"Then I will come back." "Please. I will wait for you." * * * * * Les King answered the knock on the door and broke into a smile. "Well, talk about luck! I've been looking all over hell for you. Come in. Come in." The tenth android was already in. He walked across the room and turned to look back at Les King with the outside light behind him. King returned the gaze and wondered if he was afraid. It was an odd thing to wonder about. A man should know his own emotions. But King could not quite analyze the ones that struck him at that moment. For one thing, he'd discounted most of what Taber had said. There was something going on here, true--something big. When the government could cover up a murder in Greenwich Village, there had to be a big score at stake. And there _had_ been a murder--but no cops, no police cars, nothing. Only a couple of guys in an unmarked truck walking out with what could have been a rolled-up carpet. They'd swiped _his_ pictures and told him to keep his mouth shut. This last was what made Les King mad. He'd found the story. It was his by every right. But when they were ready to break it they'd do it through some privileged Washington newspaperman who'd get it on a silver platter. The hell with that stuff. It would take more than a shadowy character like Brent Taber to scare him off. He looked at the man in the blue suit and said, "You've been lucky. They're after you." "Who is _they_?" "Taber. The government crowd. The police, too, maybe. You killed that guy in the Village, didn't you?" Les King had decided a bold approach was the best way. But he was no fool. He kept his hand on the doorknob and watched the man carefully. "By the way, you haven't told me your name." "John Dennis." "You look like a man named Sam Baker. He disappeared about ten years ago--from a little town upstate." "I am John Dennis." King shrugged. "Okay, you're John Dennis. All I want to do is stay on top of this thing and have the inside track when it breaks." "Brent Taber told you to forget about it." King did not like the odd feeling of helplessness that seemed to have a grip on him. He was not alarmed, though. Over and above this was a sense of excitement. There was money here--he knew damned well there was money here. "You want money, don't you?" The question startled King. Could the guy read his mind? "Who the hell doesn't?" he retorted defensively. "If you're heeled you've got it made." Somehow King felt that the pressure, the odd excitement, lessened in intensity. His nerves, he conceded, were sure playing tricks. "There are some things I want. I will tell you where they are. I will give you money for them." An espionage approach? King wondered. In a way, he hoped it was. He could always get clear. When the time was right, when he had the story locked, he'd go to the FBI with it. He had a quick vision of a spread in _Life_, a title: "I Broke the Russian Spy Ring." His own by-line.