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CONFERENCE COLD LIGHT YOUR LABORATORY TEN PM (signed) Dr. M.L. MARTIN”
    He was, was he? He did, did he? What did he think this lab was, a hotel? And did Martin think that his time was at the disposal of any Joe Doakes who had the price of a telegram? He had framed in his mind an urbanely discouraging reply when he noticed that the message had been filed at a midwestern airport. Very well, let him arrive. Douglas had no intention of meeting him.
    Nevertheless, his natural curiosity caused him to take down his copy of Who’s Who in Science, and look up the offender. There it was: Martin. M.L., biochemist and ecologist, P.D.Q., X.Y.Z., N.R.A., C.I.O.—enough degrees for six men. Hmmm—director Guggenheim Orinoco Fauna Survey, Author: Co-Lateral Symbiosis of the Boll Weevil, and so on, through three inches of fine print. The old boy seemed to be a heavyweight.
    A little later Douglas surveyed himself in the mirror of the laboratory washroom. He took off a dirty laboratory smock, removed a comb from his vest pocket, and put a careful polish on his sleek black hair. An elaborately tailored checked jacket, a snap-brim hat and he was ready for the street. He fingered the pale scar that stenciled the dark skin of one cheek. Not bad, he thought, in spite of the scar. If it weren’t for the broken nose he would look O.K.
    The restaurant where he dined alone was only partly filled. It wouldn’t become lively until after the theatres were out, but Douglas appreciated the hot swing band and the good food. Toward the end of his meal, a young woman walked past his table and sat down, facing him, one table away. He sized her up with care. Pretty fancy! Figure like a dancer, lots of corn-colored hair, nice complexion, and great big soft eyes. Rather dumb pan, but what could you expect?
    He decided to invite her over for a drink. If things shaped up, Dr. Martin could go to the devil. He scribbled a note on the back of a menu, and signaled the waiter.
    “Who is she, Leo? One of the entertainers?”
    “No, m’sieur. I have not seen her before.”
    Douglas relaxed, and waited for results. He knew the come-hither look when he saw it, and he was sure of the outcome. The girl read his note and glanced over at him with a little smile. He returned it with interest. She borrowed a pencil from the waiter, and wrote on the menu. Presently Leo handed it to him.
    “Sorry,”—it read— “and thanks for the kind offer, but I am otherwise engaged.”
    Douglas paid his bill, and returned to the laboratory.

    His laboratory was located on the top floor of his father’s factory. He left the outer door open and the elevator down in anticipation of Doctor Martin’s arrival, then he busied himself by trying to locate the cause of an irritating vibration in his centrifuge. Just at ten o’clock he heard the whir of the elevator. He reached the outer door of his office just as his visitor arrived.
    Facing him was the honey-colored babe he had tried to pick up in the restaurant.
    He was immediately indignant. “How did you get here? Follow me?”
    She froze up at once. “I have an appointment with Doctor Douglas. Please tell him that I am here.”
    “The devil you have. What kind of a game is this?”
    She controlled herself, but her face showed the effort. “I think Doctor Douglas is the best judge of that. Tell him I’m here—at once.”
    “You’re looking at him. I’m Doctor Douglas.”
    “You! I don’t believe it. You look more like a—a gangster.”
    “I am, nevertheless. Now cut out the clowning, sister, and tell me what the racket is. What’s your name?”
    “I am Doctor M.L. Martin.”
    He looked completely astounded, then bellowed his amusement. “No foolin’? You wouldn’t kid your country cousin, would you? Come in, doc, come in.”
    She followed him, suspicious as a strange dog, ready to fight at any provocation. She accepted a chair, then addressed him again. “Are you really Doctor Douglas?”
    He grinned at her. “In