With all of the inmates, you looked at them and you wondered what twisted devil had got into their heads to land them in the Jug. Oh, perhaps you could understand it--a little bit, at least--in the case of the figgers in Blocks B and C, the greasers in the Shop Building--that sort. It was easy enough for some of the Categoried Classes to commit a crime and thereby land in jail. Who could blame a wipe for trying to "pass" if he thought he could get away with it? But when he didn't get away with it, he wound up in the Jug and that was logical enough. And greasers liked Civil-Service women--everyone knew that. There was almost a sort of logic to it, even if it was a sort of inevitable logic that made decent Civil-Service people see red. You _had_ to enforce the laws against rape if, for instance, a greaser should ask an innocent young female postal clerk for a date. But you could understand what drove him to it. The Jug was full of criminals of that sort. And the Jug was the place for them. But what about Honor Block A? Why would a Wilmer Lafon--a certified public architect, a Professional by category--do his own car repairs and get himself jugged for malpractice? Why would a dental nurse sneak back into the laboratory at night and cast an upper plate for her mother? She must have realized she would be caught. But she had done it. And she had been caught; and there she was, this wild night, huddled under the helicopters, uncertainly waving the handle of a floor mop. It was a club. She shivered and turned to the stocky convict next to her. "Why don't they break down the gate?" she demanded. "How long are we going to hang around here, waiting for the guards to get organized and pick us all off one at a time?" The convict next to her sighed and wiped his glasses with a beefy hand. Once he had been an Income-Tax Accountant, disbarred and convicted on three counts of impersonating an attorney when he took the liberty of making changes in a client's lease. He snorted: "They expect us to do _their_ dirty work." The two of them glared angrily and fearfully at the other convicts in the yard. And the other convicts, huddled greaser with greaser, wipe with wipe, glared ragingly back. It wasn't _their_ place to plan the strategy of a prison break. * * * * * Captain Liam O'Leary muttered groggily: "They don't want to escape. All they want is to make trouble. I know cons!" He came fully awake and sat up and focused his eyes. His head was hammering. That girl, that Bradley, was leaning over him. She looked scared and sick. "Sit still! Sauer is just plain crazy--listen to them yelling out there!" O'Leary sat up and looked around, one hand holding his drumming skull. "They _do_ want to escape," said Sue-Ann Bradley. "Listen to what they're saying!" * * * * * O'Leary discovered that he was in a cell. There was a battle going on outside. Men were yelling, but he couldn't see them.