Brent was easily talked into accepting the information he had come for in the first place. He kept his real thoughts secret from the vociferous Kinnent. They would seem more than foolish⁠—unsupported as they were by a single shred of real evidence. He couldn’t let this deter him. The sands of his life were trickling out, but there was something he had to do first.

The building was one of a hundred identical greenstone structures that had lined the streets in the fashionable Thirties. The site of the former garment center was now one of the most favored residential districts in the city. Brent stood across the street from number 31, ostensibly studying the headlines on the newsvend machine. The windowless exterior gave the obvious fact that the owner was fairly well off financially. Any information he sought would be inside⁠—not outside. He crossed the street and stepped into the chrome entranceway.

The inductance of his body actuated the automatic butler and the soft mechanical voice spoke from over the door.

“The Di Costa residence. May I serve you?”

“ Mr. Brent Dalgreen to see Mr. Di Costa.”

“I’m sorry, but I have no information regarding you, sir; if you care to leave a mess⁠—” The robot tones stopped with a sharp click, to be replaced by a man’s voice.

“I am very happy to greet you, Mr. Dalgreen. Won’t you please step in?”

The door swung quietly open to reveal a small wood-panelled vestibule. It wasn’t until the door closed again that Brent recognized it as an elevator. There was a feeling of motion and the end wall slid back to reveal a book-lined sitting room. The occupant turned from his desk and stepped forward.