“Very well,” the chairman said, his voice brisk. “Do you wish a vacation, a rest from further assignment at this time?”

“No. Just give me something else.”

One of the other breed members took up another piece of paper. The matter of Professor Leonard LaVaux,” he said.

Professor Leonard LaVaux lived in a small bungalow in a section of town which had never pretended to more than middle class status. The lawn could have used a bit more care, and the roses more cutting back, but the place had an air of being comfortably lived in.

Warren Casey was in one of his favored disguises, that of a newspaperman. This time he bore a Press camera, held by its strap. There was a gadget bag over one shoulder. He knocked, leaned on the door jam, assumed a bored expression and waited.

Professor LaVaux seemed a classical example of stereotyping. Any producer would have hired him for a scholar’s part on sight. He blinked at the pseudo-journalist through bifocals.

Casey said, “The Star, Professor. Editor sent me to get a few shots.”

The professor was puzzled. “Photographs? But I don’t know of any reason why I should be newsworthy at this time.”

Casey said, “You know how it is. Your name gets in the news sometimes. We like to have something good right on hand to drop in. Editor wants a couple of nice shots in your study. You know, like reading a book or something.”

“I see,” the professor said. “Well, well, of course. Reading a book, eh? What sort of book? Come in, young man.”

“Any book will do,” Casey said with journalistic cynicism. “It can be Little Red Riding Hood, far as I’m concerned.”

“Yes, of course,” the professor said. “Silly of me. The readers would hardly be able to see the title.”

The professor’s study was a man’s room. Books upon books, but also a king-size pipe-rack, a small portable bar, two or three really comfortable chairs and a couch suitable for sprawling upon without removal of shoes.