“Which is…?”

“That the force of gravity has lessened since yesterday.”

“Get some rest, Carl — even your jokes are getting tired.” Breton set the phone down and smiled in appreciation of the way in which the little geologist never got depressed or rattled. A telephone crank who picked on Tougher would have ricocheted off a massive shield of sane practicability — yet in this case Tougher was the only suspect Breton had had. His jokes were usually on the locker room level, but there was the time a couple of years earlier when Tougher had spent something like fifteen dollars of his own money in bringing a can of gasoline to work every day and sneaking it into the office janitor’s car. Later Tougher had explained, matter-of-factly, that he had wanted to study the janitor’s reactions when he discovered his car was apparently manufacturing gas instead of using it up. Was that particular hoax on a par with “You have been living with my wife for almost exactly nine years”? Breton was uncertain. He went back along the mustard carpeted hall, automatically touching the wall with his knuckles at every step to prevent any build-up of static in the dry air.

Kate kept her eyes averted as he entered the room, and Breton felt a slight pang of guilt over his earlier sarcasm.

“That was Carl,” he volunteered. “He’s been working late.”

She nodded disinterestedly, and his guilt instantaneously transformed itself into resentment — not even in the presence of friends would she pretend to care anything about the business. That’s the way, Kate, he thought furiously, never ease up for a second. Live well off me, but at the same time reserve the right to despise my work and everybody connected with it.

Breton stared somberly at his wife and the Palfreys, who were now going back through all the material Miriam had produced, and suddenly realized he was beginning to sway slightly. He retrieved his drink, finished it with one gulp and poured another.