Larry Woolford decided that he wasn’t doing too well and that he’d need more ammunition if he was going to return to this particular attack. He was surprised that the old boy hadn’t already ordered him from the house. He finished the coffee preparatory to coming to his feet. “Then you think it’s out of the question, Ernest Self belonging to a revolutionary organization?” The Professor protested. “I didn’t say that at all. Mr. Self is a man of ideals. I can well see him belonging to such an organization.” Larry Woolford decided he’d better hang on for at least a few more words. “You don’t seem to think, yourself, that a subversive organization is undesirable in this country.” The Professor’s voice was reasonable. “Isn’t that according to what it means to subvert?” “You know what I mean,” Woolford said in irritation. “I don’t usually think of revolutionists, even when they call themselves simply members of a _movement_, as exactly idealists.” “Then you’re wrong,” the Professor said definitely, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “History bears out that almost invariably revolutionists are men of idealism. The fact that they might be either right or wrong in their revolutionary program is beside the point.” Larry Woolford began to say, “Are you sure that you aren’t interested in this _move—_” But it was then that the knockout drops hit him. ------------------------------------- He came out of the fog feeling nausea and with his head splitting. He groaned and opened one eye experimentally. Steve Hackett, far away, said, “He’s snapping out of it.” Larry groaned again, opened the other eye and attempted to focus. “What happened?” he muttered. “Now that’s an original question,” Steve said. Larry Woolford struggled up into a sitting position. He’d been stretched out on a couch in the Professor’s combined living room and study. Steve Hackett, his hands on his hips, was looking down at him sarcastically. There were two or three others, one of whom Larry vaguely remembered as being a Secret Service colleague of Steve’s, going about and in and out of the room. Larry said, his fingers pressing into his forehead, “My head’s killing me. Damn it, what’s going on?” Steve said sarcastically, “You’ve been slipped a mickey, my cloak and dagger friend, and the bird has flown.” “You mean the Professor? He’s a bird all right.” “Humor we get, yet,” Hackett said, his ugly face scowling. “Listen, I thought you people had pulled out of this case.” Larry sat up and swung his two feet around to the floor. “So did I,” he moaned, “but there were two or three things that bothered me and I thought I’d tidy them up before leaving.” “You tidied them up all right,” Steve grumbled. “This Professor Voss was practically the only lead I’ve been able to discover. An old friend of Self’s. And you allowed him to get away before we even got here.”