"Oh, yes," he added, "and you might interview this young Kelton again, with his companions. Thus, you will gather evidence for use in justifying my operations." Masterson looked at him unhappily. "Well ... all right," he agreed reluctantly. "Rank has its privileges, I suppose. And I guess in this case, that includes the collection of more rank. Suppose I'd better take what I can get." "To be sure." Rayson smiled at him benignly. "This way, you are sure of profiting. Otherwise, you might run into disaster." He rose and strode toward the door. "You may get those boys in for interview as soon as I leave," he said. "From them, you can get sufficient evidence of these powers of your young friend. Ah ... and I would suggest that you use a little more discretion with them than you showed with this young Michaels of ours. You were a trifle--shall we say, crude?" He coughed. "Then you may call in and advise Headquarters that evidence has been gathered and action is being taken in this case of Donald Michaels." He turned and went out the door. Masterson watched as the door closed, then reached into the back of a desk drawer. He took out a small box with a number of switches mounted on its top. For a moment, he examined the object, then he got to his feet and went to the window. He stood, looking out of the window for a few moments, nodded, and let his fingers play among the switches. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and went back to his desk. He looked contemplatively at the telephone for a moment, then picked it up and started flipping at the dial. * * * * * The sports flier dropped free for the last few feet, bounced, tilted, and finally righted itself. It was not a very good landing. Don snapped the switch off and sat for a moment, looking out at the long, low house. Then he let himself out of the flier and walked across the courtyard and through the door. The front room was empty. He looked over at the wide glass panels that formed one side of the room. A small, dark man came from between the bushes of the inner garden. He slid a panel aside and looked expressionlessly at Don for a moment. Then he slowly allowed his head to drop. "Master Donald," he said. He raised his head, looking at Don with brilliant yellow eyes. "Your father did not expect you until two days." "I know, Dowro. But I came home early. I want to talk to him." "It is well." The man motioned toward a curtained arch. "He is below." "Thanks, Dowro. I'll find him." Don swept the curtains aside and turned, to open a heavy door. As he started down the steep flight of stairs, a sharp crack came from the basement. He grinned. With this kind of weather, the range would be busy. Kent Michaels stood on the plastic flooring, a rifle at his shoulder. The front sight weaved almost imperceptibly, then steadied. He seemed completely unaware of his son's presence.