Malone opened the compartment in the thick door of the car and extracted a bottle. It was brandy instead of the bourbon he had been thinking about, but he discovered that he didn't mind at all. It went down as smoothly as milk. Boyd glanced at it momentarily as Malone screwed the top back on. "No," Malone said in answer to the unspoken question. "You're driving." Then he settled back again and tipped his hat forward. He didn't sleep a wink. He was perfectly sure of that. But it wasn't over two seconds later that Boyd said: "We're here, Ken. Wake up." "Whadyamean, wakeup," Malone said. "I wasn't asleep." He thumbed his hat back and sat up rapidly. "Where's 'here'?" "Bayview Neuropsychiatric Hospital," Boyd said. "This is where Dr. Harman works, you know." "No," Malone said. "As a matter of fact, I don't know. You didn't tell me--remember? And who is Dr. Harman, anyhow?" The car was moving up a long, curving driveway toward a large, lawn-surrounded building. Boyd spoke without looking away from the road. "Well," he said, "this Dr. Willard Harman is the man who phoned us yesterday. One of my field agents was out here asking around about imbeciles and so on. Found nothing, by the way. And then this Dr. Harman called, later. Said he had someone here I might be interested in. So I came on out myself for a look, yesterday afternoon ... after all, we had instructions to follow up every possible lead." "I know," Malone said. "I wrote them." "Oh," Boyd said. "Sure. Well, anyhow, I talked to this dame. Lady." "And?" "And I talked to her," Boyd said. "I'm not entirely sure of anything myself. But ... well, hell. You take a look at her." He pulled the car up to a parking space, slid nonchalantly into a slot marked _Reserved--Executive Director Sutton_, and slid out from under the wheel while Malone got out the other side. * * * * * They marched up the broad steps, through the doorway and into the glass-fronted office of the receptionist. Boyd showed her his little golden badge, and got an appropriate gasp. "FBI," he said. "Dr. Harman's expecting us." The wait wasn't over fifteen seconds. Boyd and Malone marched down the hall and around a couple of corners, and came to the doctor's office. The door was opaqued glass with nothing but a room number stenciled on it. Without ceremony, Boyd pushed the door open. Malone followed him inside. The office was small but sunny. Dr. Willard Harman sat behind a blond-wood desk, a chunky little man with crew-cut blond hair and rimless eyeglasses, who looked about thirty-two and couldn't possibly, Malone thought, have been anywhere near that young. On a second look, Malone noticed a better age indication in the eyes and forehead, and revised his first guess upward between ten and fifteen years. "Come in, gentlemen," Dr. Harman boomed. His voice was that rarity, a really loud high tenor.