ELEVEN

Skip woke slowly. Pavement was hard beneath him. His head ached and his mouth tasted foul. The background noise of traffic hurt. He groped through bewilderment. What'd happened? A monumental drunk, a fight, or— Memory slammed back. He sat up with half a yell, half a groan. Lamplight filtered dully around huge pillars whose shadows swamped him. He'd been tucked out of sight beneath an elevated section of railroad.

'Yvonne?' he called weakly. 'Yvonne?'

No answer. He climbed to his feet. Dizziness swept through and almost felled him. He stood swaying till it passed, then stumbled out on to the street which crossed under the el. It lay deserted in the dark, warehouses and factories. 'Yvonne!' he shouted.

Physical strength and steadiness began returning. Though he had no watch, he recalled that a knockout shot generally put you to sleep for about an hour. He went back behind the pillars, on either side of the street, and hunted for his friend. She wasn't there, of course. The kidnappers only wanted her. They took him for a mere escort and dumped him at the first opportune place, not wishing to "be bothered with an extra prisoner.

Get help. Call the police, no, better the FBI.

He started down the sidewalk at random, first shuffling, later striding, finally running as his body threw off the last effects of the drug. The exercise cleared his mind. He found himself thinking with a speed and precision that raised faint surprise at the rear of his brain.

If the object of the game had been to murder Yvonne, like last time, they could have done it, to both, when they stopped to leave him off. A bullet, a slashed throat, a full eight or ten needles, no problem.

Therefore they wanted her alive, at any rate until she'd been quizzed by—whoever hired them. For they were obviously local Underworlders, top-notch professionals, who knew the scene and had the organization. He might well have that to thank for his life. Mercenaries didn't take the risk of committing murder unless forced by circumstances or unless it was part of the job. In the latter case, the price went high. Having been told to net Yvonne Canter, they had done exactly that.

They must be mighty damned confident of their ability to keep her out of sight, to let Skip give early notice. They must have foreseen what hounds would be baying after them___Well, did a few hours make any difference? On agreeing to the San Clemente jaunt, Yvonne had said she must call Armstrong and tell them she was okay, or there'd be a general alarm out before sunrise.

And why should the kidnappers not be confident? They had the whole megalopolis to choose a lair from.

Their operation had been so smooth in every respect, they wouldn't have overlooked the details of concealment.

Smooth as a glass ramp going down into hell. The thought was anguish. His feet thudded, the air tore in and out of him, grey walls and locked doors fell past, and no other life stirred, no lighted window appeared; save for the sky-glow above and the machine throb around, he might have been the last living creature on Earth.

Knowing the sea gipsies were about due in, a man could find the exact time by calling the harbourmaster's office. Shadows would be waiting, who would not overlook the possibility that their quarry might leave by an odd route. Unsuspecting, untrained in such matters, Skip and Yvonne would be child's play to follow. In fact, once they'd checked their luggage, they might not have been followed at all.

It would be ample to post a watcher at the station.

Secret Service disguise… yes, a distinct touch. FBI or military intelligence credentials were risky to fake, since Yvonne would often have seen them; her escort might be equally familiar with local police badges and style; but how many people ever had anything to do with the Secret Service?

Who were those men working for? Why kidnap this time, instead of kill? How had they known she was on Ormen?

An auto purred by. Skip shouted and waved. The man inside was watching television and didn't notice.

However, more cars moved on a cross-street ahead. This nightmare race must be near an end. Halting at the corner, lungs pumping like bellows, spleen aching, mouth and throat dry, skin drenched and stinking, Skip looked around. Neon signs, a cluster of shops and bars, that way!

As he entered a drugstore, fear smote him. He clutched frantically in his pockets. The money was there.

His enemies hadn't even considered him worth robbing^

Well, they're right. Tears stung his eyes. It's my fault. I talked her into visiting Maury— someone must've passed the news in spite of Hightower's request— and I knew in my vast wisdom that she had nothing to fear in this town. If they destroy her, the blood is forever on my hands.

He located a phone booth and punched for FBI, LA HQ. The screen replicated a man's face. 'Federal Bureau of Investigation. William Sleight speaking. May I help you?'

'Better record this,' Skip said.

'We routinely do, sir.' Impassive, the man kept a disconcertingly steady stare. I must look -wild to him, dusty, sweaty, unkempt. Skip gathered breath. In a rush of words, while he clenched his fists against the pain of it, he told the story.

Sleight flung questions. At the end, he said, We'll get right on it. Stay put. We'll send a car. Where are you?'

'You need me? I mean, I'm not inventing this, and I've, I've told you what I know.'

'You bet we want you, mister.' Sleight had now acquired an expression, as bleak as any Skip had ever seen. 'Quick, where are you?' On being told, he nodded, a single downward jerk like an eagle stripping a bone. 'Wait inside. At the news-stand. Won't be more than ten minutes.' The screen blanked.

Skip left the booth. You're wrong, buck, he thought. It'll be a lot more. They'll lock me up and melt the key.

Or can they? I'm not guilty of anything, am I? … Like spit I'm not ___ Legally guilty, that is. I'm simply a material witness. They can't hold me indefinitely. Can they?

They'll keep me too damn long at best. The vision of walls and warders made him ill. When I might be doing something to help.

What might you do, fat boy?

He took a magazine and leafed through it, as a way to occupy hands and eyes. In the immensity of his loneliness, the counters, the clerks, the few customers, the faintly sweet odours, the background music, were unreal, unreachable.

A title appeared, 'The Sigman and the Nations'. His glance plodded over the page. The author claimed that the governments of Earth were being criminally lax in not making definite, firm advance arrangements for the Peace Authority to control whatever new knowledge and fantastic new technology ought to rush over man when communication with the being from the stars was finally established. Failing this accord, the several delicate equilibriums on which civilization today depended for its survival could be upset. For instance, the Authority's powers of inspection and arrest were confined to certain classes of armaments.

The rest were not prohibited, and only, a few international regulations—anti-pollution, schedule notification, mutual aid in distress, et cetera—covered spacecraft. But a photon-drive ship was potentially an irresistible weapon. If a great power succeeded in building such a vessel for exclusive use, its rivals would practically be forced to denounce tKe ban on nuclear warheads, openly or clandestinely; and you didn't need an intercontinental rocket to annihilate a city, you could smuggle your bomb in piecemeal—

Skip raised his head and stared before him. Sure, he realized. That's what this thing tonight is about.

The underworld scarcely had a line into Maury. Yet a scientist could be a spy for a government; that had happened often enough in the past. Though Maury did nothing secret, it would be an excellent pied-a-terre for an agent assigned to ingratiate himself with men of different nationalities whose work elsewhere did have military significance. He'd sound them out, collecting scraps of information which, fitted together, might at last reveal a hidden truth.

Suppose the Russians, the Chinese, whoever they were—. call them X—suppose they'd decided a while back to try getting the jump on others in the Sigman business. Since it wasn't obvious how they could, or whether they could, they'd improvise as they went along. Such absence of doctrine always seemed to open the way for extremists to take charge. When Yvonne made the first crack in the language barrier, she'd revealed herself as the best American on the project. Word must have gone out: 'Eliminate her before she develops capabilities that we may not be told about.'

Nobody had reason to maintain an expensive and risky organization of his own for work like burglaries and murders, anyhow not in the West. The Underworld was available. You'd hire your assassin deviously—yeah, doubtless tell his ultimate boss that you wanted this research stopped because it was dangerous or blasphemous or Communistic or whatever—

Yvonne escaped, and the U.S. government spirited her away. In the secret councils of Country X, they doubtless wondered if that was strictly for a rest cure. Or if it was, mightn't she have a fresh inspiration during her holiday? So… kidnap her if possible and wring out what she knew before disposing of her existence. When X's agent in Maury saw Yvonne and learned where she would disembark, he must have sneaked a phone call to his American contact. (Maybe he himself didn't suspect his masters were after her. His job could simply be to inform them of everything interesting that came to his attention.) X's local man was notified in turn, and promptly hired men from the Angel-eno torpedo guild, and the rest followed.

Skip flinched. The inevitability was crushing. In an hour under babble juice, quizzed by a skilled operator, Yvonne would pass on the whole of what she and he had developed. The operator would curse that his superiors hadn't thought to instruct that any companion of hers be included in the package. They'll try for me. But I'll be safely in jail. She would be useless, yes, hazardous to keep. The operator would turn her back to the professionals for elimination.

They might well amuse themselves with her a while before they let her die.

Unless she's dead already— No, I mustn't think that. And they, X, must need time to prepare.

They got short notice and they" can't have a big, permanently alerted,. Underworld-style outfit in this country. I imagine their quizmaster'll have to be flown here from home. And smuggling him in is taking an unnecessary chance, so a cover must first be arranged for him. And matters will have to be fixed at this end so the torpedoes won't guess who they've really been working for.

Still, a day or two at most. And the FBI must have leads to the Underworld, but the Feds are limited in what they can do and they've got this whole monster of a supercity to cover—

Skip dropped the magazine. Judas on a stick! I can do things!

A mature man would have stayed and offered his advice and services to the authorities. But that would take hours, at the end of which his idea might be dismissed. Besides, Skip had never claimed to be mature. A wall clock said his ten minutes were nearly gone. He left the store in a rush. 'Hey, taxi!' Only later did it occur to him that he should have called in and reported his theory about the Sigman, lest it die in America with him and Yvonne.

The One of the Los Angeles area was male and called-himself Elohath. His dwelling was in a slum district and from the outside seemed to be another rotting centenarian of a house, grotesquely turreted, bayed, scrimshawed, and scaly-shingled, in a yard rank with weeds and trash. Skip dismissed his cab two blocks away and proceeded on foot. Nobody else seemed to be abroad. What windows were lighted had the blinds drawn; none could be opaqued_. Infrequent, antiquated incandescent street lamps stood goblinlike in puddles of dingy luminance. Above the background mutter of megalopolis, a palm tree rubbed fronds-together in the rapidly chilling breeze, a skeletal sound. Sheets of paper scrittled across the walk. A cat slunk under a hedge reverting to brush.

Skip mounted the porch and pressed the doorbell, a further anachronism. He hoped he wouldn't be left here long, among ugly pillars silhouetted against a dull red sky-glow. Brrrr! sounded through the heavy old door. Brrrr! Brrrr!

It opened. A woman in a black robe, who would have been good-looking if less hard-faced and if every hair had not been removed from her head, asked, 'What is your desire?'

'I have to see the One,' Skip answered. 'Right away. No, I don't have an appointment. It's terribly urgent, though.'

She considered. Elohath must get scores of callers a year who were weird even by his lights. Skip tried to look his youngest and most clean-cut. 'Come in, please, and we will discuss it,' she said at length.

When the door had closed behind him, Skip was in richness. Drapes of purple velvet screened the rooms that gave on the dark-panelled corridor down which he was guided. Bulbs in ornate, seven-branched brackets provided dim vision. The black rug deadened sound, so thick and soft that it felt alive beneath his feet. From somewhere, just audible, wailed a minor-key chant.

Reaching an antechamber, the woman took a seat behind a huge desk. Phone and intercom were housed in a case carven with demonic faces, on top of which rested a human skull. Walls and ceiling were hung with red and black cloth. The floor was as luxuriously covered as in the hallway. A slightly bitter incense swirled from a brazier. Above an inner door was a Tetragrammaton.

Elohath's a better than average charlatan, Skip reflected. But then, he'd better be. He isn't fleecing ordinary sheep. (How did it happen, superstition making the comeback it's done? Already in Dad's childhood, educated people were solemnly using astrology. Could science maybe be too demanding? — Anyway, in superstitiousness I suppose the criminal classes have always taken first prize) Among Elohath's clientele are the barons of the Angeleno Underworld. If they ever stopped fearing him, he'd be done; he knows too much.

'Be seated.' The woman pointed to a chair. Skip obeyed. She took a printed form from a drawer. Til need certain information before I can decide whether to disturb the One on your account. Last night he had to raise a dead man, and frankly, that leaves him tired for days afterward.'

"He's met me,' Skip said. 'Bats Bleadon was showing me around a couple of years ago. We attended a seance here and I was introduced. The One very kindly had an acolyte give me a tour of the unforbidden parts of the mansion.'

'Indeed?' Her bleached-white countenance registered more interest. 'That was before my time. May 1

have your name?'

Skip gave it. She punched for the data file; Elohath was not above using electronic storage and retrieval.

Reading the screen, she nodded. 'Ah, yes. Mr Bleadon spoke highly of you. Why haven't you been around since?'

'I left town for, hm, various reasons. Didn't come back till yesterday.' Skip was not play-acting the desperation in his voice: 'Please, Darkangel! I've got to see the One right away! The business could touch him as well as Bats— No, I can't tell you what. You don't want to know, believe me, Darkangel. Look, if he gets mad, he can take it out on me, not you.'

'I shall inquire,' she said, and pushed the intercom switch. After a short conversation, she finished, 'My thanks to my Lord,' cut circuit, and told Skip: 'You may enter in seven minutes. Meanwhile be silent and compose your thoughts.'

How'm I gonna do that last? The woman stared blank-eyed before her. Elohath's secretaries got rigorous training, all right. As for the boss, he'd doubtless been relaxing in his private quarters— not necessarily with a succubus or an occult tome; why not the Downey Clown Show, if he's alonef

—and needed time to put his costume back on.

A husky shavepate whose robe wouldn't hamper hirn in a fight entered when the secretary rang. 'You realize weapons may not be borne in the sanctum,' he said. Tlease stand and hold out your arms.' He patted Skip efficiently. 'Very well. Thank you.'

If he'd discovered the fang, Skip would have been in deep trouble. But it was inside an elastic waistband which forced it to match the curvature of the wearer's body. The slight extra bulge and hardness were scarcely detectable against his muscular abdomen.

'Remember to halt three paces from the throne, bow three times with thumbs crossed on breast, and wait to speak until you are spoken to,' the secretary said while the guard demonstrated. 'You may go in now.'

Skip's pulse racketed in his ears. The sweat was chill where it trickled from armpits down ribs. His tongue felt like a block of wood. Somehow he opened the door, walked through, and closed it behind him. Its massiveness and the hiss when it settled back in the frame bespoke soundproofing.

Alone in a short, gloomy corridor, he unsnapped the pocket in his waistband and drew out the fang. It was a thin, slowly straightening brown ribbon, 30 centimetres long, four centimetres wide, two millimetres thick. He rapped it sharply against a shoe. Jarred, the plastic sprang back to the original shape it

'remembered'. He felt an instant's expansion and snaky writhing, and held a knife with a ten-centimetre blade. The inset edge and point, around which the ribbon had been folded, gleamed razor-keen.

Restoring the former configuration would take longer. He'd heat the plastic till its present rigidity became softness, force it into a 'mould' he carried in his pack, and restow it. Otherwise, unconstrained, it would soon become a knife again. His slap had merely hastened that. For the present, he tucked it between pants and underwear, letting his tunic fall concealingly over^ The whole job had taken a few seconds. In a pinch he could do it much faster.

Sometimes he wondered how long it would be until the idea was blown or reinvented and spread.

Meanwhile, Hank Sunshine, who made the things, gave them only to sigaroons he trusted.

Feeling a little more self-confident, Skip went on down the hall and through the door to the room beyond.

It was in the same style as the antechamber, but huge in extent and height. The windows were draped; shadows dwelt thick between the few wan lights. Shelves of musty leather-bound books dominated two walls, a rack of magical and alchemical apparatus a third. Showcases holding curious objects—he noticed a thighbone, a caul, and a mummified foetus among them—flanked the entrance. A crimson carpet laid over the black marked his way to the throne.

He trod the path, which seemed to stretch on and on, and made his obeisance. 'By our Father God, our Mother Ashtoreth, and the legions of the Otherworld: my son, be welcome,' said the rustling voice above him. Teace upon those who come hither in reverence. Speak freely and unafraid, save that you must be brief, for you are not the single troubled soul who has need of my succour.'

Skip looked up. Elohath seemed tall in his midnight robe. Its cowl surrounded a face white as the woman's, gaunt as this house. About his neck hung the ancient fig symbol. The cross on the rosary at his waist had a crescent for arms. In his right hand, like a sceptre, he held a crooked staff.

Suddenly Skip lost nervousness. He saw, heard, smelled, felt more sharply than.he could remember from aforetime. His thoughts sprang forward in disciplined ranks. Underneath was a rage so driving, so powerful that it was as if a demon had truly possessed him.

'Lord,' he began, 'what I've got to tell is… well, you better read my mind or you'll call me a liar.'

'Let me first hear you, my son.'

'But—pardon me, Lord, but do make sure nobody is listening, like on an intercom. We can't trust—

Well, what I'm here about is trouble with the heavies. The Feds.'

'The government knows me as a licensed minister and counsellor.' Elohath's tone had gone a shade less calm. The fraudulence of years was too strong for him not to add: 'If I told you the names of certain clients— Proceed.'

Yeh, yeh, yeh, gibed at the back of Skip's head. And you give your well-paid advice after you've read the future in the stars or an inkpool or your navel or wherever; you cast spells; you exercise clairvoyance; you sell amulets, charms, philtres; you bless, you curse, you put on a damn-ably good show; you must've mastered every trick that every magician, illusionist, fortune teller, medium, tele-path, you-name-it has ever worked out for spooking his fellow men into awe and generosity.

Most of him was gauging distance and layout. The chamber might be continuously monitored by guards—but probably not, for many secrets were confided to the One and a guard might be bribable or kidnappable. Elohath would have an. alarm button in the chair or someplace. However, since his visitors were supposed to be unarmed and he had that heavy staff and perhaps a gun, he wouldn't really be worried about assault—not that those who came to this Endor, in fear or greed or hatred or grief, would dare offend the summoner of angels, fiends, ghosts…

He was leaning forward, tense, free hand on a knee. No better chance to take him was likely to come.

Skip made the distance in two jumps. On the second, he twisted in mid-air. His left foot preceded him, a karate kick to the solar plexus. The throne went over backward with a rug-muffled thud. Skip hi^-the dais and rolled to the floor. He bounced directly up, drew his knife, and sprang to his victim. The One lay limp. Hey, the old bastard's not dead, is he? Skip straightened the throne. In case some' body looked in, that'd be an item less to explain away. He carried the other to a couch in the farthest, darkest corner of the room, laid him down, and checked for weapons. None; this fellow was well in the saddle.

The One stirred and groaned. 'Okay, chum, come out of it,' Skip said. He slapped a cheek. Elohath's eyelids fluttered. He clutched his belly and retched. Skip showed him the blade. 'I want information, you.

I want it fast and I want it accurate.'

'What—' Elohath struggled to a sitting position. He began tracing signs and mouthing noises.

Skip slapped him again. 'Save your show. Maybe you've cursed a few people to their doom because they, believed in it and wasted away. I'm not about to. Listen. If we're interrupted, you tell the. person we're in conference and he's to leave us be. At the first sign of anything I can't handle, I'll kill you. To make that plausible, let me point out that I'll have nothing to lose. I know quite well what your goons would do to me. So after your heart's skewered, mine comes next. Co-operate and you won't be hurt.'

'What do you want?' Elohath whispered.

Skip related the kidnapping, not only describing the two operatives but exhibiting drawings he had made en route in his ever-present notepad. 'I know your system,' he finished. 'Besides the unusual hokum, it depends on an intelligence network most professional spies would envy. Clients tell you things; you keep runners out, observers, snoopers, collators, information exchange with colleagues elsewhere. The heavies would give their left kidneys to know what you know, which is why you're careful never to lend them an excuse for arresting you.'

'I… am… a law-abiding citizen. You—

'I am a felon of the worst kind,' Skip said, more cheerfully than he felt. 'I want to learn where these two horns are, who they're affiliated with, where they're probably denned, any alternative spots, what kind of guards and other security they may have—the whole shebang, Elohath.'

'Privileged information,' the One said. He had his wind hack, and his cunning and ratlike courage.

'Yeah, you'll be shot slowly if it's ever found out you betrayed a client. It doesn't have to be found out, if we arrange this right. You'll for sure be dead if you don't talk to me. Now!'

'No! Azreal, destroy him! Semphoragas, ya lamiel—' The invocation was cut off by an arm around the throat.

Skip hated the next few minutes. That what he was doing left no marks made it somehow worse. Only the thought of Yvonne in captivity kept him active. Eloath was getting on in years, physically not strong.

He broke. 'Yes, yes, I'll talk, damn you, you devil, damn you—'

'Begin,' Skip said into the sobbing.

By the time Elohath had spoken what he recalled offhand, he had recovered sufficiently to use the intercom. A considerable file was duplicated at his behest on the ReaderFax behind a screen. 'We'll want to protect you,' Skip said after going through it, 'so you'll have a motive for not blowing the whistle on me. Is yonder phone a relay job?'

Elohath nodded miserably. Skip had expected as much. Elsewhere in the city was an instrument through which messages to and from this one travelled. A continuously operating scanner would reveal if strangers came into that distant room after having presumably traced a call. The connection to here would immediately be broken and a new line arranged for.

Skip made his prisoner lie on the floor, under his foot, and rang up the FBI. Sleight was still at the desk.

'YouI' he exploded. 'What—'

'I think I've found where Dr Canter is,' Skip said brusquely. He gave names, addresses, and pertinent details. 'That's in order of likelihood. I'd suggest sleep-gas bombs before'the men go in, but you know more about that than I do. And blood of Christ, man, hurry \'

'Where do you get this stuff?' Sleight demanded. 'How do we know you're telling the truth?'

'Dare you assume I'm not? I'll, call back in an hour.' Skip cut circuit and released the One.

'We can spend the time planning,' he said. 'You see, if I told them how I came by my information, I'd be confessing to a serious crime. I might get probation, but the whole thing'd be tedious and messy, I'd have a bad mark on my record, I'd be denied clearance to work with Dr Canter—you can write the scenario yourself. Therefore you and I have the same interest in kitty-littering the truth.'

Elohath stared long at him. 'You're as sharp as you're tough,' he murmured. 'If you're ever interested in a job-*_

' gQuien sabe? Far's that goes, you rascal, if I can ever do you a favour that's not too flinkin' unethical, you might ask. Now let's concoct/

Between Skip's imagination and the One's knowledge, a tale was worked out that ought to serve. Skip had sought former Underworld acquaintances in the hope of getting a lead. Among them was a man who, by sheer good fortune, happened to be a disgruntled, recently expelled member of the same mercenary outfit that had snatched Yvonne. (He was real, well-known to the police. Nothing except the fact that, three nights earlier, he had gone down the garbage grinder of a rival, need be withheld.) Skip bad drawn him out, aided by his natural resentment and a large supply of pot.

After this was settled, Elohath and guest chatted, not entirely unamicably. Beneath his lightness, Skip's tension approached breaking point. It was with shaking fingers that he punched the FBI number at hour's end.

'Yes, we have .her,' Sleight said. 'Locked in a room at the first house you listed, scared and shocked but otherwise unharmed. Unfortunately, the men we took with her don't seem to have known more.than that they were supposed to stand by for further orders. A couple escaped. They were in the rear of the house, with access to a tunnel our boys found afterward. Hence no point in trying to set a trap. Now will you come here?'

'I'm on my way.' Skip switched off and spent a while breathing. Finally: 'I'm sorry to inconvenience you further, old boy. However, you realize I must protect my line of retreat.'

'Certainly.' Elohath pressed the intercom. 'Darkangel Zaaphyra, Mr Wayburn is leaving. I want to be left strictly alone to meditate upon his news.' Skip bound him with, strips cut from the curtains, in a set of ties that an escape artist would take about half an hour to work free of. It wouldn't do for a One to be found trussed like a hog. Having gagged him, Skip patted him on the head and departed.

'Be seated, Comrade Professor,' General Chou said. Wang Li took the chair at which the cigarette pointed. There followed a minute's quiet. Finally, from behind a veil of smoke, Chou stated:

'You should know, because she may mention it to you, a second attempt has been made on Yvonne Canter.'

'NoI' A part of Wang observed that he sounded almost as appalled as he was. 'I have not heard—'

"You would not have. The American authorities are suppressing the facts, thus far at any rate. We know because we have agents among them: which is not a wicked thing, Comrade Professor, when they would like to do the same to us and have possibly succeeded.'

'I understand,' Wang said low. 'Was she hurt?'

'No. This was a kidnapping, by hired criminals. The fascist police recovered her and took a few prisoners who knew nothing of value. Apart from this: that in her fright and confusion she had babbled to them about a fresh concept of the Sigman, something which would open the way to a real alliance. She evidently hoped they would free her on that account. Upon seeing their indifference, she spoke no further.'

'Who can have been responsible?' Wang made himself ask.

'Who knows?' Chou replied. 'The Soviets, the Japanese, the West Europeans—or it could have been engineered by the American regime itself, hiring real gangsters but meaning to sacrifice them in a show for the purpose of frightening her into total conformity.' He leaned across his desk. 'Consider this, Professor Wang. The incident occurred days ago. Dr Canter must have recovered and told her great idea to her superiors. Every discovery about the Sigman is supposed to be promptly shared. We have received no word about this latest. What does that indicate to you?'

'They may be unsure,' Wang faltered. They may have decided she was mistaken.'

'Or they may be stealing a march on us,' Chou snapped. 'We are preparing against that. I called you here in order that you shall, for every contingency we can imagine, know what is your duty.'