“This is the play we get Hougart,” says the voice. “They’re going to run a short screen pass to the center. Put your defense into a five three two, but don’t blitz the inside line. On the snap, cover everybody but Hougart. Have your ends red-dog Mann. Hang back just far enough to make Hougart look wide open. Mann’s a sucker for a quick, sure gainer, especially when he’s under pressure and there doesn’t look to be any danger to his receiver. He’ll throw to Hougart, no doubt about it. When Hougart gets it, slip it to him in the throat. He’s got bad eyes. The glare from the streetlight in front of you ought to give you a few extra seconds. Have you got it? Nod twice if you’ve got it.”

T.K. has moved to the edge of his chair. “Who’s he talking to? Who the devil is he talking to?”

By way of an answer, Abelman points to the screen. It shows Harv Matision, nodding twice.

On screen, T.K. takes the snap, and fades back to pass.

“Turn it off. I don’t want to see any more of it,” T.K. says.

Abelman flips off the projector and turns on the overhead lights.

“Want to watch it again?”

T.K. shakes his head. “How did you get this?”

“Mr. Deutsch stole it from a secret repository the network maintains. He took this one single play, duplicated it, and returned the original to its proper position.”

“I did it because I can’t go along with them any more,” says Deutsch, his voice a putrid wisp of smoke. “They’re out-and-out murdering someone in almost every game. I went along with it when it was just a little manipulation here and there. I even sat still for an occasional killing. I can’t sit by and let it happen in every game, every week. I’ve got a wife and children. How would they get along if I went to prison?”

T.K. ignores Deutsch’s emotional outburst. “What does Matision have?” he asks. “A receiver in his helmet?”

“In his head,” answers Abelman, “in his head. He has a tiny receiver implanted just behind his left ear.”

“How long has he had it there?” T.K. speaks very slowly.

“As nearly as we can tell, ever since he became a professional football player.”

T.K. hangs his head and slaps his hand on his knee. “I can’t believe this.”

“I know,” says the senator. “I didn’t believe it either when Mr. Deutsch first came to me with it. After having heard him out, I’m firmly convinced it is true. In fact, it extends far beyond Matision. There is one controlled player on every team in the league.”

T.K. snaps upright. “Who on the Prospectors?”