ide and looked at him suspiciously. "Are your
intentions honorable?"

"We can even discuss that later," he said sourly.

She laughed. "It's a date, Larry."

-------------------------------------

He picked her up after work, and they drove to his Brandywine
auto-bungalow, largely quiet the whole way.

At one point she touched his hand with hers and said, "It'll work out,
Larry."

"Yeah," he said sourly. "I've put ten years into ingratiating myself with
the Boss. Now, overnight, he's got a new boy. I suppose there's some moral
involved."

When they pulled up before his auto-bungalow, LaVerne whistled
appreciatively. "Quite a neighborhood you're in."

He grunted. "A good address. What our friend Professor Voss would call one
more status symbol, one more social-label. For it I pay about fifty per
cent more rent than my budget can afford."

He ushered her inside and took her jacket. "Look," he said, indicating his
living room with a sweep of hand. "See that volume of Klee reproductions
there next to my reading chair? That proves I'm not a weird. Indicates my
culture status. Actually, my appreciation of modern art doesn't go any
further than the Impressionists. But don't tell anybody. See those books
up on my shelves. Same thing. You'll find everything there that _ought_ to
be on the shelves of any ambitious young career man."

She looked at him from the side of her eyes. "You're really soured,
Larry."

"Come along," he said. "I want to show you something."

He took her down the tiny elevator to his den.

"How hypocritical can you get?" he asked her. "This is where I really
live. But I seldom bring anyone here. Wouldn't want to get a reputation as
a weird. Sit down, LaVerne, I'll make a drink. How about a Sidecar?"

She sank onto the couch, kicked her shoes off and slipped her feet under
her. "I'd love one," she said.

His back to her, he brought brandy and cointreau from his liquor cabinet,
lemon and ice from the tiny refrigerator.

"What?" LaVerne said mockingly. "No auto-bar?"

"Upstairs with the rest of the status symbols," Larry grunted.

He put her drink before her and turned and went to the record player.

"In the way of corny music, how do you like that old-timer, Nat Cole?"

"King Cole? Love him," LaVerne said.

The strains of "For All We Know" penetrated the room.

Larry sat down across from her, finished half his drink in one swallow.

"I'm beginning to wonder whether