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fix the oldsters’ transportation, talk with the airline, and have a read close look at that plane.”
    “Okay. I’d better get over to Abdera and fix a little discreet surveillance. Having these poor souls in one place is just about our only lucky break. Abdera Hollow — sounds like a real dump.”
    “Huh! By tomorrow night it’ll be the most famous place on earth!”
    *
    Arcasso did not get to look at Papa Kilo until later that afternoon. By then his team had found what he had dreaded.
    Eleven small holes, each two millimeters in diameter, their distribution random. None in the wings, engines, or freight holds. Otherwise, the search had produced nothing.
    Eleven holes, the only clue …
    But clue to what? He’d have expected eleven holes of that size to have reduced cabin pressure to the point where safety circuits would have been activated and the oxygen masks would have dropped — yet they hadn’t. Why? Was the pressure reduction not enough — or had the transition been too fast? Speed. Maybe that had something to do with it. Maybe not …
     

 
    XI.
     
    Few citizens saw Malin come or go, but those that met him remembered his visit. He began by shaking the sheriff out of his backwoods lethargy — a real live FBI man in Abdera ?
    Malin was much less impressed. He put the fear of God into the lawman about security and warned him not to trip over any FBI boys. Armed with Mark Freedman’s address, he set out for the doctor’s office.
    As he apologized to Freedman for his unheralded visit, Malin produced his ID card, which modestly described him as a “senior official.” Telling the doctor his fantastic story, he began with the part he liked least, CIA Joe’s time warp; thereafter he stuck to the facts about the Jumbo. He explained selectively, ending with the assurance that the bureau, acting for a research agency — too secret to be named — was mainly motivated by a desire for the well-being of Papa Kilo’s passengers.
    After a careful check of the ID card, Freedman had sat back and listened, nodding his head from time to time in sharp, birdlike movements, his eyes roving over his visitor’s face, missing nothing.
    “Incredible!” said Freedman when Malin had finished, “quite incredible … You have a flight list?”
    While Freedman scanned the list, Malin studied him, evaluating the sensitive mouth, the high-bridged nose, the dark eyes behind heavy spectacles: a man of intellect, decisive, firm. If his professional abilities matched his attitude and appearance, what was he doing in a hole like Abdera?
    Freedman looked up quickly, interrupting Malin’s reverie. He tapped the flight list, and Malin noted the strong, slender hands, as sensitive as the face. Freedman slid the paper back across the desk.
    “Yes, they’re all mine — except this last one. Not local.” He spoke with complete certainty.
    Malin checked. The last name was that of the dead man. “You’re right, doctor. My error.” He crossed the name out and returned the list. “What we want is for you to keep an eye on them. If you see anything unusual, we’d like to know. A retainer will be paid, plus expenses.”
    “You say ‘unusual.’ That’s not very specific.”
    “Because we can’t be specific. We’ve got no idea what to expect — this has never happened before.” The penetrating look he got left Malin with the uncomfortable feeling that Freedman recognized the lie. “You have to judge.”
    “Surely the medical advisors of the agency you represent have reached some conclusion?”
    “For obvious reasons, we can’t include anyone in Abdera Hollow,” said Malin evasively; a fraction late he saw the trap and countermoved swiftly. “But don’t think they could give you any more background than I can. The evidence suggests the subjects went into a state of nonbeing, all their physical and mental functions suspended. None of the men, for instance, needed to shave; no subject complained of thirst or hunger. But the