"So do I," said Lindsay dryly. "You wouldn't know _who_ gave you this little chore on me, would you?" "Not likely," said the gladiator. "When we report at the club every evening we find our assignments stuck in our boxes. Usually we get orders to meet a dame. This was something different." "I see what you mean," Lindsay told him. O'Ryan got up, said, "Well, I might as well be running along. I'll give them hell for fouling up the computer-prophecy. Look me up after the match tomorrow. And thanks for not having me pinched. I might have had to spend the night in a cell. That's bad for conditioning." "You're quite welcome," said Lindsay, feeling like a character in a semi-nightmare. "Will I be seeing you again--this way?" "Unlikely," the gladiator told him. "They'll have to run a lot of checks on you after this before they try again. See you tomorrow." Lindsay looked after his visitor with amazement. Then it occurred to him that computers were substituting not only for human judgment but for human conscience as well. And this, he felt certain, was important. Turning in on his contour couch, Lindsay recalled that he had given whiskey to the allergic athlete. He decided then and there that he would be in attendance at the match in the Colosseum that evening. * * * * * He got to his office about eleven o'clock. His desk was stacked high with messages, written and taped, and all sorts of folk wished to talk with him on the vidarphone. Nina, looking more slovenly than ever, had arranged them neatly, according to their nature and importance in separate little piles. "Next time you tear up the pea-patch," she informed him resentfully, "I'm going to get in some help." She eyed him with somber speculation, added, "I hear the Sec-Gen turned in early last night." "You've got big ears," said Lindsay. "I get around," she said. "I'm supposed to keep tabs on you, boss." "Then you must know someone tried to kill me early this morning when I came back from Natchez." Nina's eyes narrowed alarmingly under the glasses that covered them. She said, "Why didn't you report it?" She sounded like a commander-in-chief questioning a junior aide for faulty judgment. "I won," Lindsay said simply. "There was no danger." "Who was it?" she asked. And, when he hesitated, "I'm not going to shout it from the housetops, boss." "It was Pat O'Ryan." "_You_ handled _Pat_?" she asked, apparently astonished. Something in her tone told him Nina knew his would-be assassin. "Why not?" he countered. "It wasn't much of a brawl." "But Pat...." she began, and hesitated. Then, all business again, "We'd better get at some of this. You have a date to be psyched by Dr. Craven at two o'clock." "What for?" he asked, startled. "Routine," she told him. "Everyone connected with UW has to go through it. But cheer up, boss, it doesn't hurt--much." "Okay," he said resignedly. "Let's get to work."