e Tiara seemed to fascinate. He spent more and more time,
particularly evenings, crouching on the bench in Gov-Park across from
the Tiara, ignoring the constant stream of awed tourists silhouetted
against the blaze of light. He kept in constant touch with his desk
sergeant through his pocket communico, so Annex business didn't suffer.
And the summer was warm, to say the least, so that several Gov-Ficials
were almost regretful that the dignity of their positions forbade
following Jason's example.

But then, too, no mere cop had their responsibilities.

None of them was conscious of how habitually Jason frowned, scratched
his head, moved uneasily on the pleasant bench. Occasionally, he would
snap his fingers and the frown would relax. He'd switch on the
communico and speak briefly. Immediately thereafter, one or the other of
the hand-picked four in Jason's personal squad would raise his eyebrows
slightly--safely, since the pocket communico did not project video--and
take up a new position or new duties. Or, an equipment unit in Op-room
at Anx would be indifferently retuned by heedless techs.

Then for a while Jason would vent smoke pleasantly from his malodorous
pipe until the frown would settle back between his eyebrows and he'd
begin to squirm on the bench again, glancing warily at Executive Level,
feeling helpless about the inadequacy of his resources.

But Lonnie had gotten over feeling sad about _his_ resources months
earlier.

The night he'd returned from the Tiara ceremonies he'd locked himself in
his den and let the on-view smile his face was wearing lapse. He tweaked
Genghis Khan's nose viciously and slammed himself down in the Diamond
Throne without donning a single imperial trapping, pounding his fist on
the cool mineral facet and staring morosely at the grid suit hanging in
its place on the wall.

The grid suit wouldn't help him this time. The cover-alls that had
everything except the necessary invisibility to--

_Invisibility!_

Slowly, Lonnie began to grin. Very little later he had an obscure
biochemist hooked, and ended his instructions with: "... don't care if
it needs concentrated essence of chameleon juice. Invent it. And it
better work for there's going to be a total shortage of neo-hyperacth at
two-twenty-eight per cc for wifey!"

The biochemist delivered. Lonnie didn't stop to question if it really
was essence of chameleon juice. He hurried with the beaker of viscous
fluid to his throne roo