Stutsman ducked into an alley where even deeper darkness lay. Russ, with
a delicate adjustment, slid the televisor along, closer to Stutsman,
determined not to lose sight of him for an instant.
The man suddenly turned into a doorway so black that nothing could be
seen. Sounds of sharp, impatient rappings came out of the screen as
Stutsman struck the door with his stick.
Brilliant illumination sprang out over the doorway, but Stutsman seemed
not to see it, went on knocking. The colors on the screen were
peculiarly distorted.
"Ultra-violet," grunted Greg. "Whoever he's calling on wants to have a
good look before letting anybody in."
The door creaked open and a shaft of normal light spewed out into the
street, turning its murkiness to pallid yellow.
Stutsman stepped inside.
The man at the door jerked his head. "Back room," he said.
* * * * *
The televisor slid through the door into the lighted room behind
Stutsman. Dust lay thick on the woodwork and floors. Patches of plaster
had broken away. Furrows zigzagged across the floor, marking the path of
heavy boxes or furniture which had been pushed along in utter disdain of
the flooring. Cheap wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls, streaked
with water from some broken pipe.
But the back room was a startling contrast to the first. Rich,
comfortable furniture filled it. The floor was covered with a
steel-cloth rug and steel-cloth hangings, colorfully painted, hid the
walls.
A man sat under a lamp, reading a newspaper. He rose to his feet, like
the sudden uncoiling of springs.
Russ gasped. That face was one of the best known faces in the entire
Solar System. A ratlike face, with cruel cunning printed on it that had
been on front pages and TV screens often, but never for pay.
"Scorio!" whispered Russ.
Greg nodded and his lips were drawn tight.
"Stutsman," said Scorio, surprised. "You're the last person in the world
I was expecting. Come in. Have a chair. Make yourself comfortable."