Tighe is a crusader too. In his own way he's a very sincere
idealist. He just happens to have the wrong ideals. That's one reason
why I'd hate to see him harmed."

Man: "But if it turns out that we've got to--"

Bancroft: "Why, then we've got to, that's all. But I won't enjoy it."

Man: "Okay, you're the leader, you say when. But I warn you not to
wait too long. I tell you the Institute is more than a collection of
unworldly scientists. They've got _someone_ out searching for Tighe
and if they should locate him there could be real trouble."

Bancroft, mildly: "Well, these are troubled times, or will be shortly.
We might as well get used to that."

The conversation drifted away into idle chatter. Dalgetty groaned to
himself. Not once had they spoken of the place where their prisoner
was kept.

All right, little man, what next? Thomas Bancroft was big game. His
law firm was famous. He had been in Congress and the Cabinet. Even
with the Labor Party in power he was a respected elder statesman. He
had friends in government, business, unions, guilds and clubs and
leagues from Maine to Hawaii. He had only to say the word and
Dalgetty's teeth would be kicked in some dark night. Or, if he proved
squeamish, Dalgetty might find himself arrested on a charge like
conspiracy and tied up in court for the next six months.

By listening in he had confirmed the suspicion of Ulrich at the
Institute that Thomas Bancroft was Tighe's kidnapper--but that was no
help. If he went to the police with that story they would (a) laugh,
long and loud--(b) lock him up for psychiatric investigation--(c)
worst of all, pass the story on to Bancroft, who would thereby know
what the Institute's children could do and would take appropriate
counter-measures.

II

Of course, this was just the beginning. The trail was long. But time
was hideously short before they began turning Tighe's brain inside
out. And there were wolves along the trail.

For a shivering instant, Simon Dalgetty realized what he had let
himself in for.

It seemed like forever before the Bancroft crowd left. Dalgetty's eyes
followed them out of the bar--four men and the woman. They were all
quiet, mannerly, distinguished-looking, in rich dark slack suits. Even
the hulking bodyguard was probably a college graduate, Third Class.
You wouldn't take them for murderers and kidnappers and the servants
of those who would bring back political gangsterism. But then,
reflected Dalgetty