"Francis," she said obligingly. "Dorothy Francis. My middle name is Something, in case you ever want to call me by my middle name. Just yell: 'Hey, Something,' and I'll come a-running. Unless I have something else to do. In which case everything will be very simple: I won't come."
"Ah," Malone said doubtfully. "And what do--"
"What do I do?" she said. "A standard question. Number two of a series. I do modeling. Photographic modeling. And that's not all--I also do commercials on 3-D. If I look familiar to you, it's probably because you've seen me on 3-D. Do I look familiar to you?"
"I never watch 3-D," Malone said, crestfallen.
"Fine," Dorothy said unexpectedly. "You have excellent taste."
"Well," Malone said, "it's just that I never seem to get the time--"
"Don't apologize for it," Dorothy said. "I have to appear on it, but I don't have to like it. And, now that I've answered your questions, how about answering some of mine?"
"Gladly," Malone said. "The inmost secrets of the FBI are yours for the asking."
"Hm-m-m," Dorothy said slowly. "What do you do as an FBI agent, anyhow? Dig up spies?"
"Oh, no," Malone said. "We've got enough trouble with the live ones. We don't go around digging anybody up. Believe me." He paused, feeling dimly that the conversation was beginning to get out of control. "Have I told you that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever met?" he said at last.
"No," Dorothy said. "Not yet, anyway. But I was expecting it."
"Certainly," Dorothy said. "You've been drinking. As a matter of fact, you've managed to get quite a head start."
Malone hung his head guiltily. "True," he said in a low voice. "Too true. Much too true."
Dorothy nodded, downed her drink and waved to the bartender. "Wally, bring me a double this time."
"Sure," Dorothy said. "I've got to do some fast catching-up on Mr. Malone here."
"Don't be silly," Dorothy told him. "Wally hardly knows you. He'll call you Mr. Malone, and like it."
The bartender went away and Malone sat on his stool and thought busily for a minute. At last he said: "If you really want to catch up with me--"
"Because I intend to have another one," Malone added.
In that distant past, a handful of photons deep in the interior of Sol began their random journey to the photosphere. They had been born as ultrahard gamma radiation, and they were positively bursting with energy, attempting to push their respective ways through the dense nucleonic gas that had been their womb. Within millimicroseconds, they had been swallowed up by the various particles surrounding them--swallowed, and emitted again, as the particles met in violent collision.