“No wonder no one uses the guideway,” he went on, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. “They drive so fast to catch a little tiny breeze, don’t they? But you are familiar, we must have met somewhere before. I am Peter LaRoque… or Pierre, If you wish. I am with Les Mondes.”

Jacob started.

“Oh. Yes, LaRoque. We’ve met before. I’m Jacob Demwa. Hop in, I’m only going as far as the Information Center but you can get a bus from there.”

He hoped that his face didn’t show his feelings. Why hadn’t he recognized LaRoque when he was still moving? He might not have stopped.

It wasn’t that he had anything in particular against the man… other than his incredible ego and his inexhaustible store of opinions, which he would thrust upon anyone at the smallest opportunity. In many ways he was probably a fascinating personality. He certainly had a following in the Danikenite press. Jacob had read a number of LaRoque’s articles and enjoyed the style, if not the content.

But LaRoque had been a member of the press corps that had chased him for weeks after he’d solved the Water-Sphinx mystery, and one of the least tactful at that. The final story in Les Mondes had been favorable, and beautifully written as well. But it hadn’t been worth the trouble.

Jacob was glad that the press hadn’t been able to find him after the still earlier Ecuadorian fiasco, that mess at the Vanilla Needle. At that time LaRoque would have been too much to bear.

Right now he was having trouble believing LaRoque’s obviously affected “Origin” accent. It was even thicker than the last time they’d met, if possible.

“Demwa, ah, of course!” the man said. He stuffed his bags behind the passenger seat and got in. “The maker and purveyor of aphorisms! The connoisseur of mysteries! You’re here maybe to play puzzle games with our noble interplanetary guests? Or perhaps you are going to consult with the Great Library in La Paz ?”