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small mnemiphot, a battered screen. On the wall hung a calendar and a group photograph of a family standing in front of a small frame cottage, evidently on Earth.
    Paddy crossed the room, put his ear to the partition. On the other side he could hear a scrape of motion—the doctor setting his office to rights.
    To Paddy’s right was a little closet. He looked in, saw a tank of mist-cleaner, a medicine closet built into the partition. Opening the door of the medicine closet and pulling out Ramadh Singh’s various unguents, incenses, lotions, Paddy had only a thin layer of spraywood between himself and the doctor’s office.
    Now, thought Paddy, we’ll see, we’ll see. If I’ve been followed, presently they’ll be curious and come on up to see where I am. If they come up and question the doctor I’ll know the worst, and be prepared.
    He heard voices, bent his ear to the cabinet. The doctor had a patient—a rough voice like an Asmasian. He was suffering from heat-rash and the doctor gave him a package of sal-negative. Another patient, suffering from ionic burns, was treated.
    There was a wait of twenty minutes, then another patient, then another twenty minutes—and now a fresh new voice with a different timbre. Paddy cocked his ear. The voice was feminine, full of soft round overtones. The woman asked, “Are you Dr. Tallogg?”
    There was a pause. Paddy pictured the doctor’s slow sour scrutiny. “That’s right.”
    “Dr. Tallogg,” said the woman’s voice, “you know that your brother, Dr. Clement Tallogg, is looking for you?”
    There was a long silence. Finally, in a dim muffled voice, “I have no brother. What do you want?”
    “I want to pay you five hundred thousand marks. That’s half a million marks.” She paused to let the figure sink in. “I want to take you back to Paris. We can leave in fifteen minutes. When we arrive you’ll find that your brother is no longer interested in your whereabouts, that a certain set of books has been found. I can arrange all this. All I want in return is some information.”
    Another long pause and Paddy’s eyes narrowed. Sweat poured down his ribs. What temptation to put before a man! Home, wealth, the sweet milk of friendship—how could he resist? He would not resist.
    “What kind of information?” came the low dim voice.
    “A tall red-haired man about thirty years old entered the building, came to your office. He has not been seen to leave. Very probably you have altered his appearance, possibly provided him with an unobtrusive route to the streets. What I want is an exact description of this man, his new appearance, his new coordinates and what you know of his future plans.”
    The silence was of a full minute’s duration and Paddy held his breath.
    “Show me the money.”
    There was a soft thud, a click, a slap. “Right there.”
    “And—the other matters?”
    “You’ll have to accept my word.”
    The doctor made a soft sound of scornful rejection.
    Silence.
    “Here,” said the doctor. “Swallow this.”
    Hesitation.
    “ What is it?”
    “It’s one of the Asmasian ordeal drugs. If an antidote is taken inside of half an hour no harm of any sort will result. If not you will die in some pain. When you put me aboard this boat I’ll give you the antidote.”
    The woman laughed. “By a curious coincidence I likewise carry with me a quantity of the ordeal poison. If you will take my dose I’ll take yours—and we’re both protected.”
    “Fair enough.”
    There were sounds, a click, another. Then the doctor’s voice came, deliberate, slow, detached.
    “The red-headed man now is very dark—a Mediterranean type. Here—this is what the prototype looks like. He resembles this very closely. You may keep it. He wears a blue jumper, soft boots. He speaks with a slight accent of some sort—I can’t quite place it.
    “I know nothing of his past, or his future plans. His fingerprints”—a pause, a rustle of papers—“this is the set I gave him.