r tell-tales, and found a television lens set
above the door of the room eight feet outside of my steel barrier.
Beside the lens was a speaker grille and a smaller opening that looked
like a microphone dust cover.

With a grunt, I flipped my cigarette at the television lens. I hit just
above the hole, missing it by about an inch. Immediately a
tinny-sounding voice said,

"That is not permitted, Mr. Cornell. You are expected to maintain some
degree of personal cleanliness. Since you cannot pick up that cigarette
butt, you have placed an unwelcome task upon our personnel. One more
infraction of this nature and you will not be permitted the luxury of
smoking."

"Go to the devil!" I snapped.

There was no reply. Not even a haughty chuckle. The silence was worse
than any reply because it pointed out the absolute superiority of their
position.

Eventually I dozed off, there being nothing else to do. When I awoke
they'd shoved a tray of food in on my table. I ate unenthusiastically. I
dozed again, during which time someone removed the tray. When I woke up
the second time it was night and time to go to bed, so I went. I woke up
in the morning to see a burly guy enter with a tray of breakfast. I
attempted to engage him in light conversation but he did not even let on
that I was in the cell. Later he removed the tray as silently as he'd
brought it, and I was left with another four hours of utter boredom
until the same bird returned with a light lunch. Six hours after lunch
came a slightly more substantial dinner, but no talk.

By bedtime the second night I was getting stir-crazy.

I hit the sack at about nine thirty, and tossed and turned, unable to
drop off because I was not actually tired. I was also wondering when
they'd come around with their brain-washing crew, or maybe someone who'd
enter with an ultimatum.

On the following morning, the tray-bearer was Dr. Thorndyke, who sat on
the chair on the outside of my bars and looked at me silently. I tried
giving him stare for stare, but eventually I gave up and said, "So now
where do we go?"

"Cornell, you're in a bad spot of your own making."

"Could be," I admitted.

"And yet, really, you're more of a victim of circumstances."

"Forgetting all the sideplay, I'm a prisoner," I told him curtly. "Let's
face a few facts, Thorndyke, and stop tossing this guff."

"All right," he said shortly, "The facts are these: We would prefer that
you help us willingly. We'd furth