was followed by another minute or two of silence.
"It might've come under the name of Cody, Richard Cody," explained the intruder. Something in the younger man's smile caused him to add: "You see, that's our firm name, Duffy & Cody."
An alias, south of the twentieth parallel, often enough carries its own explanation. The Laminian's bow was pointing towards a land of patriots where a change of name only too often synchronised with a change of continents. But McKinnon merely gave a shake of the head. It was several minutes before he glanced about at the other man, with a closeness of scrutiny that might have been impertinent had it seemed less frankly impersonal.
"There's nothing in for passengers this trip," he announced as he turned back to his "tuner." He drummed impatiently on the table-edge for a moment before readjusting his helmet-receiver. But the huge-shouldered intruder was not to be so easily shaken off.
"Your machine's working, isn't it?" he asked, preoccupied with an inspection of the end of his cigar. This cigar was soft and thick and short, like his own fingers. Despite its dark and baleful colour, he kept inhaling and expelling great lungsful of it as he talked. The
