"No one—" Paul stopped as the familiar voice on his recording went through his brain as it had so often since he heard it on Proxima I: '... but it won't be long, my dear.... Of course, it seems so.... Do that, by all means....' and as the well-remembered voice seemed to speak aloud, Paul recalled another voice, the voice of a most attractive woman, replying to his suggestion that he call her: 'Do that, by all means.'
Then Paul knew. Not only the voice, but the mannerism.
'Do that....'
Not truly a command, but far more than mere acquiescence. That was Nora Phillips' way, her voice, her mannerism.
A cold sweat broke out on Paul Grayson's forehead. Two men had died because of this. Why? True, both were criminals, but what possible attraction could Paul's grand dream of interstellar communications have for a thief, a felon, and a murderer?
Two men had died, and then as Haedaecker's technicians cut off the hoped-for sources of signals from Z-wave Central, Nora Phillips had come forward to supply Paul with the necessary evidence to success.
Why? Certainly she could not hope that his unsupported story would stand up against the certain statement that Z-wave Central was down and out. Besides, there was not time for a spacecraft to get to Proxima I between the time that Z-wave Central went off the air and the time that Paul recorded the signal. Had Nora Phillips been on Proxima?
Someone had!
Someone had been there, lying in wait for Paul Grayson—for what inexplicable reason Paul could not begin to name. And someone else had been there, too, lying in wait for the interference. Someone had irrevocably removed the criminal lying in wait for Paul, and then had blithely furnished Paul with the signal he had been waiting four long years to hear.
The answer was hidden behind the heavy mahogany door at 7111 Bridge Street, despite the placid appearance of a man retired from business, his elderly wife, and doddering manservant. For Nora Phillips had disappeared behind that door.