"They were here a few minutes ago. Do they know everything?"
"Probably I gave them your name. They came to me first, for the identification."
"They were very nice about it and all that, but—"
Silence whistled remotely over the wires.
"Bob, could you come talk to me? Now?"
"Sure, pony. Give me half an hour."
Kintyre hung up one-handed, starting to undress with the other. He went through a shower and put on a suit in ten minutes.
Margery's apartment was catercorner from his, with the University between. He parked his battered '48 De Soto on the near side of the campus and walked across, hoping to hoof out some of the muscular tightness and set his thoughts in order.
Level yellow light came through eucalyptus groves to splash on a cropped greensward and pompous white buildings, almost bare of mankind in this pause between baccalaureate ceremonies and summer classes. Kintyre reflected vaguely that he would have to go through Bruce's desk, finish his work, yes, and complete his study of the Book of Witches.... His mind drifted off toward a worried practical consideration. What could he do about Margery?
He wanted to help her, if he could—double damnation, hadn't he tried before? At the same time he was not, repeat not, going to get himself involved. It would be unfair to both of them.