William Clark lived in a small, stuccoed rooming house in a suburb midway between Paris and Versailles. It looked old even for a rooming house in France, Stan thought. There was a mustiness and an age you could sense even from the outside. The ivy that climbed the walls was dead, the stucco was chipped in spots, and the curtains he could see through the windows looked yellowed and limp. He climbed the front steps and worked the heavy knocker, then stood back waiting for the concierge to show up. She didn't. He tried the knocker again and then the door knob. There was a sudden snapping sound, the door creaked open, and he stepped in. Dust--billows of it--rose from the hall rug. Dust that almost choked him before it settled once more on an ancient window seat and clung to the moldering drapes. He turned to Tanner and felt a shock of surprise. Tanner was cradling his heat gun in his hands, ready for instant action. His face was grim. "What kind of a man would you say Clark was, Martin?" "Offhand, kind of a tidy little man and...." "Not the type who would be living in an ancient rooming house?" "That's right--he wasn't the type." "Where did Clark say he lived?" "Second floor--end of the hall." "Let's go!" Stan hesitated a moment. He was supposed to be in charge of the operation, yet Tanner was taking over. For a very good reason--Tanner knew something that he didn't. He followed Tanner up the stairs, his feet sending out little puffs of dust from the stair treads. Clark's room was closed and he knocked lightly on the door. There was no answer. He tried the knob. Locked. "Reynolds--break it down." The big man hunched his shoulders and drove for the door. The panel burst like it had been made from paper and he stumbled to the center of the room before he could stop himself. "That was a foolish thing to have him do, Martin." "Why?" "You didn't know what to expect--it could have been a trap." Stan's voice chilled. "You've been acting like a cat on a hot griddle ever since we walked in. Just what were you expecting?" Tanner didn't answer. He sauntered into the room. "Well, where's Clark?" That was a good question, Stan thought. Just where was Clark? He glanced around the room. The average rooming house cell, the kind so many people on this planet seemed to live in. A bureau and an unmade bed, the blankets rumpled and twisted.... * * * * * There was a linen runner on top of the bureau and on top of that was a glass, neatly wrapped in cellophane. He walked over and barely touched it, intent on moving the glass to get a better look at a photograph behind it. The cellophane cracked and crumbled at his touch. The photograph behind it wasn't important, Stan thought. A photo of a ship on which Clark had been a crew member. What was important was the cellophane that had crumbled at his touch and the dusty linen runner which hung in tattered shreds where it overlapped the top of the bureau.