remainder of his trip.

They had dined in the privacy of Dorwin's suite--Bezdek as befitted his
tortured duodenum on yogurt and Melba toast--Dorwin on caviar, consomme,
a thick steak with full trimmings, and a golden baked Alaska accompanied
by Armagnac.

"How do you manage to keep thin?" Bezdek asked him, honestly envious.
"Polo, tennis? Golf would never do it."

"I haven't exercised in ten years," said the banker, biting off the end
of a Havana Perfecto. He studied the little movie-maker over the flame
of his lighter. Outside, the flat expanse of Kansas rushed past through
the night at close to a hundred miles an hour.

"Some people are lucky," said Bezdek, adjusting the broad knot of his
hand-painted Windsor tie. He was remarshaling his thoughts and ideas. It
was very important that he and Dorwin be in perfect accord before they
reached Hollywood.

The banker, who was new to the movie-making branch of his business,
spoke first. "I presume," he said finally, "that you're aware of the
current feeling in our New York office?"

The movie magnate gestured carelessly with a Saxony gun-club sleeve,
revealing a platinum wristwatch strap. "We hear rumors now and again,"
he said. "It's about our science fiction films." Bezdek avoided making
it a question. He was far too shrewd for that.

The banker, finding himself thus at a disadvantage, said amicably, "It's
not that the fantasy series isn't making money, understand." He paused,
looking faintly distressed. "It's just that, frankly, we feel they're
getting too far away from reality. Trips to Mars and Venus--strange
creatures.... It's not real--it's not dignified. Frankly, we question
whether an institution like ours can afford to be connected with
anything so--so ephemeral. After all ..."

He paused as sounds of a scuffle in the corridor penetrated the room and
something or somebody was banged hard against the door. Bezdek,
frowning, jumped up nervously and went to the door, opened it, looked
out.

"What's going on out there?" he inquired tartly. "_Ty!_"

"Sorry, Mr. Bezdek," said Ty Falter, the mogul's private secretary,
bodyguard and constant companion. He was leaning against the far wall of
the corridor, mopping a cut lower lip with a bloody handkerchief. He was
a tall, deceptively sleepy-looking young man who virtually never slept.

At the end of the corridor two lesser aides were half-dragging a tall
figure between them. Bezdek frowned as he caught a glimpse