"Plenty of reason," Gascoigne muttered. He turned toward the teletype, exposing to me for the first time a hip holster cradling a large, black automatic. I didn't doubt that he could draw it with fabulous rapidity, and put the bullets just where he wanted them to go. "I've got orders. There they are. See for yourself." Cautiously, I sidled over to the teletype and looked. Except for Gascoigne's own message to CIG, and one from Joan Hadamard announcing that I was on my way, the paper was totally blank. There had been no other messages that day unless Gascoigne had changed the roll, and there was no reason why he should have. Those rolls last close to forever. "When did this order come in?" "This morning some time. I don't know. Sweeney!" he bawled suddenly, so loud that the paper tore in my hands. "When did that drop order come through?" Nobody answered. But Gascoigne said almost at once, "There, you heard him." "I didn't hear anything but you," I said, "and I'm going to stop that tape. Stand aside." "Not a chance, Mister," Gascoigne said grimly. "The tape rides." "Who's getting hit?" "Washington," Gascoigne said, and passed his hand over his face. He appeared to have forgotten the imaginary spectacles. "That's where your home is, isn't it?" "It sure is," Gascoigne said. "It sure as hell is, Mister. Cute, isn't it?" It was cute, all right. The Air Force boys at the Pentagon were going to be given about ten milliseconds to be sorry they'd refused to send a replacement for Gascoigne along with me. _Replace him with who? We can't send his second alternate in anything short of a week. The man has to have retraining, and the first alternate's in the hospital with a ruptured spleen. Besides, Gascoigne's the best man for the job; he's got to be bailed out somehow._ Sure. With a psychological centrifugal pump, no doubt. In the meantime the tape kept right on running. * * * * * "You might as well stop wiping your face, and turn down the humidity instead," I said. "You've already smudged your glasses again." "Glasses?" Gascoigne muttered. He moved slowly across the cabin, sailing upright like a sea-horse, to the blank glass of a closed port. I seriously doubted that he could see his reflection in it, but maybe he didn't really want to see it. "I messed them up, all right. Thanks." He went through the polishing routine again. A man who thinks he is wearing glasses also thinks he can't see without them. I slid to the programmer and turned off the tape. I was between the spools and Gascoigne now--but I couldn't stay there forever. "Let's talk a minute, Colonel," I said. "Surely it can't do any harm." Gascoigne smiled, with a sort of childish craft. "I'll talk," he said. "Just as soon as you start that tape again. I was watching you in the mirror, _before_ I took my glasses off."