the FBI tried to find
out if there was anyone at all besides Porter who might know anything
about it. No luck. Not even the technicians who worked with him knew
anything useful. Skinner didn't know anything at all." He told the lie
with a perfectly straight face. He didn't like lying to Winstein, but
there was no other way. He hoped he wouldn't have to lie to the
Congressional Committee; perjury was not something he liked doing. The
trouble was, if he told the truth, he'd be worse off than if he lied.

He took the plane that night for Washington, and spent the next three
days answering questions while he tried to keep his nerves under
control. Not once did they even approach the area he wanted them to
avoid.

On the plane back, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and, for the first time
in days, allowed himself to think about Mr. Samuel Skinner.

* * * * *

The reports from the two detective agencies on the East and West Coasts
hadn't made much sense separately, but together they added up to enough
to have made it worth Elshawe's time to go to Los Angeles and tackle
Samuel Skinner personally. He had called Skinner and made an
appointment; Skinner had invited him out to his home.

It was a fairly big house, not too new, and it sat in the middle of a
lot that was bigger than normal for land-hungry Los Angeles.

Elshawe ran through the scene mentally. He could see Skinner's mild face
and hear his voice saying: "Come in, Mr. Elshawe."

They went into the living room, and Skinner waved him toward a chair.
"Sit down. Want some coffee?"

"Thanks; I'd appreciate it." While Skinner made coffee, the reporter
looked around the room. It wasn't overly showy, but it showed a sort of
subdued wealth. It was obvious that Mr. Skinner wasn't lacking in
comforts.

Skinner brought in the coffee and then sat down, facing Elshawe, in
another chair. "Now," he said bluntly, "what was that remark you made on
the phone about showing up Malcom Porter as a phony? I understood that
you actually went to Mars on his ship. Don't you believe the evidence of
your own senses?"

"I don't mean that kind of phony," Elshawe said. "And you know it. I'll
come to the point. I know that Malcom Porter didn't invent the
Gravito-Inertial Differential Polarizer. _You_ did."

Skinner's eyes widened. "Where did you get that information?"

"I can't tell you my sources, Mr. Skinner. Not yet, anyhow. But I have
enough information to