"Yes sir. I want to register a complaint with General Chisholm personally." "What!" His face turned beet red. "Look, soldier, we're not strictly GI in this outfit out of love of red tape. This is a dangerous service. You have to follow the chain of command every time." He entered a black mark on the card. "Tell your immediate superior." "He's the one I'm complaining against, sir." "Then go see the Inspector General!" "The time lag, sir, it would take too long to reach General Chisholm." The Major violently punched another mark on the card. "Wipe the grin off your face, Mister. What's so funny?" "That's part of my complaint, sir. I've been drugged to joy." "I really ought to call the General. You'd make a perfect punishment example." "Just as long as I get to talk to the General, sir," he said, confidence in his success gone even if the evil stuff kept him feeling so good. "Wait in the outside room." He reached for a phone. "Who's your immediate superior?" "Scout Captain Hartley, sir." He went out and sat down on the edge of a chair. No, it wasn't going to work, he could just see it wasn't. Then the Major was striding out and shouting, "Follow me, the General actually wants to break you in person!" Cramer sighed and followed him up an escalator, then past two receptionists and two private secretaries. The Major pointed at a small door. "You go in on your own, soldier." * * * * * He turned the knob and stepped nervously into a room which was bare except for a glass-topped desk behind which General Chisholm was seated and a few wrought-iron chairs facing the desk. The General stared at him as if he weren't there but would materialize under prolonged scrutiny. "Sit down and tell me what this is all about," Chisholm said, raising one index finger from the desk. Cramer sucked in his breath and the story came pouring out, faster and faster all the time as if he were racing against the moment when Chisholm would bark for silence and bring him crashing down. But the General said nothing, studying first one cuticle, then the speaker's face, then back to the next cuticle. Suddenly he slammed on an intercom and said, "Get Dr. Jonas and tell him to bring a portable blood test rig." "Then you _believe_ me, sir?" Cramer was too stunned to remain safely silent. "Of course I don't, Mister, but there's too much smoke for no fire." "The silicon trace may not show up now--" A smile flashed up Chisholm's face, then disappeared. "Those are the chances you take when you tell sensational stories." Cramer's heart sank once more. "Yes, sir." The specialist arrived with his test machine rolling behind him like an obedient, lumbering mastiff. When he reached the center of the room he turned a dial on his signet ring and the machine stopped.