The phone on Superb’s desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Strikerock.” Dr. Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. “Are you still in Franklin Aimes?” Superb asked, at once. “Yes,” Kongrosian’s voice came in his ears from the short-range audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. “I just now heard on TV that you still exist.
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