“Why did you tear those pages out of the Log?” “I didn’t.” “Who did?” “I don’t know.” “You think Laughlin did it?” “I know _I_ didn’t.” “Why would he do a thing like that?” “I don’t know.” “What made you think he wasn’t coming back?” “I don’t know. I just thought so.” “How did it happen that you weren’t aware of his going?” “It’s all in the Log.” “Now look, Colonel Wendt ...” (or “Johnny” or “son,” depending on who did the questioning) “... you must have had _some_ idea _why_ he went....” Silence, usually. If the interrogator was friendly, a quiet curse. “_What happened to Laughlin?_” “Search me,” he said. So they did. They searched him with “truth” drugs which only confirmed what he’d told them. He did not know what had happened to Doug Laughlin. He did not know what had happened to the missing pages of the book. And he had no knowledge of having had anything to do with the loss of the man or of the material from the Log. Meantime, reporters and commentators, interviewers and feature-writers from every corner of Earth fraternized restlessly in a well-appointed suite at Mexcity’s best hotel where a Public Relations man in Space Academy brass buttons smilingly poured drinks, dealt out freshly-inked mimeographed sheets from a cardboard box, and made sure the free-lunch was kept replenished. Security would be lifted, and Colonel Wendt would be personally available, as soon as the ship was completely unloaded, he told the reporters. How long would that be? Well, it was hard to say.... Soon.... _Mexcity, U.S.A.A.--February, 1976_ They brought him back to Earth, on the next downswing the Messenger made. Security would have preferred to keep him on the Moon till they had something--anything--on Laughlin, or on the missing Log pages at least. But the M. I. squad had to have expert consultants and some psych equipment which Dr. Christensen irritably, arbitrarily, would not grant shuttle space. And the Psych man attached to the team was insisting they’d never get anything out of John Wendt till they let him go home, back to Earth. So, twenty days after the feasting and medals, Colonel Wendt and an escort of nine guards and questioners left Dollars Dome. Five days later, they landed on a snow-swept concrete prairie in the Andes. The landing and clearance routine seemed to take an absurdly long time; it was after dark when a plain helicopter finally left the spaceport, carrying Johnny and two “bodyguards” from Security. By the time the reporters got wind of the hero’s arrival, he was already installed in his prison-of-honor--a whole floor of luxury in the tower penthouse of the same hotel where, nineteen floors down, in the pressroom, free lunch and free drinks were still passing around.