Tate to Reich: I’ve finally figured it. Powell isn’t dumb. He’s running his investigation on two levels. Don’t pay any attention to the one that shows. Watch out for the one underneath. I’ve peeped something about a hospital. Check it.

Reich checked. It took three days and then he called Keno Quizzard again. Monarch was promptly burgled of Cr. 50,000 in laboratory platinum and the Restricted Room was destroyed in the process. The newly returned scientist was unmasked as an imposter, accused of complicity in the crime, and handed over to the police.

Powell to staff: Which means we’ll never prove Reich got that Rhodopsin stuff from his own lab. How in God’s name did he un-slick our trick? Can’t we do anything on any level? Where’s that girl?

While Reich was laughing at the ludicrous robot search for Marcus Graham, his top brass was greeting the Continental Tax Examiner, an Esper 2, who had arrived for a long delayed check on Monarch Utilities & Resources’ books. One of the new additions to the Examiner’s squad was a peeper ghost-writer who prepared her chiefs reports. She was an expert in official work… mainly police work.

Tate to Reich: I’m suspicious of that Examiner’s squad. Don’t take any chances.

Reich smiled grimly and turned his public books over to the squad. Then he sent Hassop, his Code Chief, to Spaceland on that promised vacation. Hassop obligingly carried a small spool of exposed film with his regular photographic equipment. That spool contained Monarch’s secret books, cased in a thermite seal which would destroy all records unless it was properly opened. The only other copy was in Reich’s invulnerable safe at home.

Powell to staff: And that just about ends everything. Have Hassop double-tailed; Rough & Smooth. He’s probably got vital evidence on him, so Reich’s probably got him beautifully protected. Damn it, we’re licked. I say it. Old Man Mose would say it. You know it. For Christ’s sake! Where is that goddamn missing girl?

Like an anatomical chart of the blood system, colored red for the arteries and blue for the veins, the underworld and overworld spread their networks. From Guild headquarters the word passed to instructors and students, to their families, to their friends, to their friends’ friends, to casual acquaintances, to strangers met in business. From Quizzard’s Casino the word was passed from croupier to gamblers, to confidence men, to the heavy racketeers, to the light thieves, to hustlers, steerers, and suckers, to the shadowy fringe of the semi-crook and near-honest.

On Friday morning, Fred Deal, Esper 3, awoke, arose, bathed, breakfasted, and departed to his regular job. He was Chief Guard on the floor of the Mars Exchange Bank down on Maiden Lane. Stopping to buy a new commutation ticket at the Pneumatique, he passed the time with an Esper 3, on duty at the Information Desk, who passed Fred the word about Barbara D’Courtney. Fred memorized the TP picture she flashed him. It was a picture framed in credit signs.