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don't understand. It never occurred to me that I might be stealing someone else's idea."
    "I believe you, Mr. Patern. You could help your case by telling me how that building came about."
    "I don't know where the idea came from," he said quietly, after a long pause. "More precisely, I don't know who it came from." He shook his head and leaned forward in his chair; it brought him back into the room with me. "I saw a sketch; a very rough pencil drawing."
    "Do you have this sketch?" I asked quickly.
    "No. It wasn't something that you'd keep. Here—"
    He took a pencil and scratch pad out of his desk and quickly drew some lines. It was a crude drawing of a building that could be recognized as the Nately Museum. It was difficult to see how such a simple sketch could have been transformed into a structure that, according to Foster, was a virtual line-by-line replica of Rafferty's project.
    "This is all there was?"
    He nodded. "It's close. It was only a scrap of paper, but it just seemed to open up so many possibilities... like watching a paper airplane soar can lead to the development of a new type of wing. I don't call that stealing."
    Neither did I, assuming Patern was telling the truth. "What about all the details in the building?"
    He shrugged helplessly, as though he despaired of making me understand. "I studied Rafferty's work for years, like thousands of other architectural students. After a time, I suppose, you begin to absorb certain principles of style and design. The design for that building, even in the sketch that I showed you, is so organic that one thing necessarily leads to the next. Once you understand the concept, it almost completes itself."
    "Did you mention this to the man with the beard?"
    "No. I was busy, flying high. We didn't have what you'd call a conversation. To me, he was just a stranger."
    "Where did you find this drawing?"
    "I was taking part in a two-day seminar at the U.N. on housing problems in underdeveloped countries. I remember coming... into a room for a meeting. I was early. Another session had just finished when I sat down and found this paper in front of me."
    "Was it the only paper on the table?" I asked quietly. I sensed that remembering—and telling me—the story had cost him something.
    He sighed. "No. The room was a mess; there was a tight schedule between sessions and the janitorial staff only had a few minutes to clean up. Anyway, that drawing was like a Rorschach blot; I sat there staring at it, and all of a sudden I knew what the whole building would look like. At the time I just chalked it up to my fertile imagination. Now I can see—"
    "When did this seminar take place, Mr. Patern?" My question brought him back to the present.
    "A couple of years ago; in the fall, I think. Once I had the idea, the planning and construction went very quickly."
    I believed him: Patern's description of the creative process roughly jibed with the stories I'd heard other artists tell. My concern had shifted to the identity of the person who had left the paper behind. "Do you have any idea who was at the meeting just before yours?"
    "God, there were probably more than a couple of hundred people there. Rolfe Thaag was speaking, and you know how he attracts a crowd. I have a program in my files somewhere. If you'd like, I'll give you a copy."
    "I'd like," I answered wryly.
    Patern rummaged around in a filing cabinet and emerged with an official-looking program, which he took out for his secretary to copy.
    "Incidentally," he said as he came back into the office, "I did ask around afterward to see who might have left that sketch there. Nobody claimed it."
    I wasn't surprised. "Rafferty's obituary mentioned that he did a lot of work for the U.N.," I said.
    Patern nodded as his secretary came back into the office with two copies of the program. The names of the participants were listed on the last three pages, in small print; it would take me years to check out every person on the list. By now, they'd be