"But the machines, don't—"
"I know. They don't make mistakes."
The buzz of the visi-sonor interrupted them, and the Commissioner of Public Safety spoke from the screen.
"For heaven's sake, Ludwig, shelve the book-business and get over here. We've had a rash of robberies with violence, a dozen bad street accidents, and two suspicious deaths of diabetics in coma. We need help."
Ludwig was already reaching for his brief case. "Right away," he said, and flicked the switch.
"John!" Carre begged, "This book matter is serious. You can't just drop it! Come with me to Hartridge's lab and see for yourself!"
"I can't. No time. You heard the Commissioner."
"Tomorrow morning?"
"Can't make it. Have to go to a funeral. A niece of mine who died suddenly of cancer. Poor girl. We thought she was doing so well, too, with the hormone injections. Not that her husband will break his heart, from what I know of the scoundrel."
Carre followed him towards the door. "Then make it tomorrow afternoon! It's vital!"