tells all, and my Control, with whom I am in daily communication Over
There, assures me that mankind is in no danger whatever, except from the
evil effects of tobacco and alcohol and the disrespect of youth for
their elders."

"The guy's nuts! He ought to go back to Russia. He's nothing but a nut
or a Communist and in my book that's the same thing."

"He isn't telling us anything new. We all know who the enemy is. The
only way to protect ourselves is to build TWO GUNS FOR ONE!"

"Is this Locke character selling us the idea that we all ought to go
batty to save the world?"

Saddened and defeated, Clocker went through his accumulated mail. There
were politely non-committal acknowledgments from embassies and the U.N.
There was also a check for his article from the magazine he'd sent it
to; the amount was astonishingly large.

He used part of it to buy radio time, the balance for ads in rural
newspapers and magazines. City people, he figured, were hardened by
publicity gags, and he might stir up the less suspicious and
sophisticated hinterland. The replies he received, though, advised him
to buy some farmland and let the metropolises be destroyed, which, he
was assured, would be a mighty good thing all around.

The magazine came out the same day he tried to get into the U.N. to
shout a speech from the balcony. He was quietly surrounded by a
uniformed guard and moved, rather than forced, outside.

* * * * *

He went dejectedly to his hotel. He stayed there for several days,
dialing numbers he selected randomly from the telephone book, and
getting the brushoff from business offices, housewives and maids. They
were all very busy or the boss wasn't in or they expected important
calls.

That was when he was warmly invited by letter to see the editor of the
magazine that had bought his article.

Elated for actually the first time since his discharge from the
hospital, Clocker took a cab to a handsome building, showed his
invitation to a pretty and courteous receptionist, and was escorted into
an elaborate office where a smiling man came around a wide
bleached-mahogany desk and shook hands with him.

"Mr. Locke," said the editor, "I'm happy to tell you that we've had a
wonderful response to your story."

"Article," Clocker corrected.

The editor smiled. "Do you produce so much that you can't remember what
you sold us? It was about--"

"I know," Clocker cut in. "But it wasn't a stor