“Check,” said Beck.

“Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put ’em in plainclothes and assign ’em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of every crackpot tracer-robot that’s been submitted in the last ten years. Put all the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail… the kind he won’t have any trouble shaking, but the kind he’ll have to work to shake.”

“Any specific areas?” Beck inquired.

“Why were they playing ‘Sardine’? Who suggested the game? The Beaumont’s secretaries went on record that Reich couldn’t be peeped because he had a song kicking around in his skull. What song? Who wrote it? Where’d Reich hear it? Lab says, the guards were blasted with some kind of Visual Purple Ionizer. Check all research on that sort of thing. What killed D’Courtney? Let’s have lots of weapon research. Backtrack on Reich’s relations with D’Courtney. We know they were commercial rivals. Were they deadly enemies? Was it a profitable murder? A terrified murder? What and how much does Reich stand to win by D’Courtney’s death?”

“Jesus!” Beck exclaimed. “All this Rough? We’ll louse the case, Linc.”

“Maybe. I don’t think so. Reich’s a successful man. He’s had a string of victories that’s made him cocky. I think he’ll bite. He’ll imagine he’s outsmarting us every time he outmaneuvers one of our decoys. Keep him thinking that. We’re going to run into some brutal public relations. The news’ll tear us apart. But play along with it. Rave. Rant. Make outraged statements. We’re all going to be blundering, outwitted cops… and while Reich’s eating himself fat on that diet—”

“You’ll be eating Reich,” Beck grinned. “What about the girl?”

“She’s the one exception to the Rough Routine. We level with her. I want a description and photo sent to every police officer in the country within one hour. On the bottom of the stat we announce that the man who locates her will automatically be jumped five grades.”

“Sir: Regulations forbid elevation of more than three ranks at any time.” Thus spake Nod.

“To hell with Regulations,” Powell snapped. “Five grades to the man who finds Barbara D’Courtney. I’ve got to get that girl.”

In Monarch Tower, Ben Reich shoved every piezo crystal off his desk into the startled hands of his secretaries.

“Get the hell out of here and take all this slok with you,” he growled.

“From now on the office coasts without me. Understand? Don’t bother me.”

“Mr. Reich, we’d understood you were contemplating taking over the D’Courtney interests now that Craye D’Courtney’s dead. If you—”

“I’m taking care of that right now. That’s why I don’t want to be bothered. Now beat it. Jet!”

He horded the terrified squad toward the door, pushed them out, slammed the door and locked it. He went to the phone, punched BD-12,232 and waited impatiently. After too long a time, the image of Jerry Church appeared against a background of pawnshop debris.