“Check, Mr. Reich. Check!”

“We’re going to anthropomorphize our Jumper,” Reich said. “Let’s find a girl and vote her the Monarch Jumper Girl. When a consumer buys one, he’s buying the girl. When he handles one, he’s handling her.”

“Check!” the account man cried. “Your idea has a sense of solar scope that dwarfs us, Mr. Reich. This is a wrap-up and blast!”

“Start an immediate campaign to locate the Jumper Girl. Get every salesman onto it. Comb the city. I want the girl to be about twenty-five. About five-five tall; weighing a hundred and twenty pounds. I want her built. Lots of appeal.”

“Check, Mr. Reich. Check.”

“She ought to be a blonde with dark eyes. Full mouth. Good strong nose. Here’s a sketch of my idea of the Jumper Girl. Look it over, have it reproduced and passed out to your crew. There’s a promotion for the man who locates the girl I have in mind.”

Tate to Reich: I’ve been peeping the police. They’re sending a man into Monarch to dig up collusion between you and that appraiser, Graham.

Reich to Tate: Let ’em. There isn’t anything, and Graham’s left town on a buying spree. Something between me and Graham! Powell couldn’t be that dumb, could he? Maybe I’ve been overrating him.

Expense was no object to a squadman, now in plainclothes, who believed in the disguises of plastic surgery. Freshly equipped with mongoloid features, he took a job in Monarch Utilities’ Accounting-city and attempted to unearth Reich’s financial relations with Graham, the appraiser. It never occurred to him that his intent had been peeped by Monarch’s Esper Personnel Chief, reported upstairs, and that upstairs was quietly chuckling.

Powell to staff: Our stooge was looking for bribery recorded in Monarch’s books. This should lower Reich’s opinion of us by fifty per cent; which makes him fifty per cent more vulnerable. Pass the word. Where’s that girl?

At the board meeting of “The Hour,” the only round-the-clock paper on earth, twenty-four editions a day, Reich announced a new Monarch charity.

“We’re calling it ‘Sanctuary’,” he said. “We offer aid and comfort and sanctuary to the city’s submerged millions in their time of crisis. If you’ve been evicted, bankrupted, terrorized, swindled… If you’re frightened, for any reason and don’t know where to turn… If you’re desperate… Take Sanctuary.”

“It’s a terriffic promotion,” the managing editor said, “but it’ll cost like crazy. What’s it for?”

“Public Relations,” Reich snapped. “I want this to hit the next edition. Jet!”

Reich left the board room, went down to the street and located a public phone booth. He called “Recreation” and gave careful instructions to Ellery West. “I want a man placed in every Sanctuary office in the city. I want a full description and photo of every applicant relayed to me at once. At once, Ellery. As they come in.”

“I’m not asking any questions, Ben, but I wish I could peep you on that.”

“Suspicious?” Reich snarled.

“No. Just curious.”

“Don’t let it kill you.”