His office was empty. It was dustier than usual. His secretary was probably taking a holiday since he was supposed to be out of town. He grunted and sat down at the telephone. He called a man he knew. Hallen--another American--was attached to a non-profit corporation which was attached to an agency which was supposed to cooeperate with a committee which had something to do with NATO. Hallen answered the phone in person. Coburn identified himself. "Have you heard any rumors about a Bulgarian raid up-country?" he asked. "I haven't heard anything else since I got up," Hallen told him. "I was there," said Coburn. "I brought the news down. Can you come over?" "I'm halfway there now!" said Hallen as he slammed down the phone. Coburn paced up and down his office. It was very dusty. Even the seat of the chair at his secretary's desk was dusty. The odds were that she was coming in only to sort the mail, and not even sitting down for that. He shrugged. He heard footsteps. The door opened. His secretary, Helena, came in. She looked surprised. "I was at lunch," she explained. She had a very slight accent. She hung up her coat. "I am sorry. I stopped at a store." He had paused in his pacing to nod at her. Now he stared, but her back was turned toward him. He blinked. She had just told a very transparent lie. And Helena was normally very truthful. "You had a good trip?" she asked politely. "Fair," said Coburn. "Any phone calls this morning?" he asked. "Not this morning," she said politely. She reached in a desk drawer. She brought out paper. She put it in the typewriter and began to type. Coburn felt very queer. Then he saw something else. There was a fly in the office--a large, green-bodied fly of metallic lustre. The inhabitants of Salonika said with morbid pride that it was a specialty of the town, with the most painful of all known fly stings. And Helena abhorred flies. It landed on the bare skin of her neck. She did not notice. It stayed there. Ordinarily she would have jumped up, exclaiming angrily in Greek, and then she would have pursued the fly vengefully with a folded newspaper until she killed it. But now she ignored it. Hallen came in, stamping. Coburn closed the door behind him. He felt queer at the pit of his stomach. For Helena to let a fly stay on her neck suggested that her skin was ... somehow not like its usual self. "What happened to those Bulgarians?" demanded Hallen. Coburn told him precisely what he'd seen when he arrived in Naousa after an eight-mile hike through mountains. Then he went back and told Hallen precisely what he'd seen up on the cliffside. "His cameras were some sort of weapon. He played it on the marching column, it took effect and they went to sleep," he finished. "I took them away from him and brought them down, but--"