There were apartments beyond count, some quite ele­gant. Some were like the palatial cabins of ships at sea, some were like those of spacecraft. Some looked like hunting lodges.

There were several bars as big as a tavern, chairs and tables and decor approximating styles of different planets.

There were kitchens that were complex mazes of electronic cooking gear which sent viands upwards which would then appear magically on tables in dining salons without having seemed to travel.

There were rooms which contained such a multitude of screens that one got the impression he could look at any band or transmission on any planet anywhere.

They came to an auditorium that would seat at least two hundred people and whose stage revolved or simply flapped back when another decorated stage rose.

Madison got the distinct impression they were not seeing everything there was to see in these rooms. Some­thing odd about it all, something strange. Spooky. Part of it was that there seemed to be windows but they were all black.

The old watchman didn't seem to be much inter­ested. Flick ran along and the watchman would hit buttons in his box and the doors of rooms would open. Flick would look in, see paintings and hangings of great value and rush on.

"You realize," the watchman said at last, "that if I was not working this box right, we not only could not pass down these halls, for I've opened all the invisible barriers, but traps would open in the floor as well. There's this box for watchmen and such but some of the master suites can't be opened at all until they're voice-tuned to the new owner."

Flick whispered to Madison excitedly. "There's a half a million credits in loot in this place. It would be the haul of the century." Then he went racing on to glance into more rooms.

"Of course," the gray-haired banker told Madison, "the apartment has regular street entrances and elevators: several of them in fact. But you can only come up to the first floor of these five. The upper ones require special entrance. General Loop was pretty security conscious, I'm afraid."

Finally the three bankers and the bored watchman were so worn out with walking that they simply stopped. "Do you mind," said the gray-haired man, "if we go back to the hangar salon? If you're still interested..."

"Oh, we're interested!" said Flick with a wink at Madison. And he followed them back to where the airbus was.

Flick, arriving there, reached out his hand to the watchman. "Could I see that box?"

The watchman shook his head.

The three bankers sank wearily into chairs, quite worn out from almost two hours of unaccustomed walk­ing. Madison himself felt fagged.

"If you're willing to talk price," said the gray-haired man, "we are open to some serious offers. We know that the place is large, too large. And it could never obtain a hotel license. The entire remainder of the building, all seventy-five lower floors, are separately owned by residential families such as club officials and so on, and they are much smaller. This so-called townhouse is all under one deed that can't be broken down into subdeeds and so it can't be separately rented out or sold in pieces. Now, I am being very frank. The general's heirs want to get rid of it. It would not be honest of us not to tell you. So what do you offer?" Madison was sure Flick would find some excuse. Madison's main problem was how he was going to discourage Flick from a break-in and robbery.

Flick was looking at the box in the watchman's hands. It was obvious the watchman was not going to give it up. Flick sighed deeply. Madison had visions of being part of a break-in that would bring immediate arrest. There was only one way to handle this. As a PR man he knew how to wheel and deal. He would offer a price too low. They would leave and then he would use his authority to argue some sense into Flick. Maybe bribe him.

"Well," said Madison to the gray-haired man, "I'm afraid we can't go higher than twenty thousand credits."

"Sold," said the gray-haired man without even looking at the other two. "The heirs will be very pleased. The papers are already here. I will fill in the amount and you can stamp them."

Madison blinked. Then he suddenly realized the offer was about four hundred thousand dollars!

HE HAD BOUGHT A HAUNTED TOWN-HOUSE!

"Jumping comets, are you smart!" crooned Flick as they rose up through the roof and flew away. "Now we can rob the place without any watchman even sticking their noses in."

"Flick," said Madison, "we OWN the place."

"Makes no difference," said Flick. "My dream is going to come true! Look, I got the box and a four-foot stack of directions in the bargain. Wow, what an easy break-in this will be! Oh, man, are all my dreams coming true!"

"Flick– – "

"Oh, leave this up to me. You're smart. I got to admit that now. I was wrong: a murderer can have brains for something else besides nightmares. Wow, what a master stroke! Boy, and I puzzled and puzzled over that for months and months!"

"Flick, it's sunset and I think we ought to call it a day. I got to get up early in the morning and get on my job!"

"Hey, that shows you why you should leave all this up to me. Crime works best by night and you ought to know that."

They had leaped up into the sky and the traffic lanes, strung out like fireflies in the dusk, were falling behind them.

"Flick, we seem to be leaving the towns. Where are you going?"

"Now, don't bother your head. Just because you got one bright idea doesn't prove you know enough to handle everything in sight. Just relax back there."

"Flick, I think..."

"Hand me a sweetbun, would you? They're in that side locker. Have some yourself?'

A vast sea was on their left and they were speeding along the coast, a greenish surf drawing ribbons of foam upon the sand in the dimming light. Great scarlet clouds, far to the west, were catching the afterglow of the sun.

Presently, in the fading twilight, the beaches gave way to cliffs and black mountains began to silhouette against the stars. Suddenly Flick pulled his throttle back and pointed.

A huge ebony bulk lay just ahead, sprawling along the top of cliffs that fell a quarter of a mile, sheer, to the sea. Battlements that covered acres were blacker against an ink-dark sky.

"That's the Domestic Confederacy Prison," said Flick. "Two hundred miles from Government City and two miles past Hell Nine. My brother did twenty years here and he told me all about it. It used to be an Army fort that held a million men: huge underground bunkers. But part of it was destroyed by an earthquake that took some of the cliff away so they gave it to the 'bluebottles.' They use it for those sentenced to twenty years or more: place is escape-proof, so they ship in their worst ones from all over the Confederacy. There's about two hundred thousand prisoners there and they never see the light." He slid Madison's identoplate into a slot in the dash.

"You mean we're going in amongst murderers?" said Madison.

"Oh, you kill me, Chief, you really do. Always gagging around. You don't have to pretend with me. I'm your driver, remember?" Flick snickered. "An officer of the Apparatus squealing like a little girl about associating with criminals! And a murderer at that." He thought it was very funny. Then he sobered. "There's their call-in light. Now, you let me do the talking, you hear?"

A glaring light hit them from a battlement and then went off. Four bright blue lights sprang up, bathing a courtyard in an eerie glow.

Flick landed and they got out. Two "bluebottles" approached and the snout of a gun covered them from a high turret. Flick showed them Madison's identoplate and a torch glared in Madison's face as they compared the picture. Surf sounded with a distant boom and the wind moaned.