"I've found the apartment," I told him, "and I've found the girl. But the man is supposed to be on Mars. It doesn't figure, but it's something to work on."
I called the Captain, and gave him my report. If he resented my bothering him at home, he didn't show it. Any wheel I could get my fingers on I set turning, and then I went home. I won't pretend that I slept.
By morning we had a complete report from the colonial administration on Michael Rolland Gregory. Fingerprints, photos, detailed description, complete with limp and left-handedness. The works. Also, the added information that he'd resigned his civil service job eight months before and had left immediately for Earth, on a Dawn Liner scheduled to land at San Francisco.
I swore savagely, got off an urgent message to San Francisco, and left for a dinner date with Stella Emerson. And another handshake at her apartment door.
San Francisco did a thorough job, but it took time—two more days. Michael Rolland Gregory had hung around for a while, living in run-down rooming houses, and holding a series of odd jobs. Two months before he had disappeared.
"He could be anywhere by now," I told the Captain.
"Including here in New York," the Captain said dryly.
Two to seven days.
I took Stella back to her apartment after our dinner date, and in front of the door I said, "Stella, I like you."
She blushed wonderfully. "I like you too, Jim."