The gold lettering on the frosted glass door read: "Plasky Enterprises." A tall man in a military uniform paused momentarily with one hand on the door, then pushed on inside and closed the door softly behind him. It was a large office, divided into small pens by a network of wrought-iron railings. Each "pen" contained a modern desk and a small table set at a right angle to the desk. Two simply upholstered metal chairs were stationed at each table. At the moment, each of the pen-style offices was vacant.

A pretty brunette occupied a reception desk outside the network of wrought iron. She was doodling on a scratch pad, the secretarial chair swivelled so that it faced the front door, her body twisted at the waist with the upper torso leaning over the desk, a silken expanse of long legs crossed at the knees and attractively displayed from a tight-fitting skirt that reached only to about midthigh. She looked up with a bored smile, not bothering to rearrange her position at the desk.

"Good morning," the visitor said. The voice was deeply pleasant and suggestive of an accustomed authority.

"Everybody's out," the girl told him, flashing her eyes toward the empty desks as though to confirm the truth of her statement. "... if you'd like to wait..."

He showed frank interest in her legs, from the hem of the skirt on down, and said, "I'm Mack Bolan. Mr. Plasky said he'd see me at nine." He glanced at his watch. "It's nine now."

"Oh, well, I think maybe Mr. Plasky is in," the girl said, gazing at the visitor with a newfound respect. She picked up a telephone and punched a button at the base of the instrument, all the while viewing Bolan with cool appraisal. "There's a Mr. Bolan here," she whispered into the mouthpiece; then, still holding the receiver to an ear, told Bolan: "Go on in "