Albert Schweitzer, I replied.

We know the name you're using. Who are you, really?

That's it, I said.

We don't think so.

I'm sorry.

So are we.

So?

You will tell us about yourself and your mission.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Get up!

Then please give me my robe. It's hanging on the hook inside the bathroom door.

The gunsel leaned toward the other. Get it, check it, give it to him, he said.

And I regarded him.

He had a handkerchief over the lower part of his face. So did the other guy. Which was kind of professional. Amateurs tend to wear masks. Upper type. Masks of this sort conceal very little. The lower part of the face is the most easily identifiable.

Thanks, I said, when the one guy handed me my blue terry-cloth robe.

He nodded, and I threw it about my shoulders, put my arms into the sleeves, whipped it about me, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Okay, I said. What do you want?

Who are you working for? said the first.

Project RUMOKO, I replied.

He slapped me, lightly, with his left hand, still holding the gun steady.

No, he said. The whole story, please.

I don't know what you're talking about, but may I have a cigarette?

All right, No. Wait. Take one of mine. I don't know what might be in your pack.

I took one, lit it, inhaled, breathed smoke.

I don't understand you, I said. Give me a better clue as to what you want to know and maybe I can help you. I'm not looking for trouble.

This seemed to relax them slightly, because they both sighed. The man asking the questions was about five foot eight in height, the other about five-ten. The taller man was heavy, though. Around two hundred pounds, I'd say.

They seated themselves in two nearby chairs. The gun was leveled at my breast.