The coffee came and he gulped it eagerly, realizing that he hadn't eaten for several hours. The suspicion was taking form in his mind now, and he grasped at it greedily. He had seen many Free Agents before. They had become an accepted, harmless facet of a society rather too hurried to be bothered much by introspection. Free Agents? They were--well, they were around. They didn't do any harm, the news articles had said that only psychologically safe people were accepted for prosthesis, and then they were conditioned against criminal activities in the course of the remodelling. Why worry about them? They were seen here and there, and they bothered no one, and no one bothered them. But what happened to them? Some went back to their old lives. He knew that. Some came back and took up their old places as if they had merely taken a vacation trip. And others came back, and then left-- Where did they go? Griffin tried to think. Specifically, whom did he know who had come back permanently? He ran over names in his mind. Jack Townsend--he'd come back. Fine boy, Jack, and never a whisper of a change. Ted Maroneck? He'd bolted after two weeks back, and Griffin had run into him in the city one day, with a coarse blonde woman, slightly drunk, and very raucous. How about Phil Steinberg? Only a week at home. Couldn't blame him, though. Ellie had been enough to drive anybody back to the woods. They'd never heard from him since. And Bob Whittaker--he'd been gone six months, now. And Joe Meyer--where was Joe? Griffin took up his coat, preparing to leave, and now suddenly he was afraid. There was something wrong. In his own acquaintance, a couple who had come home and stayed. And a dozen who were gone, like the month of May. _Where?_ He wanted to know. And something screamed in his mind that he had better find out where they had gone. And very soon. * * * * * The building said Bureau of Public Records on the facade, and he walked up the marble steps quickly, his mind now hard with suspicion. In the center of the huge lobby he found the Directory, and read down the lines of names and departments. Under R he found "Reading Room, Microfilm Library," with a floor number after it. A few moments later he was stepping off the elevator, walking into the long, narrow room with the reading booths glassed in against the walls. He found a place, and lifted the order-phone from its hook. "Let me have the documentary file on Robert L. Whittaker of this city," he said. "I'm sorry, sir." The operator's voice was harsh in his ear. "Personal files are not available without proper authorization--" "I'm a Free Agent," said Griffin shortly. "I'd like to see that file." The visiphone screen came to light quite suddenly, and the girl's face appeared. "Identification, please?"