What an absolute schmuck Haddon was, Jerry Baroff thought; not rancorously, but with something close to admiration. It was amazing, the old guy just never let you down. Every time you thought he might actually be going to say something different-something original, for example, or something nice about somebody else, or something responsive or even helpful-he managed to come up with another dose of the same old crap. Arlo, the poor fish, was getting Lecture Number 94, the one Haddon usually reserved for any staff member dumb enough to mention in his presence that he was having trouble getting the Egyptian antiquities authorities to go along on something or other.

And the old bugger was in prime form, especially considering that he was drunk as a skunk, or pretty well on the way. Only the windup remained now, the part where he leaned forward keenly and said: “Now tell me, young man, just which type of authority do you lack?”

Haddon leaned keenly forward, eyeing the cringing Arlo. “Now suppose you tell me,” he said with quivering beard, “just which kind of authority do you lack?”

For a man who prided himself on observing the vagaries of others with tolerance and detachment, on not letting people get under his skin, Jerry was ready to admit that he’d met his match in Clifford Haddon. Usually Haddon, who didn’t even pretend to take any interest in Jerry’s domain of library and collection administration, let him go his way in peace, but in the past few days he’d seen more of the director than in most months, and he was beginning to get a glimmer of why Tiffany, who had to deal with him every day, needed a neck massage about three nights a week and got that look on her face when his name came up. Still, if you looked at it right, you had to admit the guy was funny. Sometimes you just had to laugh out loud. Which, not intending to, he did.