ecurity wants to talk to you, Mr.
Strang. Hop out."

Roger moved dazedly from his car. He didn't question the patrolman; he
hardly even heard him. His mind raced in a welter of confusion, trying
desperately to refute the brilliant picture in his mind from that
split-second that the spotlight had rested on the driver of the black
car, trying to fit the impossible pieces into their places. For the
second man in the black autojet had been John Morrel, chief of Barrier
Base Security, and the driver had been Martin Drengo--

* * * * *

The man at the desk was a stranger to Roger Strang. He was an elderly
man, stooped, with graying hair and a small clipped mustache that
seemed to stick out like antennae. He watched Roger impassively with
steel gray eyes, motioning him to a chair.

"You led us a merry chase," he said flatly, his voice brittle. "A very
merry chase. The alarm went out for you almost an hour ago."

Strang's cheeks were red with anger. "My son was shot tonight. I was
trying to follow the killers--"

"Killers?" The man raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, killers!" Roger snapped. "Do I have to draw you a picture? They
shot my son down in his bed."

The gray-haired man stared at him for a long time. "Well," he said
finally in a baffled tone. "Now I've heard everything."

It was Roger's turn to stare. "Can't you understand what I've said?
_My son was murdered._"

The gray-haired man flipped a pencil down on the desk impatiently.
"Mr. Strang," he said elaborately. "My name is Whitman. I flew down
here from Washington tonight, after being called from my bed by the
commanding officer of this base. I am the National Chief of the
Federal Bureau of Security, Mr. Strang, and I am not interested in
fairy tales. I would like you to come off it now, and answer some
questions for me. And I don't want double-talk. I want answers. Do I
make myself quite clear?"

Roger stared at him, finally nodded his head. "Quite," he said
sourly.

Whitman hunched forward in his chair. "Mr. Strang, how long have you
been working in the Barrier Base?"

"Five years. Ever since the bombing of New York."

Whitman nodded. "Oh, yes. The bombing of New York." He looked sharply
at Roger. "And how old are you, Mr. Strang?"

Roger looked up, surprised. "Thirty-two, of course. You have my
records. Why are you asking?"

The gray-haired man lit a cigarette. "Yes, we have your records," he
said offhandedly. "Very in