"No, not all of them," Thornberry interrupted. "I never meant that some of the problem cases, like a few of those in Number Three, should have complete social relationships." "Just exactly what were you thinking of when you gave that order?" "Thinking of? Why, sir, I was thinking of our poor patients here. Society has ordered them confined, yes, but need we necessarily deprive them of _all_ human rights?" Thornberry seemed ready to orate for an hour, but Bennington stopped him with a gesture. "All right, I've handled POW camps, maybe in one way I can see your point. But we can take up the philosophy of this later. "Right now, this is the essential fact, that Slater has taken your order and twisted it into a racket. "So let's talk to Slater." But the intercom said, "He hasn't come on duty yet." "He has the room at the head of the stairs," Thornberry said. The door was locked, but the psychologist produced a set of master keys. "I want a set of those, too," Bennington said. The room was heavy with the smells of cheap whiskey, stale cigarette smoke and human sweat. Two figures were sprawled on the bed. A hairy, bearlike man, Slater; a big well-built brunette. Thornberry squinted through the gloom, then turned on the lights. "That's Mona Sitwell," he said, "and I'm sure she was supposed to be on orders to leave here two weeks ago." Bennington remembered the case, the spinster who had found her parents a hindrance to her extensive enjoyment of male companionship. She had literally chopped up their objections. "Follow through on the orders you give sometime," Bennington said dryly. "You may meet a few more surprises." The man on the bed stirred, threw his arm up over his eyes. "What do you want?" he mumbled sleepily. Bennington mentally cursed the Civil Service regulations which tied his hands, and left him only one thing to say: "Your immediate resignation." * * * * * "Message Center, sir." "Go ahead." The general looked at the desk clock. 1515. He could guess what they wanted to tell him. "Sir, the new consignment will be here in about ten minutes." "Thanks. Pass the word along to Dr. Thornberry and add, I'll meet him at the flagpole in five minutes." Bennington pushed back his chair, slowly stood up. This had already been a full day's work. Slater had been worse sober than he had been sleepy and half-drunk. His covering barrage of threats on leaving the prison had been equally divided between the general's personal health and the entire prison setup. Thornberry had screened the other guards. And, after sitting in on only two sessions, Bennington had at last found one small reason to like his chief assistant. The psych-expert could spot a liar almost before the man opened his mouth. But right now, and, at the wages offered, probably for a long time, Duncannon was very short of guards.