He went to the phone, and flicked the switch, the operator thought he was kidding, but she finally told him: Saturday. And almost eight o’clock. He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with two thick slabs of rye bread and a stack of old dried-looking boiled ham slices from the refrigerator. He was too hungry to care if it was dry or tasteless. He took one large bite, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He started out, then remembered seeing a quart of milk when he got the ham. He went back, and drank all but an inch or so of the milk, right from the wax container. _Then_ he went out, a little worried, wondering if he’d done something to the heli too, that he didn’t recall. The funny thing was, he was so set on getting to someone from the Committee, to tell them he’d take the subpoena now, that when the little man in the brown suit stepped out from behind the hangar, and served it on him he didn’t even think to be surprised. The only thing that startled him was the big bass voice asking his name; it came from such a _medium_ guy. Afterwards, a hundred feet up and building speed, he was astonished at the man still being there. He shook his head and grinned. “Guts!” he said out loud to nobody, admiringly. Later yet, over Philadelphia, he had to decide which way to go, and realized he didn’t know where they were firing from this trip. It occurred to him, hovering there, that he was not quite as clear-headed as he felt he was. The sandwich was still in his pocket, for instance, and he didn’t know where to go. Also, belatedly, he wondered if he’d have any trouble with _this_ bunch about going up. He kept on south. It would be either Andes or St. Thom, that much he was sure of. Just beyond Wilmington he saw a field with service stations and no traffic to speak of. He dropped, left the machine for servicing whatever slipshod way the station did it, and went inside to the phones. _Senor_ McLafferty was not at home. He was in Mexcity, at a verrree imporrrtant conferrrence. “Can you tell me where to reach him?” Johnny asked urgently. She was most sorrreee, but the number was one she was not allowed to give. “Can _you_ reach him?” There was no time for arguing. Reluctantly: Yes, she could. “All right, now listen. Call him _right away_. I’m at a pay phone, and I haven’t got much time, and believe me, he wants to hear from me. My name is John Wendt, you understand? The number here is Wilmington Five-seven nine oh-eight jay six. Please ask him to call me _as quickly as possible_. You got the name, now, John--” “Yes, _Senor_. I _know_ the name.” He relaxed. He could see the difference. She did know the name, and she would call McLafferty. He flicked off, bought a soda, and sat down in the old metal chair out front to wait for the call back.