J. Eric Humphrey, Nim could tell at once, was unusually perturbed.

When Nim came in, the chairman was moving restlessly around his office, something he rarely did. He continued standing as he talked and Nim listened, "There is something I wish to say to you, Nim, and shortly I will explain why," the chairman said. "Recently I have been ashamed and disgusted at certain events which have happened in this company. I do not like to feel ashamed of the organization which pays me a salary and which I head."

Humphrey paused, and Nim remained silent, wondering what was coming next.

"One matter for shame," the chairman continued, "has been dealt with within the past twenty-four hours. But there is another, larger issue which persists-the outrageous attacks upon the lives and property of this company."

"The FBI and police . Nim began.

"Have accomplished nothing," Humphrey snapped. "Absolutely nothing!"

"They have Birdsong in jail," Nim pointed out.

"Yes-and why? Because one intelligent, determined woman reporter was more resourceful than a veritable army of professional law enforcers. Remember also that it was information from the same young woman which resulted in those other blackguards at that Crocker Street house being shot and killed-their just deserts."

Only J. Eric Humphrey, Nim thought, would use words like "blackguards" and "just deserts." All the same, Nim had seldom seen Humphrey so openly emotional. He suspected that what was being said now had been bottled up inside the chairman for a long time.

"Consider this," Humphrey resumed. "For more than a year we have suffered the indignity of having our installations, even this headquarters, bombed by a ragtag, small-time band of terrorists. Worse still, it has cost the lives of nine of our own good people, not including Mr. Romeo Abo died at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. And that is something else! I am deeply ashamed that while we were the host city, the host company, to the NEI convention, that terrible episode was allowed to happen."

"I really don't believe, Eric," Nim said, "that anyone could, or does, blame GSP & L for what occurred at the Columbus."

"I blame us, and I blame myself, for not having been more insistent, earlier, that the law enforcement agencies do something. Even now, that vile man, the leader, Archambault, is still at large." Humphrey's voice had risen in pitch. "An entire week has gone by. Where is he? Why have the law enforcement agencies failed to find him?"

"I understand," Nim said, "that they're still searching, and they believe he's somewhere in the North Casle area."

"Where he is doubtless plotting to kill or maim more of our people, and do our company more injury! Nim, I want that villain found. If necessary I want us-GSP & L -to find him." Nim was about to point out that a public utility was not equipped to perform police work, then had second thoughts. He asked instead, "Eric, what do you have in mind?"

"I have in mind that we are an organization employing many high caliber people with an abundance of brainpower. Judging by results, the law enforcement agencies lack both. Therefore, Nim, these are my instructions to you: Bring your own brain and those of others to bear on this problem.

Call on whoever you require to help you; you have my authority. But I want results. For the sake of our people who were killed, for their families, and for the rest of us who take pride in GSP & L, I want that despicable person, Archambault, caught and brought to justice."

The chairman stopped, his face flushed, then said tersely, "That's all."

It was a coincidence in timing, Nim thought, after his encounter with Eric Humphrey, that he, too, had been thinking about brainpower.

Four months ago, largely because of skepticism by Mr. Justice Yale, Nim had abandoned the "think group" approach to the problem of terrorist attacks by the so-called "Friends of Freedom."

Following Paul Yale's criticism that they had "pushed supposition pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond," Nim had summoned no further "think meetings" between himself, Oscar O'Brien, Teresa Van Buren and Harry London. And yet, reviewing what was now known, the quartet's ideas and guesswork had been uncannily close to the truth.

In fairness, Nim reasoned, he could only blame himself. If he had persisted, instead of becoming overawed by Yale, they might have anticipated, possibly even prevented, some of the tragic events which had since occurred.

Now, armed with Eric Humphrey's instructions, there might still be something they could do.

Originally, in discussing the then-unknown leader of Friends of Freedom, the "think group" labeled him 'X" the identity of "X" was now known, and the man-Georgos Archambault-dangerous, an overhanging threat to GSP & L and others, was believed to be biding somewhere in the city.

Could intensive thought and probing discussion somehow penetrate that biding?

Today was Friday. Nim decided that sometime during the weekend, using the chairman's authority if needed, he would bring the four "thinkers" together once again.

9.

"As it turned out," Nim said, consulting notes, "we were remarkably accurate. Let me remind you of just how accurate."

He paused to sip the scotch and soda which Oscar O'Brien had poured for him a few minutes ago, before they started.

It was Sunday afternoon. At the general counsel's invitation, the "think group" had assembled in his home and was sprawled around an informal comfortable garden room. The other three had been co-operative when approached by Nim, even more so when informed of J. Eric Humphrey's wishes.

The O'Brien house, high above the shoreline and with a beach below, afforded a magnificent waterfront view which, at the moment, included a multitude of sailboats, their weekend sailors endlessly beating, reaching or running, and miraculously avoiding each other, amid a flurry of whitecaps raised by a stiff westerly breeze.

As on previous occasions when the group had met, a tape recorder was running.

"On the basis of the then-available information," Nim continued, "information which was sketchy at best, we hypothesized that one man -"X"-was the leader and brains of Friends of Freedom, that he was strongly masculine and vain, and that he had a woman confidante who worked closely with him. We also believed that X personally murdered those two guards at Millfield, and that the woman was present at the time. Furthermore, we concluded the woman might be a source of weakness and prove the undoing of 'X',"

"I'd forgotten some of that," Teresa Van Buren injected. "By God, we were right on target!"

The PR director, appearing as if she had come unchanged from a lazy weekend at home, was wearing a rumpled green caftan over her ample figure. Her hair, as usual, was untidy, probably because she ran her fingers through it whenever she was thinking. Her feet were bare; the pair of dilapidated sandals she had slipped off were beside her chair.

"Yes," Nim acknowledged, "I know. And I'll admit to you all, it was my fault we failed to continue. I guess I lost faith, and I was wrong." He decided to say nothing about the influence of Mr. Justice Yale, who, after all, had done no more than express an opinion.

Nim proceeded, "Now that we know the identity of 'X,' and a good deal more about him, perhaps we can use the same mental process in helping track him down."

He stopped, conscious that three pairs of eyes were focused on him intently, then added, "Perhaps not. But the chairman believes we should try."

Oscar O'Brien grunted and removed from between his thick lips the cigar be had been smoking. The air was already thick with smoke, a condition distasteful to Nim, but it was O'Brien's home and objecting seemed unreasonable.

"I'm willing to give it a whirl," the lawyer said. "Where do we start?"

He was wearing old gray slacks, loosely belted below his bulging belly, a baggy sweater, and loafers without socks.

"I've prepared a memo," Nim said. Opening a briefcase, be produced copies and passed them around. The memo contained a summary of all information, published since the NEI convention, about Friends of Freedom and Georgos Archambault. The bulk of it was from Nancy Molineaux's reports. Nim waited until the others had finished reading, then asked, "Is there anything additional, which any of you know, that isn't in there?"

"I might have an item or two," Harry London volunteered.

The Property Protection chief had been cool today when meeting Nim, probably remembering their sharp words two days ago. But his tone was normal as he said, "I have friends in the law enforcement agencies. As Nim knows, they sometimes tell me things."

In contrast to the others-including Nim, who was also dressed casually-London was impeccable in beige slacks with a knife-edge crease, and a starched bush jacket. He wore socks which matched the ensemble. His leather shoes were gleaming.

"The newspapers mentioned that Archambault kept a journal," London said, "and it was found among his other papers. That's in here." He tapped Nim's memo with a fingernail. "What isn't here, and wasn't let out because the D.A. hopes to use it in evidence at Archambault's trial, is what was in the journal."

Van Buren asked, "Have you seen the journal?"

"No. But I was shown a Xerox copy."

As usual, Nim thought, Harry London was moving at his own pedantic pace.

O'Brien asked impatiently, "Okay, what was in the damn thing?"

"I don't remember."

There was obvious disappointment, then revived interest as London added, "At least, not all of it." He paused, then continued, "There are two things, though, you can tell from reading what the guy put down. First, he's every bit as vain and conceited as we figured, maybe more so. Also-and you get this right away from reading all the garage that's in there-he has what you'd call a compulsion to write things."

"So have thousands of others," Van Buren said. "Is that all?"

"Yep."

London seemed deflated and Nim put in quickly, "Tess, don't knock that kind of information. Every detail helps."

"Tell us something, Harry," Oscar O'Brien said. "Do you remember anything about the handwriting in that journal?"

"What kind of thing?"

"Well, was it distinctive?"

The Property Protection chief considered. "I'd say, yes."

"What I'm getting at," the general counsel said, "is this: If you took a sample of the journal handwriting, and then another turned up from someplace else, would it be easy to match the two and know they were both from the same person?"

"I see what you mean," London said. "No doubt of it. Very easy."

"Um." O'Brien was stroking his chin, drifting off into a reverie of his own. He motioned to the others. "Carry on. I only have a half-baked idea that isn't ready yet."

"All right," Nim said, "let's go on to talk about North Castle, the part of town where that 'Fire Protection Service' truck was found abandoned."

"With the radiator still warm," Van Buren reminded them. "And he was seen to go on foot from there, which makes it likely he couldn't have gone far."

"Maybe not," Harry London said, "but that whole North Castle area is a rabbit warren. The police have combed it and got nothing. If anybody wanted to choose a place in this city where they could disappear, that's the district."

"And from what I've read or heard," Nim added, "it's a reasonable guess that Archambault had a second hideaway prepared, to fall back on, and is now in it. We know he wasn't short of money, so lie could have arranged everything well ahead of time."

"Using a pbony name, of course," Van Buren said. "The same way he did to buy the truck."

Nim smiled. "I doubt if the phone company has him listed in 'Directory Assistance."'

"About that truck registration," London said. "It's been checked on, and it's a dead end."

"Harry," O'Brien queried, "has anyone estimated the size of the area in which Archambault has apparently been swallowed up? In other words, if you drew a circle on a map, and stated 'the man is probably hiding somewhere in there, "how big would the circle be?"

"I believe the police have made an estimate," London said. "But of course it's only a guess."

"Tell us," Nim prompted.

"Well, the thinking goes something like this: When Archambault abandoned that truck, he was in one belluva burry. So, assuming be was heading for a hideaway, while he wouldn't have left the truck close to it, it would not have been too far either. Say a mile and a half at the most. So if you take the truck as the center, that means a circle with a one-and-a-half-mile radius."

"If I remember my high school geometry," O'Brien mused, "the area of a circle is pi times the radius squared." He crossed to a small desk and picked up an electronic calculator. After a moment he announced, "That's a bit over seven square miles."

Nim said, "Which means you're talking about roughly twelve thousand homes and small businesses, with probably thirty thousand people living within that circle."

"I know that's a lot of territory," O'Brien said, "and looking for Archambault in there would be like searching for the proverbial needle. Just the same, we might smoke him out, and here's a thought for the rest of you to kick around."

Nim, London and Van Buren were listening carefully. As all of them knew, it was the lawyer's ideas which had led to most of the conclusions at their earlier sessions.

O'Brien continued, "Harry says Archambault has a compulsion to write things. Taken with the other information we have about the man, it adds up to him being an exhibitionist with a need to 'sound off' constantly, even in small ways. So my thought is this: If we could get some kind of public questionnaire circulating in that seven -square-m ile areaI mean the kind of thing with a string of questions to which people write in answers-our man might not be able to resist answering too."

There was a puzzled silence, then Van Buren asked, "What would the actual questions be about?"

"Oh, electric power, of course-something to arouse Archambault's interest, if possible, to make him angry. Like: How do you rate the service which GSP & L gives the public? Do you agree that continued good service will require higher rates soon? Do you favor a public utility remaining under private enterprise? That sort of thing. Of course, those are rough. The real questions would have to be thought out carefully."

Nim said thoughtfully, "I suppose your idea, Oscar, is that as the questionnaires came back, you'd look for some handwriting matching the sample in that journal."

"Right."

"But supposing Archambault used a typewriter?"

"Then we couldn't identify," the lawyer said. "Look, this isn't a foolproof scheme. If you're looking for that, you won't find one."

"If you did get a returned questionnaire where the handwriting matched,"

Teresa Van Buren objected, "I don't see what good it would do you. How would you know where it came from? Even if Archam-3bault was dumb enough to answer, you can be sure he wouldn't give his address."

O'Brien shrugged. "I already admitted it was a half-baked notion, Tess."

"Wait a minute," London said. "There is one way a thing like that could be traceable. Invisible ink."

Nim told him, "Explain that."

"Invisible ink isn't just a trick for kids; it's used more often than you'd think," the Property Protection chief said. "Here's the way it works: On every questionnaire would be a number, but it wouldn't be visible. You print it with a luminescent powder dissolved in glycol; the liquid's absorbed into the paper so there's no trace of it in view. But when you find the questionnaire you want, you hold it under a black light scanner and the number shows up clearly. Take it away from the scanner, the number disappears."

Van Buren exclaimed, "I'll be damned!"

Harry London told her, "It's done often. On lottery tickets is one example; it proves a lottery ticket is genuine and not a fake which some crook printed. Also, half the so-called anonymous questionnaires floating around are done that way. Never trust any piece of paper which says you can't be identified."

"This begins to get interesting," O'Brien said.

"The big problem, though," Nim cautioned, "is how to distribute those questionnaires widely, yet keep a record of where each one went. I don't see how you'd do it."

Van Buren sat up straight. "I do. The answer is under our noses. Our own Billing Department."

The others stared at her.