The huge structure, housing Government's Bureau of Research, was aflame with light when Saxon climbed from the robot cab and approached the entrance. The shadowy figure of a guard challenged him.
Saxon produced his papers, submitted to a fingerprint test.
"So, it's you, all right," the guard growled. "Where the hell have you been? The T.I.S. has been scouring the city for you."
Saxon asked, "Is Villainowski in? I want to see him."
"Not half as bad," said the guard, "as he wants to see you." He stuck his head inside the guardroom, yelled, "Hey, Webb, come relieve me. That missing physicist has shown up. I've got to take him up to the chief."
"I can find my way," Saxon assured him dryly.
"I've got my orders," retorted the man, "to escort you, and escorted you'll be."
As they took the lift, Saxon probed gently into the guard's mind. He was thinking about a Venusian dancer performing at the Sun Palace on Greater Broadway. Either he didn't know why Villainowski wanted him, or he was more interested in the dancer.
Saxon sighed in resignation.
Chief Villainowski was a small wiry man of Polish descent who had led none too reputable a life, although it was not generally known. Jon Saxon, regarding him across the polished desk, read suspicion and wonder in the chief's mind. Villainowski was never able to reconcile Saxon's appearance with his indisputable scientific attainments.