s of amusement.

Flushing, Harry turned to confront the intruder. He was a short,
stocky, middle-aged man whose bristling gray crewcut almost matched
the neutral shades of his gray orderly's uniform.

"Expecting someone else, were you?" the man muttered. "Well, I'll get
out of your way."

"That's not necessary. I was really just daydreaming, I guess. I don't
know what made me think--" Harry felt his flush deepen, and he lowered
his eyes and his voice as he tried to improvise some excuse.

"You're a lousy liar," the man said, stepping forward and seating
himself on the bank next to Harry. "But it doesn't really matter. I
don't think your girl friend is going to show up today, anyway."

"What do you mean? What do you know about--"

"I mean just what I said," the man told him. "And I know everything I
need to know, about you and about her and about the situation in
general. That's why I'm here, Collins."

He paused, watching the play of emotions in Harry's eyes.

"I know what you're thinking right now," the gray-haired man
continued. "At first you wondered how I knew your name. Then you
realized that if I was on the staff in the wards I'd naturally be able
to identify the patients. Now it occurs to you that you've never seen
me in the wards, so you're speculating as to whether or not I'm
working out of the administration offices with that psychiatric no
good Manschoff. But if I were, I wouldn't be calling him names, would
I? Which means you're really getting confused, aren't you, Collins?
Good!"

* * * * *

The man chuckled, but there was neither mockery, malice, nor genuine
mirth in the sound. And his eyes were sober, intent.

"Who are you?" Harry asked. "What are you doing here?"

"The name is Ritchie, Arnold Ritchie. At least, that's the name they
know me by around here, and you can call me that. As to what I'm
doing, it's a long story. Let's just say that right now I'm here to
give you a little advanced therapy."

"Then Manschoff did send you?"

The chuckle came again, and Ritchie shook his head. "He did not. And
if he even suspected I was here, there'd be hell to pay."

"Then what do you want with me?"

"It isn't a question of what I want. It's a question of what _you
need_. Which is, like I said, advanced therapy. The sort that dear old
kindly permissive Father-Image Manschoff doesn't intend you to get."

Harry stood up. "What's this all about?"

Ritchie rose with