A stocky, iron-haired man of fifty or more, with a heavy, seamed face and eyes not much softer than flint. Birrel had never seen him face to face before, but he knew him. "Why--" "Yes," said Gray-face, obviously enjoying himself. "It's Mr. John Connor." He turned and said, "Here he is, Mr. Connor. I believe he thought we were taking him for a ride." "All right, Paley," said Connor brusquely. "Sit down. Birrel. Sorry to haul you out here but this is important. Will you take that moronic stare off your face and _sit down_?" Birrel sat, swallowing hard. This he hadn't expected. He had been in the OSS more than a year, and he'd never even got within shouting distance of John Connor, the most famous of its directing brains. And now, eleven years later, to meet him this way in a masked factory that was an office-- Birrel said, weakly, "Then this _is_ a government agency?" "It is," said Connor. "The most secret one of all. We don't give out interviews, and have addresses, like the CIA and FBI." He nodded toward the gray-faced man. "You'll understand why I sent Paley for you this way, why I couldn't write or phone you." "But I thought you'd retired, after the war!" Birrel said. "The newspapers--" John Connor said disgustedly, "The hell and all of an OSS man you must have been, if you believe everything you read in newspapers." Birrel thought he understood now. One of the secret counter-espionage agencies by which America defended itself--so secret that probably few government-officials even knew about it. But-- Connor's rough voice answered his thought. "We need a man, Birrel. For a job. And it must be a man we can trust absolutely. That's why we looked through the OSS files--and found you." "Oh, now, listen," protested Birrel, rising. "My service was years ago, I've got a profession, and this isn't war-time now. You can find better agents than me--" Connor said brutally, "I could find five hundred agents better than you. I'd rather have anyone of them than you. Unfortunately, you've got something they haven't." "What?" "The right face, Birrel." Birrel didn't get it, he didn't get it at all. But Connor gave him no time to think. He demanded, "You'd help us if you thought it might mean life or death to your country, wouldn't you?" Birrel knew he was about to be trapped, but there was only one way you could answer that. "Sure, but--" Connor cut him off. "Fine. Now I'm going to show you someone, Birrel. Come along." They went out of the office, and down a long corridor and then down a flight of concrete steps. Connor said nothing on the way, and neither did Paley. The cement-walled basement corridor below was chilly. Lights glowed in its ceiling. In front of a closed steel door stood an alert young man with a submachine-gun cradled in his arm. Connor nodded to him and said, "All right." He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.