on into his office and had barely sat down when the phone
hummed. "Yes?" he said, depressing the switch.

"Mr. BenChaim would like to speak to you, sir," Helen said formally.

"Oh?" In order to have gotten here so quickly, BenChaim, too, must have
left before the verdict was delivered. He was hardly more than a minute
behind the detective. And that was unusual in a man who was waiting at
the trial of the kidnappers of his own son. Still, Moishe BenChaim was
an unusual man.

"Tell him to come right on in," the detective said. "Oh, and Helen ...
hold off on that Pelham call for a little while." He didn't want to be
talking business while BenChaim was in the office.

"Yes, sir," she said.

A few seconds later, the door opened, and Moishe BenChaim came in. He
was not a big man, but he was broad of shoulder and broad of girth,
built like a wrestler. He had a heavy, graying beard, and wore it with a
patriarchal air. He was breathing rather heavily as he came through the
door, and he stopped suddenly to pull a handkerchief from his pocket. He
began coughing--harsh, racking, painful coughs that shook his heavy
frame.

"Sorry," he said after a moment. "Damn lungs. Shouldn't try to move so
fast." He wiped his lips and put the handkerchief away.

The detective didn't say anything. He knew that Moishe BenChaim had
injured his lungs eighteen years before. An accident in space had
ruptured his spacesuit, and the explosive decompression that had
resulted had almost killed him. He had saved his own life by holding the
torn spot with one hand and turning up the air-tank valve full blast
with the other. The rough patch job had held long enough for him to get
back inside his ship, but his lungs had never been the same, and his
eyes were eternally bloodshot from the ruptured and distended
capillaries.

"I noticed you'd slipped out of the courtroom," he went on. "I hope you
don't mind my following you."

"Of course not, Mr. BenChaim," the detective said. "Sit down."

BenChaim sat in the chair across the desk from the detective. "I didn't
wait for the verdict," he said. "I knew the conviction was certain after
you testified."

"Thanks. My secretary got the news just before you came in. Guilty
straight across the board. But your son's testimony was a lot more
telling than mine."

"Guilty," BenChaim repeated with satisfaction. "Naturally. What else? I
admit my son's testimony was good," he continued; "Little Shmuela told
his s