eworker, but a Director of UT couldn't live
that casually. It would be difficult to explain his certainty to the
police, and still more difficult to explain to the newspapers. He
could not afford that sort of publicity.

Bryce let out a soft curse and lengthened his stride.

He had to wait for proof of the follower's intentions. And the only
proof would be to be attacked, and the first proof of that, since
needle guns are soundless and inconspicuous, would probably be a
curare-loaded needle in his back.

After that the follower could inconspicuously drop his weapon over the
balustrade, its self-destroying mechanism set to melt it before it
reached the sands far below.

However since the follower certainly would not openly run after him,
the most logical thing to do, Bryce decided, was to run to the hotel
as if he were in a hurry. The idea irritated him.

He walked on, slowing perversely. It was irrational to walk, and he
knew it, but he walked, and the knowledge that it was irrational
irritated him further. The skin between his shoulder blades itched
meditatively in its own imaginative anticipation of an entering
needle. What good did it do him to be proud of his brains when he put
himself in a spot where he walked around like a target?

He controlled a rising rage but he walked.

The sky was totally dark now and there were only two or three couples
ahead on the slender concrete span and one old couple he had just
passed, so that they were between himself and the follower. But that
was no adequate screen.

Far above soared the sky taxis. And now he wanted a taxi. He was
approaching a place where there was a hack stand. Just ahead, at the
midway point, where the upward curve of the sidewalk leveled off and
began to curve down, a narrow catwalk jutted into space with a small
landing platform at its end. "TAXI" a luminescent arrow glowed at him
directingly as he came abreast of it.

* * * * *

He walked rapidly out along the railed catwalk, making a perfect
target he knew, silhouetted against the glow. He cursed under his
breath, reaching the end of it. Here he made an even more perfect
target, with the single bright light that poured down brilliance on
the bench and landing platform spotlighting him against the darkness
of the night. The bench was thin iron grillwork. It offered no cover.

He needed cover. He considered the white concrete pillar of the lamp,
put his hand on the