"Yes, sir." Don realized with embarrassment that his little romantic interlude with Alis must have been eavesdropped on. "Are there any particular times I'm to report?" "You will be reporting constantly. That's the beauty of this radio." "You mean I can't turn it off? I won't have any privacy? There'll always be somebody listening?" "Exactly. But you mustn't be inhibited. Your private life is still your own and no one will criticize. Your unofficial actions will simply be ignored." "Oh, great!" "You must rely on our discretion, Sergeant. I'm sure you'll get used to it. Enough of this for now. We mustn't excite Clark's suspicions. Go back to him now and carry on. You'll receive further instructions as they are necessary. And remember--don't be inhibited." "No, sir," Don said ruefully. He went back to the printshop, feeling like a goldfish bowl. IV Ed Clark took Don to the Superior State Bank and introduced him to the president, who was delighted to do business with a representative of Riggs National of Washington, D. C. Don told him nothing about the contents of the brief case, but the banker seemed to be under the impression they were securities or maybe even a million dollars cash, and Don said nothing to spoil his pleasure. Outside again, with the receipt in his wallet, Don stood with Clark on the corner of McEntee Street and Broadway. "This is the heart of town, you might say," the newspaper editor said. "The bubble gum factory is over that way, on the railroad spur. Maybe you can smell it. Smells real nice, I think." Don rubbed the wrist that had been manacled for so long. He was sniffing politely when there was a roar of engines and a squadron of fighter planes buzzed Broadway. They screamed over at little more than roof level, then were gone. They were overhead so briefly that Don noticed only that they were P-38's, at least four of them. "Things are beginning to happen," Don said. "The Air Force is having a look-see." Clark shook his head. "That wasn't the Air Force. Those were the PP boys. They're the only ones who fly those Lightnings these days." "PP?" "Private Pilots. Bobby the Bold's airborne vigilantes. Wonder what they're up to?" "Oh. Senator Bobby Thebold, S.O.B." "If you want to put it that way, yes." "It's a private joke. But I think I know what they're up to--or why. The Senator's secretary is marooned up here, like me. She was on the train, too." "You don't say! I got scooped on that one. Which one is she?" "The redhead. Geneva Jervis. I haven't seen her since last night, come to think of it." The P-38's screamed over again, this time from west to east. Don counted six planes now and made out the PP markings. People had come out of stores and business buildings and were looking out of upstairs windows at the sky. They were rewarded by a third thundering flypast of the fighter planes. They were higher this time, spread out laterally as if to search maximum terrain.