After the elevator had passed the eighth floor without either of its two passengers making any signs of debarking, Quint said, “Three’ll get you five we’re heading for the same party.”

The other said, in surprise, “You’re an American.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I meant… So am I, but you don’t look like an American.”

“What does an American look like?” Quint said. Actually, the man could have been his twin in many respects. They were both about five foot ten, one hundred and seventy, in their early thirties and dressed conservatively. They differed in that the other wore a crew cut and no beret, spoke in a voice a trifle louder and more hurried than did Quint. On top of that, he had the air of aggressiveness that types Americans to Europeans.

His fellow passenger laughed and held out a hand. “Bart Digby,” he said. “I hope you’re going to the Dempsey party.”

“Quint Jones,” Quint shook. “That’s right. But why hope?

The other looked uncomfortable. “Well, I was supposed to come with a friend. Englishman named Brett-Home…”

“I know Ronald, more or less. Met him at a few cocktail parties, and we work out at the same gym.”

“Well, he didn’t meet me when we agreed. But earlier he insisted that it was okay for me to crash the party.”

Quint said definitely, “Nobody has ever crashed a Dempsey party.” Then, when the other looked increasingly uncomfortable, “They’re all open-house affairs. Anybody, anybody at all, can wander in. They’re invariably informal affairs. Brawls.”

“Oh.” Bart Digby suddenly grinned a boyish grin that went with the crew cut. “I wanted to meet this Nicolas Ferencsik. Ronald said he’d be here.”

“Interested in surgical medicine, or looking for a pet?”

“A pet?” Digby said blankly.