s than happy to see Philon.

"Hello, Phil. What's on your mind?"

Philon stuck out his hand. "Al, glad to see you again. I know you're
not pleased to see me but let's let bygones be bygones. Can we talk?"

Al Brant stepped back reluctantly. "Well, I guess so. I thought we'd
said everything we had to say the last time."

Philon walked in and settled himself on the davenport. "Yeah, I know,
Al, we had some pretty harsh words. But at least I got you out of the
mess."

Brant said bitterly, "Yeah, got me out of a mess I got into helping
you on one of your shady deals when I worked for you. Well, as I said
before, what's on your mind?"

Philon patted his right chest saying, "Got a hundred thousand here for
you, Al."

Brant's brows lifted in amazement. "A hundred thousand! What's the
catch, Phil?"

Philon's voice dropped to a confidential tone. "You always were a
clever man with electronics, Al, and I've got something here that's
just your meat. I've been studying the design of the Election
Tabulator, and I've discovered a wonderful opportunity for you and me.

"Now listen--it's possible to replace two transmitters on the main
teletype trunk so that a winning percentage of the incoming votes will
be totaled up for my party. Simple little job, isn't it? Worth a
hundred thousand!"

For a long moment Al Brant sat and stared at Philon in cold silence.
Finally, he said, "Do you know what the penalty is for jimmying the
Tabulator to influence voting?"

"No."

"It's life imprisonment!" Brant got up slowly and started across the
room to Philon. "I fell for your line once and got burned--and here
you come again. You must think I'm a born sucker. This time I'm doing
the talking. Give me the hundred grand or I'll kill you with my bare
hands!"

Philon watched him coming as if he were witness to a nightmare. He was
trapped. And in this moment of snowballing fear he ceased to think.
The gun in his pocket went off without conscious effort. Brant
stopped, then collapsed to the floor. Panic took over Philon's mind
and he fled the apartment building as rapidly as was safe.

He was almost back in the city when he tuned in a news broadcast As he
listened, he sat in stunned silence. Brant had roused himself enough
before he died to talk to the man who found him in his apartment.
Brant had named his killer as Philon Miller. Miller felt as if he had
turned to ice.

Then his mind thawed out with a rush of reassuring words. After