"It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I checked him, he had no heartbeat." "Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't _wanted_ to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the police. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing--his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It contained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for another tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. * * * * * The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed on the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be available for consultation." Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he asked. "It's merely a matter of information." "We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily. "I can't give you any information until you comply with them." "Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to the first counselor."