He looked at the two men that sat on either side of him. Friends--or enemies? Had they helped him or had they captured him for themselves? And in either case, what were they going to do with him, after they had taken him--where? The car turned a sharp corner, slowed in front of a large house, and turned into the driveway. The address was 7111 Bridge Street! * * * * * The elderly gentleman eyed Paul quietly. Stacey had described the man as a doddering old fogy, if this were really Hoagland, or really the same man that Stacey met. But somewhere Stacey's unusually-sharp evaluation of people must have fallen flat, for Hoagland was only one-third of Stacey's description. He was neither doddering nor a fogy. He was old in Grayson's eyes. He looked sixty-odd. He might have been older, for his type of man tends to retain the appearance of youth. There was a bit of spring to his walk and a set to his jaw; a sharpness to his eyes and a complete self-confidence about Hoagland. He was far from bald, but the hair was white-silver. He wore it carelessly but not unkempt; it was a sort of pride, Paul guessed, to half-mistreat a feature prized and lost to other men. "Please sit down and relax," he said. His voice was hard and low-pitched and not a trace of cracking-with-age. Instead, it crackled with virility. "You might as well take it easy and save your strength. You're not going anywhere." "What is this all about?" "We'll get to that shortly. I have not had this privilege before; I am Charles Hoagland, Mister Grayson. I gather that my boys were timely." "It was--" Paul started, but stopped lamely. The puzzlement welled up in him again and confusion filled him; confusion that contrasted sharply with this man who seemed to know all of the answers. "I am glad. A troublesome mob is a dangerous thing. You might have been harmed." Paul nodded his head quietly. "Mister Grayson, you are a busy little man." Grayson stiffened. He did not like the appellation even though he knew that his size was sufficient to give him tolerance at being called little; he did not have to prove otherwise. "Just what do you want with me?" demanded Paul. "Mister Grayson, either you are a genius or an idealistic fumbler. We hope to find out which." "When you find out, will you let me know?" snapped Paul sarcastically. "Be only too happy to," smiled Hoagland. "So we'll start now. Just how solid are your theories about the Z-wave?" Paul shrugged. "How solid is any theory about anything?" "Let's not argue." "I am not arguing. I am stating a fact." "You are stating an argument; you have just answered a direct question with a hypothetical proposition." Paul grunted. "May I ask you a direct question?" "Ask. I may even answer, depending upon the nature of the question." "Then, just how solid is your knowledge of science--any science?" "Sketchy. Some men hire carpenters, some hire accountants, I hire scientists."