The face on the televisor screen was fat and placid. It was also semi-Oriental. Philip Jeng’s father had been a Tibetan, and he had probably inherited a touch of Himalayan serenity along with a mind as tortuous as the Cretan labyrinth. He was a big, globular man, whose particular field was logic, though he did not specialize much these days. As a member of the organization, he devoted himself to odd jobs, and to working out the complicated probabilities of the various plans that were suggested. He had a smattering of knowledge in many fields, and now he was talking psychiatry to Ilsa Carter.
“I got there as fast as I could,” he said. “When Ortega didn’t answer any visor calls, we figured GPC had detected the hideout. I went there with an expendable member and sent him in. But it wasn’t GP
