As well as that first beer of the day, Pete is waiting for November. Going to Washington in April had been good, and the moon rocks had been stunning (they still stun him, every time he thinks about them), but he had been alone. Being alone wasn’t so good. In November, when he takes his other week, he’ll be with Henry and Jonesy and the Beav. Then he’ll allow himself to drink during the day. When you’re off in the woods, hunting with your friends, it’s all right to drink during the day. It’s practically a tradition. It-

The door opens and a good-looking brunette comes in. About five-ten (and Pete likes them tall), maybe thirty. She glances around at the showroom models (the new Thunderbird, in dark burgundy, is the pick of the litter, although the Explorer isn’t bad), but not as if she has any interest in buying. Then she spots Pete and walks toward him.

Pete gets up, dropping his NASA keychain on his desk-blotter, and meets her at the door of his office. He’s wearing his best professional smile by now-two hundred watts, baby, you better believe it-and has his hand outstretched. Her grip is cool and firm, but she’s distracted, upset.

“This probably isn’t going to work,” she says. “Now, you never want to start that way with a car salesman,” Pete says. “We love a challenge. I’m Pete Moore.”

“Hello,” she says, but doesn’t give her name, which is Trish. “I have an appointment in Fryeburg in Just-” She glances at the clock which Pete watches so closely during the slow afternoon hours. “-in just forty-five minutes. It’s with a client who wants to buy a house, and I think I have the right one, there’s a sizeable commission involved, and…” Her eyes are now brimming with tears and she has to swallow to get rid of the thickness creeping into her voice. “… and I’ve lost my goddam keys! My goddam car keys!” She opens her purse and rummages in it.