The man’s jaw muscles were jumping but he answered quietly, “Dr. Harshaw, I am Captain Heinrich of the Federation S.S. Bureau. The fact that you reached me by calling the Executive Palace should be ample proof that I am who I say I am. However—” He took out a wallet, flipped it open, and held it close to his own vision pickup. The picture blurred then quickly refocused. Harshaw glanced at the I.D. thus displayed; it looked authentic enough, he decided—especially as he did not care whether it was authentic or not.

“Very well, Captain,” he growled. “Will you now explain to me why you are keeping me from speaking with Mr. Berquist?”

“Mr. Berquist is not available.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? In that case, transfer my call to someone of Berquist’s rank. I mean one of the half-dozen people who work directly with the Secretary General, as Gil does. I don’t propose again to be fobbed off on some junior assistant flunky with no authority to blow his own nose! If Gil isn’t there and can’t handle it, then for God’s sake get me someone of equal rank who can!”

“You have been trying to telephone the Secretary General.”

“Precisely.”

“Very well, you may explain to me what business you have with the Secretary General.”

“And I may not. Are you a confidential assistant to the Secretary General? Are you privy to his secrets?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“That’s exactly the point. As a police officer, you should know better. I shall explain, to some person known to me to be cleared for sensitive material and in Mr. Douglas’ confidence, just enough to make sure that the Secretary General speaks to me. Are you sure Mr. Berquist can’t be reached?”

“Quite sure.”

“That’s too bad, he could have handled it quickly. Then it will have to be someone else—of his rank.”

“If it’s that secret, you shouldn’t be calling over a public phone.”

“My good Captain! I was not born yesterday—and neither were you. Since you had this called traced, I am sure you are aware that my personal phone is equipped to receive a maximum-security return call.”

The Special Service officer made no direct reply. Instead he answered, “Doctor, I’ll be blunt and save time. Until you explain your business, you aren’t going to get anywhere. If you switch off and call the Palace again, your call will be routed to this office. Call a hundred times . . . or a month from now. Same thing. Until you decide to cooperate.”

Jubal smiled happily. “It won’t be necessary now, as you have let slip—unwittingly, or was it intentional?— the one datum needed before we act. If we do. I can hold them off the rest of the day . . . but the code word is no longer ‘Berquist.’”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“My dear Captain, please! Not over an unscrambled circuit surely? But you know, or should know, that I am a senior philosophunculist on active duty.”

“Repeat?”

“Haven’t you studied amphigory? Gad, what they teach in schools these days! Go back to your pinochle game; I don’t need you.” Jubal switched off at once, set the phone for ten minutes refusal, said, “Come along, kids,” and returned to his favorite loafing spot near the pool. There he cautioned Anne to keep her Witness robe at hand day and night until further notice, told Mike to stay in earshot, and gave Miriam instructions concerning the telephone. Then he relaxed.

He was not displeased with his efforts. He had not expected to be able to reach the Secretary General at once, through official channels. He felt that his morning’s reconnaissance had developed at least one weak spot in the wall surrounding the Secretary and he expected—or hoped—that his stormy session with Captain Heinrich would bring a return call . . . from a higher level.

Or something.

If not, the exchange of compliments with the S.S. cop had been rewarding in itself and had left him in a warm glow of artistic postfructification. Harshaw held that certain feet were made for stepping on, in order to improve the breed, promote the general welfare, and minimize the ancient insolence of office; he had seen at once that Heinrich had such feet.

But, if no action developed, Harshaw wondered how long he could afford to wait? In addition to the pending collapse of his “time bomb” and the fact that he had, in effect, promised Jill that he would take steps on behalf of Ben Caxton (why couldn’t the child see that Ben probably could not be helped—indeed, was almost certainly beyond help—and that any direct or hasty action minimized Mike’s chance of keeping his freedom?)—in addition to these two factors, something new was crowding him: Duke was gone.