"Go ahead," I said.
"No, not over the phone. There might be a tap. Listen, my life is in danger. You've got to come over to my place right away. You know where it is. I want to tell you something I found out—it's hot."
And he hung up without another word. I headed for his place.
Fifteen minutes later, I was going up the lift tube of a middle-class apartment house, heading toward the ninth floor. I had a sneaking hunch that I already knew what Jedon Onomondo would have to say, but I wanted to be positive. I rapped on the door of his apartment. The door opened a crack; an eye peered out.
"Come in, Mr. Cameron," Jedon Onomondo said, swinging the door wide.
I didn't step in immediately; I took a quick look around the room, keeping my hand on my blaster butt. There was no one else in sight except the Damakoi.
I went on in and prowled around the room to satisfy myself that there was no one else present. Then I searched the rest of the apartment. The place was empty.
Jedon Onomondo was sitting in the middle of his living room, nervously smoking a Terran cigarette. The Damakoi are one of the few extraterrestrials who have taken up the use of tobacco. They looked ludicrous.
I didn't sit down. "All right; what's so all-fired important that it can't be told over the phone?"