The visiphone rang.
It was the phone with the unregistered number, a direct line that didn't go through his secretary's switchboard.
He flipped it on. "Yes?" He never bothered to identify himself on that phone; anyone who had the number knew who they were calling. The mild-looking, plumpish, blond-haired man whose face came onto the screen was immediately recognizable.
"How's everything, Mr. Bending?" he asked with cordial geniality.
"Fine, Mr. Trask," Bending answered automatically. "And you?"
"Reasonable, reasonable. I hear you had the police out your way this morning." There was a questioning look in his round blue eyes. "No trouble, I hope."
Sam understood the question behind the statement. Vernon Trask was the go-between for some of the biggest black market operators in the country. Bending didn't like to have to deal with him, but one had very little choice these days.
"No. No trouble. Burglary in the night. Someone opened my safe and picked up a few thousand dollars, is all."
"I see." Trask was obviously wondering whether some black market operator would be approached by a couple of burglars in the next few days—a couple of burglars trying to peddle apparatus and equipment that had been stolen from Bending. There still were crooks who thought that the black market dealt in stolen goods of that sort.
"Some of my instruments were smashed," Bending said, "but none of them are missing."