"I'm taking the copter for a while," Ron said, backing towards the door. "Any arguments?" Nobody answered. "Swell. So long, pals." Outside the door, he ran all the way back to the roof and was off before the gang could follow. The trip took almost two hours. Even Ron's experienced guidance of the controls couldn't push the old copter past its limits, and he was keeping a worried eye on the fuel gauge. It was with a sigh of relief that he dropped the vehicle atop a public parking station in the downtown district, within walking distance of the Government Medical Center. The sun was dropping fast, and the Washington streets were still filled with Sunday sightseers who found nothing odd in the sight of a solitary twelve-year-old. When he entered the enormous U-shaped edifice that housed a hundred and one government medical projects, he was thinking fast about a plausible story for the receptionist. The best he could do was: "I'm looking for Dr. Wilfred Minton. He--he's my uncle." "Dr. Minton?" She was young, and the efficient type. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Minton's been on special assignment for some time. It's not easy to locate him." "Oh, I know about that," Ron said airily. "But I was supposed to see him today. You see, my mom--his sister that is--she was in a very bad accident...." He swallowed hard, wondering if he was being believed. The woman frowned. "Well, if it's an emergency, I suppose I could check with central control. If it's really important." "Oh, it's important, all right!" He said this with great conviction. "Very well, then." She picked up her telephone, and there was much transferring from party to party. Finally, she lowered the receiver, saying: "He's in the east wing. It's Security territory, so I'll have to see about a pass." It took another ten minutes for her to locate the authority she was seeking. A young man with crinkly hair and a grim expression came briskly to the desk, asked him a few questions, and then signed his name on a document. Ron put the paper into the pocket of his coveralls, and followed the man to a bank of private elevators. The man waved him inside one, and he couldn't resist a wide-eyed question. "Gosh, mister. Are you from the FBI?" The man couldn't conceal a small pleased grin. "That's right, son. Only you keep it a secret." "Sure," Ron said. When the door closed and the elevator ascended, he grinned too. Being twelve had its advantages sometimes. He got off the elevator, and a uniformed guard checked his paper and led him into an anteroom. "You wait here, son," he said, and left. Ron waited five minutes. When nothing happened, he tried an adjoining door. It was open. He stepped inside the next room, and saw that it was a bare room with nothing but a row of filing cabinets and an abandoned swivel chair with a definite list to port. He went to the files and peered at the designation cards. They read: PROJECT SCHOLAR.