Judkins was ready in The Cage. An efficient man, but he had been a little resentful at the extra work involved in moving his equipment. The prisoners would remain in The Cage overnight, except for their trips to the Mess Hall. A reorganized supply room had disgorged more than enough cots and blankets to convert The Cage into a temporary dormitory. Bennington riffled the papers on his desk showing when the prisoners on hand had been received and how long they had been ready to go to their assigned prison. This matter took top priority. Some of the people had been here over a month. If he could push through the plan to charge the states for every day Duncannon kept a prisoner after the criminal was ready for shipment, then the various states should each pay, as a rough estimate showed.... But the clock on the desk showed 1520, time to meet Thornberry. With longer than usual steps, Bennington strode out of his office and out the main door of the Administration Building. * * * * * Thornberry was pacing around the flagpole directly opposite the main entrance. "This man, Dalton," the psychologist said, falling in step with the general, "you know he escaped from us twice." "Make him the first through," and Bennington dismissed the subject. "I'm more interested in this. Are there any ex-service men among the group?" Thornberry sniffed, "Still worried about our conditioning and our security, general? I repeat, even though we do not use the lobotomies and other techniques of our cold-war competitors, we can nevertheless condition anyone sent to us so that he will not make any trouble." Bennington shrugged, "I'd like to see you work on a para-commando. Or one of the General Staff." Thornberry, now leading the way through the Processing Building, called back over his shoulder. "How many of them end up in prison? I mean, from the General Staff? The para-coms do, of course, they just can't adjust to civilian life and I think the Army should do something about that before they discharge them. But they never come here without an accompanying court order allowing us to use the eyeball technique." Along the short path, enclosed by barbed wire, from Processing into The Cage. Swiftly along the corridor behind the one-way vision mirrors, down the walk to the gate in the barbed wire. Bennington looked around and nodded approval: his reception committee for the new arrivals was waiting. He looked across the river toward Harrisburg. Yes, just turning into the bridge approach, two tractor-trailer combos, preceded and followed by white cars. Bennington glanced around again. From the roof of The Cage, Ferguson, drafted as a guard for this emergency, waved and lovingly patted the butt of his submachine gun. One of the regular guards gave the general a sound-powered megaphone. He nodded thanks, lifted it. "Give me your attention!"