“Well, you’ve seen the girl.” “Yeah.” Kutler looked at him levelly. “I saw her yesterday. He’s not dead. Yet.” “He’s sick. Okay. You _still_ know more about--horses--than a man who’s never opened one up.” Kutler started to speak, but Chris went on. “At least, _I_ think so. So here’s what I’d like to ask you to do--” He opened his briefcase, and pulled out the folder of case histories and medic reports. “Here’s the background stuff. If you can find time to look it over, and you think you’re willing to consider the idea at all, what I’d like to do is start sending my leave people in to see you. Not for treatment,” he said hastily, as the doctor tried to stop him again, “Just interviews, sort of. Get your own histories on them. See what ideas you get. This thing is wide open, Phil. I don’t know if what we need is a man on the job up there, or a consultant, or a whole staff and program, or what the hell. I figure you can at least give us a push the right way. Will you hire on as consultant for now on that basis? Then if you think you’re not the right man, find us one. Or a dozen. Or tell us what we need. Or tell us you can’t even do that. But give it a whirl, will you? I don’t know where else to start with.” Kutler hesitated, still. “How much time do you figure I’ll need for that ‘month’?” “You decide. Give it what you can. Take what time you need. Bill us at whatever your hourly rates for government jobs are. We’re used to cost-plus,” he added drily. “Don’t stint yourself on the expense account. When you’ve got a yea or nay or maybe for me, let me hear it.” The doctor was silent a moment, and Chris held his breath, almost. He’d had the right hunch this time. If Kutler took it at all, he just _might_ actually crack it--because if he took it, he’d kill himself _trying_. “I can at least look over the literature,” Phil said finally. He grinned. “Which in English means, all right, so you’ve got me curious. Or hooked?” Chris passed over the envelope with the folder. He saw Phil’s eyebrows go up. “What’s this bit?” He was indicating the red-stamped TOP SECRET. “Christ, I get to where I don’t even see it. Every damn thing we do up there--But on this job, they mean it. Only reason I got funds for anything as--way out?--as this was Security has fits about these people going up and down all the time. Anything to keep ’em up on the farm, the way they see it. Frankly,” he added, “that was another reason for wanting you. You’re cleared already. God knows how long I’d wait before they found another man they’d put their gold star on.” _Acapulco--7:30_ P.M. _(C.S.T.)_ “What do you think?” Brigadier General Jedro Arthur Harbridge, USA ASF, turned from the bar cabinet in the study of his country home with an air of some satisfaction. He carried two palest-gold martinis to the desk, handed one ceremoniously to his Press Secretary.