"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...." "You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?" "Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try _anything_ to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger--By the way, where is he now?" "Below, I guess. In his quarters." "Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness." But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the "giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment. Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit. Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection. "So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll _see_ about that!" And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge _impervite_ gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside. On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman. Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety. "Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting." Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly. "Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?" Isobar's eyebrows arched. "You mean you haven't been notified?" "Notified of _what_?" "Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?" "I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?" And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That--er--won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you." "We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like." "I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."