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“Oh, just fine, Mr. Candron!” she said. “Just fine!” Then her voice lowered, and her face took on a serious, half conspiratorial expression. “Do you know what?”

“No,” said Candron, imitating her manner. “What?”

“We have a gentleman … he came in yesterday … a very nice man … and very intelligent, too. And, you know what?”

Candron shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “What?”

Mrs. Jesser’s face took on the self-pleased look of one who has important inside knowledge to impart. “He has actual photographs … three-D, full-color photographs … of the control room of a flying saucer! And one of the Saucerites, too!”

“Really?” Candron’s expression was that of a man who was both impressed and interested. “What did Mr. Balfour say?”

“Well–” Mrs. Jesser looked rather miffed. “I don’t really know! But the gentleman is supposed to be back tomorrow! With some more pictures!”

“Well,” said Candron. “Well. That’s really fine. I hope he has something. Is Mr. Taggert in?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Candron! He said you should go on up!” She waved a plump hand toward the stairway. It made Mrs. Jesser happy to think that she was the sole controller of the only way, except for the fire escape, that anyone could get to the upper floors of the building. And as long as she thought that, among other things, she was useful to the Society. Someone had to handle the crackpots and lunatic-fringe fanatics that came to the Society, and one of their own kind could do the job better than anyone else. As long as Mrs. Jesser and Mr. Balfour were on duty, the Society’s camouflage would remain intact.

Spencer Candron gave Mrs. Jesser a friendly gesture with one hand and then headed up the stairs. He would rather not have bothered to take the stairway all the way up to the fifth floor, but Mrs. Jesser had sharp ears, and she might wonder why his foot-steps were not heard all the way up. Nothing–but nothing–must ever be done to make Mrs. Jesser wonder about anything that went on here.

* * * * *

The door to Brian Taggert’s office was open when Candron finally reached the fifth floor. Taggert, of course, was not only expecting him, but had long been aware of his approach.

Candron went in, closed the door, and said, “Hi, Brian,” to the dark-haired, dark-eyed, hawk-nosed man who was sprawled on the couch that stood against one corner of the room. There was a desk at the other rear corner, but Brian Taggert wasn’t a desk man. He looked like a heavy-weight boxer, but he preferred relaxation to exercise.

But he did take his feet from the couch and lift himself to a sitting position as Candron entered. And, at the same time, the one resemblance between Taggert and Candron manifested itself–a warm, truly human smile.

“Spence,” he said warmly, “you look as though you were bored. Want a job?”

“No,” said Candron, “but I’ll take it. Who do I kill?”

“Nobody, unless you absolutely have to,” said Taggert.

Spencer Candron understood. The one thing that characterized the real members of The Society for Mystical and Metaphysical Research–not the “front” members, like Balfour and Mrs. Jesser, not the hundreds of “honorable” members who constituted the crackpot portion of the membership, but the real core of the group–the thing that characterized them could be summed up in one word: understanding. Without that one essential property, no human mind can be completely free. Unless a human mind is capable of understanding the only forces that can be pitted against it–the forces of other human minds–that mind cannot avail itself of the power that lies within it.

Of course, it is elementary that such understanding must also apply to oneself. Understanding of self must come before understanding of others. Total understanding is not necessary–indeed, utter totality is very likely impossible to any human mind. But the greater the understanding, the freer the mind, and, at a point which might be called the “critical point,” certain abilities inherent in the individual human mind become controllable. A change, not only in quantity, but in quality, occurs.