Twice during his walk, cars full of mildly boisterous USOC’rs went by on their way from the castle to the hotel. Both times he stepped into the shadows. Not that he was trying to avoid them, exactly, but it was nice to be by himself.

Reaching Rohrbacherstrasse he was plumped abruptly back into the twentieth century. Even at midnight, the traffic whizzed by steadily at the alarming speed that appeared to be customary for city driving. Forty miles an hour? Fifty? With more prudence than he would have shown on a San Francisco street, he waited at the corner for the traffic light to change, looking at the dark, second-floor windows of the Hotel Ballman across the street. He thought he had identified the one belonging to his room, but realized he was wrong when he saw someone move behind it.

In the darkened room, the tall man dozed in the chair, both hands dangling over the sides, knuckles touching the floor. The other one stood at the window, a little to one side. "Here he is," he said.

The first man stood up at once. "God damn it, it’s about time," he said. He moved to the window. "What the hell is he staring up here for, dumb bastard?"

"He’s just looking," said the sleek-headed man. "He’s plastered; he can’t see anything. Don’t worry."

"Who’s worried?" the tall man said.

They watched him cross the street on unsteady legs. Then, silently, they walked across the room. The tall one stood against the wall to the side of the door, a thin silken cord with a leather ratchet in his hand. The other one stood in the closet alcove a few feet away. They didn’t look at each other.

When he stepped into the little lobby of the hotel, Gideon expected to find it full of USOC’rs, but they had evidently gone on to do some bar-hopping, or weinstubehopping, more likely.