"Isn't that enough?" the brewer-Literate demanded. "I'll call you at
the store, after a while. 'Bye."

The screen darkened as Cardon broke the connection. Prestonby got to
his feet, went to his desk, and picked up a pipe, digging out the
ashes from the bowl with an ice pick that one of the teachers had
taken from a sixteen-year-old would-be murderer. He checked his tablet
gun, made sure that there was an extra loaded clip in the holster, and
got two more spare clips from the arms locker. Then, to make sure, he
called Pelton's store, talking for a while to the police sergeant
Cardon had mentioned. By the time he was finished, the door opened and
Yetsko ushered Ray Pelton in.

"What's happened?" the boy asked. "Doug told me that the Senator ...
my father ... had another heart attack."

"Yes, Ray. I don't believe he's in any great danger. He's at the
store, resting in his office." He went on to tell the boy what had
happened, exactly and in full detail. He was only fifteen, but
already he had completed the four-year reading course and he could
think a great deal more logically than seventy per cent of the people
who were legally entitled to vote. Ray listened seriously, and proved
Prestonby's confidence justified by nodding.

"Frame-up," he said succinctly. "Stinks like a glue factory of a
put-up job. Something's going to happen to Russ Latterman, one of
these days."

"I think you'd better let Frank Cardon take care of him, Ray,"
Prestonby advised. "I think there are more angles to this than he told