Birrel thought rapidly. Not a nut, no. But what kind of official business would have to be done _this_ secretly? He didn't like it, not at all. "Shall we go?" Birrel looked at the hand in the coat pocket. He went. He came out into the cool dark wetness of 71st Street, the summer shower over and the red and white neon signs toward Broadway reflected cheerily on wet asphalt. A sedan, with a man at its wheel, was waiting. He heard the mild voice close behind his ear. "Get right in, Mr. Birrel." The car swept them up the West Side Highway, with the electric glow of Manhattan behind them. Ahead, the strung-out lights of George Washington Bridge arched the black gulf of the river. Birrel sat in the back seat, with the gray man keeping well away from him at the other end of the seat. He could see nothing of the driver but a thick neck under a crusher hat. They crossed the Hudson and went on westward, skirting cities and running quietly and fast through a region of small factories and junk-heaps and power-plants. Birrel felt a mounting panic. What the devil had he got mixed up in? He tried to think why anyone would want to grab him like this. He couldn't think of anything. Since the war he'd completed his education, taken his engineering degree, landed a job in a Long Island electric company, and--that was all. He didn't know any technical secrets, he wasn't doing any top-secret work, he was an utterly undistinguished thirty-year-old engineer and nothing more. Then why? "Listen," he said, "I know there's a mistake--" "No mistake," said the gray man. He added, "We're nearly there." "There" was a high wire fence with a locked gate and a red sign, INDUSTRIAL CYANOGEN COMPANY--DANGER, KEEP OUT. A man came out of a little wooden building inside the gate, and unlocked and opened it. The car went on through. It stopped, after a moment, in front of a big, dark old-fashioned brick factory building with a forlorn, out-of-date look about it. The only light was a dingy bulb over the door in front. "This is it, Birrel. Come along." Inside, Birrel got a shock of surprise. It wasn't the cavernous, dark interior he expected. There was light, the sound of clicking typewriters and teletypes, the clack of heels on corridor floors. * * * * * The old factory building, he saw now was a blind. Behind its dingy walls and masked windows were at least two floors of offices. The doors of them all were closed, but he heard the hum and buzz of earnest activity from behind them. Gray-face nudged him toward one of the doors. The thick-necked driver went on somewhere. Birrel looked around a featureless little office with a battered table, some office chairs, and nothing else. He turned. "What the devil is this place?" "A government agency," said Gray-face. Birrel said, "Listen, how long are you going to keep this--" He stopped, and was aware that his jaw was hanging in foolish surprise. A man had come into the office.