Parker brought the car around at seven; George was going to meet the dinner guests at the station. Sarah said incredulously, “They’re coming up by train?”

“Buddy Calucci broke his wrist last week and can’t drive,” George said, “and his wife has some kind of phobia about it. And the alien of course can’t drive either.”

Of course. Of course not. Couldn’t drive, couldn’t wear pants, probably couldn’t eat anything Sarah had had Cook prepare for dinner either. All the alien could do was put her poor old George’s firm out of business with its strange advanced fuel products, whatever they were. Sarah stood before the fireplace and regarded her husband as he picked up his coat from a leather chair.

"If it's supposed to be such a discreet meeting that you can't have it in the city, why are they taking the train? Why didn't your Mr. Calucci order a car and driver?"

"I don't think it would occur to him."

"This is going to be horrible, George. It really is. I'd just as soon have Parker and Cook and Cook's criminal brother-in-law. The one in Attica."

George shrugged into his coat, crossed the room, and put his hands on Sarah's shoulders. "I know, darling; it's too bad. But necessary. And if they come by train, they can't stay late. The last train back is the 10:42. That's something, at least."

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