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“Yes, and it’s a very handsome walky-talky,” he assured Potshelter a little falsely. “Suits you. I like the upswept antenna.” He drummed on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer. “Dammit, what’s happened to those machines? They ought to have the two spies here by now. Did you notice that the second—the intended recipient of the letter, I mean—seems to be female? Another good Terran name, too, Jane Dough. Hive in Upper Manhattan.” He began to tap the envelope sharply against the desk. “Dammit, where are they?”

“Excuse me,” Potshelter said hesitantly, “but I’m wondering why you haven’t read the message inside the envelope.”

Krumbine looked at him blankly. “Great Scott, I assumed that at least it was in some secret code, of course. Normally I’d have asked you to have Pink Wastebasket try her skill on it, but....” His eyes widened and his voice sank. “You don’t mean to tell me that it’s—”

Potshelter nodded grimly. “Hand-written, too. Yes.”

Krumbine winced. “I keep trying to forget that aspect of the case.” He dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read: