He ignored the surface transport system and walked to his own apartment. This walk was part of a regular routine of physical exercise that kept his body hard and resilient in spite of long hours spent in the laboratory. As he opened the door of his apartment he heard the water running into his bath. Perfect timing. He was making that walk in precisely seven minutes, four and four-fifths seconds. He undressed and climbed into the tub, relaxing luxuriously in the exhilaration of irradiated water. He let all the problems of his work drift away, his mind was a peaceful blank. Then someone was hammering on his head. He struggled reluctantly awake. It was the door that was being attacked, not his head. The battering thunder continued persistently. He swore and sat up. "What do you want?" There was no answer; the hammering continued. "All right! All right! I'm coming!" He yelled, crawled out of the tub and reached for his bathrobe. It wasn't there. He swore some more and grabbed a towel, wrapping it inadequately around him; it didn't quite meet astern. He paddled wetly across the floor sounding like a flock of ducks on parade. Retaining the towel with one hand he inched the door cautiously open. "What the devil--" He stopped abruptly at the sight of a policeman's uniform. "Sorry, sir, but one of those rebels is loose in the Administration Center somewhere. We're making a check-up of all the apartments." "Well, you can check out; I haven't got any blasted rebels in here." The policeman's face hardened, then relaxed knowingly. "Oh, I see, sir. No rebels, of course. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a good--Good night, sir," he saluted and left. Brian closed the door in puzzlement. What the devil had that flat-foot been smirking about? Well, maybe he could get his bath now. * * * * * Hanson turned away from the door and froze in amazement. Through the open door of his bedroom he could see his bed neatly turned down as it should be, but the outline under the counterpane and the luxuriant mass of platinum-blond hair on the pillow was certainly no part of his regular routine. "Hello." The voice matched the calm alertness of a pair of deep-blue eyes. Brian just stared at her in numbed fascination. That was what the policeman had meant with his insinuating smirk. "Just ask for Myrtle." Pete Brent's joking words flashed back to him. Now he got it. This was probably the young fool's idea of a joke. He'd soon fix that. "All right, joke's over, you can beat it now." "Joke? I don't see anything funny, unless it's you and that suggestive towel. You should either abandon it or get one that goes all the way round." Brian slowly acquired a complexion suitable for painting fire plugs. "Shut up and throw me my dressing gown." He gritted.