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simulectronics. You’ve got him fairly fascinated with the subject.”
    Joe Gadsen, Helen, Junior—the words resounded hollowly within my ear like the exotic names of strange natives on some yet-to-be-discovered world halfway across the galaxy. And his mention of the trout—why, I hadn’t caught a single fish during the entire month at the lake! At least, I didn’t remember catching any.
    There was one ultimate test that occurred to me. I left Gadsen and the file clerk gaping at each other and swept down the corridor to Chuck Whitney’s bailiwick in the function generating department. I found him with his head buried in the innards of his main data-integrator. I thumped him on the shoulder and he came up for air.
    “Chuck, I—”
    “Yes, Doug—what is it?” His friendly, tanned face reflected amusement, then uncertainty over my too-obvious hesitancy.
    He ran a hand back over a mat of dark hair that was so compressed in its unmanageable crimpiness that it was reminiscent of the crewcut and flattop which haven’t been in style for over a generation. Then, concerned, he asked, “You got trouble?”
    “It’s about—Morton Lynch,” I said reluctantly. “Ever hear of him?”
    “ Who? ”
    “Lynch,” I repeated, suddenly hopeless. “Morton, the security—oh, never mind. Forget it.”
    A moment later I drew up at the entrance to my reception room and was greeted with a cheerful “Good morning, Mr. Hall.”
    I did a double take at the receptionist. Miss Boykins was gone. In her place sat Dorothy Ford, strikingly blond and alert as she regarded me with coy amusement. “Surprised?” she murmured.
    “Where’s Miss Boykins?”
    “Mr. Siskin calleth and she respondeth. She’s now in the comforting folds of the Inner Establishment—content, we should hope, with her considerable nearness to the Great Little One.”
    I went over. “Is this a permanent arrangement?”
    She coaxed a stray hair back away from her temple. But somehow she didn’t appear quite as frivolous or inefficient as she had at Siskin’s party. She glanced down at her hands and said suggestively, “Oh, I’m sure you won’t mind the change, Doug?”
    But I did. And possibly I indicated as much by continuing on into my office with an uninspired, “I’ll get used to it.” I didn’t appreciate the fact that Siskin was shifting his pawns around the board and that I was one of them. It was obvious now that he was going to have his way when it came to assigning functions to the environment simulator. And I had no doubt he would reject my recommendation for partial use of the system in sociological research—just as he had been about to give Fuller a determined “No” on the same matter.
    In my case, though, there was to be appeasement of a sort—appeasement and, evidently, some form of supposedly interesting diversion. Miss Boykins, admittedly, was not quite the antithesis of homeliness, but she was efficient and pleasant. The versatile Dorothy Ford, in contrast, could serve a multiplicity of purposes—not the least significant of which would undoubtedly be “keeping an eye” on me in behalf of the Siskin Establishment.
    Such mental exercise didn’t occupy my attention very long, however, as the Lynch enigma drew me back like a magnet.
    I went to work on the videophone and, within seconds, had Lieutenant McBain on the screen.
    After identifying myself, I said, “About my complaint on Morton Lynch—”
    “What department did you want?”
    “Missing Persons, of course. I—”
    “When did you file your complaint? What was it about?”
    I swallowed heavily. But his reaction wasn’t something I hadn’t anticipated. “Morton Lynch,” I said haltingly. “At the Siskin party. The disappearance. You came out to Reactions and—”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Hall, but you must have me confused with someone else. This department has no such complaint on file.”
    Minutes later I was still staring at the dead screen.
    Then I bolted forward