"Don't be hasty," Thorpe said in an agitated voice. "I really can't let you go until you hear me out."
Vickers caught the veiled threat in his words, swung around. Thorpe's finger was resting on a button. The girl had begun to sniff audibly.
"All right," said Vickers, "but make it short. I have to register at the Parole Board office before the expiration of twenty-four hours."
"No hurry," Thorpe said, waving him back to his chair. "You met your double on the street. He's gone to the board to register in your place. He'll also fill any job they see fit to assign you. So you see, Vickers, you're quite free. You're even supplied with a perfect alibi."
Vickers did see. He saw a number of things, none of which reassured him. He said: "Fingerprints?"
"They'll check. He's wearing tips with your prints. So will his height and weight. He's a fine actor, Vickers, one of the best."
"How did you get my prints? My record is in the ISP secret file, but—"
"But that's our business. Secrets, Vickers. Any secrets. State secrets, scientific secrets." He chuckled. "We make no secret about it."
Vickers looked skeptical.