. Chunky guys like me are hard to find in politics. You want to go out with 
bespectacled weeds from the Treasury all your life?"
    "Gene," she said, and he caught the strong scent of her perfume, "I don't meant to be 
rude. I don't want to hurt your feelings, either. But I. came because my father was 
invited here before he died, and I thought it would be polite. Once I have said all the 
right things to all the right people, I must go."
    "You're not wearing black," he said, quite suddenly.
    "No," she said. "In my family, for generations, the death of the male has been 
regarded as-well, a cause for celebration. I am celebrating because my father has 
fulfilled his duty in this world, and is now at peace."
    "You're celebrating" Gene asked.
    Lorie lifted her head to stare straight into his eyes. "It is the way of our kind. It 
is the way we are. It is the way we have always been."
    Gene was still trying to work this out when the Waiter brought his drink. He tipped 
the man a dollar, and then said unsteadily, "Lorie, I don't mean to pry, but I've never 
met a family that celebrates death before."
    She turned away. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. I know it shocks some people. We 
just feel that when a man's life is over, he has finished his work, and that in itself is 
cause for pleasure."
    "Well, I'll be damned," he said, and sipped his ice-cold drink.
    Lorie turned. "I have to leave now."
    "Already? You've only been here a few minutes. This bash is going to go on till 
three. You wait till Mrs. Marowsky starts her stripping act. Once you've seen that, 
anything you ever thought about morality is going to go right out of the window."
    "Don't mock me, Gene," Lorie said.
    "Honey, I'm not mocking you. I just don't want you logo."
    "I know. Fm sorry. But I have to."
    Quietly, impossibly, as if he had been materialized by Star Trek tele-transportation 
beam, a tall, swarthy man in a black chauffeur's uniform appeared at Lorie's side. He had 
a black beard, trimmed with obsessive neatness, and he wore Slack leather gloves. He said 
nothing, but stood just behind her, his hard expression giving Gene no doubts at all that 
it was going-home time, friends, and anyone who thought otherwise could lump it. He could 
have been an Arab, or a Turk, but whatever he was he was silent and hard and protective, 
and Lorie Semple retreated into his protectiveness at once.
    "Goodbye, Mr. Keiller. It's been good to meet you."
    "Lorie-"
    "Really, I have to go now. Mother will be expecting me."
    "Well, let me drive you home. That's the least I can do."
    "It's quite all right. This is my chauffeur. Please don't bother."
    "Lorie, I insist. I'm a hot-shot politician at the Department of State, and I 
absolutely insist."
    Lorie bit her lip. She turned to the hard-faced chauffeur standing beside her and 
said, "Could I?"
    There was a long silence. Gene was aware that Senator Hasbaum and several other 
friends of his were watching, but he was too busy with this extraordinary relationship 
between Lorie and her silent chauffeur to worry about them. He looked evenly and 
confidently at the chauffeur, and in his turn, the chauffeur scrutinized him.
    Finally, the chauffeur nodded. It was an auction-bidder's nod, almost imperceptible 
if you weren't watching for it. Lorie smiled, and said, "Thank you, Gene. I'd love to,"
    "That's the first sensible thing you've said all evening." Gene said. "Just give me a 
minute to say goodbye to the Secretary."
    Lorie nodded. "All right. I'll see you outside."
    Gene winked at Senator Hasbaum as he pushed his way through the cocktail guests to 
find Henry Ness. As usual, the young and dynamic Secretary of State was surrounded by a 
crowd of women, burbling like doves in a dovecot over every platitude that fell from his 
lips. His new fiancee, Reta Caldwell, was clinging on to his arm in a ruby-red evening 
dress that made her bulge out in all the wrong places, and it would have taken 
bolt-cutters to get her away.
    "Henry," called Gene. "Hey, Henry!"
    Henry Ness turned around, his smooth Clark Kent face fixed in the confident smile 
that experienced politicians automatically stick on their faces when anybody says "Hey!" 
It could, after all, be a photographer, and after Nixon's notorious scowls there was a 
kind of frenetic nervousness in the Democratic camp that everyone should always look 
joyful.
    "Gene, how are you?" said Ness. He reached over the head of a diminutive woman and 
shook hands. "I hear good reports of your Mexican file."
    "Well, it's shaping up fine," said Gene. "But I guess you're shaping up better. 
Congratulations on your engagement, Henry. You too, Reta. You're looking swell."
    Reta glared at him. He had known her before, years ago, when he was a young and 
inexperienced campaigner on the State assembly circuit, and she probably remembered that 
he had seen her paralytically drunk at a campaign party, slobbering kisses over acutely 
embarrassed party chiefs.
    "Henry, I have to leave now," said Gene. "Pressures of state-you know how it is. But 
truly, Henry, all my best wishes for the future. I hope you're both going to be very 
happy."
    Henry shook his hand again, smiled unconvincingly, and then turned warmly back to his 
swooning audience of Washington ladies. Henry liked talking to women, Gene considered, as 
he elbowed his way out of the party toward the door. They didn't answer back, and they 
didn't ask awkward questions like what the hell are we going to do about multiple-warhead 
missiles on Turkish soil, and are we going to let the Communists continue to infiltrate 
black Africa unchecked? All women wanted to know was what he wore in bed, or preferably 
what he didn't.
    Gene collected his raincoat and walked across the polished marble hallway of the