Next he glided to the back door, unlocked it, and stepped out onto the porch.

So far so good!

He put on his tennis shoes, knotted his pillowcase bag to his belt, and proceeded softly down the steps. Crouching, he rounded the corner of the building, moved through the side yard and, after a pause to look and listen, continued into the front yard.

In the distance he could see a blob of indistinct light where the guards at the front gate were talking in low voices. Richard could not make out what they were saying, but their tone of boredom clearly showed they knew nothing of Richard's intentions. Richard checked the fog, the lighting. Some dim yellow light came from the front porch, but not enough to illuminate the thing that interested him.

The flagpole.

He darted across the weed-cracked paving stones to the base of the pole and gripped it firmly. It was better anchored than he'd expected, but three good tugs, with feet planted on either side of it, and it pulled free, making a scraping sound that Richard was afraid the guards might hear.

He paused, the pole swaying above him.

No, the guards went on talking in the same bored tone.

Richard, balancing the pole in his hands, sped across the paving stones toward the side fence. As he entered the grove of trees on one side of the walkway, he again relied on memory to guide him. In the darkness and fog his eyes were not much help. Up ahead must be the wire-mesh fence topped with barbed wire. Exactly how high had it been? Exactly where was it located? If he was going to vault it, he'd have to be high enough not to get caught in the barbed wire, but low enough so he wouldn't fall back or, clearing the fence, break his neck on the other side.

He set the base of the pole on the ground, then lowered the shaft carefully, finding the point where he thought he should hold it. Here? No, here!

He lifted it, hefted it for balance. Yes, that felt right. He was now holding it parallel to the ground.

He advanced toward the unseen fence, careful not to strike anything with his awkward seesawing burden.

There was the fence, exactly where he'd expected it.

He measured it with his eye, then retreated for his run. It would have to be perfect the first time. It wasn't likely he'd get a second chance.

He wheeled, swinging the pole into position, took a deep breath, and started. Even now, running full tilt, he made very little noise, less noise than the distant guards, who now burst out in a gale of harsh laughter, as if at some particularly obscene joke.

The fence appeared out of the fog, looming ahead.

The point of Richard's pole dropped, dug into the ground. Richard, clinging to the pole, soared upward and, at the top of the arc, thrust the pole back and himself forward.

The barbed wire grazed his elbow as he plunged.

The ground, though he tried to do a parachutist's roll, socked him with the force of a wrecker's demolition ball, knocking the wind out of him, setting the universe spinning. Had it not been for the soft ground cover of pine needles, he could easily have cracked a rib.

On the other side of the fence the pole fell with a clatter that seemed deafening.

The conversation of the guards ceased.

A flashlight beam swung from side to side in the fog. One of the guards-perhaps both of them-was coming. Richard, rolling from his back to his belly, could hear the tramp of heavy boots. Yes, both of them were coming. He could tell by the sound.

Richard thought, Shall I run for it?

He realized he could not. He was still too dazed from the fall. He waited, hardly daring to breath.

The flashlight beam passed directly across the fallen pole and continued on. Didn't those idiots know this was no mere stick of wood? Didn't they notice the old flagpole was not in its usual place?

«Nothing here,» said the first guard.

«Always a lot of funny noises around here at night. Maybe it was a deer. A lot of deer have been coming into town because of the drought. Nothing green out in the woods anymore,» said the second.

«Yeah, right. It must have been a deer,» agreed the first.

The two men turned and tramped back toward the front gate.

Richard exhaled.

When he felt able, he crept away, listening to the resuming bored conversation of the guards, and scaled a high wooden picket fence, dropping catlike into someone's backyard. From the yard he passed along the side of a stucco-faced cottage and found himself on a narrow winding street lined with parked cars with their wheels up on the curb, sparsely lit by fog-shrouded yellow streetlights.

«I can't believe it was so easy,» Richard whispered to himself, as his previous anxiety was replaced with a rush of delighted exhilaration. He picked a direction and started to jog along at an effortless mile-eating pace, pausing to crouch in the bushes only when eyes or ears warned him of an approaching car.

When he had run what seemed to him at least three miles, he came in sight of a small two-story brown shingle-sided house where he could see, through the picture window, a flickering television screen.

He slowed to a walk, climbed the front steps, and pressed the doorbell. From the other side of the door he could hear some sort of beast roaring on the TV, and a woman screaming, then approaching footsteps.

A peephole opened at about eye level, and someone looked out. «Who is it?» demanded a gruff, weary voice.

Richard stood back so the man could see him, saying, «My name is Howard DeVore. I'm an ambulance driver. We've had an accident down the road. Could I use your phone to call in?»

«Well, eh, all right. I suppose so.» The man grudgingly opened the door, after first unlocking a deadbolt lock and removing a door chain. «The phone's right here in the hall.»

Richard entered, brushing past the man, glancing at him only long enough to notice that he was bald, middle-aged, and wearing a T-shirt decorated by a picture of Howard the Duck.

«I saw your light,» Richard said.

«Yeah,» the man answered with a yawn. «I couldn't sleep, so I stayed up to watch the Creature Feature show on the boob tube. You know how it is.»

«Yes, I know how it is.» Richard located the telephone and lifted the receiver.

The man hovered around, apparently hoping to listen in on the conversation.

«Do you mind?» Richard demanded acidly, and the man retreated into his front room, muttering. The television continued to roar and scream and play violent crashing symphonic chords.

Richard dialed a number, thinking, It's been fifteen years. I hope they're still keeping this number going.

The answer came on the second ring. «Tomcat Skip Tracer Service.» The man's voice was cultured, slightly contemptuous. Thank God, thought Richard. But then he realized he needn't have worried. The Tomcat Skip Tracer Service was a wholly-owned clandestine subsidiary of the CIA. Once opened, a CIA front business never closes, no matter how little money it makes or how useless it is as an intelligence tool. The theory is that someday, somehow, it will come in handy.

«This is Richard Blade. I need help. Can you patch me through to Ordway?»

There was a silence, then the voice on the other end of the line said, «We haven't heard anything about you for a long time, Dick.»

«You're not supposed to hear things about me if I'm doing my job right.»

«You've got a point there. Okay, I'll put you through to Ordway, but for your sake I hope you're in deep trouble. If you're not, you will be. Ordway likes his beauty sleep.»

In the small gymnasium with the disquieting mirrors J stood by the wall phone frowning, the yellowish naked lightbulb overhead accentuating his unhealthy complexion and the flaccid purple sacs under his eyes.

«Lord Leighton, is that you?» J demanded.

«Of course it's me. Who did you expect?»