BY GEORGE O. SMITH
ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH
Someone behind me in thedark was toting a needle-ray. Theimpression came through sostrong that I could almost readthe filed-off serial number of thething, but the guy himself Icouldn't dig at all. I stopped tolook back but the only sign oflife I could see was the fast flickof taxicab lights as they crossedan intersection about a half mileback. I stepped into a doorway sothat I could think and stay out ofthe line of fire at the same time.
The impression of the needle-raydid not get any stronger, andthat tipped me off. The bird wasfollowing me. He was no peace-lovingcitizen because honest mendo not cart weapons with theserial numbers filed off. Thereforethe character tailing me wasa hot papa with a burner chargelabelled "Steve Hammond" in hisneedler.
I concentrated, but the onlyimpression I could get wouldhave specified ninety-eight men[pg 052]out of a hundred anywhere. Hewas shorter than my six-feet-twoand lighter than my one-ninety.I could guess that he was betterlooking. I'd had my features arrangedby a blocked drop kickthe year before the NationalFootball League ruled the RhineInstitute out because of our useof mentals and perceptives. Igave up trying--I wanted detailsand not an overall picture of ahotbird ca