Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he was handwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had done during his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almost incoherent co-operation. The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear than anyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of the city search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of the details of the state search for the errant politician. Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefully on one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on his appointment had also finally agreed to sleep. Of course they had all assured him of complete concurrence with his suggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could they have done? Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough to insure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters. "Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting top priority." "Good." "The AG called, too." Bennington found himself companioning Mosby's faint smile. "You had a cigarette in your ashtray?" "I did, and he's got six good precedents to back us up, Jim. But the next time he wants us to call him first: my men aren't the only ones who need practical training." Bennington did not hold back his laugh and he stretched out his hand. "Thanks, Mossback." "Hell, Jim, I owe you the thanks. That was the best training problem my men ever had, taught 'em more in one night that they can ever learn until the real stuff starts whistling around." Bennington glanced over Mosby's shoulder at the place he was heading for: the hot seat, Chief Scott's desk chair, bright under the TV spotlights, the center of every camera focus. "You've got work to do, I know, so where's that Thornberry?" Mosby growled. "He should be with you." "Upstairs, asleep. He said that he was only the assistant warden, then asked Chief Scott for an empty cell and left me." "Why?" "It's very simple: he's still not convinced that I had to shoot Clarens." Mosby grunted deep disgust, looked over his shoulder toward the hot seat, looked again at Bennington. "You should have shaved. "No, wait a minute, I guess not. Just go the way you are and give 'em hell." Bennington rubbed his chin and the bristle of his late-night, early-morning beard crackled crisply. The problem he had anticipated was now here, as he had known it would be. And the answer was nowhere, which equally had been a matter of foreknowledge. * * * * * "What will I say, General Mosby?" Bennington murmured. "Cue me in. You were always the best public relations officer either of us ever had." "Jim, from anyone else--" Mosby started, stopped, grinned. "The trouble is, you're right. "But this time we don't need any style, this time all we need is the truth.