"Good," said Roche. "Think on it, if you like. I'll put a signed contract in the next mail for you. When you return it with your signature, your ticket and instructions will be waiting for you at Lagwad Airport."
They shook hands on it, and Roche walked out of Lao's life—for a while.
His hands in his pockets, Lao strolled into the kitchen, where his landlady, Grida Mattin, was melodiously preparing lunch. Grida wore an apron over her old-fashioned opaque clothing and her head, beginning to show a few gray streaks, was bent over the gleaming stove.
"Grida, do you mind if I use the telephone for a long-distance call to Nuyork?" he asked.
"Certainly not, Lao," she answered, turning to smile at him. Her face was not exceptionally attractive, but she had beautiful teeth. "Nothing wrong, I hope."
"I don't know," he said. "My salary check is three weeks overdue."
He placed the call to Colorvue Publicity on the kitchen extension, and stood by the stove, watching Grida stir and season.
"Cooking is almost a lost art, Grida, and you're a good cook," he said. "I'm surprised you've never married."
Grida flushed at the compliment.