each sterile and cold in spite of the bustling. They came
to a marine guarded door, were passed through, once again obviously
expected.

The inner office contained but one desk occupied by a youthfully brisk
army major. He gave Hank a one-two of the eyes and said, "Mr.
Hennessey is expecting you, sir. This is Mr. Kuran?"

"That's correct," Twombly said. "I won't be needed." He turned to Hank
Kuran. "I'll see you later, Henry." He shook hands.

Hank frowned at him. "You sound as though I'm being sent off to
Siberia, or something."

The major looked up sharply, "What was that?"

Twombly made a motion with his hand, negatively. "Nothing. A joke.
I'll see you later, Henry." He turned and left.

The major opened another door and ushered Hank into a room two or
three times the size of Twombly's office. Hank formed a silent whistle
and then suddenly knew where he was. This was the sanctum sanctorum of
Sheridan Hennessey. Sheridan Hennessey, right arm, hatchetman, _alter
ego_, one man brain trust--of two presidents in succession.

And there he was, seated in a heavy armchair. Hank had known of his
illness, that the other had only recently risen from his hospital bed
and against doctor's orders. But somehow he hadn't expected to see him
this wasted. TV and newsreel cameramen had been kind.

However, the waste had not as yet extended to either eyes or voice.
Sheridan Hennessey bit out, "That'll be all, Roy," and the major left
them.

* * * * *

"Sit down," Hennessey said. "You're Henry Kuran. That's not a Russian
name is it?"

Hank found a chair. "It was Kuranchov. My father Americanized it when
he was married." He added, "About once every six months some
Department of Justice or C.I.A. joker runs into the fact that my name
was originally Russian and I'm investigated all over again."

Hennessey said, "But your Russian is perfect?"

"Yes, sir. My mother was English-Irish, but we lived in a community
with quite a few Russian born emigrants. I learned the language."

"Good, Mr. Kuran, how would you like to die for your country?"

Hank Kuran looked at him for a long moment. He said slowly, "I'm
thirty-two years old, healthy and reasonably adjusted and happy. I'd
hate it."

The sick man snorted. "That's exactly the right answer. I don't trust
heroes. Now, how much have you heard about the extraterrestrials?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't heard the news broadcasts the past co