McLeod saw the parallel that he had first seen in Overman's office yesterday. He was both executioner and victim. Even now as he was signing the application for Mayor Spurgess' death, perhaps Weaver Wainwright was signing one which read, SUBJECT: Darius John McLeod, reporter, New York _Star-Times_. The _World_ Gunman Editor might now be studying _his_ habit file, weighing the various factors to determine what situation seemed most promising as a vessel for his "accidental" death. Did the editor know that McLeod often spent weekends racing across country or down to South America in his jet? It was there in his habit file in all probability. Did he know that McLeod visited the _Star-Times_ space station once every fortnight because he was being groomed to cover the _Star-Times_ dash to the moon, if ever they got the jump on the _World_ space station and could leave Earth's gravitational field without the near certainty of being tracked and shot down by a _World_ rocket? Did he know the thousand one little habits which, combined in various predictable patterns, made up McLeod's life? Unfortunately, the answer had to be in the affirmative. It left McLeod feeling a little sick. "What's the matter, Darius? Is something wrong?" "Huh? No. Nothing." McLeod signed the application. "There you are." "Fine," said Lantrel, placing the application in his out basket. "Call me at home tomorrow afternoon, Darius. I'll give you the details so you can cover the assignment. You know the number?" McLeod said that he did and left. He wondered if Weaver Wainwright would make a similar call. The worst part of it was that he didn't know when. * * * * * When he reached his bachelor apartment in the East Seventies, the door recorder told him that two visitors, one male and one female, were waiting for him. McLeod felt the comforting bulk of his parabeam in its arm holster and loosened it there. If they had entered his apartment it was because their fingerprint patterns had been included in the locking mechanism, but he couldn't take any chances. He opened the door and sighed his relief. "Morning, Darius," Harry Crippens greeted him cheerfully, bouncing up from a web-chair and extending his hand. "Shake hands with a reporter who just got a big, fat, unexpected raise." McLeod lit a cigaret and said, "I'm very glad to hear that, Cripp. Did Overman tell you?" "Nope. First I knew of it, I read it in the paper. Take a look." As McLeod took this morning's _Star-Times_ from Crippens, Tracy entered the living room from the kitchen. "Coffee in a minute, Cripp," she said. "Oh, Darius. We're making ourselves to home, as the expression goes. Did you see that crazy thing in the paper?" "I'm about to," said McLeod. "Crazy!" Crippens cried in mock horror. "I get a raise right before we get married and she says crazy." "Well, it doesn't make sense."