home. I won't pretend that I slept.

By morning we had a complete report from the colonial administration on Michael Rolland Gregory. Fingerprints, photos, detailed description, complete with limp and left-handedness. The works. Also, the added information that he'd resigned his civil service job eight months before and had left immediately for Earth, on a Dawn Liner scheduled to land at San Francisco.

I swore savagely, got off an urgent message to San Francisco, and left for a dinner date with Stella Emerson. And another handshake at her apartment door.

San Francisco did a thorough job, but it took time—two more days. Michael Rolland Gregory had hung around for a while, living in run-down rooming houses, and holding a series of odd jobs. Two months before he had disappeared.

"He could be anywhere by now," I told the Captain.

"Including here in New York," the Captain said dryly.

Two to seven days.

I took Stella back to her apartment after our dinner date, and in front of the door I said, "Stella, I like you."

She blushed wonderfully. "I like you too, Jim."

"Then do me a favor—a very special favor."

Her blush deepened, with an overlay of panic. "I'd—like to, Jim. Because I—like you. But I can't. It's hard to explain, but I've always told myself that unless I marry a man...."

I leaned against the wall and laughed helplessly while her eyes widened in amazement. Then I dispensed with the handshaking. She clung to me, and it might have been her first kiss. In fact, it was.

"I don't just like you, darling," I said. "I love you. And that wasn't the favor I was going to ask. You said you have an aunt over in Newark. I want you to stay with her for a while—for a week or so."

"But—why?"

"Will you trust me? I can't tell you anything except that you're in danger here."

"You mean—Mike?"

"I'm afraid so."

 Prev. P 10/17 next