"It's abalone," said Bresicola. "We got another order from New York. Just now."

"So?"

"So the last time I tell you about abalone, I no see you for a month."

"You think abalone has something to do with my work here?"

"You think maybe Giuseppe is stupid, Mr. Time-Study man?"

"No. Many people are stupid. Especially back east. But not you, paisan. Not you."

"It's something maybe to do with the stock market, yes?"

"If I said yes, you wouldn't believe me."

"I believe anyting you say. Anyting."

"It's the stock market."

"Not for a minute does Giuseppe believe that."

"I thought you said you'd believe me?"

"Only if you makea sense. Stock market makea no sense."

"Abalone makes no sense? Time studies make no sense?"

"Nothing makes no sense," Bresicola insisted.

Very good, thought the time study man, because now was no time to be giving out signals. It would be a very nice way to get oneself killed. First, loss of your vibrality, then your awareness, then your balance, and before long, you were just a normal, cunning, strong human being. And that would not be enough. Not nearly enough.

He shared with Bresicola a glass of sharp red wine, made plans for dinner with no definite date, and when he left, had decided it was long past time to eliminate the time-study man.

He would exist until a plane ticket had been purchased with his American Express card and until $800 in travel-checks were cashed. He would exist all the way from San Francisco to Kennedy Airport in New York City. He would walk into the men's room closest to the Pan American counter, look for a pair of blue suede shoes indicating that the wearer was reposing on the commode, wait till the room was clear, then mention that the urinals never worked and that he hoped some day the Americans could learn plumbing from the Swiss.