Smith just had time to ask, "Say, why don't you people put tags on
things?" when there was an interruption.
A man pushed his way past the policeman at the door. He was tall and
gnarled and ugly, and his eyes were deep-set and bleakly blue. His
clothes, unpressed and uncaring, hung on him like corrugated iron.
"What do you want?" Lieutenant Smith asked.
The ugly man flipped back his lapel, showing a small silver badge
beneath. "I'm John Rath, General Motors Security Division."
"Oh ... Sorry, sir," Lieutenant Smith said, saluting. "I didn't think you
people would move in so fast."
Rath made a noncommittal noise. "Have you checked for prints,
Lieutenant? The customer might have touched some other therapy machine."
"I'll get right on it, sir," Smith said. It wasn't often that one of
the operatives from GM, GE, or IBM came down to take a personal hand.
If a local cop showed he was really clicking, there just might be the
possibility of an Industrial Transfer....
Rath turned to Follansby and Haskins, and transfixed them with a gaze
as piercing and as impersonal as a radar beam. "Let's have the full
story," he said, taking a notebook and pencil from a shapeless pocket.
He listened to the tale in ominous silence.
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