“I came in ten minutes ago, doctor, and he hadn’t moved.”

The doctor stood looking down, and after a few moments, said: “He’ll move soon.” There were changes in the breathing, in the firmness of the lips and eyes; a kind of relaxation. The doctor touched one of the large, pale eyelids and the young man flinched. The doctor turned round, almost cannoning into the Homicide sergeant, who had come silently on his heels: “Not a case for Homicide,” the doctor remarked.

“How soon will he be able to talk?”

“May be half an hour. Morphine patients vary.”

“Doc,” asked Homicide. “You’re sure he’s not an addict?”

“I’m sure.”

The sergeant nodded, but it was impossible to say whether it was with satisfaction or not. He asked: “Will you let me know when he can talk?” and went out on the doctor’s nod of assurance. But he did not immediately go back to the others. He went to the exit doors, which opened electronically, and out to his car, parked across the driveway from the taxis. No one else was in it. He slid into the seat and lifted the radio-telephone; soon he was talking to his lieutenant, who had detailed him to this inquiry. He reported lucidly in his gentle voice, and the lieutenant replied:

“So what next?”

“So next we look for a man who jabbed the needle in this guy’s arm, a man who could be anywhere in the Metropolitan area of New York, which means one of thirteen million people. And the man we want could have flown out of Kennedy in any one of the three hundred and seven flights which left in the past three hours. If we had a body, we might look. If we have a big heist, we could look. What do you want me to do, Manny?”

“You’ve got judgment,” the lieutenant said. “Why don’t you use it.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” the sergeant said.