Rootenbeak put the chain of his ID badge around his neck and started to walk off, his eyes downcast. Suddenly he wheeled, screaming, the ferret face changed into a wildcat's, and pushed an old woman who had just come between him and Caird. Propelled by the woman, Caird fell back into the bicycle, knocked it over, and fell down on it. He yelled with pain as the end of the pedal drove against his spine. Before Caird could get up, Rootenbeak had jumped into the air and come down with both sandaled feet on Caird's chest. The air oofed out of his lungs, making it impossible for him to yell with pain as the pedal drove again into his back.

Rootenbeak grabbed the bars, yanked the bicycle up and ran it toward the edge of the path. He stopped and let it go over into the canal. Caird's R-T box and the bag went with the vehicle.

Caird had his breath and his strength back. He roared with anger, rose, and charged. Rootenbeak turned as if to run, then dropped to one knee, spun, and grabbed Caird2s outstretched hand. Rootenbeak fell backward, his foot came up, planted itself in Caird's stomach, and Caird went over and into the water. He missed striking the edge of a rowboat by an inch.

When he came up spluttering, more from rage than from swallowed water, he saw Rootenbeak's jeering face above.

"How do you like that, pig!"

Other faces were lined up along the edge of the path. Caird yelled at them to hold Rootenbeak for him. The faces disappeared.

"You're ignoring your organic duty!" Caird roared, but there was no one to hear him except the two grinning men in the rowboat. They helped him in and took him to the steps below the West Twenty-third Street bridge. By the time he got to the path, Rootenbeak was gone. Caird phoned in to the precinct via his wristwatch and arranged for divers to recover his vehicle, bag, and R-T box. He walked the rest of the way to work.

The precinct station on East Twenty-third Street and Wornanway occupied one-fourth of the six-story building that formed the whole block. Dripping and scowling, Caird strode down the entrance walk lined on both sides by the uniformed and stoned bodies of officers who had died in the line of duty. All were in upright, lifelike poses, though some had not been very upright in life. The one closest to the entrance, standing on a six-foot granite pedestal, was Abel "Bloodhound" Ortega, Caird's mentor and ex-partner. Caird usually said good morning to him, a ritual which some of his fellow officers thought morbid. Now he strode past Ortega's body without a glance or a word.

Caird walked by the desk sergeant without acknowledging his greeting. The sergeant called after him, "Hey, Inspector, I didn't know it was raining! Haw, haw!"

Ignoring the stares, Caird left the big admittance lobby and went down a hall. Near the end, he turned right into the locker room. After opening a locker, he chose one of a dozen robes, took it out, and hung the wet robe on a hook.

He rode an elevator to the third floor and entered his office. The screen on his desk told him what he already knew. He was to call Major Ricardo Wallenquist at once. Instead, he made his verbal report to the computer and then had the Rootenbeak file displayed. The culprit's last known address was an apartment at 100 King Street. Caird called two foot-patrolmen in that area and asked them to check out the apartment. He was told that had been done five minutes ago. Rootenbeak had not come home nor had he gone to work.

Which meant that he probably was not going to do so. Having assaulted an officer, his first known felony, he was probably headed for the "minnie" district near Hudson Park. People living on the minimum guaranteed income, those who for some unfathomable reason disdained work, tended to congregate there. They were also inclined to take in criminals and hide them. Now and then the organics raided the area and swept up a few of the wanted. It was time for another search.

Caird had coffee brought in. While sipping the hot liquid, he cooled off. Finally, envisioning his dunking, he began laughing. There was something funny about the scene even if he was the one humiliated. If he had seen the incident in a movie, he would have thought it laugh-provoking. And he had to admire Rootenbeak to some degree. Who would have expected a whiner, a sniveler, a nothing, to erupt like that?

Tracking him down was a routine better left to the patrolmen. He switched off the display and started to tell the strip to call Wallenquist's office. Then he remembered that he was to apply for a reproduction license. Just as he was going to code in the propagation department of the Population Bureau, the face of Ricardo "Big Dick" Wallenquist appeared on a wall strip.

"Good morning, Jeffi"

Wallenquist's fat red face beamed. "Morning, Major."

"You saw my message?"

"Yes, sir. I had some prior duty. I was just going to ..

"Come up to my office, Jeff. Now. I've got something interesting. No run of the mill, no distilled-water bootlegger. I'd rather be face to face."

Caird stood up. "Right away, Major."

Wallenquist made a big thing of the personal touch. He deplored communication through electronics. It was too impersonal, too aloof. "Barriers go up then, man! Wires, waves, screens! You can't really know a person or like him or get him to know you and like you if you're talking through machines. You're just ghosts then. What we need is flesh and blood, man. Touch and smell. Electricity can't transmit nuances or soul. Can't send you the proper signals. Only face to face, nose to nose can do that. God knows we've lost too much humanity. We must preserve it. Flesh to flesh, eye to eye. Touch and smell."

All very fine, Caird thought as he went up on the elevator. The trouble was that Wallenquist was an onion-fiend. Ate them for breakfast, lunch, and supper. And he insisted on getting as close as possible to the person he was talking to.

Wallenquist's office was twice as big as Caird's, which was the way it should be. The major, however, was only one-fourth larger than his lieutenant. Six feet and seven inches tall, he weighed two hundred and eighty-seven pounds. Ninety of that had to be excess fat. The Health Department was after him, of course, but he had enough connections to keep its attention from being more than a minor nuisance. No subordinate bureaucrat was going to tackle an organic major head-on, and the Health Department supervisors were rather lax about getting rid of their own lard. It was the person without power, the little guy, who had to toe the mark in this officially classless society. Thus it had been and would be.

The major rose from his huge padded chair when Caird entered, and he shook hands with himself. Caird shook his own hands.

"Sit down, Jeff."

Caird took a chair. Wallenquist came around the crescent-topped desk and sat on its edge. He leaned far forward until he seemed to be in danger of toppling off. Like Humpty-Dumpty, Caird thought. But that big egg did not eat onions.

Grinning, Wallenquist said, "How's the wife, Jeff?" For a second, Caird felt sick. Had Ozma done something unlawful?

"Fine."

"Still painting those insects?"

''Still."

Wallenquist boomed laughter and slapped Caird's shoulder.

"Isn't that something! I don't know if it's art, but it's sure good publicity. Everybody knows about her. I heard about the party given in her honor."

Caird relaxed. The major was just going through his warming-up routine. Nose to nose, eye to eye, flesh to flesh.

"How's the daughter? Arid ... uh ... Mauser, isn't it?" "Fine. Still teaching at East Harlem University?" Wallenquist nodded; his jowls flapped like sails. "Good, good. Party, heh? Anyone I know?" "Perhaps. It's one of those arty events. The host is Malcolm

Chang Kant, the curator of the Twentieth-Century Museum." "I've heard of him, of course. But I don't move in those circles. It's good that you do. An organic should know people outside his field."