old-fashioned timepiece—the recognition signal of TPL operatives. "I guess I am Kittrell," the man acknowledged. "They told me they were sending someone from the Narcotics division to take over on that narcophene business. You him?"

"Yeah. Right now I'm having trouble of my own, though. This Kiddie rolled me last night. Every cent I had; I can't even get back to my hotel."

"Rolled you?" Kittrell's eyes widened. "I know this fella. He cleans up around the office. Wait a minute." His thin, pale hands flashed in intricate motions, meaningless to Mac. They were significant to the Kiddie, though, for he replied as rapidly. Kittrell nodded. "I wouldn't have thought it of him. Always thought he was too stupid to rob anybody over ten."

That was a pretty dubious remark, Mac thought, but he ignored it. "Do you suppose you can make him cough up?"

"Sure!" The other smiled cheerfully. "Like this!"

Mac was unprepared for the next move. Kittrell pulled his punch, of course, because he didn't want to kill the frail Palladian, but his heavy fist bounced the Kiddie off the floor and flung him to the base of the wall. He lay there, his glow-glands jetting crimson beams of fear and rage.

"Hey!" cried MacCauley. "Don't murder the poor son! That's no way to get my dough back!"

Kittrell stared. Then a shadow passed over his face and he seemed to lose interest. He shrugged. "Have it your way. What do you want me to do—adopt him?"

"Ask him what he did with the money. Tell him he can have the metal stuff; all I want back is the bills."

Kittrell, looking disgusted, semaphored the message. Kiddie faces don't react as a human's does, but MacCauley was pretty sure there was gratitude glowing on this one's knobby features. After a couple of seconds' gesticulation, Kittrell looked around. "He says he's sorry he took it. If you come with him he'll give you the money. He's got it stashed away in the sty he lives in, a little farther along this corridor."

"Will he do it?"

Kittrell shrugged again. "Guess so. Anyway, you're bigger than him—or don't you like rough stuff?"

That, MacCauley thought, was hardly a friendly remark. He resolved to take it up later; after all, it wasn't his fault that he was superseding Kittrell. 

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