Senator Treed shook his head. "I try to be level headed and as honest as I can," he said. "But how many mousetraps have you had in the place since Pearl Harbor?" "Not many," admitted the clerk. "Freedom from rodent pests is a warfare that must be constantly and ruthlessly waged," replied the senator. "Otherwise, they overwhelm us. We stopped fighting rats to fight another kind. We licked the other kind, but there's this kind still. Now, what's new in mousetraps?" "Here's a new number. It's called the Better Mousetrap. A new company started about a week ago and we accepted one on consignment." "How much is it?" asked the senator. "It's not for sale." The senator spluttered in confusion. "It's on a rental basis," said the clerk. "There's a register below. It counts the catch. You pay two cents per catch." "Really a guaranteed job, hey?" smiled the senator. "How does it work?" The clerk held up the trap. "This is where you put the bait," he said. "You impale it on this spike and then swivel it through the slit in the wire so the mice must enter the tunnel to get to it." "Yeah, but there's nothing there to stop the mice from having a free lunch," objected the senator. The clerk took a small bolt, set it on the floor of the tunnel, tilted the cage and let the bolt run down the floor slowly. It passed through the circlet and disappeared. "Hey!" The clerk grinned. "Convenient, isn't it? No muss, no fuss, no strain, no pain. And no corpse to clean away." "A very definite advantage," said the senator. "But where do they go?" "No one knows. They go--and we ask no questions." "Make a fine garbage disposal unit," suggested the senator. "Could be. I imagine so. Also a swell way to get rid of old razor blades. But every item that goes through this trap is registered--and that bolt will cost the firm two cents. It can't tell the difference between a bolt and a mouse." "Hm-m-m. Good thing that tunnel is long and small. People would be poking all manner of things into them. But where do they go?" "They're trying to find out. So far they don't know. It's said that one of the founders of the Better Mousetrap Company dropped a tag through with name and address and the offer of a reward. It hasn't been returned. Maybe the mail is irregular from Mars, huh?" "Mars?" The clerk shrugged. "I wouldn't know where," he said doubtfully. The senator nodded. "Despite the population of the country--of the world--there are places where men seldom go," he said. "That tag may be lying in the rough at Bonnie Dundee Golf Course for all we know." * * * * * Miss Agatha Merrit placed her pince-nez firmly on her nose. "Good morning, class," she said primly and with perfect diction. "Good morning, teacher," responded forty third-grade voices.