tates, damn it!" Malone shouted.

"Hmm," Blake said.

That was no good, either, Malone realized. Every nut would have some
sort of direct pipeline to the President, or God, or somebody high up.
Nuts were like that.

But he was an FBI Agent. A special agent on a vital mission.

He said so.

"Now, now, Mr. Malone," Blake told him. "Let's get to your room, shall
we, and then we can talk things over."

"I can prove it!" Malone told him. The three men picked him up. "My
identification is in my pocket--"

"Really?" Blake said.

They started moving down the long front hall.

"All you have to do is take this thing off so I can get at my
pockets--"

Malone began.

But even he could see that this new plan wasn't going to work, either.

"Take it off?" Blake said. "Oh, certainly, Mr. Malone. Certainly. Just
as soon as we have you comfortably settled."

It was ridiculous, Malone told himself as the men carried him away. It
couldn't happen: an FBI agent mistaken for a nut, wrapped in a strait-
jacket and carried to a padded cell.

Unfortunately, ridiculous or not, it was happening.

And there was absolutely nothing to do about it.

Malone thought with real longing of his nice, safe desk in Washington.
Suddenly he discovered in himself a great desire to sit around and
collate reports. But no--he had to be a hero. He had to go and get
himself involved.

This, he thought, will teach me a great lesson. The next time I get
offered a job a chimpanzee can do, I'll start eating bananas.

It was at this point in his reflections that he reached a small door.
Dr. Blake opened it and the three men carried Malone inside. He was
dumped carefully on the floor. Then the door clanged shut.

Alone, Malone told himself bitterly, at last.

* * * * *

After a minute or so had gone by he began to think about getting out.
He could, it occurred to him, scream for help. But that would only
bring more attendants, and very possibly Dr. Blake again, and somehow
Malone felt that further conversation with Dr. Blake was not likely to
lead to any very rational end.

Sooner or later, he knew, they would have to let him loose.

After all, he was an FBI agent, wasn't he?

Alone, in a single cheerless cell, caught up in the toils of a strait-
jacket, he began to doubt the fact. Maybe Blake was right; maybe they
were all right. Maybe he, Kenneth J. Malone, was totally mad.

He told himself firmly that the id