The Savage Machine
Fantastic – November 1958
(1958)*
Randall Garrett

The conqueror of the future—the man with a dictator complex—may find the stationary computor of more value than guns and mobile missiles.

-

	MONTROSE had decided to kill me, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.

	Yeah, Montrose. F. Hamilton Montrose. I know; you never heard of him. Neither have most people. Frankly, neither had I until a couple of weeks ago. The first thing I knew about the ubiquitous power of Montrose was the night a man by the name of Kraus forced his way into my apartment with a gun in his hand.

	I was sitting in my chair—my favorite, big, fat automatic relaxer—reading- an old copy of Sir Robert Agmont's classic English police story, Bobby's Burden, and sipping happily at a gin rickey. I was alone; I'd carefully checked my guard robot mechanisms before I came into my apartment to make sure that no one had sneaked in in my absence—a City Councilman can't be too careful. I knew damned well that there was no one in that apartment but me.

	So you can see why I spilled the gin rickey all over my book when a quiet voice said: "Councilman."

	I jerked my head up. He was a little man, about five-six; dark-haired, with a thin, intelligent face. He didn't look like a bum or a smalltime thief; he was well-dressed and freshly shaven. But in his right hand, he carried a 5 mm. Von Hindemuth Magnum automatic.

	"Don't do anything rash, Councilman Lieth," he said. "I'm a desperate man."

	His voice was calm as he said it, but I had a feeling that the tension in his voice indicated the desperation he was talking about.

	"Next time you don't want a man to do anything rash," I told him, "don't scare hell out of him the first thing."

	"Sorry, Councilman, I—"

	"Sorry, hell!" I'd recovered from my shock and was getting mad. "Look at this! My Agmont is a mess!" Fortunately, I'd had the book plasticized; the drink wouldn't really hurt it.

	"Councilman, I really am sorry," the guy said—and sounded it. "I would rather our meeting had been under more auspicious circumstances."

-

	I'm always suspicious of men who talk like that. Not because I don't know what "auspicious" means, but because a man who uses stilted rhetoric is either putting up a phony front or he's blind to the way ordinary people communicate—or both.

	I relaxed. "All right, friend; you've got the gun. What do you want?"

	"It's very simple," he said. "I want you to persuade the City Council to get rid of Central Control."

	I wanted to laugh, but I decided it might not be politic to laugh in the face of a housebreaker who had a gun leveled at my middle.

	Instead, I said: "You might as well ask me to have the Brooklyn Bridges blown up or close up the Staten Island Tubes. Ever since 1972, Central Control has been regulating traffic and communications in the whole Metropolitan Area, and the situation is a lot more complicated now than it was back then. Do you know what would happen if we got rid of Central Control?"

	"I have a fairly good idea," he said with a sour grin. "But it's a lot better than having CC in the hands of a power-mad lunatic."

	Meaning yourself? I was thinking—but I didn't say it aloud. I thought he might even mean me, although the Council doesn't have much to do with CC.

	"Look here," I said, "did you come here to kill me?"

	"No," he said. "Not unless—unless you refused to listen to me."

	"You could have gotten an appointment. I'd have seen you in my office."

	He laughed. A hard, short, dry laugh. "I tried that. You wouldn't see me. My name is Kraus—Henry Josef Kraus."

	"Oh," I said. "I see." I remembered the case, then. Kraus used to work for Central Control. He'd been tossed out on his ear for misappropriation of equipment. He could have been sent to Sing Sing for grand larceny, but CC was good to him; they'd just fired him without recommendations.

	Since then, he'd tried to get the ear of several of the other Councilmen. I had been warned that he was a crackpot, so I'd simply told my office staff that I would always be too busy to see Henry J. Kraus. He'd even tried to get in under a phony name once, but one of my staff recognized trim.

	"I'll tell you what, Mr. Kraus," I said, "I don't like looking down the barrel of a five millimeter automatic. You want to talk to me. Very well. I won't signal the police; I won't have you arrested. If you'll put that gun away, I'll just pretend you rang at my door and I let you in in the usual way. I'll give you—" I glanced at my watch. "—I'll give you an hour. I always go to bed at midnight."

	"And what if I don't put up the gun, Councilman?"

	"Then I'll sit here and listen to what you have to say, naturally. But that gun isn't going to prejudice me in your favor; it will bother me, and I won't be able to follow your reasoning."

	He thought about it for a minute, then made up his mind. The gun vanished into a magnetic holster in his left sleeve.

	"I'm sorry about the gun, Councilman," he said. "Maybe I should have come in in the usual way."

	I shook my head. "No. I wouldn't have let you in. You went about it the right way. You still are. By the way—how did you. get in?"

-

	He grinned his sour grin. "You've got robot locks and an alarm system connected with Central Control. But remember—I used to work for CC. Knowing how to gimmick up the remote controlled devices of Central Control is the only thing that has kept me alive this long."

	"I'm afraid I don't follow you," I said. "Get yourself a drink, sit down, make yourself comfortable, and start at the beginning. You only have an hour."

	"It won't take that long, Councilman." He eyed the autobar. "I don't normally indulge in alcoholic beverages, but—"

	"Go ahead," I told him. "Your nerves need relaxing. Or, maybe you'd prefer Tranquillo."

	"No—no—What were you drinking?"

	"Gin rickey. Punch for two."

	He punched the appropriate buttons on the autobar. It hummed a little and shoved out a couple of drinks. Kraus took one, handed the other to me, and sat down on the couch. I noticed that he held the drink in his left hand; he kept his right hand free to grab that sleeve gun. I didn't honestly blame him.

	"Begin at the beginning, you say?" He looked puzzled, as though he didn't quite know what to say, now that I'd taken him off guard with the pistol business. He'd come in expecting to threaten me and throw his story in my face, and here he was drinking my liquor.

	"At the beginning," I said, "but leave out the part about your poor, but honest parents."

	He didn't smile. "First, I want you to know that I was framed for that 'misappropriation of equipment' thing. Montrose did it. He's been taking equipment from Supply for years. He had to cover up, and he wanted to get rid of me, so he took a lot of the extra stuff that he didn't need and put it in my Hobby Doo-it, in my basement—I've got a small house upstate." He looked up at me. "You don't believe me, do you?"

	"I'll accept it as a Working hypothesis," I said. "Who is this Montrose?"

	"F. Hamilton Montrose. He's Programming and Expansion Chief at Central Control. The most important man at CC."

	"I thought Bisselworth was head man at CC," I said.

	Kraus sneered. "Bisselworth? He's a figurehead; he got there through office politics. He and the others do what Montrose tells them to do." He leaned forward intently. "You see, Councilman Lieth, the man who runs Central Control is the man who controls The Brain itself—and that's Montrose.

	"Look at it straight. The Brain is a digital-analog computer, made up of two trillion cryatron units connected by a random-switching relay system—"

	"Just a second," I said, holding up a hand. "Unless it's important, spare me the technology. I'm a politician, not a technician.

	"I know that Central Control is operated by an electronic brain of some kind that operates and controls every automobile, every subway train, every form of transportation in the city of greater New York. It also controls the telephone system, the power system, the—"

	This time it was his turn to interrupt. "In short, every system of transportation, communication, and power in the area. That's right, Councilman. And Montrose controls The Brain."

	"So what? What could he do? Foul up traffic? Jam the telephone system?"

	Kraus looked angry. "Councilman, suppose he took it in his head to shut the thing off? Do you realize that this city would be without food in less than twenty-four hours? And power is needed, and communication. Can you imagine the chaos that would result?"

	"For what?" I asked. "They'd have Montrose in the Tombs within twenty minutes, and have this Brain turned on again. Besides, there's always the standby Brain. Even if he wrecked the main computer, the standby could be turned on, and the city controls the standby."

	Kraus nodded in irritation. "I know, I know. I was just giving you an example; Montrose has no intention of doing any such thing."

	"Then what is he up to?" I asked.

	Kraus downed half his drink before he answered. Then he leaned forward, his dark eyes intent on mine. "Control of the city!" His voice was a hoarse whisper.

-

	Very melodramatic, I was thinking. "How?" I asked.

	"Can't you see? He's got eyes everywhere; he can see through every guard TV pickup in New York. Look; every important office, every rich home, has a robot guard system—like yours. What happens if you're robbed—or burgled?"

	"A warning is flashed to the nearest precinct station," I said. "The TV cameras hidden in the walls come on, and the police can take a look at what's going on. At the same time, a robot controlled squad car full of cops is shunted to the scene of the crime."

	"That's right. But do you think that's the only time those cameras can come on? Montrose can turn them on any time. They bypass the police station and go straight to his monitor screens, he can snoop any time, anywhere.

	"That, alone, has netted him plenty of money; he's watched secret business deals on Wall Street and gotten advance information which he uses to operate on the stock market.

	"Suppose he wanted to kill somebody? All he'd have to do is give The Brain orders not to report the happenings at a certain place. He could walk right in and shoot you, and the robot wouldn't report a thing to the police."

	"Hell," I said, "evidently you could have done that yourself. Besides, there's a guard circuit on The Brain itself that prevents that sort of thing; I know that much about it. That thing was built with all kinds of checks and balances to prevent just such things as you claim Montrose is doing."

	Kraus nodded. "You're absolutely right. You're not a cyberneticist, so I couldn't explain how thoroughly The Brain was protected against misuse when it was built. Only a major rebuilding of The Brain itself would allow Montrose to control it the way he does."

	"Well?"

	"Well, damn it, he has rebuilt it! Do you think I could have come in here without being reported if I didn't know that The Brain has been gimmicked? Montrose has had ten years to do his work. And he's done it well."

	"How could he do it undetected?"

	"Every time there is a change in the city's transportation or communication system—such as the addition of part of New Jersey to the circuits last year—the computer has to be modified to take care of the change. Every time that was done, Montrose would make a few other changes—small ones that no one noticed. Finally, he had The Brain under control well enough so that he could make more changes without bothering the guarding circuits. Now, he's got the whole city in the palm of his hand."

	"I see," I said. It made sense, but it still sounded pretty wild.

-

	Kraus finished his drink, crumpled up the glass, and threw it in the disposal.

	"Do you know why I was fired?" he asked. "Do you know why Montrose framed me? Because he was afraid I might find out what he was doing! He didn't know that I already knew! But he knows now! And now he's trying to kill me!"

	I lit a cigarette. "Kraus, why didn't you tell all this when the charges were brought against you?"

	Kraus looked down at the floor. "I was afraid. The frame-up was too good. If I'd made any charges, I'd have been arrested and tried and sent to prison. I couldn't stand that—penal servitude. For years—and years. And besides, I couldn't prove anything against Montrose."

	"Couldn't we get someone else to check the circuits in The Brain?"

	Kraus shook his head. "No. There's nobody on Earth that knows as much about that Brain as Montrose. It would take as long to find out what he's done as it took him to do it.

	"No—nobody knows but me, and Montrose is trying to kill me. I can't even leave town to escape him, because he controls all the transportation."

	I got the picture then—or thought I did. Kraus had been done out of a job, and he thought Montrose was out to get him. Persecution complex, pure and simple. Or so I thought.

	"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

	Kraus's eyes blazed suddenly. "Get the City Council to investigate Montrose! Check his holdings, his business dealings, his income! And turn control of the city over to the standby Brain while he's being investigated! That has to be done first, or he'll stop the investigation before it gets started! Then get a corps of expert cybernetecists in to tear down the old Brain and check it over; it'll take time, but you'll be able to get Montrose eventually!"

	"Haven't you any tangible evidence?" I asked. "Anything that would do as a starting point?"

	"No," he said softly. "No. Nothing. Nothing at all." He looked at his watch. "I haven't taken up anywhere near an hour of your time, but that's all I have to say."

-

	I stood up. "Okay, Mr. Kraus. I'll keep my end of the bargain. I won't call the cops. And I'll think over what you've said. I'll look into it; if I find anything worth bringing to the Council's attention, I'll do so."

	"All right." He got up from the couch, looking beaten. He probably suspected I didn't put much faith in his wild story of one man controlling all of Greater New York. One unknown man—it was fantastic.

	"Let me warn you, though," said Kraus. "Don't do anything in the city itself. Don't even let on that you suspect. Ask a couple of the Councilmen up to your place in the country for the weekend and tell them there. Otherwise, Montrose will kill you, and you don't know how to stay out of The Brain's reach, like I do."

	"Don't worry; if there's anything to this, I'll keep out of his way. Don't worry about me."

	He nodded unhappily. I followed him to the front door of my apartment. It was open, and there was a boxlike gadget hanging on the doorknob. A couple of thin, insulated wires came out of it and went into the electronic lock.

	Kraus saw me looking at it and gave me a half smile. "It's a handy gadget. I'll take it with me when I go."

	He closed the door behind him as he left, and I heard a faint scraping as he pulled the gadget loose from the door. I resolved then and there to do something about that lock; electronic locks were supposed to be foolproof.

-

	I worried Kraus's story around in my mind for a few days, but by the time a week had passed, I'd almost forgotten it. Almost, but not quite. It kept nagging at the back of my brain every so often; I'd push it away, and it would come sneaking back at the damndest times, interrupting my work and ruining my recreation periods.

	But I didn't do anything about it until eight days after my visit from the discharged CC technician.

	I was having an after-dinner drink in the Biltmore's Oak Room. It's one of those saloons that tries to preserve the old-fashioned atmosphere—simulated oak panelling and a real bartender instead of a coin-fed autobar. It was expensive, but the food was good, and the barman was a good conversationalist. He had to be; that's what he was paid for; the drinks were mixed in an autobar, but he punched the buttons instead of the customer's having to do it.

	Jerry, the barman, and I got into a conversation. I don't remember what it was about—just the usual chitchat, the weather, politics, whether it was fair to use an electronic robot umpire in the World Series—that sort of thing. Somehow, the conversation got around to the fact that, my office is on the top floor of New City Hall.

	Jerry grinned. "You know, Councilman, for the past four days, I've been glad I work on the ground floor."

	"That so? How come?" I stirred absently at my bourbon-and-soda, with only half my mind on the barman's words. I was thinking about Kraus again.

	"I saw an accident in the Stratolines Building, over on UN Drive," Jerry said. "An elevator went wrong and dropped fourteen floors to the bottom."

	"It must have really gone bad, then," I said. "Those things have all kinds of safety devices on them to stop them before they hit."

	"I know. But this one just went smash."

	"Anybody hurt?" I was half curious.

	Jerry nodded. "Yeah. That's what got me. One guy in it. Mashed him up pretty badly. The cops, were on the scene right after it happened. I saw them take him out."

	"I wonder what happened? Elevators don't just fall."

	"The cops said he must have been fooling with the controls illegally. He had some sort of electronic gadget hooked up to the control panel."

	It took all of half a second for that to soak in. I jerked my head up from staring at my drink. "Gadget? That's funny. Did you get the guy's name?"

	Jerry thought a minute. "I heard one of the cops mention it when they took his identity card out of his wallet. Grouse, I think it was."

	"You sure it wasn't Kraus—Henry Kraus?"

	"Yeah! Yeah, that's it. Why? Did you know him?"

	"I met him once," I said carefully. "Can't say I knew him well. Well, that's the way things go." It sounded banal, but I had the feeling right then that someone was watching me and listening to every word I said. Foolish, of course, but,—

	Anyway, I changed the subject.

-

	When I got home, I checked through my file of newspapers. A Councilman has to keep an eye on what's going on around him, and I make it a habit to read every bit of the news pretty carefully. And I didn't remember any article about a man being killed in an elevator accident.

	I was right; there was no mention of it in the newsfax. That bothered me a hell of a lot more than the accident itself. It should have been in the news; an elevator accident involving a fatality isn't commonplace—it's news. Someone would have reported it.

	Obviously, it had been reported, and then censored out of the facsimile sheets.

	Nearly everybody just takes their morning and evening newssheet for granted. It rolls out of your home reproducer on schedule—if you've paid your bill—and you read it and file it or throw it away. Most people don't stop to consider how it gets to their reproducer.

	The articles are fed into the phototransmitter at the newspaper office—the Times, the News, whatever you get—and they're transmitted to Central Control, where they're put together according to a pre-set program and set up in sheet form, along with the advertisements and comics. This process takes about a minute and a half. Then the image of the finished newspaper is retransmitted to your home, where a light beam reproduces it on sensitized paper, which rolls out to give you your photofacsimile.

	If the article about Kraus had been censored, either the editor of every paper in town had killed the story or else The Brain at Central Control had failed to put it into the master sheet for re-transmission. My bet was that CC had censored it, not the editors; there's such a thing as too much coincidence.

	And that meant the Kraus's wild story at least had some basis in fact.

	I decided then and there to investigate quietly.

-

	Two days later, I was in the office of James Bisselworth, President of Central Control. I'd met him before, at various political and business gatherings, and had had dinner with him and a couple of other men once. Big, heavy-set; gray hair; face chunky and running to redness; a wholesome fellow, with a pleasant manner and a good head for business.

	When I stepped in the door of his office, he came around from behind his desk and shook my hand warmly. "How are you, Councilman? Haven't seen you for a while. How are things at City Hall?"

	"Well enough," I said. "About as good as a bunch of politicians can make them."

	"Fine. Fine. I haven't heard anything about your getting married, so I suppose you're still the most eligible bachelor in the city, eh?"

	"Well, none of the post-debs have got their hooks into me yet."

	Just talk. Congenial, meaningless talk. It comes automatically when you've been in politics or business long enough.

	We strolled over to the big window that filled one whole wall of Bisselworth's office. "Beautiful this time of year, isn't it?" he said.

	"Spring always brings out the best in Central Park," I said.

	A lot of people raised a big fuss back in '70, when the Central Control building was built smack in the middle of Central Park, but it couldn't be helped. The Park is the only place in Manhattan where the bedrock is solid and the subways are far enough away so that their vibrations can be effectively damped. The Brain is a sensitive mechanism; it can't stand too much vibration.

	Finally, Bisselworth came around to the subject—as I had known he would.

	"How about the Connecticut Addition Bill, Councilman? Think it'll pass?" He didn't expect an honest answer; he was just opening the way.

	"I'm not sure," I said, "but it looks pretty good. That's why I'm here—sort of get the facts, you know."

	Central Control wanted to add a part of southern Connecticut to the circuits. Connecticut had already approved the addition, and so had Albany. Now it was up to the New York City Council.

	The bill would pass, and I knew it would, but I had to have an excuse to take a prowl around Central Control, so I had sort of juggled some of the boys on the Council around a little. The upshot of it was that I'd been sent over to "get a little first-hand information". Which was just what I wanted, but in a different way.

	Bisselworth said: "Well, I guess the best way to start is to go down to Planning first. The boys down there can give you an idea of the Connecticut layout. They've got a direct wire Validac set up over there now that's pretty good, and ..."

	He went on talking while we went down to Planning in the elevator.

-

	1 spent the next hour listening to electronicists and engineers explain in broad outlines how Connecticut would be connected into the circuits of Central Control.

	"It's this area, here," one man said. "Fairfield County, most of New Haven County, and the lower part of Litchfield County. That includes Bridgeport, Waterbury, and New Haven. The power leads ..."

	I listened with half an ear as I looked at the big detail map. My eyes were drawn to a little section in the lower right corner, where the data boxes were. One of the little squares was labeled: Expansion Approval. Inside it, in neat letters, was a trio of handwritten initials. 

	F. H. M.

	F. Hamilton Montrose.

	I watched while the men projected microfilmed blueprints on a screen, and lectured on the benefits of Central Control, and I noticed that little changes had been made on some of them—corrections, small circuit changes, little improvements. All of them were initialed F. H. M.

	As the CC men talked, I began to see more of the picture—a picture of power and domination.

-

	All over the United States, the larger cities had long ago installed traffic control systems managed by more or less complex robot control system. No modern city could get along without them; imagine trying to steer a car by yourself through the streets of Philadelphia or Cincinnati! Imagine trying to find a place to park your car!

	But by far the greatest concentration of people per square mile in the world, is in Greater New York. That's why New York built the first Central Control unit with cryotronic brain; no other city in the world needed anything quite that complex. No other city in the world has anything approaching The Brain.

	And now that ways have been discovered to link in already existing robotic systems with New York's Central Control, making them, in effect, parts of The Brain itself, there is no need to construct other Brains, except, perhaps, as standbys or as supplements to New York's Central Control.

	And as each bit of area was added, Montrose became the controlling power of more and more territory.

	I didn't like the picture a bit. I was becoming more and more interested in meeting Mr. F. Hamilton Montrose.

	The engineers—several of them—talked and demonstrated for a full hour while I kept my ears open and asked what I hope were intelligent questions. At least I got intelligent answers.

	Then we spent another hour going around the building, looking at various departments and research labs. Not once was I introduced to anyone named Montrose.

	Finally, Bisselworth said, in his hearty voice: "Well, that's about it, Councilman. Any more questions?"

	I wanted to say: Yes! Where the hell is this Montrose guy? Instead, I just looked mildly surprised.

	"All? Good heavens, Jim, I haven't seen your prize possession yet," I said. "Where's this famous Brain of yours?"

	He chuckled tolerantly. "Anyone can tell you're not a cyberneticist, Councilman. A cryotron brain has to be kept near absolute zero in order to function. Our pet is kept in a thickly-insulated bath of liquid helium."

	I could tell he was no cyberneticist, too, but I let it pass. "I know that," I said, "but I thought you might let me see what there is to see."

	"There's not much to see, actually," he said, "but if you want to, we can take a look at the programming end. I'll take you down to Montrose's little cubbyhole."

	"If it's any trouble—" I began, hoping he wouldn't take the gambit.

	"No trouble at all, Councilman; no trouble at all."

	We walked toward the elevator. As we stepped inside, he said: "Our Programming Director is a hell of a fine man, but he works better if he's left alone, so we usually don't take visitors down there. But you're an exception, Councilman."

	The elevator had started down already, so I thought it would be safe to play it down a little more. "Now, see here, Jim, don't disturb anyone's work on my account."

	He brushed that aside with a wave of his hand. "Oh, no, you're not disturbing anyone. Montrose doesn't mind an occasional visitor; it's just that he doesn't like people coming in and out all the time, that's all. He's really a nice sort of fellow—quiet, but pleasant."

	That wasn't quite the story I had, but I'd have to wait and judge for myself. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, it was still possible that Kraus had been battier than a church tower.

-

	The elevator lowered us to the sub-basement of the building, where, imbedded in the rigid rock beneath Central Park and immersed in an ultracold bath of liquid helium, lay The Brain.

	As we stepped out into the hallway, I heard a faint, high humming sound that filled the air.

	"I didn't know The Brain was so musical," I remarked to Bisselworth.

	He frowned for a second, then his face cleared. "You mean that hum? That's not The Brain, it's the refrigeration mechanism that keeps the helium flowing. The Brain is absolutely silent."

	I followed him along a white, aseptic looking hall illuminated by blue-white glow plates in the ceiling.

	"Montrose is really quite a thinker," Bisselworth went on, as though he were apologizing for the man. "He's worked a real miracle in simplifying the data input feeds for The Brain. Ten years ago, just programming the machine took a team of fifteen highly trained men. Today, Montrose has three assistants who can learn all they have to know in a simple six-week training course." He chuckled. "1 must admit they're cheaper than mathematicians with a Ph. D.; Montrose saved us a lot of money that way."

	"What did you do, fire all the math boys as soon as Montrose simplified the data input?" I asked innocently.

	Bisselworth looked hurt and indignant. "Of course not; we put 'em on other jobs—research, things like that. The only one we fired was Montrose's chief assistant. Kraus—you may have heard about the case."

	"I think I remember something about it."

	"He was stealing from the company. Foolish thing for him to do; he had a good job here. He would have taken over Montrose's job when Montrose retired."

	"Maybe he thought you were going to transfer him, like you did the others."

	Bisselworth shook his head. "Oh, no. Montrose needs an understudy, and Kraus was a good man. I, myself, promised him that he could keep his job as long as he wanted it, and that he'd be promoted when Montrose retired. Of course, I had no idea he was stealing from us, or I'd have had his contract broken in court right away."

	"Oh, yeah; that's right," I said, nodding wisely as if it had just occurred to me, "Kraus was under contract."

	We came to a branch in the hallway, and turned left.

	"That's right," said Bisselworth. "He came in under the Technical Executive Law, just as Montrose did. We couldn't fire him except for malfeasance, felony, and so forth, and he couldn't quit unless—" He broke off as we came to a heavy door at the end of the hallway. This is Montrose's sanctum sanctorum." He laughed self-consciously as he pressed the button at the side of the door, as though he hated to reveal the fact that the president of the company himself didn't just barge in on F. Hamilton Montrose.

	A tall, ordinary-looking, sandy-haired man opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Bisselworth. Come in," he said.

	We came in, and Bisselworth said: "Could we see Montrose, or is he busy right now?"

	"He said he'd be out at three-twenty, sir; it's almost that now." He glanced at his watch to verify his words. "He's working on the 903 strip now."

	I didn't know what that meant, and I had a hunch Bisselworth didn't either, but Bisselworth only said: "I guess we can wait." And I said nothing.

	The room echoed with little clicks and buzzes over a faint background hum. It wasn't a very big room, considering its importance; I'd say it was about forty feet by thirty. The walls were literally covered with meters and lights. At the far end, the other two assistants were looking at a bank of oscilliscope screens and taking notes. They had looked at us when we came in, but they immediately gave their attention to their jobs again.

	So Montrose had redesigned the input banks, eh? Made them simpler to operate. Very clever; he'd gotten rid of the cyberneticists who might get wise to his play and substituted ordinary men with a six-week training course.

	Because of the contract, he couldn't get rid of Kraus, so he'd framed the man. Again, very clever.

	I only hoped I was cleverer.

	I was watching a meter needle make erratic wiggles on a meaninglessly numbered dial when I heard the inner door open. I turned to get my first look at F. Hamilton Montrose.

-

	At first, he didn't see us; he was holding a clipboard in his hand and looking at some papers clipped to it, so I had a good chance to study him.

	He was a good six inches shorter than I, which would put him at about five seven. His hair was graying and had receded from his forehead; his brows were somewhat darker than his hair—neat, and well-formed. His mouth was firm, and his upper lip was covered with a heavy, but freshly-trimmed moustache. He wore glasses rimmed with dark plastic; the nose they sat on was remarkable. It was a majestic nose—large and finely chiseled. It was neither curved nor hooked; it angled out of his face in a straight line, turning sharply at the end to give it an almost pointed look. It was quite a nose.

	The chin, by comparison, was nothing. It was neither weak nor strong. It was just a chin.

	"Hello, Montrose," said Bisselworth after a couple of seconds. "Everything going well, I trust,"

	Montrose looked up and smiled pleasantly, "Very well, thank you, Mr. Bisselworth." Then he turned and looked quizzically at me out of mild blue eyes'.

	Bisselworth filled the gap. "This is Charles Lieth, of the City Council. Councilman, this is our Programming and Expansion chief, Hamilton Montrose."

-

	I stepped forward and shook his hand. His grasp was warm and friendly. "What can I do for you, Councilman?" he asked, in a pleasant, well-modulated voice.

	"Councilman Lieth has been looking at our plans for the Connecticut addition," Bisselworth said. "The Council wanted him to pay us a visit before they vote on the bill."

	Montrose smiled up at me. "I see. Well, I'm afraid that what we have down here isn't much to look at, but you're welcome to see what there is."

	"I probably wouldn't understand it too well, anyway," I admitted. "What do you do down here, Mr. Montrose?"

	"Well, most of the time, it's programming—giving special orders to it for work of a non-routine nature. For instance, if the City Council decides to hold a parade—" He grinned at me. "—we have to tell The Brain about it. We have to know what streets are going to be used so that traffic can be re-routed in the most efficient manner—that sort of thing. Or if a ship should come in from England, say, with a load of perishables aboard, the information is put in here in order to get the cargo to its destination as quickly as possible.

	"And then, too, we have to be prepared for emergencies. Storms—hurricanes, heavy snowfalls, and the like—and fires and explosions have to be treated as special projects.

	"Someday, perhaps, we can build a Brain that will handle things like that, but it isn't feasible at present, I'm afraid."

	"You mean you have to give special orders every time there's an automobile accident?" I said, doing my best to sound naive.

	He chuckled. "Oh, no; not at all. Automobile accidents can happen because of—oh, faulty construction, wear, lots of things. But they're all planned for. By that, I mean that a certain number of automobile accidents are statistically predictable, so The Brain is able to take care of them. They are what we call 'routine accidents'." He looked at one of the screens on the far wall. "Come here, and I'll show you."

	Bisselworth and I followed him over to the screen. There was nothing to see but a wiggly blue line tracing its way across the face of the screen.

	"That line," said Montrose, "represents the traffic on the Staten Island-Bronx Highway. Every fluctuation you see is a minor flaw in the traffic pattern caused by improper response of individual automobiles to the robot control. If that line were perfectly steady, it would mean that every car was behaving perfectly. As you can see, they aren't. Now, a big blip on that line would indicate a major accident—a collision, a car going off the road, a stalled vehicle—anything which would break the traffic pattern.

	"Since we know that such things do happen and will happen, we can build the proper responses into The Brain to take care of them. The traffic is shunted around the scene of the accident, and a nearby police car is sent to the scene. If necessary, an ambulance can be sent, but bad accidents like that are rare."

	"I see," I said. "Very ingenious."

	"Now, over here ..."

-

	F. Hamilton Montrose showed us all the instruments in the place. He was affable, calm, and polite. After about twenty minutes of such treatment, I was beginning to think I was a fool for ever having paid any attention to Kraus. Montrose seemed like the last person in New York who'd ever be accused of being power hungry.

	When the tour of inspection was over, Bisselworth gave me a hearty smile. "Well, there you are, Councilman. You've seen everything but The Brain itself. Of course, if you really want to—" He winked broadly at Montrose "—and if you don't mind a little chill, we'll take you on a guided tour inside it."

	"Thanks," I said, "but I didn't bring my overcoat."

	Montrose chuckled softly. "Even without an overcoat, you wouldn't be uncomfortable long. The liquid is just a fraction of a degree above absolute zero; it wouldn't take long for a man to freeze to death." He snapped his fingers to illustrate.

	"That's why The Brain is such a cool thinker," said Bisselworth.

	I winced inwardly at such wit, but I kept my face from showing it; I even managed a smile.

	Montrose offered his hand, and I shook it. "I'm glad you could come down, Councilman."

	And he sounded as though he meant it. Mentally, I began kicking myself in the tail for letting myself get roped in by the disordered imagination of a nut like Henry Kraus. Just because Kraus had died in an unusual accident didn't mean a thing; very likely he had jammed the controls himself when he put his doohickey into the panel of that elevator. And there might be perfectly good reasons why the story hadn't come out in the papers.

	"It's been a pleasure to show you around," Montrose went on. "It isn't often we find people who show such an intelligent interest in The Brain."

	"Thanks," I said; "it is a remarkable machine."

	"It certainly is," said Bisselworth. "The Brain never makes a mistake."

	Montrose smiled tolerantly.

	"Well, that isn't quite true, Mr. Bisselworth."

	Bisselworth coughed. "Well,—heh—we don't talk about it's errors." His laugh wasn't exactly forced; it was just embarrassed. He evidently hadn't known the machine could make a mistake.

	"Then it does make little errors now and then?" I asked.

	Montrose still smiled. "Yes. It's almost human. 'To err is human,' as they say. Once in several hundred billion computations it will happen; statistical error, you see. Can't be helped."

	"What sort of errors?"

	Montrose spread his hands. "Usually inconsequential ones. A subway train will arrive a few seconds early or late. A phone call will be switched to a wrong number. Things like that." He looked down at his hands. "Normally, such errors aren't even noticed. They're usually very minor, but—"

	And then he looked up at me again, and his guileless blue eyes looked innocently into mine.

	"But they could be fatal," he said softly.

-

	That evening, I sat in my apartment and thought. And the more I thought about it, the madder I got—at myself. I paced up and down the living room, trying to get my brains straightened out.

	I had nothing against Montrose; I didn't have one single bit of factual evidence that he was doing anything at all illegal. Kraus, my only witness, was dead, and even if he had been alive, his testimony wouldn't have been worth a damned thing.

	And what about Montrose? He had seemed like such a nice, pleasant guy—except for that last remark of his. But had it necessarily meant anything? If he thought I was dangerous, why should he warn me? Why not just knock me off and have done with it, then and there?

	None of it made any sense at all.

	Maybe his last statement was just a simple remark.

	Or maybe it was a deadly threat.

	The face in front of me was scowling ferociously. I blinked, and it blinked back. I realized my pacing had brought me in front of the mirror above the autobar.

	"Well?" I asked my reflection; "What do you think I ought to do?"

	The image mouthed the words right back at me, but it gave no satisfactory answer.

	Then I realized I had spoken aloud. If Montrose were watching through the TV cameras—

	I pointed at the reflection. "I'll tell you what you're going to do," I said decisively. "You're going to vote for the bill! And that settles it! You hear?"

	Then I nodded and forced a smile. "Okay, then; quit haggling."

	I turned away from the mirror to the selection panel of the autobar and punched myself a gin rickey. I hoped my little play had gone over, in case Montrose actually was watching.

	I sat down in my big, fat relaxer and tried to look as though I had just made an important decision and wasn't worried about a thing. And, after a few minutes of pretending, I actually did come to a decision.

	There were three men on the Council who were friends of mine. They'd listen to what I had to say, even if I didn't have any proof. We could propose that the City Council investigate and look for proof. And, furthermore, we could get in touch with the state government in Albany and the Federal Government in Washington, if that became necessary.

-

	I went to the phone and dialed. After a few seconds, the beefy, red, blustery face of John Mahaffey came on the screen. He beamed from ear to ear when he saw my face on his own screen.

	"Charlie!" he bellowed. "I wondered who in hell was calling my private number this time of night! It's good to see you ! What the devil's up?"

	That's like John Mahaffey. You'd think it had been ten years since we'd seen each other instead of three days. He looked and acted like an old-time wardheeler right out of a history of the 1890's, but it was all masking for a shrewd brain and an utter lack of dishonesty or underhandedness. He was so blatantly honest that he was suspected of being a crook—and that's where his enemies underestimated him. As a City Councilman, he couldn't be beat.

	"Hi, Johnnie. I called to see if you were going to be busy tomorrow night. I'm throwing a little poker party up at my place in Fishkill—thought I'd give you a chance to contribute to my bank balance."

	"You?" He laughed thunderously. "Hell, boy, if I couldn't play poker any better than you, I'd start using marked cards. Just a second, let me check." He looked off the screen for a moment to take a quick glance at his appointment calendar. "Dammit! I'm supposed to be at some Ladies' Luncheon League meeting! What the hell is a Luncheon League meeting in the evening for? But I'm not scheduled to speak; they won't miss me, and I sure as hell won't miss them. Okay, Charlie; I'll be at your place—when?"

	"Say at eight?"

	"Good enough. And I'll bring my own cards."

	"Fine."

	I cut the connection, and made two more calls. Manetti couldn't make it, but Bergaust said he'd be there with bells on. That was okay; the three of us could discuss it and talk to Manetti later if it was necessary.

	I mixed myself a nightcap and went to bed.

-

	The following afternoon, I got my car out of the garage and put a few things in it for my trip to Fishkill—a forty-five minute drive upstate.

	I debated for a while on the possibility of taking a train, but I dropped the idea. I never took the train if I could help it, and any deviation from my usual habits might make Montrose suspicious. There was a chance that he was already suspicious, but I didn't think he was sure I knew anything. His remark about fatal accidents was simply a test, the way I had it figured. If I hadn't been aware of his activities, the warning would have meant nothing; if I did know anything, the warning was; calculated to make me do something out of the ordinary. If I just behaved in my normal fashion, it ought to lull his suspicions, if he had any.

-

	Actually, I was being plain bullheadedly blind. I still hadn't got it through my head that there was anything to worry about. I had the "It can't happen here" attitude. The concept of my life's being in danger simply didn't seem real to me. To me, the whole thing was just a job of political juggling to get rid of a pernicious influence in the City, and I went about handling it the same way I would have handled a case of graft or bribery in high office.

	So when the garage attendant said: "So long, Mr. Lieth; have a good time," I just waved at him, set the controls, punched for the West Side Highway, and leaned back to relax.

	In other words, I succumbed to force of habit; like a damned fool, I had let The Brain take over control of my car.

	The car purred along the streets, making the proper stops, making the correct turns, all in accordance with the destination I had punched. I had been smoothly co-ordinated with the overall traffic pattern of the City.

	A few minutes later, my radio said: "You have just entered the 46th Street ramp of the West Side Highway. Please punch for the exit desired. This highway runs north to the Bronx, Yonkers, Hastings, Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, Ossining, Croton, Peekskill, Garrison, Cold Spring, and Beacon. At Beacon, changeover must be made for Poughkeepsie, Hudson, Albany and Troy. Please punch your destination."

	I punched for Beacon, which is just a few miles from Fishkill, and paid no further attention; I was reading Bobby's Burden and ignoring the road.

	The car picked up speed and went into the second lane at eighty-five, where it kept its place in the pattern as usual.

	I felt the car swerve a few minutes later and looked up to see what was going on. I was back in the left-hand lane, still moving at eighty-five miles an hour. Ahead of me, there was a long, clear section in the lane, although I was rapidly gaining on the car several blocks ahead. A sign flickered past. Next Exit 125th Street.

	Then the voice came over my radio. Not the flat, recorded voice of The Brain giving the usual instructions, but the voice of F. Hamilton Montrose.

	"You were warned, you ignored the warning. You are doing just as your informer suggested. I'm afraid you will have to join your informer."

	The voice sounded almost apologetic.

	Still at eighty-five miles per hour, my car swerved wildly to the right and roared down the exit to 125th Street. I knew it would never make the sharp curve at the bottom.

	With only seconds to act, I grabbed the ends of the safety belt and snapped them into place.

	At the curve, the car twisted again. It went into a flat sideskid, slammed against the low concrete abutment, and went over the side.

	Glass shattered all around me, and the metal of the car screamed at is was crumpled and torn. The vehicle barrel-rolled over and over, jerking me viciously in the scat.

	Somewhere in there, I must have passed out. I can only vaguely remember the screaming smashup that ended the accident.

-

	I wasn't out very long—ten or fifteen seconds, maybe. But when I opened my eyes, I couldn't quite orient myself for a moment. Something was pressing on my waist, and my hands were waving queerly in the air. All around me, I could smell the fumes of fuel alcohol, and it seemed awfully quiet after all that noise.

	Then I realized that the car was upside down; I was hanging by my safety belt. I wanted to get myself out of the car, but somehow I didn't feel like moving.

	Then there were running footsteps and voices outside.

	"What a smashup!"

	"... probably dead ..."

	Somebody stuck his head into the window. I blinked at him foolishly.

	"You—you all right?" he asked.

	"I don't know. Maybe. Help me out of here."

	Hands unbuckled the belt and lowered me out of the seat. Other hands helped pull me free of the wreckage.

	"How do you feel, buddy?"

	"He's got blood all over him."

	"That's from the cuts, I think."

	Fingers probed, voices buzzed. I felt lousy.

	But I was all in one piece. There was a cut over my forehead, but it wasn't a very deep one. I felt as though I was bruised all over, which was pretty close to the truth.

	Then I heard a wail in the distance. Sirens! The Brain had automatically notified the police and the nearest hospital and then cleared the way for them.

	They were coming to get me! And the last thing on Earth I wanted was to. be back in the hands of Montrose and The Brain.

	I panicked then. I pushed myself to my feet and started running.

	Behind me, somebody yelled something. I kept on running.

	Things got hazy then. I was suffering from shock and loss of blood, but I somehow managed to keep going. I had no idea where I was going; I was just going.

	Even after my mind became so foggy that I didn't know anything else, one thing kept pounding inside my skull—get away!

-

	Que hora es?"

	"Nueve y media. Por qúe?"

	Spanish. Somebody wanted to know the time, and somebody else said it was nine thirty. The voices drifted off for a minute, too low to hear, then came back again.

	"Nunca he oido tal historia."

	It was a woman's voice. "I've never heard such a story." Such a story as what?

	The man's voice was somewhat lower; I couldn't hear what he was saying until he came up with: "El se cortó la cabeza."

	"He cut his head." Then I knew they were talking about me. And that brought my memory back a little. I forced my eyes open.

	"Que lugar es éste?" I said. "Where am I?"

	"Well! Our guest has aroused himself," said the man's voice in Spanish. "How do you feel?"

	"Terrible. May I have some water?" I turned my head toward the voice.

	"Por cierto! Bring some water for Señor Lieth, madre mia."

	There were three people in the room. The man was about five feet ten, with a smiling, round face and a body like a wrestler's. His hair was clipped fairly short, showing the contours of his skull. His eyes were so dark brown that they were almost black.

	The woman was older, grayer, and thinner than the man. Her face had the texture and color of old leather. But, old as she looked, there was nothing decrepit in the way she walked across the room to get me a glass of water.

	The third member of the trio was an adolescent girl. Fourteen at the most, maybe younger. She was just sitting in a chair saying nothing and looking interested.

	"You know who I am, then?" I asked.

	"Oh, yes," said the man. "When you fell at our doorstep, we brought you in. Naturally, I looked at your wallet." He smiled even more. "You carry a great deal of money. Councilman. But I assure you it is still there."

	"All but five dollars," corrected the girl, speaking for the first time. "We got some bandages and antiseptic."

	"That, of course," said the man. "Permit me to introduce myself and my family, Councilman. I am Alfredo Francisco Felipe Tejado. This is my daughter, Alicia Maria Virginia, and my mother, Constanza Inés Isabel."

	The old woman smiled as she brought in the water and held it to my lips. "Most of the time," she said in surprisingly colloquial English, "we are called Al, Alice, and Grandmaw."

	Alfredo chuckled. "That's not quite true, Councilman. Alicia has always called her abuela, and I do, myself, sometimes, but if I ever heard anyone outside the family call her anything but Señora Tejado, I'd clobber him." His English was as good as hers.

	I grinned up at the old lady. "Do you think he would do that, Doña Constanza?" I asked in Spanish.

	She laughed. It was soft, almost silent, but it was pleasant. "One can see why you are a politician, Senor Lieth. Only such a man could call a poor woman Dona and make it sound like flattery instead of sarcasm."

-

	I looked around the room. It was evidently part of a basement apartment. Clean, but obviously the home of a family in the lower-class income brackets. The plastic sheathing of the walls was dull with many washings, and the synthefoam flooring was uneven and probably had lost a great deal of its resiliency. There were a few pictures on the wall—an inexpensive landscape print, an old-fashioned surrealistic abstraction, and a couple of color photos, one of a man, the other of a woman. The handsomest things in the room were a large, hand - carved wooden crucifix on one wall and a small, beautifully polychromed shrine of the Blessed Virgin in one corner. On either side of it, a small votive light burned bluely through its glass cup.

	"If you're wondering where you are, Councilman," said Alfredo, "you're about four blocks from where your car cracked up. Somehow, you managed to get from there to our front door. You stumbled down the stairwell; Alicia heard you and called me." Again he smiled. "I could tell by your clothing that you weren't just a drunk. Besides, you were covered with blood. I brought you in. No one saw you; our doors lead into an alley."

	"Daddy looked at your wallet to see who you were," little Alicia interjected. "And after we washed the blood off your face, we recognized you from your pictures in the papers."

	"You didn't call the police?"

-

	Alfredo shook his head. "No. My mother said you weren't badly hurt—she used to be a nurse—so she decided to fix you up before we notified anyone. We sent Alicia out for the bandages and stuff, and told her to notify the police, but—"

	"—But I didn't when I saw the paper," said Alicia.

	Alfredo rose apologetically. "We don't have a newsfac reproducer of our own," he said, "but Alicia got one on the corner machine when she saw the headline. Besides, the people in this neighborhood don't care for the police too much."

	He walked over to a small table, picked up a newsfac sheet, and brought it to me.

	The headline read:

	"Councilman Lieth Flees After Confronted With Embezzlement Charges! Accident at 125th Street Fails to Stop Runaway Councilman."

	I was accused of juggling the books of the City treasury and making off with some three-quarters of a million dollars in cash!

	It was easy to see what had happened. As soon as Montrose had realized he had failed to kill me, he had framed me—in the same way he had framed Kraus.

	The Brain at Central Control did all the budget figuring for the City Council, and, as head of the Committee on Appropriations, I had control of a great deal of the City's finances. Montrose had simply-ordered The Brain to change its figures around so that it would appear that a great deal of money had gone into my own pockets. With the proof in front of them in black and white, the courts weren't going to pay much attention to my charges against Montrose.

-

	As a matter of fact, I would probably never come to trial or get a chance to air my charges; once I was in the hands of the authorities, it would be easy for The Brain and Montrose to arrange another accident. And the chances were that the second accident would be fatal; I couldn't expect such phenomenal luck twice.

	What could I do? Phone Mahaffey and the others? Not likely; once I tried to use a phone, The Brain would know exactly where I was; I wouldn't be allowed to say more than half a syllable.

	My own picture stared up at me from the paper; underneath it, a caption said:

	"Councilman Charles Lieth Sought by Police"

	I sat up in the bed. "Get me my clothes," I said. "I've got to get things done."

	"Uno momentito!" said the old woman imperatively. "If you leave now, the police will surely arrest you, and then the Senor Montrose and El Cerebro will get you. You are safe here, Don Carlos."

	I stopped. She knew a great deal more than I had thought. And besides, an old woman like her wouldn't address me as "Don Carlos" unless she really had respect for me. Just how much did she know about El Cerebro—The Brain? And how had she found it out?

	"You would harbor a suspected criminal?" I asked, reverting to Spanish, as she had. "Your family may be in for trouble."

	"You have been here for four hours and there is no trouble yet," she pointed out. "As to being suspected, that can happen to any man; our enemies often accuse us of things we have not done." Her seamed face broke into a smile, and she quoted an old proverb: "Muchos hombres son embusteros. Esto explica el porqué de las leyes."

	Many men are liars. This explains the reason for laws.

	"That's true," I said, "but how do you know it is not I who am the liar?"

	"Gee, you couldn't be," Alicia broke in in English. "Nobody can tell lies when they're knocked silly, can they?"

	I looked at Alfredo. "I was raving?"

	He smiled apologetically. " 'Fraid so, Councilman. I admit I don't understand the way this machine works, but I can see how the man who controls it would be very dangerous. And the very fact that your car was wrecked shows that you are right.

	"I went down to see the wreck. They had towed your car away, but I could see that the damage had been caused by a very fast-moving car. It looked deliberate to me."

	"Besides, Don Carlos," said the old woman, "we know you to be an honest man. Otherwise, we wouldn't have voted for you."

	It was that simple. They believed in me; therefore, they trusted me. For a moment, I was thankful that I had taken the trouble to learn Spanish when I went into politics; it had certainly helped me with my Spanish-speaking constituency. Then I realized that Spanish didn't have much to do with it; there were probably plenty of "my constituents" who hated my guts. I was just lucky that Alfredo Francisco Felipe Tejado and family weren't among them.

	It's days like those that make a man glad he's an honest politician.

	"If you have a plan in mind, Don Carlos," said the old woman, "we will give what help we can."

	"Thank you, Doña Constanza," I said. And this time, I meant it.

-

	Montrose was out to kill me. He had to kill me, and do it quickly. And that meant he had to find me. What methods would he use? I had to think of everything he might do and anticipate it.

	I knew where I had made my first mistake. I had assumed that Montrose had known nothing of my conversation with Kraus. The discredited technician had seemed so positive that his gadgets would protect him that I had automatically assumed that the TV cameras in my room weren't operating. Obviously, they had operated; Montrose had been watching at the time. His remark to me over the radio, just before my car crashed, showed that.

	I should have realized that Kraus's gadgets were ineffective; otherwise, Montrose wouldn't have been able to kill him in the elevator, once he got his gadget hooked up.

	Therefore, I had to assume that any attempt of mine to use the communication systems—telephone, visiphone, or telefac—would be self-betrayal, ipso facto. The same thing applied to any attempt to use public transportation of any kind, or to go near any place which might have TV cameras, either exposed or concealed.

	I couldn't use a non-vision phone, even. The Brain had my voice profile in its memory banks, and I couldn't disguise it enough to fool the machine, even if I gave a phony name. As soon as I spoke, The Brain would compare the voice with previous recordings it had taken and check the subtle similarity points; as far as The Brain was concerned, a man's voice was as distinctive as his fingerprints.

-

	I stewed over the problem for an hour before I finally came up with what might be an answer.

	Alfredo and his mother and daughter had left me strictly alone while I thought. I could hear them in the other room, speaking softly, going about their business, waiting until I was ready for them.

	When I finally thought I had it, I went to the door and called: "Alfredo! Come here a minute, will you? I think I have an idea."

	Alfredo came in smiling. "Si? Is there anything we can do?"

	"I think so." I glanced at my watch. "It's twenty minutes of eleven. Do you know where Halmeyer's is?"

	"The all-night department store? Sure. There's one on Amsterdam and 124th, and another one on Broadway and 110th. They're the closest."

	"Good. We'll need both of them. Now here's what you must do: You and Doña Constanza go to the one on 124th. Go in separately, as though you aren't together. You will each buy a Model 177 Rhinehurst pocket recorder in the electronic department and an Atomo wrist watch in the clock department. Then your mother will come back here with those while you go down to 110th to get another recorder and another Atomo watch. Got that?

	"I don't want anyone to wonder why one man is buying three recorders and three watches."

	"I see. Very well; I will buy a recorder while madre mia buys a watch and then I will buy a watch while she buys a recorder. Simplisimo."

	"Good. And get the proper styles—a man's watch for yourself and ladies' watches for the women. They've got to look natural."

	Alfredo laughed a little. "I don't think an atomic regulated watch will look natural on any of the three of us; they're pretty expensive."

	"That's so, but there are plenty of cheaper watches that try to imitate them. I wouldn't worry about it." I opened my wallet and shelled out some cash. It took most of what I had on me, but if my idea worked, it would be well worth it.

	"Now, hurry, Alfredo; we want to get this over with."

-

	He nodded and went into the other room. A minute or two later, I heard him leave with his mother. After a few more minutes, there was a knock on the door.

	"It's me—Alicia."

	"Come on in, Alicia."

	She came in, carrying a bottle of red wine and a large glass. "My father said to bring you this. He said that a good glass of wine would help you relax." She giggled. "He says you're as nervous as a cat."

	"I guess I am. Thanks." I sat down at the table and poured myself a glass of the dark red liquid. "Are you allowed to have wine? I hate to drink by myself."

	"Only at meals, usually. And on Holy Days." Then she grinned the impish grin of a little girl who is up to some legitimate devilment. "But I'll have a little one with you. It isn't every day we have a visit from a Councilman."

	She went and got herself a small glass and filled it about half full.

	"Alicia, what does your father do? For a living, I mean."

	She cocked her head over to one side. "Well, that depends. He does several different things—jobs, I mean, to make money. Right now, he's working in an automatic laundry.

	"But mainly he's an artist." She pointed a finger. "See that crucifix? It's carved out of a single piece of wood. My daddy did that. And see the one of Saint Mary? He did that, too—and colored it, too. He's very good. But—" She shrugged and sighed in one fluid motion. "—he can't make much money at it. He hasn't made a name for himself yet."

	I looked again at the crucifix and the statue. "Don't worry, Alicia; he will." I don't claim to be a judge of great art, but I could tell the man had talent—and maybe something more than talent.

	Alicia and I talked about things in general for another half hour, while I finished off two glasses of the excellent wine. Alicia was content with her half glass, which she sipped slowly.

	Between the wine and the child's conversation, I managed to get my nerves simmered down to a bearable point. I hadn't realized how edgy I was until the girl had pointed it out.

	Even the aches and pains from the wreck were subsiding a little.

	. It was eleven-fifteen when Alfredo and his mother came back with the things I had ordered. Then the four of us sat .down around the table, and: I outlined our strategy. I had to send Alicia out for a map of the city in order to get everything plotted out properly, but we finally got it all straightened out.

	First, I recorded nine different little speeches, three on each recorder. Then I gave each of the Tejadas a list of three addresses, places where there were public no-vision phones.

	"Now let's get this straight," I said at last. "You go into the phone booth at each of these places. You dial the numbers I've given you. When someone answers, you play the message without saying anything. As soon as it's finished, you hang up and get to the next place, where you repeat the procedure. Okay?"

	Alfredo nodded. "We've got it."

	"All right. Now, let's synchronize our watches. These calls have to be timed exactly. We can allow a minute or so leeway, but not more than that. Keep it to less than thirty seconds either way if you possibly can."

	"We'll do it," said Alfredo. "Won't we, mother—won't we, Alicia?"

	"Si."

	"Si."

	"Okay. Here's some expense money; now let's go."

	"What are you going to be doing while we are making these calls, Don Carlos?" asked the old woman.

	"I'm not going "to tell you, señora. If you get caught, you can say you know nothing. But you shouldn't get caught; they won't be looking for you."

	"Very well."

	"One thing," said Alfredo. "You intend to go out, don't you?"

	I nodded. "I'll have to."

	"Then come back into my studio for a moment. I have a small idea. What you need is a new face."

	I didn't see what he was driving at, but I followed him into a back room.

-

	It would take an hour to do justice to a description of the things I saw in that room. A hundred pages of type couldn't begin to tell about the dainty figurines, the strongly executed busts, and the massive, heroic-sized statues that were packed into that little studio. But I wasn't allowed time to look them over carefully; Alfredo pulled me over to the corner where his workbench stood, saying, "Come on, Councilman; you said we haven't much time, so we must work quickly."

	He put his hands on my cheeks and turned me to face the light. I began to feel a little foolish, saying nothing while he looked at me through half-closed eyes.

	Then he went to work. He covered my face with some sort of cement and began putting layers of resilient plastic over my face, filling in here and there with some stuff from a spray can.

	And all the time, his fingers were moving over my face, pushing here, pulling there, moulding the stuff to my cheeks, chin, neck, and forehead.

	It didn't take more than fifteen minutes. When he was through, he looked it over critically.

	"That ought to do," he said. "Don't get into too bright a light, and don't try to wash your face. You'll pass."

	He led me over to a mirror, and I looked.

	Another man stared out at me. He was fatter and more bulbous nosed than I. He looked like a self-satisfied, middle-class merchant who ate too much and drank too much and still wasn't too ugly. It would do, all right.

-

	It was twenty-five minutes after midnight when I strolled into Central Park at the entrance near 86th Street. The long walk had done me good; it had taken some of the stiffness out of my muscles. The only trouble was that the exercise, combined with the warmth of the evening air was making me perspire—especially under the thick layers of plastic that Alfredo had put on my face.

	The mask had done its job well; the area around 125th Street had been swarming with cops, but not one of them had taken a second look at me. One sergeant who knew me well had looked me straight in the face and gone on his way. Without the mask, I might never have made it this far south.

	But now it was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

	I strolled on into the park, doing my best to look like a late-working man out for his evening constitutional. There were a few patrolmen around, but not many.

	That was where I had an advantage over F. Hamilton Montrose; he didn't dare attract too much attention to The Brain and Central Control. As far as the public was concerned, there was absolutely no reason why Councilman Charles Lieth should come anywhere near Central Control. Montrose didn't dare ask for extra protection.

	At least he didn't dare ask for extra police. But, unless I was way off the beam in my figuring, Central Park itself would be full of mechanical and electronic protection.

-

	Years ago, Central Park had been one of the most dangerous places in New York. No honest man or woman in his or her right mind would have gone into the Park after dark. Even the police had traveled in pairs. Muggings, robberies, rapes, and beatings had been commonplace. A move had even started to do away with the Park completely; some people insisted that the concealing bushes and secluded pathways were a temptation to crime and should be done away with.

	With the coming of Central Control, however, the problem had been solved. The illusion of privacy was retained, but it was just that—an illusion. There were hidden microphones and TV cameras everywhere. There was no secret about it; everyone knew it. Nothing could be done in the Park without the police knowing about it. Their hidden eyes were everywhere.

	In the first year after the installations were put in, there were nearly three thousand arrests. In the second year, there were less than three hundred. The Park again became a place where people could enjoy the evening countryside in the center of the world's greatest metropolis.

	So I was perfectly well aware that the minute I walked into the Park I was under the potential surveillance of The Brain.

	That's why I chose the lightest entrance I could find.

	I know; that sounds a little foolish, but basically, it made sense. In order to preserve the feeling of shadowed darkness, Central Park still only has widely spaced lighting; little oases of light surrounded by darkness. But the dark places are lit, too—by invisible infrared light. The human eye can't see infra-red, but a TV camera can if it's built to do so.

	A man may think he's in utter darkness in the Park, but whoever is watching the screen connected to the hidden camera nearby can see him as plainly as though it were broad daylight.

	But plastic doesn't look the same under infra-red illumination as it does under visible light. While my disguise might fool the human eye, it wouldn't fool the infra-red eye of a TV camera. My face would look completely wrong; Montrose would spot me in a minute if I tried to get into the Park by going over a wall in the darkness.

	So, as I said, I walked in under the bright glow of the daylight lamps at the 86th Street entrance. And I stayed on the lighted pathways.

	I kept my pace slow and leisurely, and tried not to look as though I were in any hurry to get anywhere. I tried to look as though I didn't care where I ended up. I passed a couple of patrolmen; they glanced at me and went on.

	Finally, I found a bench with a light over it—a bench within a two-minute walk, or a one-minute run, of the Central Control building. I sat down, pulled a magazine out of my pocket, and began to read.

	I had my watch on the inside of my left wrist so that I could glance at it every so often without seeming to be impatient.

	At fifteen minutes of one, the first call would go through.

	I had to concentrate to keep my mind on the magazine; I had to look as though I were actually reading it.

-

	Once, I found myself humming:

Every journey has an end—
When at the worst, affairs will mend—
Dark the dawn when day is nigh—
Hustle your horse and don't say die!

	I wanted badly to light a cigarette, but the plastic foam mask on my face felt as if it would fall off if I moved my mouth much. My skin was becoming positively soggy under it.

	I waited. 

	And waited.

	Twelve forty-five. The first call went in. 

	I waited.

	Twelve forty-eight. The second call went in.

	And still I waited.

	Twelve fifty-one. The third call.

	Twelve fifty-five. The fourth.

	One minute of one. The fifth.

	I listened carefully to the noise of the great city that surrounded me. Slowly, it began to change. The change was subtle at first, hardly distinguishable, but as the minutes passed, it became more and more obvious that something peculiar was going on.

	By the time the sixth call went in at two minutes after one, the change was obvious. There was a wailing of sirens all over the city. The whine of tires on pavement had decreased markedly, and had been replaced by the low roar of idling motors.

-

	I put my magazine in my pocket and stood up. I intended to run for the Central Control building, but the Fates were against me. A cop was strolling along toward me. The only thing I could do was walk toward him.

	He glanced at me and looked away. Then he did a double take and looked back..

	"Hey, buddy! What's the matter with your face?"

	I felt as though the bottom had fallen out of my stomach.

	He stepped closer. "Do you feel all right?" Then his eyes widened. "Why—!"

	I didn't let him get any farther. I brought my fist up from my hip, putting every ounce of my weight behind a hard, driving uppercut.

	It caught him clean, snapping his head back and sending him off to Cloud-Cuckoo-land. I grabbed him as he slumped. My right fist felt as though someone had stepped on it, but it was still useable; I decided it wasn't broken, though it hurt that much.

	I put the cop behind some bushes. He'd be discovered eventually, but I hoped the present confusion of The Brain would delay that discovery. As an afterthought, I relieved the policeman of his pistol and dropped it into my coat pocket.

	Then I reached up to my face. The plastic mask was hanging soggily; the perspiration underneath had finally loosened it completely. I jerked it off, threw it into a bush nearby, and started running toward the Central Control building.

	Nothing happened. The police were too busy to watch their screens; I hadn't been noticed. The Brain was too confused to pay any attention, and Montrose hadn't been able to follow everything that took place.

	By that time, the ninth call had gone through. I cursed mentally; the cop had delayed me longer than I had intended.

	But the City was in an uproar.

	There was a light over the side entrance of the CC building, and an armed guard standing near it. I walked straight up to him, took the pistol out of my pocket, pointed it at his midsection, and said: "Turn around."

	"But—" His eyes looked a little dazed, as though he wasn't quite sure what was going on.

	"Turn around," I repeated.

	He turned around. I took his gun out of his holster and dropped it into my other pocket. "Okay, pal; forward march. Into the building."

	He marched.

	It's a funny thing about armed guards; unless they are kept constantly on the alert, they become complacent. Their sidearm becomes a symbol of authority instead of a weapon. This guy probably hadn't had to do anything with that gun since the day it was issued to him—except maybe clean and oil it.

	Once inside, I marched him down a side hall, away from the front entrance.

	"You're not going to kill me, are you?" he asked in a half-strangled voice.

	"Not unless I have to," I told him. "There's a janitor's closet on this floor; where is it?"

	He led me past a row of darkened offices to a plain, solid aluminum door.

	"Open it," I said.

	He fumbled with a ring of keys at his belt, selected one, and unlocked the door. There were a couple of wheeled machines inside—an automatic vacuum cleaner, and an automatic scrubber and polisher. On the shelves were bottles of wall sprays, waxes, metal polishes, and detergents of various kinds. There were a few rags in one corner, and an old-fashioned push-broom standing against a wall. The whole room was about seven feet square.

	"All right, give me your jacket and trousers. Hop to!"

-

	Five minutes later, I was heading down towards the basement wearing the guard's uniform. The unhappy guard was locked securely in the janitor's closet in his underwear.

	I didn't take the elevator; Montrose had a way with elevators that didn't appeal to me at all.

	There were men moving all over the place by this time; none of them paid any attention to me because they were too busy with their own problem.

	One technician sprinted by me with a distracted look in his eye. "My God," he said to no one in particular, "traffic is jammed up tight all the way from the Battery to Inwood Hill Park! My God! Tunnels blocked, bridges blocked! My God!" He went on down the hall, chanting further invocations of The Deity.

	I opened a stairway door and started down. From somewhere above, a voice yelled: "Montrose! Somebody get Montrose!"

	Someone else answered: "He says he don't want nobody down there! Get his assistant on the phone if you need him! He needs elbow room!"

	I felt a positive glow of achievement as I went down the steps.

	Two men came bustling up the stairs toward me.

	"It just can't happen, Sam," said one. "It just can't."

	"Try telling that to the people of New York," said the other grimly.

	"But why? What the hell happened?"

	"You tell me, I'll tell you, and then we'll both know."

	They pushed past me without even looking at me and went on up the stairs.

	I could hear elevator doors opening and closing all over the building. Everybody was busy, and I would have bet an even thousand dollars that nobody was actually getting anything done for the simple reason that they didn't know what to do.

	I finally reached the basement where Montrose's office and, as Bisselworth had called it, sanctum sanctorum was located. Around me, I could hear the hum of the refrigeration mechanism.

-

	I hadn't taken more than three steps down the hall when I heard something slam behind me. I spun around, drawing my gun at the same time.

	There was no one there, but my escape had been cut off. A heavy emergency fire-door had slammed down between me and the stairway.

	A voice suddenly filled the corridor: "I don't know how you got in here, Lieth, but you're not getting out alive!"

	I didn't take time to argue; I just looked around. The walls were plain and undecorated, the lens ought to be easy to spot. It was. I found it in one wall, set high above a door. I took careful aim and fired.

	There was a loud pop! from the wall, and a few tendrils of smoke oozed out of the bullet hole.

	Then I turned and ran straight toward Montrose's office. With one of his television cameras shot out, he wouldn't be able to see what I was doing until I came within range of another one.

	Montrose's command of epithet and invective was remarkable. He didn't use any foul words I hadn't heard before, but his method of combining them into phrases was original and quite artistic. I half expected the air to turn bright blue at any moment.

	I kept running, and kept an eye open for the telltale lens openings of the hidden TV cameras. In a decorated office or a bank building or an apartment, those lenses can be concealed behind one-way mirrors or in light fixtures, but in a place like this, there was nothing to hide them behind. I blew out two more as I ran down the hallway.

	Ahead of me, I heard another loud slamming noise. I knew what it was; Montrose had dropped another fire-door between himself and me.

-

	The loudspeakers in the hallways were silent now. Montrose had shut up after his outburst of cursing. I figured I really had him going; he was being screamed at via telephone from all over the building, and I was attacking from outside his den. He couldn't handle a rebellious Brain and me at the same time, and without The Brain, he was just another man.

	I had no intention of breaking down the fire-door at the other end of the hallway; I didn't have the tools to smash through an insulated, six-inch steel firewall. I turned right, instead, looking for another door. I found one, but it was locked.

	I looked around for another lens opening. There was one; I started to run back the way I'd come, then I stopped and blew out the camera lens. It took two shots; my hands were getting a little shaky from the strain.

	Then I ran back to the locked door. I hoped that Montrose would think I was going back the other way.

	It took me what seemed like an hour to find a key on the guard's key ring that fitted the door, but it couldn't have been more than a minute. The bolt finally turned, and I opened the door.

	It was a big room, full of pipes that ran all across the ceiling and snaked around the walls. There were relay racks full of clicking electrical mechanisms, and a big sign nearby said: Danger! High Amperage! 880 volts!

	From the size of the heavy relay switches, I could see that the sign meant what it said.

	I decided there must be a door on the other side of the room, but the relay racks blocked my vision. They filled the place like the bookshelves in the Public Library stacks, reaching almost to the ceiling, with only narrow aisles between them. I stayed close to the wall and headed for the other side.

	I was almost to the corner of the room when I caught a flash of motion out of the corner of my eye. I spun behind one of the relay racks just as a bullet spanged off the wall near where I had been standing. The shot wasn't very loud in the room; the clattering noise of the chattering electrical relays made a pretty high-level background sound.

	"He's behind number three!" said a voice. Montrose.

	Then it wasn't Montrose who was shooting at me!

	I realized then that I had badly underestimated Montrose. His assistants shouldn't be here if they were just ordinary working stiffs. I had assumed Montrose was alone. Now I knew that his "assistants" must be—had to be—his confederates in the whole thing. Otherwise they wouldn't be working at one o'clock in the morning.

	I was outnumbered four to one.

-

	I didn't know how many of them were in the relay room, but I didn't think there was more than one. Montrose was in the control room, watching me and giving orders to his henchman. There ought to be at least two men trying to get The Brain out of its snarl. Still, I had to assume that all three of them were in there with me.

	I took a quick peek around a bank of relays, saw nothing, and jumped across the aisle, behind another relay rack.

	"Now he's at number seven," said the voice from the speaker; "He's on the input side."

	I decided right then that that old stuff had to go. I never did like tattletales.

	There were five banks of daylight glow-plates overhead. I blazed away with two quick shots. Two banks of glow-plates went out. Then I ducked quickly to another rack of relays.

	There was another shot from the enemy, but I didn't hear any ricochet. I fired twice more. Now, the only light in the room came from a bank of glow-plates at the far end of the relay racks.

	I ducked around a little more, and blew the last bank of glow-plates out.

	Montrose quit giving orders. It would take him a little time to adjust his cameras for infra-red pickup, and meanwhile I'd have time to do a little work of my own. I started moving toward the door again. I had figured it led toward Montrose, and since his henchman—or henchmen—had come in through it, I felt my guess was justified.

	There was still some light in the room—a dull blue glow from the thousands of electronic tubes in the relay racks. It wasn't enough to read by, but it was enough to navigate by.

	I found a dark area near the door and just stood there, keeping my eyes open, waiting for something to move in the blue-tinged darkness. I tried to keep my ears tuned for odd sounds, too, but it didn't do much good; the din of the clacking relays drowned out any footsteps I might have heard.

	Then I heard a voice.

	"Montrose! Guide me! For the love of heaven, where is he?"

	If anyone could have seen the expression on my face at that moment, I'll lay odds that they would have described it as a "wolfish grin." My opponent was getting panicky. He knew I was waiting for him, perhaps stalking him, and he didn't have the guts to stand still and wait. The odds were turning in my favor.

-

	After he yelled, he realized that I might spot him by his voice, so he got away from there fast—too fast. I saw him moving, silhouetted against a bank of blue-glowing tubes. He turned a corner and huddled against one of the racks. I knew exactly where he was.

	I carefully raised my gun, aimed, and fired. The instant I heard the report, I leaped to one side, out of his line of fire.

	There was no answering shot. I heard a scream and saw a blue flash of fire. Then there was the sound of something falling.

	I edged around to take a look. The man, whoever he was, was supine on the floor. There was a red glow of smouldering cloth on one sleeve. He had been slammed against a hot switch by the impact of the bullet and his arm had shorted across the terminals for an instant. He was in no condition to move around.

	I headed for the door again.

	As I approached it, I saw that it was open. Beyond, there was nothing but darkness.

-

	I was stuck—but good. I didn't dare go into that darkened room. I didn't know what was in it, nor who might be waiting for me. Besides the fact that I couldn't see anything, there was the equally unpleasant, fact that Montrose and his men could probably see me perfectly. By this time, they must have adjusted the TV cameras for infra-red pickup. They didn't even need any special infra-red lights; the hot vacuum tubes in the racks behind me would give off enough infra-red to illuminate me brightly. I began to regret that I had been so hasty in shooting out the glow-plates in the ceiling of the relay room.

	How many shots had I fired? Eleven? Or Twelve? The automatic only held a dozen cartridges. I didn't want to take any chances, and I didn't want to stop and reload. I'd been using, the CC guard's gun. I shoved it back in the holster and took the policeman's gun out of my waistband. It was a bigger, heavier, more powerful weapon. I slid out the magazine quickly, checked it, and slid it back in. It was full.

	But now what? I had to do something, and fast.

	When in doubt, act. I pulled out the guard's gun again, hoping it had one more cartridge in it, and stuck it around the door. Without aiming, I pulled the trigger.

	There was a satisfying roar of sound.

	The second trigger pull resulted in an almost inaudible click.

	"Bert! Jackson! Go in and get him! He's fired twelve shots! Quick, before he reloads!"

	At the same time, the lights in the darkened room came on. Montrose had ordered his men to charge.

	The first one barrelled through the door like a clumsy elephant. Such stupidity. I clouted him across the side of the head with the flat of my pistol. He staggered, but didn't go down, so I clouted him again. This time he went down to stay.

	There was a loud crack! and a bullet whined by my ear. Behind me, there was an explosive crash as the bullet buried itself in one of the relay racks. In front of me was the third assistant.

	"Jackson!" Montrose shouted. "You fool! You've shot out part of Section B!"

	Jackson wasn't paying any attention. I fired a second after he did, sending a bullet through his gun arm. The weapon flew out of his hand, and he turned to run back toward a door on the other side of the room, leaving his fallen buddy to my tender mercies.

	He jerked open the door. Beyond it was the control room. I could see Montrose, looking startled, on the other side of the room. I let fly a shot at Jackson. It caught him, and he sprawled in the doorway, propping the door open.

	Montrose hit a switch and all the lights went out again.

	I dropped to my belly and fired another shot at the open door. The interior was still dimly lit by the green glow from the oscilloscope screens.

	I waited and then fired again, higher, this time.

	There was a loud pop!, then a weird, high-pitched hissing sound, followed by an animal scream. Montrose? I didn't know. I fired again, and the bubbling, hissing sound increased.

	What the hell was going on in there? Was Montrose trying to trap me?

	I waited for several minutes there in the darkness, listening to that queer boiling sound. I knew that Montrose didn't dare try to get through the open door; the green glow would outline him too well.

	I started to edge myself forward, moving toward the door.

	A cold, chilling breeze blew toward me from the control room. At first, I thought it was an open window. Montrose must have escaped! I crawled faster. The breeze got colder.

	I suddenly felt very sleepy. I tried to stand up, but I could only get to my knees. Somewhere in there, I passed out cold. And I mean cold!

-

	I woke up in New Bellevue, lying flat on my back in a hospital bed. There were several men grouped around me, but the only one I recognized was my old pal, John Mahaffey. I was never so glad to see a friendly human face in my life.

	"Charlie!" he bellowed. "It's about time you woke up! What the hell you going to do? Sleep your life away?"

	"You found me?" Foolish question, but then I didn't feel very sensible.

	"We found you," said one of the other men. He grinned a little. "FBI. We had to break down a couple of fire doors to get at you, though. What happened?"

	I told them what I'd done from the time I'd entered Central Park. I didn't want to mention the Tejado family just yet; if I was still in trouble, I wanted to keep them out of it.

	"What took place down there?" I asked. "And what happened to Montrose?"

	The FBI man looked grim. "Those last two shots you fired blew holes in one of the liquid helium feed pipes from the refrigeration system to The Brain. You were using a police armor - piercing automatic."

	"And Montrose?"

	"The helium came boiling out of that pipe and spewed all over Mr. F. Hamilton Montrose. When we got to him, we had to brush the frost off to see who it was.

	"The helium boiled away fast, filling the rooms down there. It's inert, and you can't breathe helium. You just passed out from lack of oxygen."

	"What about his three partners?" I asked.

	His smile came back. "They're okay. In bad shape, but they'll live. One of them is suffering from a bad electrical burn, but he's not too badly shocked. One of them has a slight concussion, but he'll wake up eventually. And one of them has a bullet in his insides, but he's coming along fine.

	"He sang a fine tune, too. Told us all about Montrose and his megalomaniac plans. I don't think you need to worry about any charges against you, Councilman."

	"I should hope that he doesn't!" Mahaffey thundered. "After what he's done for this town? I'm going to see to it that he gets a medal or something!"

	"After what he did to this town?" The FBI man laughed dryly. Then he looked at me. "Just what did you do to foul up The Brain so completely? The City will have to know, so that it can take precautions against its ever happening again. Traffic was dead in this town for nearly an hour. There was utter chaos."

-

	I started to explain, but Mahaffey cut in.

	"Charlie didn't do a thing! Understand that? Nothing! The whole foul-up was Montrose's doing, and that's the way it's going to stand!"

	"Certainly," agreed the FBI. "That's the story the papers will get. But maybe Mr. Lieth would like to guess at what might have happened."

	I grinned back at him. "Okay, here's what might have happened.

	"Montrose was looking for me all over New York; so was everybody else. He had fiddled with The Brain so that it would do what he told it to do. And he had told The Brain to send every available cop to surround me, once I was spotted.

	"Now, suppose, just suppose, that I had three confederates. They go to three widely separated parts of the city and phone various people—Mahaffey, here; several other members of the City Council; and the FBI. But instead of using their own voices, they play recorded messages from me. Naturally, as soon as The Brain hears my voice, the message is cut off, and an order goes out to every police car in the vicinity. Guided by The Brain, the patrol cars automatically drive toward the place where the call came from."

	The FBI man looked at another agent standing next to him. He said nothing, but there was a question in his eyes. The other agent said: "Yeah, we got a call that was broken off."

	"It was a wrong number," said Mahaffey complacently.

	"Sure," said the FBI man. "Go on, Mr. Lieth."

	"All right, now; get the picture. All these cops heading for one place, in automatically controlled cars.

	"Then, a couple of minutes later, there's another call from a booth clear across the city. And The Brain gives the same orders there! It has to! It can't figure out how I moved around so fast, but then, it isn't really very bright.

	"Then a third call comes in, and the same thing happens.

	"By that time, my first confederate has left the phone booth that the first call came from and gone to another one several blocks away to make the fourth call. The second confederate does the same thing, and so on."

	The FBI man nodded slowly. "I see. The Brain thought you were in nine different places at once, and tried to send all the police in the city to all of them at the same time. Of course, civilian traffic had to be halted for all those emergency calls. No wonder the city was jammed up from Brooklyn to the Bronx! Wow!"

	One of the other agents said: "But, then couldn't any wanted criminal do the same thing?"

	"No," I said. "Not if The Brain were working properly. You see, Montrose had given my capture top priority so that I'd be caught and he could kill me. But a properly operating Brain would put the good of the City above such petty things."

	"And besides," the FBI man interjected, "a properly working Brain doesn't listen in on phone calls, no matter who makes them." He looked at Mahaffey. "Councilman, you're right; the whole thing was entirely due to the illegal machinations of F. Hamilton Montrose—and we'll leave it that way. We might have to speculate a little in our reports, but they're strictly secret, and we can't prove anything, anyway."

-

	John Mahaffey gave him a big, red-faced smile. "Sir, you are one swell cop."

	"Thank you," said the FBI man. He looked back at me again. "There's one hole in your theory of what might have happened, you see. We know you couldn't possibly have had any confederates. Not possibly."

	"You know that, eh?"

	"We know it. We were watching all your known friends as soon as the phoney embezzlement charge came out. We know you didn't contact any of them. So you couldn't have had any confederates. So your theory doesn't hold water, and we can't say anything about it. That's that!"

	"Thanks," I said. "It could cause me to lose an election if something like that were bandied about. I'd hate to be blamed for the jam-up this morning."

	"So would I," said the FBI man. "But Montrose won't mind—not now. Probably the DA will want to have a few words with you later, too."

	"I'll take care of him," I said.

	"I'm sure you will, Councilman. Well, good night." He walked toward the door and opened it. Then he turned around. "By the way," he said. "There are three people outside who have been trying to see you for the past hour. A chunky man, an old lady, and a little slip of a girl. Three of them. Named Tejado. They seem to be worried about you." He kept his face perfectly straight.

	"Send 'em in," I said. "I'll see 'em."

	"Some of your constituents, no doubt," he said.

	"No doubt;" I agreed.

	He nodded and went out the door, closing it gently behind him.

The End