They passed under a sign over the roadway, "REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY CALL 800 425 TIPS" Seeing this, the professor thought, not for the first time, with a tight frown, "the only suspicious activity I know of is that treasonous scum has taken over the government of this formerly free country. To whom should that be reported?" On the dashboard in front of him, red numbers changed rhythmically, keeping the tally.

"Tomorrow, Memo and I are going to have to have a talk," the Professor thought to himself, "what the hell is she thinking about? Unacceptable, totally unacceptable." He stretched his hand again and winced when the stitches tightened. "I suppose at dinner."

The cab stopped at the corner near the apartment. Having one hand bandaged meant that the exchange of fare and tip was protracted much longer then the Professor was accustomed to, and his brow was furrowed as he unlocked the door into the lobby. The elevator was waiting and he went in it and pressed the seven, turning to watch the tile floor disappear as the doors closed. He arranged his keys in his left hand as the elevator rose. When the doors opened again and the tile had been replaced with red carpet, bordered with green entwined vines that wove a snakes path all around the lobby on his floor. Seeing dusty footprints tracked on the floor, he frowned, and frowned deeper still when he saw that they led from his door to the freight elevator.

He unlocked the door and went into their apartment. There was an odd smell in the air and one of his favorite prints, an etching Memo had brought with her was gone from the wall opposite the door. Thinking they had been robbed, his heart began to race -- but it didn't make sense. His Siamese jade buddha was on the shelf where it belonged. He threw his coat over a chair and went into the main room, rubbing his forehead. His hand hurt, he was tired, and he did not want to have to deal with puzzling this out right now. Their sofa was gone, and two of the bookshelves were empty. All of Memo's books were gone. He went over and checked to see if his second edition Webster's was missing; no, there it was. And the Rackham prints were hanging right where they belonged as well.

He went into the kitchen to get a glass of ice water, all the glasses were still there in the cabinet, lined up in descending order of height, rows and rows of them, in their proper places. He filled a glass with some Pelligrino, sat down at the table, and took a long drink, the bubbles acid in his throat. Putting the glass down he saw the envelope, cream white, unsealed, with his initial on it written in Memo's tidy script.

He was able to extract the note by biting it lightly and pulling the envelope off, then he opened it and read:

P --



We really don't need to have that discussion at all, there is really nothing left to talk about anymore. It's painful for me to be alone, and especially so when I am with you.



The orifices attributes you want in a companion are common to all women, I am sure that procuring the services you require will present no difficulty to one as intelligent and resourceful as you are.



Just as you will try tonight to find an explanation of why I have left you, I will be looking for the answer to the question of why I ever stayed.



-- Memo

He folded the note and walked over to a window. Outside the little cars were rolling here and there, the lights were changing from green to red and back again, and moonlight glinted on the bay. He stood there looking out at the city for a long time.



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