reasurer again, the thin lips had stopped moving.

He lowered the body to the floor and went to the desk. The photo was
that of a young man with stiff-bristled blond hair and a rugged smile.
The inscription read:

"_To Pop, with deep affection, Gary._"

Tom shook his head, wonderingly. Were these creatures so very different?

* * * * *

When Tom stepped out on Fifth-Madison some ten minutes later, it was
just in time to watch a police vehicle draw up to the entrance of 320.
Sensing danger, he stepped into the shade of the Tuscany Bar awning, and
watched the uniformed men pound their way down the marbled lobby floor
towards the elevators. He thought fast, and decided that the arrival of
the police was connected with the shooting in Wright's office.

The question was--who were they after?

He walked into the Tuscany, and headed for the bank of visiphone booths.
He dialed the police commissioner, but ducked out of the path of the
visiphone eye.

Stinson growled at the blank screen. "Who is it?"

"Never mind," Tom said, muffling his voice. "But if you want the killers
of Walt Spencer and his wife, pick up John Andrusco and a gal named
Livia Cord."

"Okay, Blacker," Stinson thundered. "I knew you'd be calling in."

Tom swore, and showed himself. "Listen, I'm telling you the truth. They
told me the whole story. Then they tried to have me killed."

"Is that so? And I suppose the assassin was a guy named Wright?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, wise guy. We're on to you. You've been pocketing some of that
Homelovers dough, and the treasurer found you out. Isn't that the
story?"

"No! Wright's one of _them_."

"Sure, pal. Whatever you say. Only stay right where you are so you can
do your explaining proper."

Tom tightened his lips. "Uh-huh. I don't like the sound of things. I'll
see you later, Mr. Stinson."

"Blacker!"

Tom switched off.

By the time he was settled behind the red neck of a cab-driver, Tom was
wiping a dripping film of sweat from his forehead. He couldn't return to
his apartment; there was bound to be a stake-out. He couldn't go to
Livia's; that would be walking right into danger. And he couldn't go to
Stinson, without risking a murder charge.

He leaned forward.

"Driver--make that the LaGuardia Heliport."

However efficient Stinson's operations might have been, their tentacles
hadn't reached the 'copter-rental station at the heliport. Tom signed
out a speedy ves