But as an agent of Thusca, he could afford no time for such neurotic thoughts. He would tell the doctors about it when he returned, but right now there was work.
He stood there without moving a muscle, thinking of nothing at all, as if Stanley Martin were only an illusion and didn't really exist. It was a quarter to six.
Ten minutes to six.
Six o'clock.
And footsteps thudding on the concrete stairs a block away.
The man in the pork-pie hat was coming to get his car.
Stan set the stud on his heat gun and waited.
An ape.
The man came closer and fumbled at the door of his automobile, trying to get the key into the lock.