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As Houston stepped outside the bank, he casually dropped one hand into a coat pocket and turned a small knob on his radio control box. “Houston to HQ,” he whispered.

“London HQ; what is it, Houston?” asked the earpiece.

“Leadenhall Street Post. Meredith thinks he’s spotted one. Sir Lewis Huntley.”

“Righto. We’ve got men in that part of the city now. We’ll have a network posted within five minutes. Can you hold onto him that long?”

Houston looked around. Leadenhall Street was full of people, and the visibility was low. “I’ll have to tail him pretty closely,” Houston said. “Your damned English fogs don’t give a man much chance to see anything.”

There was a chuckle from the earphone. “Cheer up, Yank; you should have seen it back before 1968. When atomic power replaced coal and oil, our fogs became a devil of a lot cleaner.”

The voice was quite clear; at the London headquarters of the UN Psychodeviant Police, there was no need to wear a throat mike, which had a tendency to make the voice sound muffled in spite of the Statistical Information-Bit Samplers which were supposed to clarify the speech coming through them.

“What do you know about 1968?” Houston asked sardonically. “Your mother was still pushing you around in a baby-carriage then.”

“In a pram,” corrected the Headquarters operator. “That is true, but my dear Aunt Jennifer told me all about it. She was–“

“The hell with your Aunt Jennifer,” Houston interrupted suddenly. “Here comes Sir Lewis. Get me cover–fast!”

“Right. Keep us posted.”

Sir Lewis Huntley stepped out of the broad door of the bank and turned left. He took a couple of steps and stopped. He didn’t look around; he simply took a cigarette out of a silver case, put it in his mouth, and lit it. The glow of the lighter shone yellowly on the brass plate near the door which said: An Affiliate of Westminster Bank, Ltd.

Sir Lewis snapped the light out, drew on the cigarette, and strode on down the street, swinging a blue plastex brief case which contained a thousand pounds in United Nations Bank of England notes.

Houston decided the baronet had not been looking for a tail; he wished he could probe the man’s mind to make sure, but he knew that would be fatal. He’d have to play the game and hope for the best.

“He’s heading east,” Houston whispered. “Doesn’t look as if he’s going to get a cab.”

“Check,” said the earphone.

Sir Lewis seemed in no great hurry, but he walked briskly, as though he had a definite destination in mind.

After a little way, he crossed to the south side of Leadenhall Street and kept going east. Houston stayed far enough behind to be above suspicion, but not so far that he ran a chance of losing his man.

“He’s turning south on Fenchurch,” Houston said a little later. “I wonder where he’s going.”

“Keep after him,” said Headquarters. “Our net men haven’t spotted either of you yet. They can hardly see across the street in this damned fog.”

Houston kept going.

“What the hell?” he whispered a few minutes later. “He’s still following Fenchurch Street! He’s doubling back!”

Leadenhall Street, the banking center of the City of London, runs almost due east-and-west; Fenchurch Street makes a forty-five degree angle with it at the western end, running southwest for a bit and then curving toward the west, toward Lombard.

“Houston,” said HQ, “touch your left ear.”

Houston obediently reached up and scratched his left ear.

“Okay,” said HQ. “Bogart’s spotted you, but he hasn’t spotted Sir Lewis. Bogart’s across the street.”

“He can’t miss Sir Lewis,” whispered Houston. “Conservatively dressed–matching coat and trousers of orange nylon tweed–royal blue half-brim bowler–carrying a blue brief case.”

There was a pause, then: “Yeah. Bogart’s spotted him, and so has MacGruder. Mac’s on your side, a few yards ahead.”

“Check. How about the rest of the net?”

“Coming, coming. Be patient, old man.”

“I am patient,” growled Houston. I have to be, he thought to himself, otherwise I’d never stay alive.