Part 3

Neville went straight to the great library where the I.P. records are kept. An attendant brought him the bulky folder on the old Lunko gang. Neville found it engrossing reading, and the day waned and night came before he had committed all its contents to memory.

Billy Neville obtained a televise connection with Tellurian headquarters.

"How are your shadows doing?"

He had already learned the real identity of the man he had trailed from Pallas; he was an actor belonging to the original ring and went by the name of Hallam.

"Our shadows are doing fine," replied the officer at the other end, "but your friend Hallam seems unhappy. He made two calls on a high officer of the Radiation Corporation and after the second one he came very angry and ruffled looking. He has also called on several other persons, known to us as extortioners, and at least two of those are on his trail with blood in their eye."

"I know," chuckled Neville. "He sold 'em a bill of goods--rolls of blank paper. They think they've been double-crossed. And they have, only I'm the guy that did it. But say, we can't have him killed--not yet. Better round up all his contacts and put 'em away, incommunicado. I'm hopping a rocket right now and will be with you in a jiffy."

It did not take the police long to make the little jump from Luna to Tellus, and a couple of hours later Neville was confronting Hallam in a special cell. In his hands he held a first-class ticket to Titan in the Saturn group, which had come out of Hallam's pocket, as well as a handbill of the showboat announcing an appearance there in the near future.

"I just wanted to study your current rig, Hallam," explained Neville, opening up his makeup kit. "Impersonation is a game that more than one can play at. I'm going in your place to Titan. I'm a _teeny-weeny_ bit curious as to what happens to your victims. Extortion carries good stiff sentences, but they lack the finality of that for murder."

* * * * *

The Neville that left the cell was the exact duplicate of Hallam, and by dint of exacting search of the actor's trick garments and the use of adroit questioning under pressure, the Special Investigator knew exactly what he had to do. And he knew ever better, after the spaceship he was riding settled down into the receiving berth on Titan. An actor of Lunko's--a skinny, gaunt fellow--was on hand to meet him, and a little later they conferred in a well-screened spot with three of Lunko's jackals.

"The layout here is a cinch," explained the skinny actor. "The two biggest shots are the president of the Inter-satellite Transportation Company and the fellow who owns the bulk of shares in the _phlagis_ plantations. A year or so ago they were mixed up in a most ludicrous near-scandal that people are still tittering over. A situation like that is a natural for us. Lunko has already sent the script on ahead. It's funny enough to tickle the town, but not so raw it will make the principals sore. We will deal with them in the usual way, when they come backstage after the show."

"Uh, huh," said Neville, and asked to see the descriptions. They lit up the projector and began running three-dimensional views of their intended victims. The preliminary studies had been most comprehensive and Neville knew before the hour was up that not a mannerism or intonation of voice had been overlooked. To persons skilled in disguise the problem was not so much one of imitation, but of introducing a telling imperfection that would allay suspicion of a possible more perfect imitation later.

The remainder of their time until the showboat came, they spent in gruelling rehearsals.

* * * * *

Neville watched the show from the wings and was gratified to note the considerable sprinkling of plainclothes-men in the audience. The show was good, as it had been before, and the audience was highly enthusiastic. Then came the curtain call and the announcement of the special performance. When the lights were down and his cue came, Neville walked on and performed his silly role. Then there was a hubbub of applause and wild calls for an encore. A few minutes later the two men they had lampooned came backstage, grinning sheepishly, yet apparently resolved to show themselves good sports.

"You would have more privacy in the dressing rooms," suggested Lunko suavely, and ushered each into the private closet of the man who had just mimicked him. Neville found himself face to face with a near-double.

"Step on it," said Lunko harshly, who had followed. He flicked on a peculiarly brilliant overhead light, and the startled victim looked up at it with the helpless, hopeless gaze of a lamb being led to the slaughter. "Change your makeup while I drag the dope out of him. I've got another one to do after this, you know."

Neville grunted and began plucking away the comedy elements of his burlesque get-up. Then, with the deftness of long experience he made his appearance match the poor dupe's to the chair. Meanwhile Lunko had forced his victim into the depths of hypnotic trance and was extracting all the secret knowledge that the snooping jackals had been unable to obtain indirectly.

"You've got it all, now?" asked Lunko, impatiently, "The combination of his safe, his office and home habits? I've drained him dry, I believe."

Neville nodded.

"Stand back, you fool!" screamed Lunko, as Neville awkwardly stepped against him just as he was about to swing the bludgeon that would finish the now valueless victim, "we've just time to get this one into the incinerator...."

He never finished, for at that instant Neville sprang from the balls of his feet and a heavy fist smashed into the blackmailer's jaw with a crash that told of a shattered jawbone. Another battering ram of a fist smashed him to the floor.

Neville's high-frequency whistle was out and the shrill, inaudible alarm tingling on the breasts of the key men waiting outside. Then he was dashing for the adjoining dressing room where a similar little drama was just being brought to its close. A swift jab of fire from the blaster that appeared magically in Neville's hand sent the actor to his death. Other policemen were dashing up and the second hypnotist suddenly lost interest in his surroundings, going down onto his knees, a mass of battered pulp.

Then Neville sat down and began thoughtfully removing the makeup he so detested.

"I wonder," he complained to himself, "whether I'm ever going to get that leave."