BREATHES THERE A MAN BY CHARLES E. FRITCH ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH Someone in the place where Dunlop worked was an agent of the World Bureau Investigation. But how could they suspect him at a time like this? His tracks were covered and tangled until even Julie had no knowledge of them. Then the robot came.... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Rocket Stories, July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Arthur Dunlop busied himself over the blueprints as though he had a deep and sincere interest in them, unmindful of the scurry of sounds in the office. The incessant clicking of electronic typewriters, muffled though they were, combined to form a hum of angry bees. Papers shuffled that were important somehow to the welfare of the State, and men and women sat and looked at them, checking and rechecking, checking and rechecking, for it was important that nothing should go wrong, any place, in even the slightest aspect. The small square of paper had been dropped on his desk unobtrusively, and for a brief moment he had stared at it in surprise. Then he covered it with a casual hand and glanced up in apparent thoughtfulness. A blonde girl was making her way down the space between rows of metalloid desks, a bundle of vital-appearing documents in her hands. Arthur studied the swaying body, as though that were the only thought on his mind, but the paper burned curiously at his palm. He returned quickly to his work of checking blueprints, for idleness even in a trusted employee was looked upon with suspicion. He bent over the three-dimensional diagram, feigning interest, and slowly opened the folded square of paper. On it were written the words: "WBI. Careful." The words leaped up at him in a green ink that would fade in seconds, leaving no trace. He crushed the paper in his hand, trying hard not to look around him. WBI. World Bureau of Investigation. Did they suspect? he wondered. He thrust the thought from his mind and made a conscious effort to study the drawing on his desk. Drawing 2b, one-tenth of the plan for a respirator, newly-designed and improved, streamlined for the year 2108, Arthur could just imagine the advertising they'd do on this model. But the other thought crowded it aside: the underground knew there was a WBI man in the office. And just why would there be a WBI man here? Routine? Possibly. Yet more likely, somebody smelled a rat. This was no time for plans to go awry.