oor at the foot of a flight of steps.

He hesitated before ringing the bell. What kind of an approach would he
use? The idea was to get inside and see the layout--spot the office, the
file cabinets. The feature-story bit? It might work, but who the hell
lived here? He'd checked the mailbox beside the front porch but there'd
been no name.

Deciding he could only play it by ear, he pulled in his diaphragm and
rang the bell.

The door opened quickly--too quickly, it seemed--and King realized he'd
struck a pay lode in the myopic-looking little jerk who stood peering
out at him. The guy wore a white laboratory coat with two bloodstains on
it and was holding a scalpel in his hand.

"I'm Doctor Entman. Can I help you?"

Entman--Entman--for Christ sake. Oh, sure, a neurologist. Had to be the
same guy. International authority. The _Times_ once did a feature on his
arrival at Idlewild. UN stuff.

"I'm King of the _Herald Tribune_," Les said, lying easily.
"We're shaping up a feature on the more advanced neurological
techniques--Sunday supplement material. They sent me down to see if
you'd give us some of your views."

"I'd be delighted. Come in. Come in."

"I'm not imposing on your time, I hope."

"Not at all!"

The guy was almost too cordial, but what the hell? All their noses
twitched at the smell of publicity.

Entman led him down a cement-floored corridor, the smell of formaldehyde
thickening as they went, then into a small office with an open door, on
the far side through which Les King was confronted with a frankly
gruesome sight--a dissecting room with parts of cadavers lying around
like orders in a meat packer's shipping room.

"Won't you sit down, please? There by the desk."

As Entman gestured, he noted King's reaction to the sight and the smell
of the dissecting room.

"Just a moment. I'll close that door."

"No, don't bother, Doctor. I'd better get the authentic atmosphere. It
makes a better story."

"I admire your courage, young man."

King pointed toward the room. "Something important?"

"Routine--only routine."

Then, to Les King's practiced eye, Entman proved it wasn't routine at
all by entering the laboratory and gathering up a loose pile of notes
lying there on a table. He seemed to momentarily forget King's presence
as he went through the notes, sorted them carefully, and brought them
back into the office.

King watched as Entman then deposited them in a small safe. He closed
the saf