dn't he
love to make this espionage rap stick on us!"

"And our contract specifically gives the United States the right to take
action against us in case we endanger the national security," Karen
added. She stuffed her cigarette into the not-too-recently-emptied
receiver beside her chair, her blue eyes troubled. "You know, some of us
could get shot over this, if we're not careful. Dunc, does it really
have to be one of our own people who--?"

"I don't see how it could be anybody else," MacLeod said. "I don't like
the idea any more than you do, but there it is."

"Well, what are we going to do? Is there nobody whom we can trust?"

"Among the technicians and guards, yes. I could think of a score
who are absolutely loyal. But among the Team itself--the top
researchers--there's nobody I'd take a chance on but Kato Sugihara."

"Can you even be sure of him? I'd hate to think of him as a traitor,
but--"

"I have a couple of reasons for eliminating Kato," MacLeod said. "In the
first place, outside nucleonic and binding-force physics, there are only
three things he's interested in. Jitterbugging, hand-painted neckties,
and Southern-style cooking. If he went over to the Komintern, he
wouldn't be able to get any of those. Then, he only spends about half
his share of the Team's profits, and turns the rest back into the Team
Fund. He has a credit of about a hundred thousand dollars, which he'd
lose by leaving us. And then, there's another thing. Kato's father was
killed on Guadalcanal, in 1942, when he was only five. After that he was
brought up in the teachings of Bushido by his grandfather, an old-time
samurai. Bushido is open to some criticism, but nobody can show where
double-crossing your own gang is good Bushido. And today, Japan is
allied with the Western Union, and in any case, he wouldn't help the
Komintern. The Japs'll forgive Russia for that Mussolini back-stab in
1945 after the Irish start building monuments to Cromwell."

A light-blue jeep, lettered _MacLeod Research Team_ in cherry-red, was
approaching across the wide concrete apron. MacLeod grinned.

"Here it comes. Fasten your safety belt when you get in; that's Ahmed
driving."

Karen looked at her watch. "And it's almost time for dinner. You know, I
dread the thought of sitting at the table with the others, and wondering
which of them is betraying us."

"Only nine of us, instead of thirteen, and still one is a Judas,"
MacLeod said. "I suppose there's alw