Walton eyed him unhappily. "I guess so. Now all I have to do is start figuring out how Mr. FitzMaugham's filing system worked, and I'll be all set." "You mean you don't know?" "Mr. FitzMaugham took very few people into his confidence," Walton said. "Popeek was his special brain-child. He had lived with it so long he thought its workings were self-evident to everyone. There'll be a period of adjustment." "Of course," Ludwig said. "This conference you were going to have with the director yesterday when he--ah, what was it about?" Walton asked. The UN man shrugged. "It's irrelevant now, I suppose. I wanted to find out how Popeek's subsidiary research lines were coming along. But I guess you'll have to go through Mr. FitzMaugham's files before you know anything, eh?" Ludwig stared at him sharply. Suddenly, Walton did not like the cheerful UN man. "There'll be a certain period of adjustment," he repeated. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to answer questions about Popeek." "Of course. I didn't mean to imply any criticism of you or of the late director or of Popeek, Mr. Walton." "Naturally. I understand, Mr. Ludwig." Ludwig took his leave at last, and Walton was alone in the late Mr. FitzMaugham's office for the first time since the assassination. He spread his hands on the highly polished desk and twisted his wrists outward in a tense gesture. His fingers made squeaking sounds as they rubbed the wood surface. It had been an uneasy afternoon yesterday, after the nightmare of the assassination and the subsequent security inquisition. Walton, wrung dry, had gone home early, leaving Popeek headless for two hours. The newsblares in the jetbus had been programmed with nothing but talk of the killing. "A brutal hand today struck down the revered D. F. FitzMaugham, eighty-one, Director of Population Equalization. Security officials report definite prospects of solution of the shocking crime, and...." The other riders in the bus had been vehemently outspoken. "It's about time they let him have it," a fat woman in sleazy old clothes said. "That baby killer!" "I knew they'd get him sooner or later," offered a thin, wispy-haired old man. "They _had_ to." "Rumor going around he was really a Herschelite...." "Some new kid is taking over Popeek, they say. They'll get him too, mark my words." Walton, huddling in his seat, pulled up his collar, and tried to shut his ears. It didn't work. _They'll get him too, mark my words._ He hadn't forgotten that prophecy by the time he reached his cubicle in upper Manhattan. The harsh words had drifted through his restless sleep all night. Now, behind the safety of his office door, he thought of them again. He couldn't hide. It hadn't worked for FitzMaugham, and it wouldn't for him.