"Fixed? Warden, who's going to fix it? You know as well as I do that every mechanic in the prison is a con. Even if one of the guards would do a thing like that--and I'd bust him myself if he did!--he wouldn't know where to start. That's mechanic work." The warden swallowed. He had to admit that O'Leary was right. Naturally nobody but a mechanic--and a specialist electrician from a particular subgroup of the greaser class at that--could fix something like the tangler field generators. He said absently: "Well, that's true enough. After all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' you know." O'Leary took a deep breath. He needed it. He beckoned to the guard at the door. "Take this greaser out of here!" The con shambled out, his head hanging. * * * * * O'Leary turned to the warden and spread his hands. "Warden," he said, "don't you see how this thing is building up? Let's not just wait for the place to explode in our faces! Let me take a squad into Block O before it's too late." The warden pursed his lips thoughtfully and cocked his head, as though he were trying to find some trace of merit in an unreasonable request. He said at last: "No." O'Leary made a passionate sound that was trying to be bad language, but he was too raging mad to articulate it. He walked stiffly away from the limp, silent warden and stared out the window. At least, he told himself, _he_ hadn't gone to pieces. It was his doing, not the warden's, that all the off-duty guards had been dragged double-time back to the prison, his doing that they were now ringed around the outer walls or scattered on extra-man patrols throughout the prison. It was something, but O'Leary couldn't believe that it was enough. He'd been in touch with half a dozen of the details inside the prison on the intercom and each of them had reported the same thing. In all of E-G, not a single prisoner was asleep. They were talking back and forth between the cells and the guards couldn't shut them up. They were listening to concealed radios and the guards didn't dare make a shakedown to find them. They were working themselves up to something. To what? O'Leary didn't want ever to find out what. He wanted to go in there with a couple of the best guards he could get his hands on--shoot his way into the Greensleeves if he had to--and clean out the infection. But the warden said no. O'Leary stared balefully at the hovering helicopters. The warden was the warden. He was placed in that position through the meticulously careful operations of the Civil Service machinery, maintained in that position year after year through the penetrating annual inquiries of the Reclassification Board. It was _subversive_ to think that the Board could have made a mistake! But O'Leary was absolutely sure that the warden was a scared, ineffectual jerk. * * * * *