and her face took on a serious, half conspiratorial expression.
"Do you know what?"

"No," said Candron, imitating her manner. "What?"

"We have a gentleman ... he came in yesterday ... a _very_ nice man ...
and very intelligent, too. And, you know what?"

Candron shook his head. "No," he repeated. "What?"

Mrs. Jesser's face took on the self-pleased look of one who has
important inside knowledge to impart. "He has actual photographs ...
three-D, full-color _pho_tographs ... of the con_trol_ room of a flying
saucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!"

"Really?" Candron's expression was that of a man who was both impressed
and interested. "What did Mr. Balfour say?"

"Well--" Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. "I don't really _know_! But
the gentleman is supposed to be back to_mor_row! With some _more_
pictures!"

"Well," said Candron. "Well. That's really fine. I hope he has
something. Is Mr. Taggert in?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!" She waved a plump
hand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to think that she
was the sole controller of the only way, except for the fire escape,
that anyone could get to the upper floors of the building. And as long
as she thought that, among other things, she was useful to the Society.
Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe fanatics that
came to the Society, and one of their own kind could do the job better
than anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were on duty,
the Society's camouflage would remain intact.

Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand and
then headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take the
stairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharp
ears, and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all the
way up. Nothing--but _nothing_--must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesser
wonder about anything that went on here.

* * * * *

The door to Brian Taggert's office was open when Candron finally reached
the fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but had
long been aware of his approach.

Candron went in, closed the door, and said, "Hi, Brian," to the
dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couch
that stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the other
rear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn't a desk man. He looked like a
heavy-weight boxer, but he pre