Cournois studied Alan for a moment, then returned to the dossier.

"Do you have many friends in Washington?"

"A few," Alan said. "Mostly college acquaintances."

"Are they married?"

"Not most of them. Married people have their own circles of friends, all usually married, and bachelors don't seem to fit in too happily. There's a feeling of incompleteness."

"The explanation wasn't necessary," Cournois said curtly. "How about lady friends? Do you have many here in Washington?"

"Only as acquaintances. Most of them in the State Department. My stay in Washington has been brief. Six months in '46, three months this year. And I've been working steadily on this new program, sometimes until quite late in the evening. Not much time for social life."

"Have you ever known a woman intimately?"

"Intimately?" Alan considered the word. "Yes."

"Who, and when?"

Alan rose. "I did not come here to go to confession, Mr. Cournois." "You refuse to answer?"

"Yes, on the ground that this is, I suppose, a security interview mine, not any one else's. I don't want to involve other people needlessly." Another notation. "Sit down, please, Tisdale... Now, when is the last time you slept with a man?"

Alan sat quietly, and then he began to laugh.

Cournois eyed him angrily. "Are you going to answer?"

"Of course," Alan smiled. "My parents had house guests overnight once when I was eleven. I slept with my brother in his room. That was the last time."

Cournois handed him a pad and pencil, and then he went to the window and looked out. "I want you, Tisdale," he said quietly, with back turned, "to draw a picture of a nude woman on one page, a nude man on another page."

"I'm not an artist."

"Just draw, please," he said.

Alan drew, and when he had finished his primitive sketchings, he returned the pad to Cournois.

Cournois studied them both carefully. "Obviously, Tisdale, your drawing of the man is far more exact in detail and conception than that of the woman."

"I think there's an explanation," Alan said. "I've been male all my life."

Cournois stared at him, a deep, penetrating look, a combination of finality and anger. "You may go now, Tisdale. Thank you."

Alan left without saying good-bye.

Cournois examined the dossier once more. He went to the window and watched the people strolling along the promenade and children sailing their boats in the reflecting pools. Beyond them, beyond the White House and the Washington Monument, under the overcast sky, was the city, its stunted skyline grey and white.

He returned to his desk. He picked up a rubber stamp, inked it on a red stamp, and then carefully impressed its mark in the upper right hand corner of the dossier.

It read simply: Security Risk.

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