for my origin, for my education and credentials. If they had been
false, I'd have been snapped up right then. Probably shot--they were
shooting people for chewing their fingernails in those days. I
wouldn't have stood a chance."

Whitman nodded his head vigorously. "Exactly!" he snapped. "You
_should_ have been picked up. But you weren't even suspected until we
did a little checking after that accident in the Labs building
yesterday. Somehow, false credentials got through for you. Security
does not like false credentials. I don't know how you did it, but you
did. I want to know how."

"But, I tell you--" Roger stood up, fear suddenly growing in his mind.
He lit a cigarette, took two nervous puffs, and set it down,
forgotten, on the ash-tray. "I have a wife," he said shakily. "I
married her in New York City. We had a son, born in a hospital in New
York City. He went to school there. Surely there must be some kind of
record--"

Whitman smiled grimly, almost mockingly. "Good old New York City," he
snarled. "Married there, you say? Wonderful! Son born there? In the
one city in the country where that information _can never be checked_.
That's very convenient, Mr. Strang. Or whoever you are. I think you'd
better talk."

Roger snubbed out the cigarette viciously. "My son," he said after a
long pause. "He was murdered tonight. Shot down in his bed--"

The Security Chief's face went white. "Garbage!" he snapped. "What
kind of a fool do you think I am, Strang? Your son murdered--bah! When
the alarm went out for you I personally drove to your home. Oddly
enough this wife of yours wasn't at home, but your son was. Nice
little chap. He made us some coffee, and explained that he didn't
know where his parents were, because he'd been asleep all night.
Quietly asleep in his bed--"

The words were clipped out, and rang in Roger's ears, incredibly. His
hand shook violently as he puffed his cigarette, burning his fingers
on the short butt. "I don't believe it," he muttered hollowly. "I saw
it happen--"

Whitman sneered. "Are you going to talk or not?"

Roger looked up helplessly. "I don't--know--" he said, weakly. "I
don't know."

The Security Chief threw up his hands in disgust. "Then we'll do it
the hard way," he grated. Flipping an intercom switch, his voice
snapped out cold in the still room. "Send in Psych squad," he growled.
"We've got a job to do--"

* * * * *

Roger Strang lay back on