A sharp rap on the door. "Go away!" he said, too low to be heard. Murrow appeared. He whipped neatly through the doorway and pulled it closed in one motion, like a character in a farce. He was holding an irregularly shaped object draped in a bar towel. This he deposited on Karp's credenza, and drew away the draping with a flourish, revealing a plastic tray with a bottle and two snifter glasses on it.

"What's that?"

"It's cognac," said Murrow. "It's a kind of liquor made from wine."

"I know what cognac is. You know I don't drink."

"You can learn how. In exchange for everything you've taught me over the years. It's only fair." He shivered. "My God, it's freezing in here! Can't you turn up the heat?"

"They're fixing the boilers."

"Well, we'll certainly be perfectly Dickensian by the time the gov gets here." He uncorked the cognac and poured a generous slug into each glass. "Aren't you sorry now you don't have a cozy plum-colored waistcoat?"

Murrow sat on the worn leather couch across from Karp's desk and raised his glass. "To the future, or at least to an end to this horrible year!"

"Oh, I'll drink to that," said Karp, sipping. A surprise: the liquor was stingingly warm, and seemed to expand like a gas into his sinuses. He held the glass balloon up to the light. "This isn't bad. It doesn't have that boozy taste."

"No. Mr. Hennessy has it removed when he puts the XO on the bottle. It's the beverage of the ruling class. You should get used to it."

"I can live without it," said Karp, taking another small sip. His face became warm. The roiling in his gut, which had begun with his awakening that morning, diminished.

"Again?" asked Murrow, holding out the bottle, grinning.