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composer?’
    ‘It’s an opera,’ Tito said. ‘By Berg. Seldom performed, now.’ He lifted the receiver of the vid-phone. ‘I’ll get hold of the business office at Lattimore; it’s only four-thirty out there on the Coast.’
    Myra rose to her feet and roamed restlessly about the office, rubbing her gloved hands together in a motion that irritated Tito and made it difficult for him to concentrate on his call.
    ‘Have you had dinner?’ he asked her, as he waited on the line.
    ‘No. But I never eat until eight-thirty or nine; it’s barbaric to eat any earlier.’
    Tito said, ‘Can I take you to dinner, Mrs Sands? I know an awfully good little Armenian place in the Village. The food’s actually prepared by humans.’
    ‘Humans? As compared to what?’
    ‘Automatic food-processing systems,’ Tito murmured. ‘Or don’t you ever eat in autoprep restaurants?’ After all, the Sands were wealthy; possibly they normally enjoyed human-prepared food. ‘Personally, I can’t stand autopreps. The food’s always so predictable. Never burned, never . . .’ He broke off; on the vidscreen the miniature features of an employee at Lattimore had formed. ‘Miss, this is Life-factors Research Consultants of N’York calling. I’d like to inquire about an operation performed on a Major Wozzeck or Walleck last August, a spleen transplant.’
    ‘Wait,’ Myra said suddenly. ‘Now I remember; it wasn’t a spleen—it was an islands of Langerhans; you know, that part of the pancreas which controls sugar production in the body. I remember because Lurton got to talking about it because he saw me putting two teaspoonsful of sugar in my coffee.’
    ‘I’ll look that up,’ the girl at Lattimore said, overhearing Myra. She turned to her files.
    ‘What I want to find out,’ Tito said to her, ‘is the exact date at which the organ was obtained from the UN’s VOFR. If you can give me that datum, please.’ He waited, accustomed to having to be patient. His line of work absolutely required that virtue, above all others, including intelligence.
    The girl presently said, ‘A Colonel Weiswasser received an organ transplant on August twelve of this year. Islands of Langerhans, obtained from the VOFR the day before, August eleven. Dr Lurton Sands performed the operation and of course certified the organ.’
    ‘Thanks, miss,’ Tito said, and broke the connection. ‘The VOFR office is closed,’ Myra said, as he began once more to dial. ‘You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’
    ‘I know somebody there,’ Tito said and continued dialing.
    At last he had Gus Anderton, his contact at the UN’s vital organ bank. ‘Gus, this is Tito. Check August eleven this year for me. Islands of Langerhans; okay? See if the org-trans surgeon we previously had reference to picked up one there on that date.’
    His contact was back almost at once with the information. ‘Correct, Tito; it all checks out. Aug eleven, Islands of Langerhans. Transferred by jet-hopper to Lattimore in San Francisco. Routine in every way.’
    Tito Cravelli cut the circuit, exasperated.
    After a pause Myra Sands, still pacing restlessly about his office, exclaimed, ‘But I know he’s been obtaining organs illegally. He never turned anybody down, and you know there never have been that many organs in the bank reserve—he had to get them somewhere else. He still is; I know it.’
    ‘Knowing this and proving this are two  . . .’
    Turning to him, Myra snapped, ‘And outside of the UN bank there’s only one other place he would or could go.’
    ‘Agreed,’ Tito said, nodding. ‘But as your attorney said, you better have proof before you make the charge; otherwise he’ll sue you for slander, libel, defamation of character, the entire biz. He’d have to. You’d give him no choice.’
    ‘You don’t like this,’ Myra said.
    Tito shrugged. ‘I don’t have to like it. That doesn’t matter.’
    ‘But you think I’m treading on dangerous ground.’
    ‘I know