hat you use a little more
discretion with them than you showed with this young Michaels of ours.
You were a trifle--shall we say, crude?" He coughed.

"Then you may call in and advise Headquarters that evidence has been
gathered and action is being taken in this case of Donald Michaels."

He turned and went out the door.

Masterson watched as the door closed, then reached into the back of a
desk drawer. He took out a small box with a number of switches mounted
on its top. For a moment, he examined the object, then he got to his
feet and went to the window.

He stood, looking out of the window for a few moments, nodded, and let
his fingers play among the switches. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction
and went back to his desk.

He looked contemplatively at the telephone for a moment, then picked it
up and started flipping at the dial.

* * * * *

The sports flier dropped free for the last few feet, bounced, tilted,
and finally righted itself. It was not a very good landing.

Don snapped the switch off and sat for a moment, looking out at the
long, low house. Then he let himself out of the flier and walked across
the courtyard and through the door.

The front room was empty. He looked over at the wide glass panels that
formed one side of the room. A small, dark man came from between the
bushes of the inner garden. He slid a panel aside and looked
expressionlessly at Don for a moment. Then he slowly allowed his head
to drop.

"Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with
brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days."

"I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him."

"It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below."

"Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and
turned, to open a heavy door.

As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from
the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be
busy.

Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder.
The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed
completely unaware of his son's presence.

Suddenly, a spurt of smoke came from the muzzle of the rifle. There was
another sharp crack and the muzzle swept upward then dropped, to become
steady again.

At last, the shooter took the weapon from his shoulder and opened the
action. He looked aroun