The house is frame, painted gray with green shutters. A wire fence runs around the trim yard. The owner works as a draftsman in a downtown company, his wife keeps house. They have lived in the neighborhood for many years. It is now dark, a little after eight o’clock on a winter evening. The downstairs light is on, the blinds are drawn. A man comes to the front door, raps lightly, and is admitted. Soon another man, walking at a leisurely pace, rounds the corner and enters. He has parked his car on another street. Ten minutes pass. A third man knocks. He has come by bus from downtown. To make certain nobody was following him, he had ridden two stops past his correct destination, then walked back. Five minutes later a fourth person, a woman in a dark coat, arrives. Everything is quiet: no loud voices, no cars parked in front, no reasons for the neighbors to suspect that a Communist Party meeting is in progress. Communist Party groups like this are small, containing three, four, or five people—a security precaution. In that way fewer members know each other and detection is less likely. Meeting places are frequently changed: this evening a private home, next time a public library or an automobile. Members have been known to sit on park benches, in bus terminals, even in hospital waiting rooms, hatching their plots in casual, conversational tones. The third man is the Party organizer, a paid official who serves as the group’s leader. He sits in a chair in the corner; the others form a rough semicircle. He speaks quietly but in a commanding tone, acting the dictator that he actually is. “Joe,” he says, addressing the first man to arrive, “you remember the last time we met you were given an assignment to collect three to five thousand sheets of paper, a Mimeograph machine, and some ink. How did things go?” “Fine,” Joe replies. “I bought four thousand sheets of paper. Got them at three different stores.” “Good,” says the organizer, “that’s using your head.” “I also bought a Mimeograph machine and plenty of ink. Everything’s safe now in the right place.” (The “right place” refers to an apartment in another section of the city occupied by a concealed communist, which the Party uses as a secret hide-out.) “One thing more,” Joe says. “I’ve made inquiries about a portable printing press. It’s pretty old, but it’ll work.” “Fine,” the organizer says, obviously pleased. “Follow that through. You took the serial numbers off the Mimeograph, didn’t you?” “No, I didn’t,” stammers the comrade. “I forgot....” “Forgot!” explodes the organizer. “What’s wrong with you? That’s just plain stupid. Joe, this is serious business. You’ve got to keep alert. Someday this machine may be used to print secret Party instructions. We can’t afford to have it traced. Take off all identification marks at once.”