Mrs. Pollifax was feeling bored and rather left out of life. Cyrus had re-cently accepted an invitation to teach law three days a week at the university; he was hugely enjoying it. "Damned good to feel so useful again," he'd admitted, and she was glad for him. She, however, was not feeling particularly useful. She reminded herself that she was still growing prizewinning geraniums, was in excel-lent health, hoped soon to earn her black belt in karate, and remained a faithful member of the Save Our Environment club. But . . . How spoiled I am, she thought. For a woman of what was delicately referred to as "of a certain age" she ought to feel fortunate indeed, and yet . . . She realized that she was absentmindedly scratching her left arm from which, not long ago, a bullet had been removed in a Bedouin tent by a man named Bushaq, and she concluded that what she was experiencing was letdown. The price one pays, she thought sadly, for venturing out into dangerous worlds for Carstairs and the CIA, only to return to errands at the grocery store and bank, cooking and cleaning, mulch-ing her garden for the winter, and pampering her geraniums. Across the breakfast table from her, almost hidden behind his newspaper, Cyrus glanced up and saw the gesture toward her arm. "Still hurting?" he asked. "Do wish you'd let Dr. Orton have a look at that." He hesitated, and then, "Damn good to have you safe at home again, Em," and as he said this the telephone rang. He put down his cup of coffee, reached across his briefcase and newspaper, and when he answered it she saw his face change. Handing the phone to her he said, "It's Bishop." "Oh," she said, startled, and concealing her reaction she kept her voice casual. "Bishop, how good to hear from you, are you well?" Bishop, however, was not interested in polite conversation. He said bluntly, "Have any important plans for this day?" "No," she said, honestly enough. "A car will pick you up in forty minutes at your house," he said. "Carstairs wants to talk with you. Oh, and you might bring your pass-port with you, just in case." And he hung up. "Emily," said her husband warningly. "He just wants to talk with me," she told him. "Hard to believe," growled Cyrus. "You haven't even been home long enough for that arm to heal." "It's healed," she told him. "It just itches." He gave her a rueful smile. "I know, I know--I promised never to interfere, but still I don't like the sound of that call." With a glance at the clock on the wall he added, "And now I've got to go or I'll miss my first class, but Em--nothing dangerous, promise?" He knew, of course, that anything Carstairs might have in mind could be dangerous; after all, she and Cyrus had met in Zambia under very dangerous circumstances and they had survived by luck and ingenuity. Cyrus had gone with her to Thailand, too, where he'd been snatched away from her by bandits, but she did not think it wise to remind him of this, nor to mention that Bishop had asked her to bring her passport. Instead she said tactfully, with a bright smile, "Barbecued chicken for dinner tonight," and when he had gone she hurried upstairs to dress for her trip to CIA headquarters. From the Paperback edition. Excerpted from Mrs. Pollifax Unveiled by Dorothy Gilman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.