"See?" Cencio said, returning with the Lantano folio; he switched on the room lights, halted the animation of the film segment. "Born in 2002; that makes him twenty-three. So how can that man there--" He shut the room lights off once more. "That is _not_ David Lantano."

"His father?"

"According to the folio his father died before the war." Cencio, under a small lamp at the desk, examined the records which the corporation had gathered pertaining to the Yance-man David Lantano. "Evidently Lantano, interestingly, is an ex-tanker. Anyhow walked out of the San Francisco ruins one day, asked for asylum in one of Runcible's conapts. Sent, routinely, to the Berlin Psychiatric WaffenInstitute. Mrs. Morgen found him to be of unusual aptitude; recommended that he be admitted to the Agency on a trial basis. Began writing speeches; is doing so now. Brilliant speeches, it says here."

"That's him on that screen," Webster Foote said, "and the radiation is killing him. So due to his greed to acquire a demesne he's not going to live, and the Agency loses a brilliant speech writer and he his life."

"He's got a wife and two children. So he's not sterile. They all walked out of the S .F. ruins together, a little family. Touching."

"They'll probably die with him. Before the year's up. Start the animator going again, my boy."

Obligingly, Cencio started the animator once more into action. The tired ex-tanker still lagged behind. For an interval the two men were lost behind and within a great semi-standing building; then, once more, they emerged into the light of day, the leadies stringing in a file behind them.

Suddenly Webster Foote exclaimed, leaned forward: "My god. Stop the animator."

Again Cencio stopped the action of the scene; the figures froze as they were.

"Can you get a greater enlargement of just Lantano?" Foote asked.

With great skill Cencio maneuvered the magnifying stages of lenses, manipulated both coarse and fine focuses; the figure on the screen, the first, darker human grew until there was nothing but him on the screen. Only the one obviously youthful, vigorous man.

Both Cencio and Webster Foote gazed in disconcerted, agitated silence.

"Well, my boy," Foote said at last. "That knocks the radiation damage theory."

"That's how he ought to look. Like he does now. That fits his chronological age."

Foote said, "There is, in the advanced weapons archives at the New York Agency, some kind of time travel weapon which has been tinkered with until it's a scoop they can use for depositing objects into the past. Only Brose has access to it. But what we're seeing now suggests that Lantano has got his hands on either the original weapon or the adaptation made of it by the Agency. I think we would be well advised to have a perpetual vid monitor kept on Lantano if it's at all possible. Could we plant one on a leady of his immediate entourage? It's risky, I realize, but if he finds it all he can do is rip it off; he can't prove who put it there. And we only need a few more shots; just another handful." The animator, meanwhile, had run the sequence to its limit; unable to carry it any further it merely buzzed, while on the screen the figures once more were frozen. Cencio put on the room lights; both men moved about, stretching, pondering.

"What few more shots?" Cencio asked.

"Of him as old as he gets in his oscillations," Foote said.

"Maybe we've seen it. Already."

"But maybe not. Do you know," Foote said, suddenly gripped by his extrasensory hunch experience; it overpowered him--never had it struck him with such force. "That man is not white; he's a Negro or an Indian or something."

"But there aren't any more Indians," Cencio said. "Remember that article circulated just before the war; the ethnic resettlement program established on Mars involved virtually all of them, and they were killed in the first year, when the fighting was confined to Mars; those who remained behind on Earth--"

"Well, this one's still here," Foote said. "So that's that. We don't need twenty Indians; we need just one--overlooked, I mean."

One of his lab technicians came to the door of the room, knocked respectfully. "Mr. Foote, sir. A report of that portable TV set. That you wanted torn down."

Foote said, "You got it open and it's a standard model prewar Philco 3-D color TV portable with--"

"Can't open it."

"What about those rexeroid bits?" Rexeroid, a compound from Jupiter, generally could penetrate anything. And he had kept one in his London labs for just such occasions as this.

"The case of the object, sir, is rexeroid; the bit goes in a quarter inch and then--the substance took the edge off the bit so it won't cut. In other words we're out one rexeroid bit. We've sent for more, but they'll have to come from Luna; that's where the nearest available supply exists. None of the Yance-men have any, including Eisenbludt in Moscow. Or if they do have any they won't release them; you know how competitive the Yance-men are. Afraid if they lend you--"

"Don't sermonize," Foote said. "Just keep trying. Anyhow I took a look at that case; it's not an alloy at all--it's plastic."

"Then it's a plastic we've never before seen."

Foote said, "It's an advanced weapon, undoubtedly from the Agency's closed archives, although possibly someone dug it up. Anyhow developed at the end of the war and never used. Do you mean to say you don't recognize the fine German hand when you see it? That's a Gestalt-macher; I know it." He tapped his forehead. "This extra knob on my frontal lobe says so. _Without proof_. You get into it and you'll see; ejectors that spout blood, hair, words, brain waves, threads, handprints." And, he thought, a cyanide-tipped homeostatic, homotropic dart. The first and last; that most of all. "You've tried heating it, of course."

"Not too high. To about 240; afraid if we go higher--"

"Try up to 350. And report if it shows any sign of flow."

"All right, sir." The lab technician departed.

Foote said to Cencio, "They'll never get it open. It's not rexeroid; it's a thermoplastic. But that clever German thermoplastic that flows at one precise split half degree; above and below it's even harder than rexeroid. You have to get exactly the proper temperature; inside it's got a heating coil that melts it when it wants to change shape. If they keep trying long enough--"

"Or," Cencio said, "if they get it too hot there won't be anything left inside it but ash."

That was true. The Germans had even thought of that; the mechanism was built so that unusual pressures--such as heat, drills, probes of any sort--acted to trigger a demolition circuit. And the thing did not even burst in a visible way; its works simply disintegrated... so that one still continued to strive to gain entry--entry into a gadget which had already long, long ago fused itself into a shapeless nothing, workswise.

Those late wartime units, Foote thought, are too clever. Just too damn clever for us mortals; can you imagine what would have been dreamed up in another year? _If_ the autofacs hadn't been destroyed, all the surface shops and labs and proving grounds... like that one, sole outfit that made artiforgs.

The intercom clicked on and Miss Grey said, "Sir, Yance-man David Lantano is on the line wanting you. Are you in?"

Foote glanced at Cencio. "Saw the satellite reenter. Knows we took extra-careful shots of him. He's going to ask why." Rapidly, he tried to think why. The ex-tanker? Good; he had something there, because, according to law Lantano had to turn over any tanker who bored through within his demesne area to the Berlin psychiatrists. Into the intercom he said, "Put Lantano on, Miss Grey."

On the big vidscreen the face of David Lantano appeared, and Webster Foote saw, fascinated, that it was the youthful phase of the age-oscillation or cycle; in any case it was the proper twenty-three-year-old man who confronted him.