"It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were doing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle." Grammond cursed. "I could have put my men in the town and taken it apart brick by brick in the time--" "That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'll go underground." "You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys use for the spade work, that it?" "Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed." "Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punching out a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedalling all over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county--" "The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs three tons," said Tremaine. "Bicycles are out." Grammond snorted. "Okay, Tremaine," he said. "You're the boy with all the answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington." * * * * * Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. "It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred. Tell him if he queers this--" "I don't know but what he might have something," the voice came back over the filtered hum. "Suppose he smokes them out--" "Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia moonshiners." "Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!" the voice snapped. "And don't try out your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation." "Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket." Tremaine hung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers of Scotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coat and left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. He walked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was a once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its windows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in the ancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the button beside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minute before the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-boned face looked at him coolly. "Miss Carroll," Tremaine said. "You won't remember me, but I--" "There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James," Miss Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto. Only a faint quaver reflected her age--close to eighty, Tremaine thought, startled. "I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll," he said. "Come in." She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a straight chair across the room from him. "You look very well, James," she said, nodding. "I'm pleased to see that you've amounted to something." "Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid."