no threat in that face, no terror or anger
or fear. It was merely--a blank.

It was not a human face. Its complete lack of emotion or expression
could have belonged to a sleeping child of ten--or to a member of a
different race. Malone looked at the boy, and looked away.

Was it possible that Logan knew what he was thinking?

_Answer me_, he thought, directly at the still boy.

There was no reply, none at all. Malone forced himself to look away.
But the air in the room seemed to have become much colder.

The attendants stood on either side of him, waiting. For one long
second no one moved, and then Dr. Dowson reached into his desk drawer
and produced a sheaf of papers.

"If you'll sign these for the government," he said, "you may have Mr.
Logan. There seems little else that I can do, Mr. Malone--in spite of
my earnest pleas--"

"I'm sorry," Malone said. After all, he _needed_ Logan, didn't he?
After a look at the boy, he wasn't sure any more--but the Queen had
said she wanted him, and the Queen's word was law. Or what passed for
law, anyhow, at least for the moment.

Malone took the papers and looked them over. There was nothing special
about them; they were merely standard release forms, absolving the
staff and management of Desert Edge Sanatorium from every conceivable
responsibility under any conceivable circumstances, as far as William
Logan was concerned. Dr. Dowson gave Malone a look that said: "Very
well, Mr. Malone; I will play Pilate and wash my hands of the matter--
but you needn't think I like it." It was a lot for one look to say,
but Dr. Dowson's dark and sunken eyes got the message across with no
loss in transmission. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be more
coming--a much less printable message was apparently on the way
through those glittering, sad and angry eyes.

Malone avoided them nervously, and went over the papers again instead.
At last he signed them and handed them back. "Thanks for your
cooperation, Dr. Dowson," he said briskly, feeling ten kinds of a
traitor.

"Not at all," Dowson said bitterly. "Mr. Logan is now in your custody.
I must trust you to take good care of him."

"The best care we can," Malone said. It didn't seem sufficient. He
added: "The best possible care, Doctor," and tried to look dependable
and trustworthy, like a Boy Scout. He was aware that the effort failed
miserably.

At his signal, the two plainclothes FBI men took over from the
attendants. They march