`You're joking.'

`I'm not.'

`It's out of the question.'

`I want to know what he knows.'

`About yourself?'

`Yes. Especially psychological test scores.'

`Out of the question. Unheard of.'

`You've got to do this for me,' Graves said. `You've got to get me that file.'

`I can't requisition it,' Phelps said, `without higher

authority. You know that. You're much better off picking Wright up.'

`Not yet.'

`I have to go to lunch,' Phelps said. `Call me later. I think you're acting like a fool.'

And Phelps hung up.

`State Department.' A singsong voice.

'Office of the Secretary, please.'

`Thank you.' Lilting.

`Secretary of State, can we help you?'

`Mr Burnett, please.' Burnett was one of the Secretary's advisers. Although young, he had worked himself up from a speech writer to a close and influential position. Graves knew him slightly.

`Mr Burnett has gone to lunch and is not back yet. He is expected shortly.'

`Did he leave a number?'

`No, I'm sorry - just a moment, he's coming through the door. Whom shall I say is calling?'

`John Graves. State Intelligence.'

`One moment please, Mr Graves.'

There was a very long wait, and a humming sound as Graves was put on `hold'. Then a click.

'Burnett here.'

`Tom, this is John Graves calling.'

`How are you, John? It's been a long time. When was it? Senator Evans' party, I think. You had a very cute -'

`Listen, Tom. I have a problem. I need your help.'

`I'll do what I can.' Said very smoothly, in the manner that all those people adopted sooner or later. No promises, but very smooth.

Graves paused. `I need my file.'

`Your file?'

`Yes. My Department file.'

`I don't think - just a minute - no, please hold that, I'll call him right back - John?'

`I'm here.'

`I'll have to call him right back. Yes, in a few minutes. Absolutely. Five minutes, tell him five minutes. John?'

`I'm here,' Graves said again.

`Now what was it? Your file?'

`Yes. I need my own file.'

`I've never heard of anyone needing their own file,' Burnett chuckled. `Curiosity, yes, but -'

`Tom. Stop being polite. This is Department business and it's very important.'

`Perhaps you could stop by the office and -'

`I can't stop by the office. I'm not in Washington. I'm in San Diego.'

`Oh?' There was hesitation now, the smoothness gone. `San Diego?'

`I'm doing an SS here. A guy named John Wright. I need my own -'

'Who?'

`John Wright.'

`Well why didn't you say so before? I'll get it to you right away. The Secretary has directed everyone to cooperate fully with the San Diego operation.'

Graves sighed. That was refreshing. He had an enormous sense of relief. What was that joke? It felt so good when he stopped.

`Let's see,' Burnett said. `I'll have to get an authorization. I can do that with the Undersecretary; I don't have to bother the boss. Then we have to get it to you. You don't have access to a photoprinter?'

`No.'

`Well, let's see… I don't know what sort of facilities are available in San Diego. Look. There's one sure bet. The police department. They have a printer for sure. I can transmit the file contents to you over that. But it'll take time to do the whole thing.'

`I don't want the whole thing. I just want the psychological test scores.'

`You do?'

'That's right,' Graves said.

`Well,' Burnett said, `I can have that for you right away. They'll transmit in fifteen or twenty minutes. Okay?'

`Okay,' Graves said. `And thanks.'

`For Christ's sake, don't mention it,' Burnett said.

Graves hung up.

Downstairs in the car, Lewis said, `You look like you've gargled with Drano.'

`I have,' Graves said. He got into the car. `We're going to the police station.'

Lewis pulled out into traffic. `Anything interesting happening upstairs?'

`They've found that Wright is preoccupied with weather today.'

`Weather?'

`Yes.'

`I don't get it,' Lewis said.

`Neither do I,' Graves said.

`You're very quiet,' Lewis said, as they drove to the police headquarters.

Graves nodded. `I was thinking of an old story. It's back in the soft-data section of Wright's file. You know about the Murdock killing?'

Lewis shook his head.

`It happened in New York five years ago. Wright was married to a girl named Sarah Layne, and when it broke up, she started seeing a man named Murdock. A Texas oil man. Big spender, big ladies' man.'

Lewis nodded.

`Well, Murdock got an anonymous tip that he would be killed. Got it about seven in the morning. He believed it, so he called his chauffeur and had him go over the car carefully. The chauffeur found a bomb, and notified Murdock. Murdock went down to the garage to see the bomb and had his chauffeur remove it. The chauffeur carried it away. And Murdock, who was an oilman and interested in explosives, leaned into the engine compartment to examine how the bomb had been wired in. And thirty seconds after the first bomb was removed, a second one exploded. Murdock was killed instantly.'

`Nice.'

'Wright was questioned but never charged. There was nothing to point to him. That's the story. But whoever did it knew a lot about Murdock.'

`You think that's the way Wright operates?'

`I know it is.'

Lewis was silent for a moment. `Why are we going

to the police station?' -

`To find out how much Wright knows about me,' Graves said.

The spinning drum produced the transmitted image with almost painful slowness. It made a loud, distracting, clanking sound. Nevertheless, when the first sheet came off the drum Graves grabbed it up eagerly and read with intense concentration -ignoring the clanking, the room, the cops all around, Lewis, everything.

The first sheet was printed out in block letters, as Wright's file had been: