The place certainly looked good from the highway. Around back in the parking lot, the big fellow handed Keller a palm-size cardboard folder holding a key card. Only the name of the motel appeared on the key card; the room number, 204, was written on the folder.

“They never told me your name,” the fellow said.

“They never told me yours, either.”

“Meaning let’s keep it that way? Fair enough. Name you’re registered under is Leroy Montrose, and don’t blame me, ’cause I ain’t the one picked it out.”

The hair on the man’s head was neatly cut and styled, and Keller wondered why his barber didn’t do something about the hair growing out of his ears. Keller had never thought of himself as particularly fastidious, but he really didn’t like to look at it, all that hair sprouting out of the guy’s ears.

“Leroy Montrose, Room 204. Any charges, just sign your name. Well, Leroy’s name. You sign your own name, which I guess you like keeping a secret, and they’ll just look at you funny.”

Keller didn’t say anything. Maybe the ear hair functioned like antennae, maybe the guy was getting signals on it from his home planet.

“Thing is,” the guy said, “it’s good you’re here now, but it might be a while before you can go ahead and do your thing.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a guy has to make sure he’s someplace else when it goes down, if you get my drift. And there’s a couple other whatchacall variables involved. So what they want you to do is stay pretty close to the room so we can call you and keep you in the loop. Like go ahead or don’t go ahead, you follow me?”