"Your albedo is showing," Jason chuckled harshly. "You never would take the trouble to learn the _how_ of anything, Lonnie. Sure, your damned disguise is the same color as the marble. Maybe even exactly the same. But the material is different, and the surface texture; it doesn't have the same degree or quality of reflectivity to incident light that marble does! "Eighty years ago, even the commercial photographers knew about albedo--one of 'em made a picture of a cat, white on white. I told you about the reflectivity in your stereo cube. But you wouldn't listen, Lonnie, would you?" Jason let out a bursting peal of laughter. "_So you tripped over your own albedo!_" Through the dying echoes of his own laughter, Jason caught Lonnie's harsh whisper. "You haven't got me, copper!" * * * * * The black line marking the opening in the grid suit disappeared. The barely-discernible limb-shapes dropped, one hand-end again fumbling at the rheostat in the palm of the other. "I'll get him, Chief!" Holland was in action, his disarmer snapping down into aim. "No!" Jason roared. "Holland, don't!" Too late. Under the pressure of Holland's finger, the disarmer's invisible ion-stream tightened to the thread-thin lethal intensity, leaped out against the suit's grid. Then the disarmer was luminous even in the dazzle; even through the flesh of Holland's fist. Holland screamed and squirmed and dropped. Part of him--the part that wasn't burned away--reached the floor. The stench of carbonized flesh scoured Jason's nostrils. Stupidly, he stared down at the headless, shoulderless, armless torso; black ... sooty ... against the snowy gleam of the floor; conscious of the sidelong, round-about approach of the different-white figure. He'd failed again. Lonnie, in that damned suit, was impervious. Slowly, he raised his eyes from the thing on the floor to the thing approaching. One consolation, he himself wouldn't go on living after this. With grim frustration, he raised his arm in a final, fruitless gesture and hurled the useless disarmer at the shape of Lonnie. It halted, dead, in mid-air, a yard away from the shape-thing. Dropped straight down, clanging against the floor. A quiver as of mirth appeared to shake the different-whiteness. It stooped. One hand-end fumbled at the palmed rheostat, then dropped to pick up the disarmer. Fumbled again at the rheostat while the figure straightened up to point the glistening projector at Jason's belly. The dark opening in the hood appeared again. Lonnie's voice chortled, "Told you I'd use whatever you tried to smear you with. Goodbye, Jasey ..." The dark line was gone. The disarmer, turned to lethal potential, settled in the shape's hand-end and began to spout. Jason went stiff. Every muscle of his body clenching to withstand obliteration. He waited for it. Tight ... except his eyes that, in spite of themselves, opened.