if we carry over on the Ceroii incidents."

"Ceroii's waited six years, four months, and twenty-three days. They'll
wait another day. Let's do that, then, uh ... Mary."

"Yes, sir."

Marlowe switched off and picked up a report which he began to read by
the page-block system, his eyes almost unblinking between pages.
"Harrison, eh?" he muttered once, stopping to look quizzically at his
desktop. He chuckled.

III.

At fifteen-fifteen, the light on his interphone blinked twice, and
Marlowe hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching
the switch with his left.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Mr. Mead, sir."

"O.K." He switched off, pushed the directive into his OUT box, and
pulled the GenSurv and the folder on Martin Holliday out of the HOLD
tray. "Come in, Chris," he said as Mead knocked on the door.

"How are you today, Mr. Marlowe?" Mead asked as he sat down.

"Four ounces heavier," Marlowe answered dryly. "I presume you're not.
Cigarette, Chris?"

Apparently, the use of the first name finally caught Mead's notice. He
looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it.
"Thanks--Dave."

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," Marlowe chuckled, his eyes almost
disappearing in crinkles of flesh. "How's Mary?"

Mead grinned crookedly. "_Miss Folsom_ is in fine fettle today, thank
you."

Marlowe rumbled a laugh. Mead had once made the mistake of addressing
the woman as "Mary," under the natural assumption that if Marlowe could
do it, everyone could.

"Mary, I fear," Marlowe observed, "lives in more stately times than
these. She'll tolerate informality from me because I'm in direct
authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is Law. But you,
Mead, are a young whipper-snapper."

"But that's totally unrealistic!" Mead protested. "I don't respect her
less by using her first name ... it's just ... just friendliness, that's
all."

"Look," Marlowe said, "it makes sense, but it ain't logical--not on her
terms. Mary Folsom was raised by a big, tough, tight-lipped
authoritarian of a father who believed in bringing kids up by the book.
By the time she got tumbled out into the world, all big men were
unquestionable authority and all young men were callow whipper-snappers.
Sure, she's unhappy about it, inside. But it makes her a perfect
secretary, for me, and she does her job well. We play by her rules on
the little things, and by the world's rules on the big ones. Kapish?"

"Sure, Dave, but