d the blaster under his belt, leaving the scarlet jacket open
to his navel so that the loose folds would conceal the outline of the
weapon. He would have no trouble reaching the top level.

The resort casinos, like the mid-city amusement area, were open to any
citizen. Special autojets, with destinations pre-set for the casino
flat, were available in every monorail terminal. Hunter could by-pass
a probe inspection at a regular metro-entry. The nearest terminal,
from the north-coast line, was less than a quarter of a mile away.

As Hunter entered the industrial district he heard the turmoil of an
angry crowd. He came upon them suddenly, swarming at the gates of a
factory close to the terminal.

Eric Young's trouble-makers, he thought with a worried frown, jumping
obediently when the big boss spoke the word. In less than five years
Eric Young had turned the union into a third cartel, more powerful
than Consolidated or United because the commodity Young
controlled--human labor--was essential to the other two.

A third cartel! Suddenly Max Hunter understood why the cartels had to
have Ann's patent at any cost. The absolute control of the human mind!
It was the only weapon which Consolidated or United could use to break
Young's power.

Hunter shouldered his way through the strikers toward the terminal.
Though he wore no U.F.W. disc, he felt no alarm. Eric Young's strike
riots were always well-managed. None of the violence was real and no
one was ever seriously hurt.

But these trouble-makers seemed absurdly well-disciplined. They stood
in drill-team ranks, moving and shouting abuse in perfect unison. Then
Hunter saw their faces, as blank as death masks--and in all their
skulls the still unhealed scalpel wound, as well as an occasional
projecting platinum strand which sometimes caught the reflected light.

Max Hunter felt a chill of terror. He was walking in a human graveyard
of living automatons, responding to the transmission from Ann's
machine. United had lost no time in putting the thing to work. This
was no ordinary strike, but the opening skirmish in the conflict that
would wreck both Consolidated and the Union of Free Workers.

Hunter entered the monorail terminal. It was deserted except for a
woman who stood by the window looking out at the crowd. She was
wearing a demure, pink dress. Her face was plain, and she had used no
cosmetic plasti-skin to make it more striking. Her brown hair,
streaked with a gray wh