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not a desk-chained gangster executive. He dated Polly London, the rising young starlet. That was why Enterstat had his biography. End of information.
    Ti dropped the paper back into the receival tray and stared thoughtfully at the computer keyboard. That explained the Police Hound. The underworld could lay hands on anything it wanted by bribing the proper officials. And somewhere it had secured a Hound. Well, he could just go and dial the police now, report the murder, for they were not involved. Or could he? His intuition (a thing he had long ago learned to respect) told him he should know more about Klaus Margle before he put his nonexistent foot into a nasty patch of briars. He punched out the Enterstat main phone number on the com-screen and waited while the two-dimension media (almost entirely a business service now that three-dimensional Mindlink had taken over in the private communications area) rang the number. The blank screen suddenly popped into light, and the face of Enterstat's editor, George Creol, swam into view, settled, held still, staring out at him with large, melancholy eyes. "Oh, hello, Chief. What is it?"
    "I want some information on a story prospect."
    "You writing again, Chief? You always did do great articles."
    "Uh, well, just something that interested me. I thought it might make a good feature."
    "Who is it?"
    "Klaus Margle. He may be the top boy of the Dark Brethren. He dates Polly London. Missing a thumb on his right hand, scarred on his face. That's about all I know, and I got that from our computer. Think you could put a researcher on it?"
    "Sure thing, Chief. When do you want the Stuff? Tomorrow?"
    "I want it in an hour."
    "But, Chief—"
    "It doesn't have to be complex. I don't need a psychological profile or anything like that. Just the basics. Put a dozen researchers on it if you have to, but have it in an hour!"
    "Sounds big."
    "It is"
    "I'll get on it right away. Call you back in an hour."
    Creol signed off, and the screen went blank again.
    Ti mixed himself a strong whiskey sour and waited.
    An hour later, the com-screen bleeped. He flipped it to reception and watched Creol's face fade in. "Got it, Chief," Creol said. "Hey, he's quite a fellow!"
    "Stat it."
    "Sure thing."
    Creol placed the documents under his recorder scope, one sheet at a time, then punched the transmit button. Moments later, the wet copies dropped into the tray in Ti's wall. He didn't rush to pick them up, though his nerves screamed for action. Creol was already too interested. He didn't want to blow any of this until he knew what he was doing. When all the papers had dropped, he thanked the editor and rang off. He sent a servo to retrieve the data and carried it back into the living room. He slid into a cup-chair beneath a reading globe and shut off the grav plates.
    When he had finished reading everything the researchers had found on Klaus Margle, he knew, beyond doubt, that the man was head of the Dark Brethren. The list of other gangsters liquidated under his auspices was awesome. By studying the killings tentatively credited to Klaus Margle, Ti could see the story of an industrious criminal assassinating his way up the ranks and right into the top roost. The information told him one other thing: he had been wise not to contact the police. Klaus Margle had been arrested nine different times. And he had beaten every rap. Whether he had clever lawyers or whether he spread money around where it would do him the most good was of little consequence. What counted was that if the police investigated this, Margle would eventually go free as he had before. Then he would come hunting for a reject named Timothy. No, this was not something he could turn over to the police. Not until he had conclusive evidence against Margle, evidence the crook could not buy his way out of. He was going to have to handle this thing himself . . .
     
    Ti slid into his Mindlink cup-chair, cut his grav plates, and breathed deeply. As he lowered the