n New York; two other networks
sponsored some of the wordage. But the tone was all the same.

Finally, disgusted, Tom stuffed the notes into his briefcase, and
flipped down the librarian lever. "Sources, please."

A light blinked, and in a moment a buzzer sounded at his elbow. A female
voice, quite human, spoke as he lifted the receiver. "Can I help you on
sources?"

"Yes. I've been reading the newspaper files on David Ingersoll. I'd like
the by-lines on this copy."

There was a moment of silence. "Which dates, please?"

Shandor read off his list, giving dates. The silence continued for
several minutes as he waited impatiently. He was about to hang up and
leave when the voice spoke up again. "I'm sorry, sir. Most of that
material has no by-line. Except for one or two items it's all
staff-written."

"By whom?"

"I'm sorry, no source is available. Perhaps the PIB offices could help
you--"

"All right, ring them for me, please." He waited another five minutes,
saw the PIB cross-index clerk appear on the video screen. "Hello, Mr.
Shandor. Can I help you?"

"I'm trying to trace down the names of the Associated Press and PIB
writers who covered stories on David Ingersoll over a period from June
1961 to the present date--"

The girl disappeared for several moments. When she reappeared, her face
was puzzled. "Why, Mr. Shandor, you've been doing the work on Ingersoll
from August, 1978 to Sept. 1982. We haven't closed the files on this
last month yet--"

He scowled in annoyance. "Yes, yes, I know that. I want the writers
before I came."

The clerk paused. "Until you started your work there was no definite
assignment. The information just isn't here. But the man you replaced in
PIB was named Frank Mariel."

Shandor turned the name over in his mind, decided that it was familiar,
but that he couldn't quite place it. "What's this man doing now?"

The girl shrugged. "I don't know, just now, and have no sources. But
according to our files he left Public Information Board to go to work in
some capacity for Dartmouth Bearing Corporation."

Shandor flipped the switch, and settled back in the reading chair. Once
again he fingered through his notes, frowning, a doubt gnawing through
his mind into certainty. He took up a dozen of the stories, analyzed
them carefully, word for word, sentence by sentence. Then he sat back,
his body tired, eyes closed in concentration, an incredible idea
twisting and writhing and solidifyin