"He'll know what I mean," Turnbull said. "Scholar Duckworth had an idea that Lobon was a data source on the problem even before we did our digging there. Frankly, that's why I thought Duckworth might be working with Scholar Rawlings." Drawford's face cleared. "Very well. I'll put this on the company transmitters immediately, Dr. Turnbull. And--don't worry, I won't say anything about this to anyone until Scholar Rawlings or you, yourself, give me the go-ahead." "I'd certainly appreciate that," Turnbull said, rising from his seat. "I'll leave you to your work now, Dr. Drawford. I can be reached at the Mayfair Hotel." The two men shook hands, and Turnbull left quickly. * * * * * Turnbull felt intuitively that he knew where Rawlings was. On the Centaurus planet--the planet of the City. But where was Duckworth? Reason said that he, too, was at the City, but under what circumstances? Was he a prisoner? Had he been killed outright? Surely not. That didn't jibe with his leaving Earth the way he had. If someone had wanted him killed, they'd have done it on Earth; they wouldn't have left a trail to Sirius IV that anyone who was interested could have followed. On the other hand, how could they account for Duckworth's disappearance, since the trail _was_ so broad? If the police-- No. He was wrong. The trouble with intuitive thinking is that it tends to leave out whole sections of what, to a logical thinker, are pieces of absolutely necessary data. Duckworth actually had no connection with Rawlings--no _logical_ connection. The only thing the police would have to work with was the fact that Scholar Duckworth had started on a trip to Mendez and never made it any farther than Sirius IV. There, he had vanished. Why? How could they prove anything? On the other hand, Turnbull was safe. The letters from Duckworth, plus his visit to Drawford, plus his acknowledged destination of Sirius IV, would be enough to connect up both cases if Turnbull vanished. Rawlings should know he couldn't afford to do anything to Turnbull. Dave Turnbull felt perfectly safe. He was in his hotel room at the Mayfair when the announcer chimed, five hours later. He glanced up from his book to look at the screen. It showed a young man in an ordinary business jumper, looking rather boredly at the screen. "What is it?" Turnbull asked. "Message for Dr. Turnbull from Rawlings Scientific Corporation," said the young man, in a voice that sounded even more bored than his face looked. Turnbull sighed and got up to open the door. When it sectioned, he had only a fraction of a second to see what the message was. It was a stungun in the hand of the young man. It went off, and Turnbull's mind spiraled into blankness before he could react. * * * * * Out of a confused blur of color, a face sprang suddenly into focus, swam away again, and came back. The lips of the face moved. "How do you feel, son?"