A woman got in the way by accident, supposedly, of
their getaway from the bank. Her name was Duggan too."

Duggan started forward, remembered the ugly expoder muzzles and backed
away.

"Was her name Janith?" he demanded.

"Radio report didn't say. Contact them, Joe," he told one of the other
faceless men.

"Couldn't be you hired these two to kill her and pretend the robbery?"
he inquired.

"Of course not."

One of the Squad mumbled something. Duggan's interrogator dropped his
weapon's muzzle.

"Woman twisted her ankle trying to get out of the way, and fell.
Received a cut on her temple and is being taken to the hospital.
Accidental all right."

"But her name."

"Janith."

Duggan felt a strange mingling of anger and of tenderness. The anger was
directed toward the criminals.

"Could I go to her now? Rusche can fill you in on details."

"It's not--oh, all right. Regulations aren't too strict on these levels.
She your sister?"

"Wife." He turned to Rusche.

"See you at the lift in about an hour," he said and headed for the
advertising agency where Janith was employed.

* * * * *

"We haven't been informed as to her whereabouts yet, Mr. Duggan," the
receptionist at Duffey's offices said coldly.

Duggan glared down into the carefully pretty face, the solar-lamp tan
and the knife-smoothed wrinkles.

"Now see here, Blanche," he said, and spluttered impotently.

"See here yourself, Merle Duggan," the woman spat back sharply. "After
all! You come running back just because she's hurt. Why didn't you come
back like this a year ago?"

"I was with her a year ago."

"That wasn't you. You didn't have guts enough to rent a super mech and
go back to your old job." The woman laughed. "Janith tried to insult and
needle you into being a man again. And you just crawled."

"That's a lie," Duggan cried. "I begged her to let me go back. She
wouldn't listen."

"That's what you say now. You don't want to remember. I know. I was here
all the time. Many a time Janith has come to the office, crying, and
told me how hopeless it seemed."

"You're--you're inventing all this, Blanche," he accused.

"I wish I were. Remember, Merle. Think. Be honest with yourself."
Blanche put her nervous, blue-veined hand on his arm. A detached part of
his brain noted how bony and brittle her hand was.

"She's loved you all these years, Merle." The tiny hand dug into his
jacket sleeve. "To make you wel