, then appeared to reconsider and his
face brightened. "But it's a step in the right direction. Naturally, I
prefer the Mexican system where the wife is permitted regular, very
private, visits to her husband--"

"Let me get this straight," Bennington felt like a man lost in a maze.
"You told the Chief Guard that the prisoners could visit each other--"

"No, not all of them," Thornberry interrupted. "I never meant that
some of the problem cases, like a few of those in Number Three,
should have complete social relationships."

"Just exactly what were you thinking of when you gave that order?"

"Thinking of? Why, sir, I was thinking of our poor patients here.
Society has ordered them confined, yes, but need we necessarily
deprive them of _all_ human rights?"

Thornberry seemed ready to orate for an hour, but Bennington stopped
him with a gesture. "All right, I've handled POW camps, maybe in one
way I can see your point. But we can take up the philosophy of this
later.

"Right now, this is the essential fact, that Slater has taken your
order and twisted it into a racket.

"So let's talk to Slater."

But the intercom said, "He hasn't come on duty yet."

"He has the room at the head of the stairs," Thornberry said.

The door was locked, but the psychologist produced a set of master
keys.

"I want a set of those, too," Bennington said.

The room was heavy with the smells of cheap whiskey, stale cigarette
smoke and human sweat. Two figures were sprawled on the bed. A hairy,
bearlike man, Slater; a big well-built brunette.

Thornberry squinted through the gloom, then turned on the lights.
"That's Mona Sitwell," he said, "and I'm sure she was supposed to be
on orders to leave here two weeks ago."

Bennington remembered the case, the spinster who had found her parents
a hindrance to her extensive enjoyment of male companionship. She had
literally chopped up their objections.

"Follow through on the orders you give sometime," Bennington said
dryly. "You may meet a few more surprises."

The man on the bed stirred, threw his arm up over his eyes. "What do
you want?" he mumbled sleepily.

Bennington mentally cursed the Civil Service regulations which tied
his hands, and left him only one thing to say: "Your immediate
resignation."

* * * * *

"Message Center, sir."

"Go ahead." The general looked at the desk clock. 1515. He could guess
what they wanted to tell him.

"Sir, the