A long pause. “Are you having any trouble, sir?”

Alfred Smith grimaced. “That’s not what I’m asking. Was there or wasn’t there?”

“Well, sir, if you could tell me if it is causing you inconvenience in any way…”

He got exasperated. “I asked you a simple question. Was there a Smith in this room before me? What’s the matter, did he kill himself?”

“We have no right to believe he committed suicide, sir!” the desk clerk said emphatically, “There are many, many circumstances under which a guest might disappear after registering for a room!”

There was a peremptory knock on the door. Alfred Smith grunted. “Okay. That’s all I wanted to know,” and hung up.

He opened the door, and before he could say anything, four people came in. Three were men; the last was a mildly attractive woman.

“Now, look—” he began.

“Hello, Gar-Pitha” one of the men said. “I’m Jones. This is Cohen, this is Kelly. And, of course, Jane Doe.”

“There’s been a mistake,” Alfred told him.

“And how there’s been a mistake!” said Cohen, locking the door behind him carefully, “Jones, you called Smith by his right name! When the corridor door was open! That’s unpardonable stupidity.”

Jane Doe nodded. “Open or closed, we must remember that we are on Earth. We will use only Earth names. Operating Procedure Regulations XIV-XXII.”

Alfred took a long, slow look at her, “On Earth?”

She smiled shamefacedly. “There I go, myself. I did practically the same thing. You’re right. In America. Or rather, to put it more exactly and less suspiciously, in New York City.”

Mr. Kelly had been walking around him, staring at Alfred. “You’re perfect,” he said at last. “Better than any of us. That disguise took a lot of hard, patient work. Don’t tell me, I know. You’re perfect, Smith, perfect.”