What in the world were they, Alfred wondered frantically—lunatics? No, spies! Should he say something, should he give the mistake away, or should he start yelling his head off for help? But maybe they weren’t spies—maybe they were detectives on the trail of spies. He was in New York, after all. New York wasn’t Grocery Corners, Illinois.

And that suggested another possibility. New York, the home of the sharpie, the smart aleck. It could be a simple practical joke being played by some city slickers on a new little hayseed.

If it were…

His visitors had found seats for themselves. Mr. Kelly opened the briefcase he was carrying and grubbed around in it with his fingers. A low hum filled the room.

“Not enough power,” Mr. Kelly apologized. “This is a small sun, after all. But give the rig a few minutes: it’ll build up.”

Mr. Jones leaned forward. “Listen, do you folks mind if I slip out of my disguise? I’m hot.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Jane Doe reminded him. “The uniform is to be worn at all times when we’re on duty.”

“I know, I know, but Sten-Durok—oops, I mean Cohen, locked the door. Nobody comes in through windows in this particular place, and we don’t have to worry about materialization. So how about I relax for a second or two?”

Alfred had perched on the edge of the dresser. He looked Mr. Jones over with great amusement. The pudgy little man was wearing a cheap gray sharkskin suit. He was bald; he wore no eyeglasses; he had no beard. He didn’t even have a mustache.

Disguise, huh?

“I say let him,” Alfred suggested with an anticipatory chuckle. “We’re all alone—he might as well be comfortable. Go ahead, Jones, take off your disguise.”

“Thanks,” Jones said with feeling. “I’m suffocating in this outfit.”

Alfred chuckled again. He’d show these New Yorkers.

“Take it off. Be comfortable. Make yourself at home.”