The small psychiatrist smiled and carefully propped himself on the arm of the foam chair. His voice became genially confidential. "And now, children," he said, for the first time including Dytie in his nod, "I am going to tell you how you can do a great service to the illusion-immune state and win an undying welcome when you reach its realistic shores. Psychotic capitalism, faced by total defeat in the next war, has loosed against the Workers' Republics a final filthy weapon: its own collective madnesses and herd delusions, catalyzed by subtle electronic and chemical bombardments of the collective Soviet nerve tissue. To date this capitalist poison in the Soviet Pan-Union has largely taken the form of delusions involving green cats. Don't mistake me, these green cats are undoubtedly real. It is my firm belief that they are ordinary cats with tiny electronic senders surgeried into their bodies, and with hormone spraying capacities comparable in their vileness to those of skunks. Although the green cats are possibly not the most important element in the assault on the Soviet psyche, they are the main stage props in that assault. Unfortunately, we have not been able to lay our hands on one of these creatures, in order to confirm our deductions and shape proper counter measures. It is absolutely essential that we do so." "But there's only one green cat," Phil objected, genuinely puzzled, "and it's supposed to be attacking America. It isn't, of course." "I'll say it isn't. My boy, I am giving you the Marxist facts," Romadka assured him gravely. "Those stories you have heard are merely blinds put out by the capitalist government to conceal from its own work slaves and pseudo scientists the enormity of its actions. What has happened is that a green cat has escaped from a government laboratory here. You led me to that cat once, Phil. You can do it again." "I can't," Phil said mildly. "Phil, you can," Romadka assured him. "But you got him once," Phil objected, "and all you did was let him go again." For the first time a shadow of impatience darkened Romadka's geniality. "I told you I made some mistakes last night. I let someone get a hypo-beam on me, probably a drug spray too. For a time I wasn't responsible for my actions. It was all I could do to escape the FBL raid. But it won't happen again." His voice grew brisk. "So come on along with me, Phil, and bring your friend. There's no more time for discussion." "But--" Phil began. Dytie da Silva stepped into the foreground. "Me no go," she told Romadka. "Why should I? You sound crazy head. 'Lusion-'mune state? 'Rationalisms impossible? Abs'lute science? All nonsense!" The psychoanalyst lifted his eyebrows at her accent and sentiments. "I was just about to take up your case, young lady. Why are you here in the first place?" "Just come from room across," Dytie told him, jerking a thumb at the window.