ked at the man in the blue suit and said, "You've been lucky.
They're after you."

"Who is _they_?"

"Taber. The government crowd. The police, too, maybe. You killed that
guy in the Village, didn't you?" Les King had decided a bold approach
was the best way. But he was no fool. He kept his hand on the doorknob
and watched the man carefully. "By the way, you haven't told me your
name."

"John Dennis."

"You look like a man named Sam Baker. He disappeared about ten years
ago--from a little town upstate."

"I am John Dennis."

King shrugged. "Okay, you're John Dennis. All I want to do is stay on
top of this thing and have the inside track when it breaks."

"Brent Taber told you to forget about it."

King did not like the odd feeling of helplessness that seemed to have a
grip on him. He was not alarmed, though. Over and above this was a
sense of excitement. There was money here--he knew damned well there was
money here.

"You want money, don't you?"

The question startled King. Could the guy read his mind? "Who the hell
doesn't?" he retorted defensively. "If you're heeled you've got it
made."

Somehow King felt that the pressure, the odd excitement, lessened in
intensity. His nerves, he conceded, were sure playing tricks.

"There are some things I want. I will tell you where they are. I will
give you money for them."

An espionage approach? King wondered. In a way, he hoped it was. He
could always get clear. When the time was right, when he had the story
locked, he'd go to the FBI with it. He had a quick vision of a spread in
_Life_, a title: "I Broke the Russian Spy Ring." His own by-line.

"That sounds touchy," he said.

"I will tell you where to go and what to do."

"I'll have to know more than that."

"I will tell you what to do."

John Dennis left without saying good-bye.

Les King stared at the inner side of the closed door. "Jesus!" he
muttered.

But the excitement was creeping back.

8

Brent Taber stood in front of the desk of Authority and said, "Mr.
Porter, I don't think you people realize the gravity of this situation."

Porter's eyes were frosty. "And just what gives you that idea?"

"The fact that I'm being hamstrung at every turn. Men I assigned to
search out the last android have been taken off the job, transferred
away from me without notice."

"You speak of being _hamstrung_." Porter pronounced the term with an
inflection of disgust, as though it were a vulgarism