of them must be "The Cranium", but the question remains: which? There
are people who know, of course; military intelligence, the general
staff; but that," he shrugged his shoulders, "... isn't my department."

CHAPTER III

The Brain Trust car which took Lee out of Cephalon was a normal-looking
limousine, a rear-engined teardrop like all the "60" models, slotted for
the insertion of wings which most of the garages now kept in stock and
rented at a small charge for cross-country hops. The only non-standard
feature seemed to be the polaroid glass windows which were provided all
around and not only in front.

"That's a good idea," Lee said adjusting the nearest ones, "they ought
to have that on every car, all-round protection to the eyes."

"Think so, sir? Must be the first time you're driving out there," the
young chauffeur said.

The car left the outskirts and the desert started to fly by as the
speedometer needle climbed above the 100 mark. Lee sank back into his
seat; the desert had no novelty for him and since the chauffer appeared
not inclined to small talk he abandoned himself to thought.

His visit to his father had not been much of a success....

_Time_ magazine had carried an item in its personal column, briefly
stating that General Jefferson E. Lee, "the Old Lion of Guadalcanal,"
had retired from the Marines to Phoenix, Ariz.... Phoenix, the hotel
desk had informed him, was only some 300 miles away and there was hourly
service by Greyhound helicopter-bus.

So he had taken the ride, a taxi had brought him to the small neat
bungalow, and there he had seen his father for the first time in years.
It had been very strange to see him aged, the nut brown face a little
shrunk. He had anticipated that much. But somehow he had failed to
imagine the most obvious change; to see his father in civvies and even
less to see him trimming roses with a pair of garden shears. It looked
such an incongruous picture for a "Marines' Marine."

As he had come up the little path his father had looked up.

"So it's you, Semper." Slowly he had peeled off the old parade kid
gloves without a change in his face. "Nice to see you," he had said.
"Didn't expect to before I start pushing up the daisies from below.
Where's your butterfly net?"

No, in character his father hadn't changed a bit. He still was the old
"blood and guts" to whom an entomologist was sort of a human
grass-hopper wielding a butterfly net, and a son indulgi