nswer--

"Hamilton speaking."

"Houston here; will I be needed in the next hour or so?"

"Mmmm. Just a second; I'll check the roster. No; your evidence won't be
needed personally. You've filed an affidavit. No, I don't think--wait a
minute! Yes, there's a return here for you; reservation on the six A.M.
jet to New York. Your job here is done, Houston, so you can take the
rest of the evening off and relax. Going anywhere in particular?"

"I thought I'd get a bite to eat and take in a movie, maybe, but if I'm
due out at six, I'll forego the cinematic diversion. When's the trial?"

"It's scheduled for eleven-thirty this evening. Going to come?"

Houston shook his head. "Not if I'm not needed to give evidence. Those
Controllers always give me the creeps."

"They do everybody," said Hamilton. "Well, you caught him; there's no
need for you to stick around for the windup. Have a good time."

"Thanks," said Houston shortly, and hung up.

_The windup_, Houston thought. _Sure. That's all it will be. A
Controller's trial is a farce. Knock him out with a stun gun and then
pump him full of comatol. How can he defend himself if he's unconscious
all through the trial?_

Houston knew what the average man's answer to that would be: "If a
Controller were allowed to remain conscious, he'd take over the judge's
mind and get himself freed."

Houston said an obscene word under his breath, jammed his hat on his
head, put on his coat, and left his apartment.

* * * * *

With the coming of darkness, the heavy fog had become still denser. The
yellow beams of the sodium vapor lamps were simply golden spots hanging
in an all-enveloping blackness. Walking the street was a process of
moving from one little golden island of light to another, crossing seas
of blankness between. The monochromatic yellow shone on the human faces
that passed beneath the lamps, robbing them of all color, giving them a
dead, grayish appearance beneath the yellow itself.

David Houston walked purposefully along the pavement, his hand jammed
deep in his overcoat pockets. One hand held the control box for the
little earpiece he wore. He kept moving the band selector, listening for
any sign that the Psychodeviant Police were suspicious of a Controller
in their midst.

If they were following him, of course, they would use a different
scrambler circuit than the one which was plugged into his own unit, but
he would be able to hear