"Yes, I know about them. Now, Claire. Come into my office through the adjoining door and open this window. And first please reach out and get my shoes." She smiled, and I too had to see the humor. Claire was a pretty-faced brunette with ultra-fair complexion and a tendency towards overweight which kept her eating prescriptions instead of meals. She couldn't compete with our robot steno, but customers like to deal with a human being. And she was loyal. She let me in and handed me my shoes. I sat down, put them on. "Those men outside are not to know I'm here." This was the real test of her loyalty. Claire nodded tersely. She was not a dumb girl. "I'm in serious trouble, Claire. The less you know about it the better, but it's all tied up with the crisis on Venus. Were you able to book passage for me?" "Yes, you've a reservation on the midnight rocket." "Good! When's your lunch hour?" "I'm on it now, Mr. Sponsor." "Will you do me a tremendous favor, Claire? I know it's an imposition, but it's quite urgent. Would you go down to the Venus Spaceship Line and pick up that ticket for me? And while you're at it, get two more tickets on the same ship, but separated from me. Do you understand? Have them bill us as usual." "Under what name, Mr. Sponsor?" She was a canny girl. "Leave all three open under our company name." This wasn't much better than 'Mr. & Mrs. Bart Sponsor & Son', but it left us some leeway to juggle identities. Perhaps trade tickets with three shlubs at the last minute. "I hope you don't mind this imposition." I added. "I'll be very glad to do this for you, Mr. Sponsor." She hesitated. "Do you want me to bring the tickets back to the office? What should I do with them if you've left in the meantime?" These were knowledgeable questions. How much did she already know? Was Claire really loyal, or was she planning already to tip off the police? Have them trail me, trap Celia and Freddie as well? That was one of those unavoidable risks. "Mmm. Good question, Claire. Leave them in an envelope at the mail desk of the Conrad-Palmer Hotel ... under my name." Hell, I thought. If she's going to betray me, the name won't make any difference. Otherwise, I'll need my own name for identification, in order to pick up the envelope. * * * * * They had not gotten around to examining my personal files. The drawers were still locked, and my slim, antique missile-gun was still filed under "W" (for weapon). I slipped it into my pocket and began rifling through my papers. I had never, to be truthful, expected to be in a situation as bad as this. But Top Competitors have to be prepared for some rough tactics.