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poky way, I thought package tours were what my plumber takes. But I shall pay the price in socializing. My millionaires are up there drinking alcohol already. Full of Republican sound and fury. You should have seen the faces when I spoke to Senator Carey. Charming man. You would think, wouldn’t you, that collectors would be more civilized. That living with beautiful things would rub off on them. A total fallacy. By the bye, have you talked to the Senator? There in the front row; magnificent head. I suppose he’s bound for Paris to attend one of those ‘meetings’ politicians today go in for. I found him rather taciturn, I must say. You know he lost his wife.”
    Charles remained oblivious of the commotion in the aisle caused by the news he had just disseminated, which was sending autograph-hunters forward with menus to be signed. “Such a joy to see you, my dear. And how splendid to know that we shall be together on the plane tomorrow. Sensible of you to go tourist class. The rich are only tolerable in their own settings. Those dreadfully named Bloody Marys they’re engorging. So menstrual, I always tell them. Well, as a good Democrat, I shall have a split of champagne with my lunch.”
    The Bishop must have warned him that others were listening. Disappointingly, for a time nothing further could be heard. Aileen had resigned herself to yesterday’s Figaro and was scanning the Classifieds for items of interest when Charles again became audible, expressing concern for the Bishop’s health. “You’re dressed much too warmly, dear fellow. These carriers are always overheated. You’ll catch cold, and that will be tiresome for you. Light-weight summer suits, I find, are best for plane travel, in this natural color. It shows the dirt less than the dyed silks, despite what people tell one. Then I always travel with a shawl or two as well as a light overcoat. And you must be careful about the sun, even in winter out there. We shall have to find you a proper broad-brimmed hat. Felt, not a Panama, mind you. The tomb-towers, as you’ll see, can be damp.”
    He had no suspicion, evidently, of the Bishop’s mission “out there.” The thought that any motive other than site-seeing could be operative had not crossed his mind. Aileen wondered how those two could ever have come to know each other; maybe ADA, she speculated. But if “Charles” was such a Democrat, why was he traveling with a group of rich Republicans? “Collectors,” he had said. She got up to go to the ladies’ room, edging past Miss Weil and giving a little wave, as she went, to the Bishop.
    When she came back, with her hair fluffed out under her turban and fresh mascara, the Bishop was waiting to introduce them. “President Simmons, my old friend Charles Tennant. Won’t you join us, Miss Simmons?” “Well, just for a minute.” She took the vacant place between the two ancient men. Against the wall, near the serving-pantry, the Reverend was talking happily with a hostess, who was getting the drinks cart ready. “Charles is bound for Iran too,” the Bishop explained. “So I gathered,” said Aileen. “Did I hear you say something about collectors, Mr. Tennant? Is it a tour of art collectors you’re with?”
    It was an archaeological tour got up by a band of “proud possessors” who were discovering Iran as it threatened to make itself scarce. The energy crisis was responsible for bringing them together on a common carrier; normally they would have chartered a plane or flown in a baby jet belonging to one of their companies—two of the men in the party were company directors. The poor dears saw this as their “very last opportunity” to tour the famous ruins, visit the museums, and explore some of the new digs before the Shah raised the price of oil again. There was a curator from the Fine Arts Museum with them, who was hoping to interest them in financing new excavations—an unlikely eventuality, Charles considered. “You mean the Boston