That was it! The Officers Club. Casey would be on duty at this hour. Lance would ask him to mix him a double for old times' sake. Then, he'd meekly surrender and quietly go crazy in his cell, until the headshrinker came and confirmed it for real. * * * * * The pilot got back in the jeep and drove on. When he reached the Club, he wheeled the vehicle around to a rear entrance where bushes made the grounds shadier. Parking, he got out, strolled into the building as sneakily as if he'd been an inspector-general paying a surprise call from out of Space Service Headquarters. Few officers lounged about. Most were at tables and engrossed in their own imbibing. Lance strode up to the bar, perched himself on a high stool. Casey, whose hair was red as a Martian desert, was rinsing glasses. He stopped at his task and came over, wiping the counter with a wet towel. "What'll it be, major?" "One of your Specials, Casey, my friend." "Beg pardon?" "You know--one of your Casey Specials. Where you start off with half a glass of Irish whisky, add a dash or two of absinthe, a drop of--" "I don't stock no absinthe, major." Casey's freckled face was abruptly hostile. "You know that. It's against regulations." Lance fought down a tremor. Everybody was in on it. Everybody. He compromised for a minute: "Give me a slug of Teacher's on the rocks, then." Casey measured out the drink for him. Lance downed it. His hand gripped the edge of the bar. "Casey, do you know me?" He watched Casey study him. The thick reddish eyebrows knit. "It's a pretty big base, major. Lots of faces. Sometimes, I kind of forget the names." Lance's blood pressure gave a spurt. "I'm Major Lance Cooper! Hell, you've rung up my chits often enough!" And his mind added: _How could you forget?_ "Major." Casey's eyes narrowed, while the uneasy suspicion in them grew. "We don't have no chit system at this club." Lance's head felt like it would explode. He could take no more. "You're lying!" he shouted. His big hands reached over the mahogany counter and shook the bartender like a squawk-box that had refused to function properly. "Tell me you're lying in your teeth. If you don't, I'll push them down your throat--" Suddenly, Lance sensed people behind him. A firm hand clamped down heavily on his shoulder. The pilot stretched his neck around. What now? His hands did not relax their murderous grip on his victim. The arresting party had entered the club quietly. Now, they were ganged up around him: Colonel Sagen, his two aides, a fourth man Lance recognized as Major Carmody, the base legal officer--and a fifth man too, who wore the insignia of the Space Surgeon-General's Department. A psychiatrist. "Better come peacefully, major," rasped Colonel Sagen. "You've been 'cleared' for an explanation--and if you're smart, you'll listen to the spiel and play ball."