"I see."

"He has also recommended that the caverns at Carlsbad be evacuated during the test. This conflicts with official reassurances, quoted in the newspapers, to the effect that there isn't the slightest danger to a single precious underground formation."

"You seem to have acquired some fascinating data," Mac said. His voice was cool. "None of it, however, seems to have much bearing on our problem."

"Perhaps not, sir, but-"

"Your job is Gunther. Espionage and sabotage, on whatever scale, are not our concern, Eric. I am sure that in those fields the national interest is being quite adequately safeguarded by the agency or agencies established for the purpose. Never mind Alexander Naldi or the Carlsbad Caverns. You were sent after one man, a man known as Cowboy-"

"Just a minute, sir," I said. If he could split hairs, so could I. "Let's clarify this a bit. Am I looking for Gunther, or am I looking for this Cowboy character?"

"They are one and the same."

"Says who? Everything I learn about Gunther sounds pretty small-caliber to me. Oh, he's involved, sure, up to his neck, but if the Cowboy is their top man locally, it doesn't look to me as if this gigolo is a very likely suspect."

Mac said coldly, "Our assignment, your assignment, Eric, is Gunther. That is the way the orders came through, and that is the way we will execute them." After a moment, he added, "After all, we owe him for LeBaron; he's due for murder anyway. And if they want us to do the detective work, they can so state. In this case they claim positive identification. Do I make myself clear?"

He did. Somebody had reamed him out for interpreting orders loosely or concerning himself with matters outside his jurisdiction, so now we were going to do it by the book. Somebody wanted Gunther. Somebody would get Gunther.

"Yes, sir," I said. "As far as Naldi and the Carlsbad Caverns are concerned, I just mentioned it because I thought you'd want to pass it along."

"That," said Mac sarcastically, "is a strange thought. I will have to pass it along, of course, now that you have presented me with it, but the desire is conspicuously lacking."

I frowned at the glass wall of the booth. He was certainly in a state about something. I said, "I had the impression that everything was sweetness and light and official cooperation, sir."

"What would give you that odd impression?"

I said, "You haven't given our description to any related agencies and asked that we be let alone if encountered?"

"I am not in the habit of circulating the descriptions of our people, Eric, particularly not when they are on secret and potentially dangerous duty."

"Then," I said, "something damn funny is going on around here." I told him what had happened that morning.

"A security officer?" Mac said. "And he'd been told what to look for?"

"Yes, sir. He didn't place me at once, he was too busy acting the Grand Inquisitor the way they do, but when he got around to noticing the lady and the truck and the license plate, he suddenly remembered something and became very gracious indeed."

"I see," Mac said. "I'll investigate. You were careless. That involvement wasn't necessary."

"No, sir. I was scouring the town for wigwams. I didn't expect to run into an official parade like that."

"Considering the date, which I hope you are doing, it's hardly an earthshaking coincidence."

"Earthshaking?" I said. "I think that's a very appropriate word in this connection, sir. Incidentally, there were no wigwams."

"I see." His voice was suddenly soft and sad and far away. "Well, we anticipated that possibility, didn't we? Do your best, Eric. I didn't mean to be… The political situation is a little trying at the moment."

"Yes, sir," I said. "It always is."

"it is hard to explain to people who know nothing about it that political reliability is not the only qualification necessary for undercover work, or even the primary one."

"They are raising hell about Sarah?"

"Naturally. It always raises hell when an agent defects. I think you had better get me Gunther, Eric. Nobody else has turned up any leads; yours is the only one we have, thin as it is. It should be a smooth, impressive, confidence-inspiring job, preferably one that looks like an accident and embarrasses nobody. Did you receive my little gift?"

"Yes, sir. I am wearing it."

"It is supposed to be an improved model. I would like your comments, later. Just peel off the foil as usual. DO you feel that you are making progress?"

"The preparations are well in hand, sir. I would say she's willing to try anything that'll make life tough for me. All she needs is the chance."

"Let us hope she gets it," Mac said. "I hate to ask a man to offer himself as bait, but-"

"Sure," I said. "Good-bye, sir."

I hung up and stood there for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. A car drove up and a bell rang somewhere on the premises as it crossed a rubber hose lying across the driveway. The filling-station man, in the lighted office, drained his coffee cup and came out. Hs name was lettered over the door: A.H. (Hank) Wegmann. I assumed it was his name. No one but the owner or manager of the place would put in such long hours.

I opened the door of the booth, paused to let him go by and headed across the lot in the direction of the tourist court a couple of blocks away. He went out to the car by the pumps. It was an Army jeep from some nearby missile outfit, I noticed, with a young enlisted man at the wheel. The idea must have been taking shape in my mind as I walked, but I was almost out of range of the lights before it suddenly graduated from a kind of subconscious nagging to a conscious brain-wave.

It hit me so hard that I almost stopped and looked back to check what I'd seen, but that would have been strictly amateur procedure, and I'd done enough blundering already that day-as Mac had not been slow to point out. I kept walking until the place was out of sight behind me. Then I stopped under a street light and searched myself for something I vaguely remembered shoving into a pocket.

After a little, I found it-the flimsy receipt for the gasoline I had charged that morning. I smoothed out the paper, and there it was again, what had struck me back there: WEGMANN'S ONE-STOP SERVICE, CARRIZOZO, NEW MEXICO. I stood there looking at it, while cataclysmic changes occurred in what I like-though it seems without much justification-to refer to as my brain.

Wegmann, I thought, Wegmann. All day we'd been looking for an Indian tent, and here was Mr. Wegmann. Wigwam-Wegmann. It could have been a coincidence. It could also have been a coincidence that of all the filling stations in town, Gail Hendricks had carefully guided us to this one. She had said, it looked cleaner than the others, and she wanted a nice, clean rest room.

It could be, but I didn't believe it for a minute.