tories, and its service centers, and
even in a distant spaceship Hunter had not remained in ignorance of
the build-up. The knowledge served to his advantage now, for he knew
just where Young's personal penthouse was located and exactly how to
reach it.

There were no armed guards or automatic probes in the clinic. Such an
outward display of force wouldn't have jibed with Young's public
personality. He was the much-loved official head of a union whose
membership totaled millions.

Any protective device would have distorted the illusion and destroyed
the legend completely.

Young's penthouse, thirty floors above street level, was the modest
garden cottage which had been so widely publicized and that, too, was
a part of his illusion. When Hunter saw the tiny house he was able to
appreciate Young's showmanship, his insight into the mental processes
of the credulous.

Hunter moved toward the door. Light glowed inside the cottage, but
through the broad, front window he could see no one. He felt a
momentary doubt. Had he guessed wrong? Was Young holding Ann somewhere
else?

But Hunter was sure Young had not taken that precaution. It would have
involved risks he would not have to contend with at the clinic, unless
he had been reasonably certain he would be found out. And Young had
expected to prevent that by keeping Consolidated and United at each
other's throats.

Hunter kicked open the door. The three small rooms in the cottage were
empty--until a man wearing a union smock emerged from the narrow
galley. He hadn't been there a moment before when Hunter examined the
cubicle, and there was no rear entry to the cottage.

"Mr. Young isn't here, sir." The man said, gliding swiftly toward him.
"If you wish to leave a message--"

Hunter saw the telltale grid wire in the stranger's forehead. He
ducked aside instinctively as the knife gleamed in the man's hand.
With an odd, sighing sound, the blade arched through the air, smashing
the picture window. Hunter's fist shot out, and the man dropped
unconscious.

Hunter went into the galley and found what he had missed before--the
false bank of food slots which masked a narrow stairway. He ran
quickly down the steps, and found the opulent living quarters Eric
Young had concealed on the clinic floor beneath the innocent garden
cottage. Here in gaudy splendor, in the tasteless clutter of objects
assembled from every quarter of the cartel empire, was the true index
to the infinit