They were eyeing each other warily when the doorbell chimed again. Miss Alderman hastened to answer it. Ian Harris stood framed in the entranceway, backed by four white-and-blue-uniformed UN police officers. A pair of plainclothesmen, obviously Forsythe’s operatives, hovered at a discreet distance behind them. Harris, looking every inch the Britisher, waited until Miss Alderman had closed the door. Then he said, “Mr. Forsythe, am I right in my interpretation of what Miss Alderman recently informed me via UN communicator? Did you enter this apartment, accompanied by an armed escort, for the sole purpose of removing without his consent an SPR employee to an unknown destination?” Forsythe shrugged his mammoth shoulders. “Interpret it as you choose. I came here empowered by the President of the United States, operating under law--the Security Act of nineteen fifty-six--to ensure that a citizen of my country does not employ his specialized knowledge to its jeopardy.” Harris said, drily, “For your information, Forsythe, and that of your government, all SPR property and persons fall under UN jurisdiction according to General Assembly agreement--an agreement ratified by all member nations. That naturally includes their living quarters. Since Miss Alderman is an SPR official her apartment is therefore inviolable by any national police force--except in case of a felony.” Hamilton stepped in. He said, “Gentlemen, we seem to have reached an impasse. May I therefore suggest a way out?” III Hamilton left Forsythe and Ian Harris sitting on opposite sides of the fore-cabin of the SPR helirocket which was taking them swiftly southward to Antarctica. In the rear cabin were Miss Alderman and an unhappily reawakened Sven Ryan. Hamilton nodded to his assistant and said, “Nancy, you’d better go forward and keep those two tigers from tearing each other limb from limb. I want to talk to Ryan alone. It’s of great importance.” Miss Alderman slipped silently from the rear cabin and Hamilton sat down in the seat she had left vacant and studied the inventor in tight-lipped concern. Despite the fact that he had spent two years under the skin-tanning Antarctic sun and snow-glare, Sven Ryan’s face was white. Quite obviously he was the sort of milk-skinned redhead who does not react to exposure by turning red or brown. At the moment, his face was a near-pistachio green--a delicate pastel shade that contrasted vividly with the bright red of his hair and eyeballs. He sat despondently on his cot, with his chin in his hands, flanked by an oxygen inhalator and a half-empty bottle of anti-fatigue tablets. He eyed his chief with resignation. “What are you going to do to me, Park?” he said. “Boot me out of the SPR?” “For heaven’s sake, why?” Hamilton asked, surprised. “For blowing a couple of million bucks,” was the solemn reply.