r suckers? Hunter tried to get up to
snap off the telecast. He managed only to throw himself awkwardly over
the arm of the chair.

And then he saw the body on the floor--the body of the genuine Mrs.
Ames, charred by a ragged blaster wound seared through her breast.
They had murdered her--naturally with his blaster--and left him at the
scene, neatly framed for the crime.

Hunter heard--right on cue--the whine of a police siren outside.
Everything timed to trap him just as the motor paralysis wore off!
With an effort that brought beads of sweat to his forehead, he dropped
his blaster and pushed himself out of the chair. His feet were numb.
He moved a few steps and banged into the piano. Clawing for support,
his hands crashed in jangling discord on the keys.

The siren swelled loud in front of the house. Hunter heard the
drum-beat of boots on the porch. He stumbled toward the kitchen--and
fell into the arms of two police officers who had entered from the
rear of the house.

He swung his fist; the fingers felt like clods of wet clay. One of the
mercenaries caught his wrist and held it easily. In the gloom Hunter
saw the Consolidated insignia on the man's jacket, and the guard
whispered quickly, "This deal was a set-up, Hunter--packaged evidence,
dropped at headquarters ten minutes ago."

Hunter stared. "Accusing me by name? Get this straight! Four hours ago
they put me under with a blaster and--"

"It's a United frame," the guard said. "They want you out for good.
The top brass of Consolidated is giving you the green right down the
line. The fastest out Jake and I could figure--" He jerked his head
toward his companion. "--was to give the United boys on our team the
front of the house, and let you make a break for it from the back.
We'll fake enough here to protect ourselves."

They pushed a blaster into Hunter's hands. He stumbled through the
kitchen as the front door gave and two United mercenaries burst into
the house. Hunter ran awkwardly, without full control of his legs.

He saw, looming black against the night shadows, the oval silhouette
of the autojet on the Ames flat, still held under his twenty-four hour
charter. It offered a tempting means of escape, but a public car was
too easily traced and brought down by police tracers. However, it
could perform a miracle as a diversion.

VI

Hunter slid into the car, punched out a destination blindly, and
engaged the flight gear. With the customary roar of po