They gave me a room all to myself, finally. For three days, maybe more, I had that room all for myself and the various people that walked in at all hours of the day and night to ask me some of the silliest questions you ever heard just as though they expected sensible answers. After that first night I didn't see J. Edgar Hoover at all, which is just as well, because I don't think he liked me one little bit. They brought me a suit with the lining in the sleeve ripped and a shirt with the cuffs turned. When I got those I began to worry all over again about Helen, because I knew she had no part in picking out the clothes they brought me. I didn't feel too chipper when they came after me in force again. * * * * * The same room, this time more crowded. Older men this time, and a few of the usual high school boys. Again we went through the same routine, and once again my voice cracked dusty dry. They were all desperately sorry for such an incurable psychopathic liar. I hadn't felt so helpless, so caught-in-a-quicksand since my days in the army. "I'm telling you the truth, the truth. Don't you see that I've got to tell you the truth to get out of here? Don't you believe me?" Never such disbelief outside of a courtmartial. In desperation my eyes jerked around looking for escape. They slid over, and back to, the ventilation fan purring on the wall. I sucked in a loud gasp. The blades of the fan slowed to where you could see them as individuals, and the motor housing began to smoke. "See?" I yelled at them. "Believe me now?" The blades came to a standstill and the black smoke oozed toward the ceiling. "See?" I yelled again. "Look at that fan!" Their eyes showed their astonishment. The smoke began to disappear in the stillness. "What about that? Now do you believe me?" Maybe they did. No one said anything. They took me back to my room. About an hour or so later they came after me again. The chair felt no more comfortable than it ever had, though it was beginning to shape itself to my seat. The same faces were there, but the air was a little different this time. On the desk, where I had seen sit no one but J. Edgar Hoover were a half dozen fans, plugged to an extension cord that snaked away and lost itself in a dark corner. My ears twitched hopefully. Maybe this was going to get me out of here. One of the younger men spoke up. "Mr. Miller," he said briskly, "can you stop these fans as you did, apparently, the other?" I started to tell him that "apparently" wasn't the right word. One of the older men broke in. "One moment," he said. "Can you stop any one of these fans, or all of them? Any particular one, and leave the rest alone?" I thought I could. "Which one?" There were five fans whirring silently away. "Well ... the one in the center." * * * * *