A man answered. “I’d like to talk to somebody,” Duff said, “about making an appointment.”
“Just a minute.” It was quite a long minute. Duff got ready another nickel.
“Yes? Hello? Higgins speaking.”
“Oh,” Duff said. “Well — look, sir. My name is Allan D. Bogan. I’m a graduate student at the university. I want to talk to somebody down there. I’ve run across something odd.”
A slight pause. “Could you give me any idea of the nature of what you’ve encountered? We’re pretty busy here—”
“I–I—I know that. Over the phone—” Duff hesitated. “Suppose I told you that I’m a graduate student in physics. The science that led to the atomic bomb—”
Mr. Higgins’ voice, businesslike to begin with, cut him off sharply, “Would three-fifteen this afternoon do?”
“P-p-perfectly.”
“Ask for me. Higgins. Slater Higgins.”
The office of the FBI looked like any office. No fancy equipment visible, no gun racks, no alarm or communication devices. And Mr. Slater Higgins, in his own small cubicle, with its swivel chair and desk, its one large window, looked like any junior executive.