It's hard to ferret out a gang of fanatics; it would, obviously, be even harder to spot a genetic line of dedicated men. But the problem Orne had was one step tougher than that!
e never met him." He looked to the southwest where a flitter was growing larger as it approached. "Who's my cover contact?"
"That mini-transceiver we planted in your neck for the Gienah job," said Stetson. "It's still there and functioning. Anything happens around you, we hear it."
Orne touched the subvocal stud at his neck, moved his speaking muscles without opening his mouth. A surf-hissing voice filled the matching transceiver in Stetson's neck:
"You pay attention while I'm making a play for this Diana Bullone, you hear? Then you'll know how an expert works."
"Don't get so interested in your work that you forget why you're out there," growled Stetson.
* * * * *
Mrs. Bullone was a fat little mouse of a woman. She stood almost in the center of the guest room of her home, hands clasped across the paunch of a long, dull silver gown. She had demure gray eyes, grandmotherly gray hair combed straight back in a jeweled net--and that shocking