inquisition

Robert Winslow

From the ogee-arched window, Alan Tisdale could see the trees along the promenade, shedding their leaves, and in the distance, over sweeping green lawns, the White House. The sky was overcast, but there was no insinuation of rain. The clouds were distant and crisp, slightly tinged with grey, implying that summer was over and that autumn, golden and frosty, was on its way.

"You may go in now," the secretary said.

Alan passed her, and then she closed the door softly behind him.

The man at the mahogany desk rose and extended his hand. "Mr. Tisdale... The name is Cournois... Sit down."

Alan sat in a leather chair in front of the desk.

"This is just routine business, you understand," Cournois said, picking up a folder and opening it. "Won't take long, or shouldn't, at least... As you know, we're re-screening certain government agencies, and the State Department is one of them... How long have you been with the Department?"

"Nine years," Alan answered.

"Here in Washington?"

"No, I was here for six months in 1946, then a year and a half in

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