Stutsman ducked into an alley where even deeper darkness lay. Russ, with a delicate adjustment, slid the televisor along, closer to Stutsman, determined not to lose sight of him for an instant. The man suddenly turned into a doorway so black that nothing could be seen. Sounds of sharp, impatient rappings came out of the screen as Stutsman struck the door with his stick. Brilliant illumination sprang out over the doorway, but Stutsman seemed not to see it, went on knocking. The colors on the screen were peculiarly distorted. "Ultra-violet," grunted Greg. "Whoever he's calling on wants to have a good look before letting anybody in." The door creaked open and a shaft of normal light spewed out into the street, turning its murkiness to pallid yellow. Stutsman stepped inside. The man at the door jerked his head. "Back room," he said. * * * * * The televisor slid through the door into the lighted room behind Stutsman. Dust lay thick on the woodwork and floors. Patches of plaster had broken away. Furrows zigzagged across the floor, marking the path of heavy boxes or furniture which had been pushed along in utter disdain of the flooring. Cheap wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls, streaked with water from some broken pipe. But the back room was a startling contrast to the first. Rich, comfortable furniture filled it. The floor was covered with a steel-cloth rug and steel-cloth hangings, colorfully painted, hid the walls. A man sat under a lamp, reading a newspaper. He rose to his feet, like the sudden uncoiling of springs. Russ gasped. That face was one of the best known faces in the entire Solar System. A ratlike face, with cruel cunning printed on it that had been on front pages and TV screens often, but never for pay. "Scorio!" whispered Russ. Greg nodded and his lips were drawn tight. "Stutsman," said Scorio, surprised. "You're the last person in the world I was expecting. Come in. Have a chair. Make yourself comfortable." Stutsman snorted. "This isn't a social call." "I didn't figure it was," replied the gangster, "but sit down anyway." Gingerly Stutsman sat down on the edge of a chair, hunched forward. Scorio resumed his seat and waited. "I have a job for you," Stutsman announced bluntly. "Fine. It isn't often you have one for me. Three-four years ago, wasn't it?" "We may be watched," warned Stutsman. The mobster started from his chair, his eyes darting about the room. Stutsman grunted disgustedly. "If we're watched, there isn't anything we can do about it." "We can't, huh?" snarled the gangster. "Why not?" "Because the watcher is on the West Coast. We can't reach him. If he's watching, he can see every move we make, hear every word we say." "Who is it?" * * * * * "Greg Manning or Russ Page," said Stutsman. "You've heard of them?" "Sure. I heard of them."