Squinting, Erdos scanned the tables of the small Japanese restaurant, one arm held out to the side like a scarecrow's. He was angry with himself for letting his friends slip out of sight. His arm was flapping wildly now, and he was coughing. "The SF created us to enjoy our suffering," he wheezed. "The sooner we die, the sooner we defy His plans." Erdös still didn't see his friends, but his anger dissipated--his arm dropped to his side--as he heard the high-pitched squeal of a small boy, who was dining with his parents. "An epsilon!" Erdös said. Erdös moved slowly toward the child, navigating not so much by sight as by the sound of the boy's voice. "Hello," he said, as he reached into his ratty gray overcoat and extracted a bottle of Benzedrine.