He sighed, put down the pencil and switched off the terminal. "All right," he said, rising to his feet and fambling at his throat. "I'll be ready in a minute. Punctuality is no great virtue at a faculty party."

"It is if it's for the head of your department."

"Gloria," he replied, shaking his head, "the only thing you need to know about Jim is that he wouldn't last a week in the real world. Take him out of the university and drop him into a genuine industrial design slot and he'd--"

"Let's not get into that again," she said, retreating. "I know you're not happy here, but for the time being there's nothing else. You've got to be decent about it."

"My father had his own consulting firm," he recited. "It could have been mine--"

"But he drank it out of business. Come on. Let's go."

"That was near the end. He'd had some bad breaks. He was good. So was Granddad," he went on. "He founded it and--"

"I already know you come from a dynasty of geniuses," she said, "and that Dan will inherit the mantle. But right now--"

He shook himself and looked at her.

"How is he?" he asked in a softer voice.

"Asleep," she said. "He's okay."

He smiled.

"Okay. Let's get our coats. I'll be good."

She turned and he followed her out, the pale eye of the CRT looking over his shoulder.

Mor stood in the doorway of a building diagonally across the street from the house he was watching. The big man in the dark overcoat was on the doorstep, hands thrust into his pockets, gazing up the street. The smaller figure of the woman still faced the partly opened door. She was speaking with someone within.

Finally, the woman closed the door and turned. She joined the man and they began walking. Mor watched them head off up the street and turn the corner. He waited awhile longer, to be certain they would not be returning after some remembered trifle.