Fredericks grinned and fished in pockets. Naturally, he didn't come up with a thing, FBI identification was infra-red tested, totally unmistakable and unavailable to non-Operatives under any circumstances whatever. "Got it here some place," he muttered.
The clerk nodded. "Of course, sir," he said. "No need to waste time. I understand."
Fredericks stopped and stared. "You what?"
"The room, sir, is 1212," the clerk said. "Would you like me to accompany you—"
"No thanks," Fredericks breathed. "I'll find it myself." The man was too easy to find, he thought savagely. It ought to be tough to find him—but it's easy.
Remotely, that idea bothered him. But what difference did it make, after all? He had all the protection in the world. He had all the protection he was going to need. And all the time to fire one shot. Doing it blindfolded was going to be tough, but not insuperably tough. Fredericks had spent a week practicing, and he could locate a fly by sound within two inches, nineteen times out of twenty. That, he thought, was going to be good enough.
Upstairs, the Psi Operative thought so, too.
There had to be a way out, he told himself desperately.
But he couldn't find it.
He couldn't even come close.