The man standing in the doorway was old, but he did not look frail. He was several inches shorter than Milton, but he walked with an erect, proud posture, and there was iron in his eyes. Milton recognised him at once. “Mr. Milton,” he said, “I’m sorry to keep you. I’m Victor Blum.” Milton stood. Blum extended his hand and Milton took it. Blum’s grip was strong. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” “Please, sit.” Milton sat down again. Blum pulled out the facing chair and sat down. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, have we, Mr. Milton?” “No, sir. I don’t believe that we have.” “Of course, I’m aware of your work. The work you used to do, I should say. You don’t do it any more, do you?” “No, sir. Not for some time.” “We heard about what happened, of course. I did meet Control a few times—before his unfortunate end. Was that you?” “No, sir. It wasn’t.” “Still, I should imagine you weren’t displeased? I know he wasn’t pleased when you decided to stop.”
