They all nodded, Alfred with them. He shot a mixed look of uncertainty and gratitude at Jane Doe.

“All right,” the voice went on, somewhat mollified. “And to show you that I can hand out the boosts as well as the knocks, I want to commend Smith on his disguise. It’s a little offbeat, but it rings true—and that’s the main thing. If the rest of you only spent as much time and care on your uniform, we’d be in the home stretch in no time.” The voice paused and took on an oily, heavily whimsical quality. “Before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.’ ”

They all laughed dutifully at that one, even Alfred.

“You think Smith did a good job on his disguise, don’t you, chief, I mean, Mr. Robinson?” Jane Doe asked eagerly, as if she wanted to underline the fact for everyone.

“I certainly do. Look at that suit, it’s not just any old suit, but a tweed jacket and flannel pants. Now that’s what I call using your imagination. His chin isn’t just a chin, it’s a deft chin. Very good. The color of his hair—first-rate. The only thing I might possibly object to is the bow tie. I’d say a good solid rep tie, regular length, would be a little less chancy, a little less likely to attract attention. But it feels right, and that’s the main thing—the feel of the disguise. In this business, you either have an instinct for merging with the population of the planet, or you don’t. I think Smith has it. Good work, Smith.”

“Thank you,” Alfred mumbled.

“All right, oh—er, Robinson,” Mr. Jones said impatiently. “It’s a good uniform-disguise. But it’s not that important. Our work is more important than how we look.”

“Your work is how you look. If you look right, you work right. Take yourself, for example, Jones. A more nondescript, carelessly assembled human being, I don’t think I’ve ever come across before. What are you supposed to be—Mr. American-Man-in-the-Street?”