He held up a card from his pocket. There was no name on it. It carried a tri-di photo-impression, and a fingerprint, and said FREE AGENT in large green letters, followed by a code number. The girl watched him stamp his thumb on a duplicator card, and then the screen snapped off. Then, seconds later, a microfilm spool plopped down in the groove before him. He took it out and threaded it into the reader, his heart pounding wildly in his throat. "Send me the same on Philip C. Steinberg and Joseph B. Meyer," he said. "And any other information you have on their activities--" The documents were there, of course. Birth certificate, baptismal record, licensing record, application for prosthesis, application approval. He blinked at the last frame on the spool, a chill going down his back. The death certificate. With Bob Whittaker's signature on it. He snatched up the order phone again, his hand trembling. "I'd like Robert Whittaker's Free Agent records," he snapped at the operator's smooth voice. There was a pause. Then the operator said, "There aren't any records, sir." "WHAT?" "I'm sorry, there is no record of Robert Whittaker reapplying for his name." "Well then, what name did he take?" "I'm sorry, that information is not available." "I told you I'm a Free Agent." "I'm sorry. Free Agent records are not available to anyone. Not even Free Agents." It was the chink in the wall that he had known he would find. He slammed down the receiver with a crash, and threaded the second spool. It had been too good, too smooth for it to be true. He had known, deep in his mind, that somewhere he would find the flaw in the Free Agent's freedom--and he had found it. And knowing where the flaw was only fed his suspicions and fanned his fears into brighter flame. It was the same with every spool. Phil Steinberg was legally dead. Sorry, but information regarding his Free Agent period is restricted. Ted Maroneck was legally dead. So was Joe Meyer-- _So was Dan Griffin_-- He sat there trembling, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had known there would be a flaw. He wasn't supposed to know it. A marionette wasn't supposed to know that it was only a creature on a string, a lifeless piece of wood until hands drew the strings and made it do its little dance of life. Like the monkey-on-a-stick he had owned as a boy, so many years before, which would climb up, and down, and up, and down, every time he pressed the button. And somewhere, he had a button now. And somewhere, somebody was pushing it. Something had happened to him quite apart from the physical rebuilding. Neatly hidden behind a careful screen of helpfulness and humanity and a brave new life was something else, something that he had not been told. And he was being manipulated, like a monkey on a stick, and he couldn't do anything about it, because he wouldn't know about it. But now he did know. IV