"I suppose this snack is a sort of habit," he remarked idly. "Uh-huh," she answered. "But it isn't too bad a habit." He nodded in silent agreement. The sandwich came and was finished in a short time, after which Carroll and his young companion left the drug store. Carroll took a quick look around him as they left but there was no car near them. He walked with her to the typing bureau, waited outside for her and then walked with her to the station. Then he went home to ask himself a multitude of questions. This was her regular procedure. She said so. But which procedure was regular? Her drugstore and sandwich habit or the taking of a joyride with the characters in the car? He picked up the paper she had dropped on the first encounter and looked it over. It was a formal report on the testing of some equipment that was too complex to understand. Something about a trimetal contact in an atmosphere of neon, completely sealed in a double-wall shield of copper with a low noise-level radio amplifier stage enclosed with the samples of metal in gas. It became vaguely familiar after about an hour of study but it was painfully difficult for him to concentrate on such an abstract idea. He considered again. Perhaps his presence had scared off the men in the black car. He'd do it differently next time. Again he watched her for a solid week—watched her reach the corner, turn, enter the black car—watched her return and continue on down the street with her box after fifteen minutes of being completely gone. Then for the second week he watched from the drugstore. And he emerged more puzzled than ever. For Sally joined him daily and talked with him as she had learned to do. Then, to top his confusion, he watched the girl enter the car and drive off one day, after which he entered the store across the corner, to see Sally sitting there waiting for her sandwich and obviously expecting him. "You're late," she said with a smile. "I'm confused," he said dully. "Did you ever see a big black sedan?" he asked her.
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