e in from Industrial Twenty-four, Chief,"
Lieutenant Sothran said in answer to Tortha Karf's question. "May be
for Assistant Verkan's desk."

"He's a Prole named Yandragno, sir," one of the policemen said.
"Industrial Sector Constabulary grabbed him peddling Martian hellweed
cigarettes to the girls in a textile mill at Kangabar Equivalent.
Captain Jamzar thinks he may have gotten them from somebody in the
Organization."

* * * * *

A little warning bell began ringing in the back of Verkan Vall's mind,
but at first he could not consciously identify the cause of his
suspicions. He looked the two policemen and their prisoner over
carefully, but could see nothing visibly wrong with them. Then another
car came in for a landing and rolled over under the marquee; the door
opened, and a police officer got out, followed by an elegantly dressed
civilian whom he recognized at once as Salgath Trod. A second
policeman was emerging from the car when Vall suddenly realized what
it was that had disturbed him.

It had been Salgath Trod, himself, less than half an hour ago, who had
introduced the term, "the Organization," to the Paratime Police. At
that time, if these people were what they claimed to be, they would
have been in transposition from Industrial Twenty-four, on the Fifth
Level. Immediately, he reached for his needler. He was clearing it of
the holster when things began happening.

The handcuffs fell from the "prisoner's" wrists; he jerked a
neutron-disruption blaster from under his jacket. Vall, his needler
already drawn, rayed the fellow dead before he could aim it, then saw
that the two pseudo-policemen had drawn their needlers and were aiming
in the direction of Salgath Trod. There were no flashes or reports;
only the spot of light that had winked on and off under Vall's rear
sight had told him that his weapon had been activated. He saw it
appear again as the sights centered on one of the "policemen." Then he
saw the other imposter's needler aimed at himself. That was the last
thing he expected ever to see, in that life; he tried to shift his own
weapon, and time seemed frozen, with his arm barely moving. Then there
was a white blur as Dalla's cloak moved in front of him, and the
needler dropped from the fingers of the disguised murderer. Time went
back to normal for him; he safetied his own weapon and dropped it,
jumping forward.

He grabbed the fellow in the green uniform by the nos