"Dr. Render... ?"
"Yes?" He looked up.
"Dr. Shallot would like to speak with you," said the waiter.
"I don't know anyone named Shallot," he said. "Are you sure he doesn't want Bender? He's a surgeon from Metro who sometimes eats here . .."
The waiter shook his head.
"No sir—'Render.' See here?" He extended a three-by-five card on which Render's full name was typed in capital letters. "Dr. Shallot has dined here nearly every night for the past two weeks," he explained, "and on each occasion has asked to be notified if you came in."
"Hm?" mused Render. "That's odd. Why didn't he just call me at my office?"'
The waiter smiled and made a vague gesture.
"Well, tell him to come on over," he said, gulping his Manhattan, "and bring me another of these."
"Unfortunately, Dr. Shallot is blind," explained the waiter. "It would be easier if you—"
"All right, sure." Render stood up, relinquishing his favorite table with a strong premonition that he would not be returning to it that evening.
"Lead on."
They threaded their way among the diners, heading up to the next level. A familiar face said "hello" from a table set back against the wall, and Render nodded a greeting to a former seminar pupil whose name was Jurgens or Jirkans or something like that.
He moved on, into the smaller dining room wherein only two tables were occupied. No, three. There was one set in the corner at the far end of the darkened bar, partly masked by an ancient suit of armor. The waiter was heading him in that direction.
They stopped before the table and Render stared down into the darkened glasses that had tilted upward as they approached.