want you to do is go out there and find out
what's going on. Get a full background on it. We'll figure out the
presentation angle when we get some idea of what he's going to do this
time." Winstein eased himself off the corner of Elshawe's desk and
stood up. "By the way--"

"Yeah?"

"Play it straight when you go out there. You're a reporter, looking for
news; you haven't made any previous judgments."

Elshawe's pipe had gone out. He fired it up again with his desk lighter.
"I don't want to be," he said between puffs, "too cagey. If he's got ...
any brains ... he'll know it's ... a phony act ... if I overdo it." He
snapped off the lighter and looked at his employer through a cloud of
blue-gray smoke. "I mean, after all, he's on the records as being a
crackpot. I'd be a pretty stupid reporter if I believed everything he
said. If I don't act a little skeptical, he'll think I'm either a
blockhead or a phony or both."

"Maybe," Winstein said doubtfully. "Still, some of these crackpots fly
off the handle if you doubt their word in the least bit."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Elshawe said. "He used to live here in New
York, didn't he?"

"Still does," Winstein said. "He has a two-floor apartment on Central
Park West. He just uses that New Mexico ranch of his for relaxation."

"He's not hurting for money, is he?" Elshawe asked at random. "Anyway,
what I'll do is look up some of the people he knows and get an idea of
what kind of a bird he is. Then, when I get out there, I'll know more
what kind of line to feed him."

"That sounds good. But whatever you do, play it on the soft side. My
confidential informant tells me that the only reason we're getting this
inside info is because Malcom Porter is sore about the way our
competition treated him four years ago."

"Just who is this confidential informant, anyway, Ole?" Elshawe asked
curiously.

Winstein grinned widely. "It's supposed to be very confidential. I don't
want it to get any further than you."

"Sure not. Since when am I a blabbermouth? Who is it?"

"Malcom Porter."

* * * * *

Two days later, Terrence Elshawe was sitting in the front seat of a big
station wagon, watching the scenery go by and listening to the driver
talk as the machine tooled its way out of Silver City, New Mexico, and
headed up into the Mogollon Mountains.

"Was a time, not too long back," the driver was saying, "when a man
couldn't get up into this part