passenger side of the front seat. "Why don't you put the top down?"

"I like the way the fog feels. Come on." She stretched across the front seat and opened the door.

"Someplace in particular?" He caught the door as it swung out.

"Well, yes. Somebody wants to see you."

"Oh?" He got in. "You playing messenger now?"

"Don't be nasty. This is for your own good, or I wouldn't be doing it."

"Okay. I take your word for it." Wheelan stretched his legs out as far as they would go and folded his arms.

Karen made a U-turn on the smooth street and drove carefully back through the town.

Near the fairgrounds Wheelan asked, "You taking me to the meeting with you?"

Karen shook her head, turning the car sharply up a steep, tree-lined street. They stopped in front of a ranch-style bungalow. "Here we are," she said, getting out of the car.

Wheelan followed her up a brick path, his hands in his pockets. The fog was tightening in around them.

A short man with a high, lined forehead and cropped gray hair opened the door of the bungalow. "Evening, Karen," he said, smiling.

"Mr. Balderstone, Mr. Wheelan," Karen said.

Wheelan nodded and came into the house after her.

Balderstone stopped in front of a deep fireplace. "Thought we ought to have a chat."

"I hear you mentioned me in your service the night I picketed your place," Wheelan said.

"Explained to newcomers that you were the town eccentric." Balderstone's heavy gray eyebrows slanted toward each other. "People come to my lectures—don't call them services—to unbend. To relax. Don't like to have somebody shouting at them through a megaphone and waving signs, Wheelan." He crossed the room. "Drink?"

Wheelan shook his head, glancing at Karen.

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