he reloaded his pistol before moving forward
to help Thornberry to his feet.

But the psychologist was already standing, was turning toward
Bennington, wild anger on his face, in his voice.

"What did you shoot him for? Why did you kill this poor, misguided
boy?"

Bennington looked at his assistant warden and saw that the man was
deadly serious. Then the general looked at Clarens sprawled
grotesquely on his back, with his shattered head resting against the
dead night watchman's feet, with his right hand still gripping the
knife.

I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of
them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the
words to answer this man.

* * * * *

Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's
private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a
shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.

His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many
questions, and a long, long day was still ahead.

Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he was
handwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had done
during his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almost
incoherent co-operation.

The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear than
anyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of the
city search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of the
details of the state search for the errant politician.

Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefully
on one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on his
appointment had also finally agreed to sleep.

Of course they had all assured him of complete concurrence with his
suggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could they
have done?

Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough to
insure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters.

"Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting top
priority."

"Good."

"The AG called, too."

Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had a
cigarette in your ashtray?"

"I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But the
next time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only ones
who need practical training."

Bennington did not hold back his