Back in my hotel room, I first turned down the volume of the defense mech, then sat down at the visiphone and put in a call to New York. The pudgy image of Carson Newell appeared.
"I'm stumped," I told him.
"What's the matter? Did you see Grogan?"
"Yeah. Just now."
"Well?"
"Nothing. I'm stumped. He's completely changed. If there was ever a case of full and complete correction, I'd say Grogan is it."
Newell tapped his fingertips together, then shrugged impatiently. "Well, hell, I don't think we're getting anywhere on this. I'll turn it over to the C.I.D. and let them worry about it."
"So what happens now?" I asked. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Take a vacation. But hang on to that defense mech. Stay in Palm Beach and contact me pronto if anything happens. Buzz me at least once a day, even if anything doesn't happen."
He started to put down the mike, then lifted it again. "How's the SRI?"