* * * * * He took the gun that was lying in his out-box, and fired it. His trembling hand sent the bullet spanging into the wooden frame of the door. Tom dropped to the thick carpet, and then scrambled to the tall credenza set against the right wall of the office. He shoved it aside with his left hand and ducked behind it. The treasurer came out from behind his desk, still muttering to himself. "Please," he said in anguish, "this is very painful for me!" He fired the gun again, and the bullet tore a white hole in the wall above Tom's head. "Don't be so difficult," the little man pleaded. "Sooner or later--" But Tom insisted upon being difficult. His fingers closed around a loose volume of New York State Tax Laws, and jiggled it in readiness. When the little treasurer came closer, he sprung from hiding and hurled the book. It slammed against Wright's side, and surprised him enough to send the arm holding the weapon into the air. That was the advantage Tom wanted. He leaped in a low-flying tackle, and brought Wright to the carpet. Then he was on top of the little man, grappling for the gun. Tom fought hard to get the gun. He got it, but not before it was fired again. Tom looked down at the widening stain that was marring the smooth texture of the carpet and was horrified. He bent down over the frail figure, lifting the bald head in his hands. "Mr. Wright!" The treasurer groaned. "Sorry," he said. "Instructions, Mr. Blacker ..." "From whom? Andrusco?" "Yes ... Your message reported from switchboard ... had orders ..." "Is it true?" Tom said frantically. "About Antamunda? Is the story true?" The little man nodded. Then he lifted one hand feebly towards the desk. "Gary," he said. "Tell Gary ..." Tom looked in the direction of the gesture, and saw the back of a framed photograph. When he turned to the treasurer again, the thin lips had stopped moving. He lowered the body to the floor and went to the desk. The photo was that of a young man with stiff-bristled blond hair and a rugged smile. The inscription read: "_To Pop, with deep affection, Gary._" Tom shook his head, wonderingly. Were these creatures so very different? * * * * * When Tom stepped out on Fifth-Madison some ten minutes later, it was just in time to watch a police vehicle draw up to the entrance of 320. Sensing danger, he stepped into the shade of the Tuscany Bar awning, and watched the uniformed men pound their way down the marbled lobby floor towards the elevators. He thought fast, and decided that the arrival of the police was connected with the shooting in Wright's office. The question was--who were they after? He walked into the Tuscany, and headed for the bank of visiphone booths. He dialed the police commissioner, but ducked out of the path of the visiphone eye. Stinson growled at the blank screen. "Who is it?"