For a split second—so narrow a filament of time, it might not even exist (and yet does; it is as concrete a reality as this room is, or the series of rooms in the neighboring apartment, or the ones which are arranged in some similar fashion in the building across this street, or apartments elsewhere in the world with sitting rooms and faintly dusty smelling upholstery and a record player sawing on)—it seems as if Ralston might not return the papers. And then his hand jerks out, shoving the packet abruptly back at Rutyer.

What good would holding on to them do? What an absurd impulse.

"Smith or the Americans?" Should bite more than it does. "You still haven't told me."