one of your business," Malone said. He reached inside his
fur-trimmed robe and, again suppressing a tendency to bow deeply,
withdrew an impressive-looking legal document. "This," he said, "is a
court order, instructing you to hand over to us the person of one
William Logan, herein identified and described." He waved it at the
doctor. "That's your William Logan," he said, "only now he's ours."

* * * * *

Dr. Dowson took the papers and put in some time frowning at them. Then
he looked up again at Malone. "I assume that I have some discretion in
this matter," he said. "And I wonder if you realize just how ill Mr.
Logan is? We have his case histories here, and we have worked with him
for some time."

Barbara Wilson said: "But--"

"I might say that we are beginning to understand his illness," Dr.
Dowson said. "I honestly don't think it would be proper to transfer this
work to another group of therapists. It might set his illness
back--cause, as it were, a relapse. All our work could easily be
nullified."

"Please, doctor," Barbara Wilson began.

"I'm afraid the court order's got to stand," Malone said. Privately, he
felt sorry for Dr. Dowson, who was, obviously enough, a conscientious
man trying to do the best he could for his patient. But--

"I'm sorry, Dr. Dowson," he said. "We'll expect you to send all of your
data to the government psychiatrists--and, naturally, any concern for
the patient's welfare will be our concern also. The FBI isn't anxious
for its workers to get the reputation of careless men." He paused,
wondering what other bone he could throw the man. "I have no doubt that
the St. Elizabeths men will be happy to accept your co-operation," he
said at last. "But, I'm afraid that our duty is clear. William Logan
goes with us."

Dr. Dowson looked at them sourly. "Does he have to get dressed up like a
masquerade, too?" Before Malone could answer, the psychiatrist added:
"Anyhow, I don't even know you're FBI men. After all, why should I
comply with orders from a group of men, dressed insanely, whom I don't
even know?"

Malone didn't say anything. He just got up and walked to a phone on a
small table, near the wall. Next to it was a door, and Malone wondered
uncomfortably what was behind it. Maybe Dr. Dowson had a small arsenal
there, to protect his patients and prevent people from pirating them.

He looked back at the set and dialed Burris' private number in
Washington. Wh