Walker, infinitely tired, forgot his coffee and began to tidy up the desk, filing everything he wanted to keep in an electronically locked cabinet, shoving everything else into the destruction of the vibrator. He pondered for a moment the powdered secrets that were heaped like black dust in the bottom of the canister: a symbol of safety to a terrified world. Step one: find Millet. _Find Millet._ ———— It took the Secret Service exactly twenty-nine hours to locate Dr. Otto Millet. Thirty minutes later, Walker was climbing out of a government helicopter and staring at Millet’s small house through squinted eyes which he shielded with both hands against the blazing desert sun. The house was fronted by a neat lawn and a white fence entwined with red roses; there appeared to be a rather large garden in the rear. The style of the house bothered him a little: it had passed out of popularity thirty years before. Its lack of a conventional roofport had forced them to land the ’copter on the desert itself. He straightened and pushed through the creaking gate. Flagstone steps curved toward the porch, and he minced along them, uncertain, now that he had arrived, of what he would say to Millet. The damned house, he thought—so different from what he had expected; it had thrown his whole thinking out of order. He hated himself for feeling uneasy. There was neither vodor nor contact system of any kind at the door, and he brushed his hand against his forehead in a gesture of frustration. He stared at his palm—it had come away wet with sweat, and he wondered if it were all because of the desert sun. Tentatively, he banged on the door with his fist. There was no answer. _Damn Millet_, he thought, wiping his forehead again. Why couldn’t the man have a videophone like any normal person so you could find out if he were home without taking a trip halfway across the country? He turned, stamping angrily as he did so, and was startled to see a man, wearing work clothes and holding a pair of heavy soiled gloves in his left hand, standing on the ground by the end of the porch. He was nearly bald, intensely bronzed, and he was smiling. “Wondered when you’d see me.” He nodded toward the gate. “I was standing right there when you came up. You just breezed right past.” His smile broadened. “You were so interested in being surprised that you couldn’t see what you came for.” “It must have been that damned glare,” muttered Walker, shaking his head. Then, impolitely, “Are you Millet?”