Ms. Giotto pressed a key into the elevator panel to unlock access to the fourth floor. She held the elevator door open for Henry and I to enter, but she stayed in the hallway.

"Your conversation with Mr. Vicchady will be informal, you understand?" she said. "Off-the-record."

"We agree to that," Henry said. "You're not coming upstairs, counsel?"

"No need," she shrugged and brushed her hair off her shoulders. "Mr. Vicchady does not need an attorney present for a private, informal conversation." She nodded, and the elevator doors closed.

We only had a few seconds alone as we traveled up four floors, so I spoke quickly to Henry:

"Listen," I unwrapped my jacket from my forearm and put it on. "I'm going to uncover the camera. The Rolex."

"Fine," Henry said, grabbing my wrist and pulling it toward his face. "Please," Henry spoke directly into the face of the watch. "Oato, Lady Denebola, Major Kale – Please. No matter what happens, do not come into the building. No violence. Let Marsh and I handle this."

"We don't want to touch off an intergalactic war with Earth!" I whispered loudly into my outstretched wrist, unsure if anyone was listening on the other end.

The elevator dinged and came to a halt. Henry and I straightened ourselves and stepped confidently into the room.

The room sparkled with sunlight: it was round and mostly windows, with a solid-oak antique desk in the center. Behind the desk, a small mustachioed man stood in silhouette, smiling a mouthful of newly-bleached teeth. I squinted to look at the man but I was distracted by an object in front of him: a pitcher of ice water, topped with wedges of citrus.

The pitcher sat on a coffee table in front of the guest chairs. It looked cold, refreshing, an oasis in the desert - my mouth watered as I watched condensation drip down the outside of the curved glass...

"Ah, gentlemen –" the man behind the desk began.

"May I?" I said, ignoring him and moving toward the pitcher of water. Henry followed me, equally hypnotized and parched.

"Please help yourself…" a voice said, but I was already pouring a glass with a shaky hand. When was the last time I drank water? I couldn't remember. It may have been all of the hours wearing the oxygenator mask, or part of a Tchugg hangover, but I suddenly realized that I was dehydrated and dying of thirst.

I raised the glass to my mouth and finished half of it before Henry pried the pitcher from my hand, and poured his own glass. "Oh," Henry exclaimed once the fresh water hit his lips. "Oh, that's good. That's good!"

We drank greedily, spilling and dribbling on ourselves, filling third and fourth cups until the pitcher was empty.

"Better?" The man behind the desk said. Henry and I stood panting, catching our breath.

"Yes," I dabbed my chin with my sleeve. Henry wiped his mouth, adjusted his collar and put the empty glass back down on the table next to the pitcher. "Thank you."

"We traveled quite a long way," Henry offered as a half-apology for our water guzzling.

"Yes, I can see." The man came around from behind his desk, he extended a moist, fat hand. "My name is Antonio Vicchady. Won't you please have a seat?"

Vicchady was short and round, with a rebuilt hairline and skin stretched tight on either side of a pencil-thin mustache. It was impossible to tell his age, but his suit was from another era: pin-striped and double-breasted, tailored in a fashion that reminded me of a silent film star or a Batman villain.

Henry and I sat on matching Eames side chairs. Antonio Vicchady did not sit, instead he leaned comfortably into the front of his desk and examined us.

"Now," Vicchady's smile faded. "May I see the swatch? The color that you claim I stole from your client?"

I took the swatch out of my briefcase and handed it to Vicchady. He placed it an inch from his eyeball, tilted it toward the sunlight, frowned, and began to pace. He mumbled something to himself, then rummaged through a desk drawer until he produced a jeweler's eye loupe.

"As you can see, the color is absolutely identical," Henry said. "We are ready to issue an immediate block at customs of all Vicchady products that contain Vicchady Orange."

"Ah," Vicchady said.

"Vicchady Orange is nothing more than a pirated version of Qwazler Paint's original color, Azodii."

"Mmm," Antonio Vicchady continued to stare into the eyepiece.

"Foreign theft of US intellectual property is a major concern of the current Deputy Commissioner of US Customs, who also happens to be my brother-in-law." Henry's words elicited no reaction from Vicchady, who continued to stare into the color swatch.

"We wanted to come here in person to discuss the matter," I added, only because it felt like my turn to speak. "Before we file a formal injunction against the sale of Vicchady products in the United States."

Antonio Vicchady lowered the loupe from his eye and handed the paper back to me. To my surprise, he was grinning.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he flashed a mouthful of perfectly-straight, perfectly-white teeth. "I suppose you're seeking damages, for your client?"

"Not exactly. Not yet," I said. "This is more of an investigatory inquiry."

"Investigatory!" Antonio Vicchady let out a howl of laughter, and gestured with his hands for us to continue. "I'm intrigued! Please, go on. What are you investigating? What did you have in mind?"

"I'd like you to show us your dyeing process," Henry said. "If you can prove that you came up with the color on your own, that you use methods and raw materials different from what Qwazler Paint uses…"

"Then maybe there really is no tort," I finished Henry's sentence. "Maybe it is just a coincidence. We can take the evidence back to our client, and perhaps they'll drop the lawsuit."

Vicchady chuckled and started to pace again around the perimeter of the room. "Would you like," he pressed on his moustache. "To hear a joke?"

I looked sideways at Henry. "Sure," I said.

Antonio Vicchady cleared his throat:

"A traveler comes across a goat farmer. He asks the farmer, 'Which goat is your favorite?' The farmer points to a goat with three legs.

"'That one.' The farmer says.

"'Why does the goat only have three legs?' The traveler asks.

"'That goat is very special,' the farmer says. 'When I felt like I had no other friend in the world, that goat would stay by my side. He would nuzzle and let me pet him, and he saved me from misery.'

"'But why does the goat only have three legs?' The traveler asks.

"'That goat is very special,' the farmer says. 'Once a young calf escaped from my farm and was lost. That goat ran into the neighboring fields in the dead of night, found the missing calf, and carried it on its back to the farm, safe and sound.'

"'That's wonderful," the traveler says. 'But why does the goat only have three legs?'

"'That goat is very special,' the farmer says. 'Once, my home caught on fire while we were sleeping. That goat ran into the house, woke me, woke my wife, fought through the flames and dragged our small child outside to safety. Then, the goat called the fire department. And while we waited for the engine to arrive, the goat started a bucket brigade. My family would have died, my whole house would have been destroyed, if not for that wonderful, special goat.'

"'Sir, this is all amazing," the traveler said. 'But you still haven't answered my question! Why does the goat only have three legs?'

"'Well, isn't it obvious?' the farmer said. 'When you have a goat that is this special –"

Antonio Vicchady lowered his voice to deliver the punchline:

"You don't want to eat him all at once."

It was an old joke, one that I've heard before. I didn't laugh. Neither did Henry. Vicchady gave a self-satisfied smile and slithered behind his desk.

"Gentlemen," he plopped his sizeable rear into a reinforced Aeron chair. "It appears we have a lot in common."

"How so?" Henry asked.

"I own a very special goat," Vicchady said. "And, judging by that 'paint' sample in your briefcase, it looks like you have a special goat of your own."