What's your game? she asked me. You cleaned up for us, and now you're covering up for somebody else. What do you want?

Nothing, I said.

I studied her. Her hair was sort of reddish and she had freckles, lots of them. Her eyes were green. They seemed to be set quite far apart beneath the ruddy line of her bangs. She was fairly tall, like five-ten, though she was not standing at the moment I had danced with her once at a shipboard party.

Well?

Quite well, I said. And yourself?

I want an answer.

To what?

Was it sabotage?

No, I said. Whatever gave you that idea?

There have been other attempts, you know.

No, I didn't know.

She blushed suddenly, highlighting her freckles. What had caused that?

Well, there have been. We stopped all of them, obviously. But they were there.

Who did it?

We don't know.

Why not?

We never got hold of the people involved.

How come?

They were clever.

I lit a cigarette.

Well, you're wrong, I said. There were some short circuits. I'm an electrical engineer and I spotted them. That was all, though.

She found one someplace, and I lit it for her.

Okay, she said. I guess I've got everything you want to tell me.

I stood then.

... By the way, I ran another check on you.

Yes?

Nothing. You're clean as snow and swansdown.

Glad to hear it.

Don't be. Mister Schweitzer. I'm not finished with you yet

Try everything, I said. You'll find nothing else.

... And I was sure of that.

So I left her, wondering when they would reach me.

I send one Christmas card each year, and it is unsigned. All it bears, in block print, is a list of four bars and the cities in which they exist. On Easter, May Day, the first day of summer, and Halloween, I sit in those bars and sip drinks from nine until midnight, local time. Then I go away. Each year, they're different bars.