had grown paler and paler as I talked. Now suddenly, he spun in his seat and tried to throw himself out the grav-car's open door.

I caught his shoulder; slammed him back. "Controller, I've got news for you! Run out on me now, and I'll see that Kruze has you blocked back to Drudge Third."

Gaylord stared at me for so long my arm was beginning to ache with the strain of holding him.

Finally, then, in a sullen voice, he said, "What do you want me to do?"

"That's better." I released his shoulder; gestured him out of the grav-car. "Let's go inside where we can talk."

The office we ended up in—Gaylord's own, I gathered—had two doors, a desk big enough to skate on, three chairs, psychostructor and reel-case, and a custom voco equipped with scanner and scriber.

As a matter of policy, of maintaining control on all levels, I left my host standing while I took the chair behind the desk.

For an instant his jaw tightened angrily. Then, dodging my eyes and turning quickly, he said, "I'll get the file-reels."

I stopped him midway to the door: "What file-reels, Gaylord?"

"Why, the ones on the thrill-mills, of course." Perplexity at the question drew his brows together as he said it.

"Why?"

"Why—?" Openly startled now, he groped. "Well, it's just—I mean, I thought—"

I said, "Let me tell you the story, Gaylord. Then you decide if we need the reels.

"Forty-three Rizal days ago, a man named Frederick Zubin got a voco call. It was from a woman—a beautiful woman he'd never seen before. She congratulated him on it being his sixty-first birthday, and said an anonymous well-wisher wanted to send him a little present.

"A messenger popped in almost before the woman hung up. He gave Zubin a package about the size of a pound box of candy. Unwrapped, it turned out to be a metal case with a nameplate stamped 'Apex Perceptual Intensifier'. Another plate, on the back, said it was 'Model DXG'! Those were the only marks on it anywhere, inside or out. There weren't any instructions as to what it was 

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