Harcourt shook his head. "Before I could do any checking, I'd have to report my reasons to the chief. If I was asked for a reason, I'd have to explain that I had grounds for thinking that Commander Jacklin's soul--and the F.B.I. has never established a policy on souls--had been blown from the Aleutians clear into Westchester County and is now running round in the body of Winfred S. Tompkins, stock broker. That report from me would go from my chief right up to J. Edgar Hoover, the Attorney-General, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Cabinet and President Roosevelt. Now, wouldn't that look nice on my record? Wouldn't that just put me right in line for promotion? Be reasonable, you two. I'm not saying I don't believe this yarn, but it would be worth my job to act like I believed it--and I got a wife and three kids in Brooklyn, no fooling." Arthurjean remained silent for a few minutes, "Andrew Jackson Harcourt--" she began. "You haven't said anything about this sinister guy Roscommon," I interrupted. "You could do something about him without worrying about me and my story." "Roscommon?" Harcourt shrugged his shoulders. "Going after him would remind me of the time we hit the Governor of North Carolina with a Great Smoky barbecued bear. Roscommon is all he says he is and orders are out not to touch him. How do you think we ought to fight this war, anyhow? Blind-fold?" "What about that Great Smoky bear?" Arthurjean demanded irrelevantly. "You-all from the South, honey-chile?" "The Old North State, sugar! And you?" "Tennessee, thank God! And the name's Arthurjean, Andy, and for the millionth time I'll explain that my dad's name was Arthur and my mother's name was Jean, so they ran 'em together, like Johns-Manville or Pierce-Arrow, but it's all one word. No hyphen. So, there!" I urged them to get over their rebel yell and come back to the subject of the bear.