When Roger Strang found that someone was killing his son—killing him horribly and often—he started investigating. He wasn't prepared to find the results of another investigation—this time about his own life.
"That car," Roger started weakly. "You've got to stop that car I was chasing--"
"Never mind that car," the patrolman snarled. "It's you they want. Hop out. We'll go in the patrol car."
"You've got to stop them--"
The patrolman fingered his gun. "Security wants to talk to you, Mr. Strang. Hop out."
Roger moved dazedly from his car. He didn't question the patrolman; he hardly even heard him. His mind raced in a welter of confusion, trying desperately to refute the brilliant picture in his mind from that split-second that the spotlight had rested on the driver of the black car, trying to fit the impossible pieces into their places. For the second man in the black autojet had been John Morrel, chief of Barrier Base Security, and the driver had been Martin Drengo--
* * * * *
The man at the desk was a stranger to Roger Strang. He was an elderly man, stooped, with graying hair and a small clipped mustache that seemed to stick out like antennae. He watched Roger im