They knew all about what strings to pull to be sure I could get in, and they helped me figure out what I should say. They seemed to think that my word, you know, the guy on the street or something like that, would carry some weight and make Congress see that the health angle on this Lunette project is a darned sight more important than keeping the secret of a guided missile station. Why, for Pete's sake, Mr. President Uncle Sam owns Lunette, doesn't he? When the other side hears about this they'll want to get in on it so bad they'll be awful anxious to stay in our good graces. Probably turn out to be an even better military defense than guided missiles. Time was important now, so just at five o'clock, when I generally report for work, Yogi and I walked down to the Matter BARS and shook hands. Yogi took a polaroid picture of me standing there and gave me the print. You know, Mr. President, I kind of hated to leave. That Lunette sure is a pretty place. Yogi moved the two little balls together, and sure enough, like he had told me, I felt like I was catching a fit of sneezing. That was all, and there I was back at Diversified, in the restricted Signal Corps section, with the inspector staring at me. He looks ready to pull a gun on me, so I laugh at him, nervous as heck inside but trying not to show it. "What's the matter, you seen a ghost?" "How did you get in that cabinet, Peters?" He's really mad, and I'm wondering if I can pull it off. "Well, I know you spend all your time over here by yourself, so I thought maybe someone should break the monotony. I just crawled in there a couple of minutes ago to surprise you." (That was true in a way, wasn't it?) "Don't do that again, Peters. No harm done, I guess, but if I had moved those two little balls together without seeing you in there I don't know what would have happened to you!" Mebbe you don't, but I do, I thought to myself. I scrammed out of there as soon as I was sure I had him sold on my story. And that's all there is to the story, Mr. President, except that last week like a darned fool I had to drop that picture. It was one Yogi took of me with his Polaroid, standing by the Matter BARS with a bunch of Lunette coconuts (the boys call them Ikenuts, sir). So my foreman sees the manhole cover in the picture and thinks that something must be funny and turns it in to our personnel manager. And _he_ turns it over to the FBI, and I wouldn't tell em anything, and here I am in the clink. So it looks like I've fouled up the boys' plans to use me as a secret weapon, and it looks like I've fouled up my own life real good unless you can figure out a way to help me. I think I will close now and leave the whole mess up to you. Obediently yours, Joe Peters. * * * * * THE WHITE HOUSE Washington, D. C. Dear Mr. Peters: