"Do you know the geologist's name?... Would you remember it if you heard it again?... Good.... Can you get the day off?... Then go back home and start remembering that man's name for all your life's worth. Get a telephone directory. Go through it. Try anything but recall that name." 2 I left Budnick a little dazed by my emphatic manner and whipped over to the headquarters of the atomic labs. There I checked on back visitor's lists but evidently the Doctor's geologist friend hadn't visited him on the job. I dropped in at the telegraph office and wired Armstrong in Washington for a list of Chetzisky's acquaintances, the names of the members of the National Academy of Sciences, Association for the Advancement of Sciences, the Geological Society, the OSRD. Then I went back to Budnick and began a mental third degree, using a rhyming dictionary, a genealogical compendium and the collection lists from an old church bulletin. Hour after hour I kept it up. Others had seen the Doctor's visitor, but only Budnick knew the name. It was the only clue I had to go on. After eight solid hours, broken only by coffee and sandwich snacks, Budnick was begging me to call off the grilling. "Give me a break. Let me get a little sleep." He clutched his head as if he were trying to keep it from flying apart. His eyes were swollen and red. "All right," I said; Budnick was at his limit. Besides, I had to wait for Armstrong's reply to my telegram. Budnick rolled to the floor and went to sleep on the spot. I sank down in an armchair, tired, but too tense to sleep, and waited. Three hours later Armstrong's reply came. I ripped the yellow envelope open. CANNOT GET INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED BECAUSE OF NEW SECURITY REGULATIONS. Armstrong. I slumped back into the chair, swearing silently at every bureaucrat in Washington. Served them right if we let Chetzisky fry them. But it meant being fried ourselves; I looked over to the snoring Budnick and decided on a trick I had seen Army interrogators work during the war. "Come on, Budnick," I said shaking him. I called to his wife to bring some fresh coffee. After he had gulped down two steaming cups, I opened up on him again. "Abeles, Aberon" ... For two hours I shot names at him from a telephone directory without let-up. My voice turned hoarse. Budnick's eyes went sick and he began to turn green, the color of corroded copper. This was the moment. I stopped my staccato fire and walked over to the window. Silence settled in the room like a velvet hush. It was soothing, like cool cloth on a fevered forehead. I went over to Budnick, offered him a cigarette, and lit it for him. He took a long, contented puff. Casually I placed an ash tray at his elbow. "Thanks," he said. Then, taking a grip on my banjo nerves, I spoke as quietly as I could, "What did you say his name was?" "Pilon."