around and watch him get in trouble again, that's all."

Elshawe frowned. All the time that Porter had been in prison, his
technicians had been getting together the stuff to build the so-called
"spaceship," but none of them knew how it was put together or how it
worked. Only Porter knew that, and he'd put it together after he'd been
released on parole.

But if that was so, how come Skinner, who didn't even work for Porter,
was so knowledgeable about the drive? Or was that liquor talking?

"Did you help him build it?" the reporter asked smoothly.

"_Help_ him build it? Why, I--" Then Skinner stopped abruptly. "Why,
no," he said after a moment. "No. I don't know anything about it,
really. I just know that it worked in '79, that's all." He finished his
drink and got off his stool. "Well, I've got to be going. Nice talking
to you. Hope I see you again sometime."

"Sure. So long, Mr. Skinner." He watched the man leave the bar.

Then he finished his own drink and went back into the lobby and got a
phone. Ten minutes later, a friend of his who was a detective on the Los
Angeles police force had promised to check into Mr. Samuel Skinner.
Elshawe particularly wanted to know what he had been doing in the past
three years and very especially what he had been doing in the past year.
The cop said he'd find out. There was probably nothing to it, Elshawe
reflected, but a reporter who doesn't follow up accidentally dropped
hints isn't much of a reporter.

He came out of the phone booth, fired up his pipe again, and strolled
back to the bar for one more drink before he went back to Porter's
ranch.

* * * * *

Malcom Porter took one of the darts from the half dozen he held in his
left hand and hurled it viciously at the target board hung on the far
wall of the room.

_Thunk!_

"Four ring at six o'clock," he said in a tight voice.

_Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_

The other five darts followed in rapid succession. As he threw each one,
Porter snapped out a word. "They ... can't ... stop ... Malcom ...
Porter!" He glared at the board "Two bull's-eyes; three fours, and a
three. Twenty-five points. You owe me a quarter, Elshawe."

The reporter handed him a coin. "Two bits it is. What can you do,
Porter? They've got you sewed up tight. If you try to take off, they'll
cart you right back to The Rock--if the Army doesn't shoot you down
first. Do you want to spend the next ten years engrosse