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“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Porter asked.

Granby, who was somewhat shorter, fatter, and balder than his partner, opened his briefcase. “We’re just here on a routine check, Mr. Porter. If you can give us a little information…?” He let the half-question hang in the air as he took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

“Anything I can do to help,” Porter said.

Granby, looking at the papers, said: “In 1979, I believe you purchased a Grumman Supernova jet powered aircraft from Trans-American Airlines? Is that correct?”

“That is correct,” Porter agreed.

Granby handed one of the papers to Porter. “That is a copy of the registration certificate. Is the registration number the same as it is on your copy?”

“Have you got those pics?” Winstein cut in.

“Sure. Porter gave me an exclusive in return for socking me. It was worth it. Remember back in the Twenties, when the newspapermen talked about a scoop? Well, we’ve got the biggest scoop of the century.”

“Maybe,” said Winstein. “The Government hasn’t made any announcement yet. Where’s Porter?”

“Under arrest, where’d you think? After announcing that he would land on his New Mexico ranch, he did just that. As soon as he stepped out, a couple of dozen Government agents grabbed him. Violation of parole–he left the state without notifying his parole officer. But they couldn’t touch me, and they knew it.

“Here’s another bit of news for your personal information. A bomb went off inside the ship after it landed and blew the drive to smithereens. The only information is inside Porter’s head. He’s got the Government where the short hair grows.”

“Looks like it. See here, Terry; you get all the information you can and be back here by Saturday. You’re going to go on the Weekend Report.”

“Me? I’m no actor. Let Maxon handle it.”

“No. This is hot. You’re an eye-witness. Maxon will interview you. Understand?”

“O.K.; you’re the boss, Ole. Anything else?”

“Not right now, but if anything more comes up, call in.”

“Right. ‘Bye.” He hung up and leaned back in his chair, cocking his feet up on the desk. It was Malcom Porter’s desk and Malcom Porter’s chair. He was sitting in the Big Man’s office, just as though he owned it. His jaw still hurt a little, but he loved every ache of it. It was hard to remember that he had ever been angry with Porter.

Just before they had landed, Porter had said: “They’ll arrest me, of course. I knew that when I left. But I think I can get out of it. There will be various kinds of Government agents all over the place, but they won’t find anything. I’ve burned all my notebooks.

“I’ll instruct my attorney that you’re to have free run of the place so that you can call in your story.”

* * * * *

The phone rang. Elshawe grabbed up the receiver and said: “Malcom Porter’s residence.” He wished that they had visiphones out in the country; he missed seeing the face of the person he was talking to.

“Let me talk to Mr. Terrence Elshawe, please,” said the voice at the other end. “This is Detective Lieutenant Martin of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“This is me, Marty.”

“Good! Boy, have I had trouble getting to you! I had to make it an official call before the phone company would put the call through. How does it feel to be notorious?”

“Great. What’s new?”

“I got the dope on that Skinner fellow. I suppose you still want it? Or has success gone to your head?”

Elshawe had almost forgotten about Skinner. “Shoot,” he said.

The police officer rattled off Samuel Skinner’s vital statistics–age, sex, date and place of birth, and so on. Then: “He lived in New York until 1977. Taught science for fifteen years at a prep school there. He–“

“Wait a second,” Elshawe interrupted. “When was he born? Repeat that.”