The spider stretched its legs and performed what could only be described as a shrug. Then it backed carefully into the hole in the chest. The hole closed behind it. The body of Jones came to life and buttoned his shirt and jacket.

“That’s better,” said the voice from the briefcase on Kelly’s knee. “Don’t ever do that again while you’re on duty.”

“Okay, chief, okay. But couldn’t we cool down this planet? You know, bring on winter, start a new ice age? It would make it a lot easier to work.”

“And a lot easier to be detected, stupid. You worry about the big things like conventions and beauty contests. We’ll worry about the little things here, in Command Central, like arbitrarily changing the seasons and starting new ice ages. All right, Smith, how about you? What’s your report?”

Alfred Smith shook the thick gathered wool out of his head, slid off the dresser, and on to his feet. He looked around wildly.

“Re-report?” A breath. “Why, nothing—nothing to report.”

“Took you a long time to make up your mind about it. You’re not holding anything back, are you? Remember, it’s our job to evaluate information, not yours.”

Alfred wet his lips. “N-no. I’m not holding anything back.”

“You’d better not. One beauty contest you forget to tell us about and you’re through, Smith. We still haven’t forgotten that boner you pulled in Zagreb.”

“Oh, chief,” Jane Doe intervened. “It was only a local stunt to discover who was the tallest card-carrying Communist in Croatia. You can’t blame Smith for missing that.”

“We certainly can blame Smith for that. It was a beauty contest, within the definition of the term you were given. If Cohen hadn’t stumbled across a mention of it in the Kiev Pravda, all hell could have broken loose, Remember that, Smith. And stop calling me chief, all of you. The name is Robinson. Remember it.”