He could call Sellors and give him a roasting for not guarding his office properly, but that wouldn't restore the missing portfolio. He could send out a general alarm, and thereby let the world know that there was such a thing as Lamarre's formula. That would be catastrophic. Walton slammed the cabinet shut and spun the lock. Then, heavily, he dropped into his chair and rested his head in his arms. All the jubilation of a few moments before had suddenly melted into dull apprehension. Suspects? Just two--Lamarre, and Fred. Lamarre because he was obvious; Fred because he was likely to do anything to hurt his brother. "Give me Sellors in security," Walton said quietly. Sellors' bland face appeared on the screen. He blinked at the sight of Walton, causing Walton to wonder just how ghastly his own appearance was; even with the executive filter touching up the transmitted image, sprucing him up and falsifying him for the public benefit, he probably looked dreadful. "Sellors, I want you to send out a general order for a Dr. Lamarre. You'll find his appearance recorded on the entrance tapes for today; he came to see me earlier. The first name is--ah--Elliot. T. Elliot Lamarre, gerontologist. I don't know where he lives." "What should I do when I find him, sir?" "Bring him here at once. And if you catch him at home, slap a seal on his door. He may be in possession of some very important secret documents." "Yes, sir." "And get hold of the doorsmith who repaired my office door; I want the lock calibration changed at once." "Certainly, sir." The screen faded. Walton turned back to his desk and busied himself in meaningless paper work, trying to keep himself from thinking. A few moments later the screen brightened again. It was Fred. Walton stared coldly at his brother's image. "Well?" Fred chuckled. "Why so pale and wan, dear brother? Disappointed in love?" "What do you want?" "An audience with His Highness the Interim Director, if it please His Grace." Fred grinned unpleasantly. "A private, audience, if you please, m'lord." "Very well. Come on up here." Fred shook his head. "Sorry, no go. There are too many tricky spy pickups in that office of yours. Let's meet elsewhere, shall we?" "Where?" "That club you belong to. The Bronze Room." Walton sputtered. "But I can't leave the building now! There's no one who--" "Now," Fred interrupted. "The Bronze Room. It's in the San Isidro, isn't it? Top of Neville Prospect?" "All right," said Walton resignedly. "There's a doorsmith coming up here to do some work. Give me a minute to cancel the assignment and I'll meet you downstairs." "You leave now," Fred said. "I'll arrive five minutes after you. And you won't need to cancel anything. _I_ was the doorsmith." * * * * *