talked, their eyes darted
continually about, unconsciously checking the appearance of the
buildings, the position of the guard in the gun tower, the attitude of a
very old inmate who was meticulously weeding a flower bed.

"Captain, you going to let the men out for their yard time?"

Court's pace slowed. "Why not?"

"No real reason ... _now_. But there's trouble in the air, sir. I can
smell it. The whole place is buzzing ... with _something_."

"With what?"

"I can't put my finger on it. But all the men know there's some pretty
big shots--at least one general, they say--in the warden's office, right
now. There's a hot rumor that there's trouble outside--some sort of
disaster."

Court laughed shortly. "That Mario! He's going to lose a nice job if he
doesn't keep his mouth shut!"

"None of them keep their mouths shut, captain."

"Yes ... well, I don't know what's up, myself. I'm heading for that
conference right now. I'll ask the warden about letting the men out of
their cells. What's their attitude?"

The sergeant's broad, red face grew more troubled.

"Uh ... the men aren't hostile, captain. They seem worried, nervous ...
kind of scared. If somebody at the top--the warden or yourself--could
convince them things were as usual outside ... they'd quiet down, I'm
sure."

They were now thirty feet from the door to the administration building a
door that opened for but one man at a time. The officers stopped.

"Things are _not_ normal outside," Court growled, "and you know it. I've
been wondering how long this prison could go on--as if there were still
a state's capital, with its Adult Authority, its governor, its Supreme
Court. D'you think every man jack here doesn't know a visit from the
Authority's long overdue!"

"Yeah--"

"Well, I'll go in, sarge, and see what's what. If you _don't_ hear from
me, stick to routine."

"Right, captain."

He remained where he was while Captain Court walked slowly toward the
door, both hands well in sight. A pace from the door he stopped and
exchanged a few words with someone watching him through a barred
peephole. After a moment, the door slid open and he walked into the
building.

He was the last to arrive at the warden's office. Lansing gazed at him
in fascination. Goldsmid had been a Golden Gloves champion middleweight
before he had heeded the call of the Law, and he looked it. Dr. Slade
was the prototype of all overworked doctors. But Court was a type by
himself.