“You’re hired,” Hada said to the folksinger, and reached into his pocket for a contract form.

Kaminsky said, “Will we be successful, Mr. Park? Tell us about the outcome.”

“I’d, uh, rather not,” Rags said. “At least not this minute. You think I can also read the future, too? That I’m a precog as well as a telepath?” He laughed gently. “I’ve got plenty of talent, according to you; I’m flattered.” He bowed mockingly.

“I’ll assume that you’re coming to work for us,” Hada said. “And your willingness to be an employee of CULTURE—is it a sign that you feel President Fischer is not going to be able to get us?”

“Oh, we could be in jail, too, along with Jim-Jam,” Rags murmured. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” Seating himself, his banjo in hand, he prepared to sign the contract.

In his bedroom at the White House, President Max Fischer had listened for almost an hour now to the TV set, to CULTURE hammering away on the same topic, again and again. Jim Briskin must be released, the voice said; it was a smooth, professional announcer’s voice, but behind it, unheard, Max knew, was Sebastian Hada.

“Attorney General,” Max said to his cousin Leon Lait, “get me dossiers on all of Hada’s wives, all seven or eight, whatever it is. I guess I got to take a drastic course.”

When, later in the day, the eight dossiers had been put before him, he began to read carefully, chewing on his El Producto alta cigar and frowning, his lips moving with the effort of comprehending the intricate, detailed material.

Jeez, what a mess some of these dames must be, he realized. Ought to be getting chemical psychotherapy, have their brain metabolisms straightened out. But he was not displeased; it had been his hunch that a man like Sebastian Hada would attract an unstable sort of woman.

One in particular, Hada’s fourth wife, interested him. Zoe Martin Hada, thirty-one years old, now living on Io with her ten-year-old son.

Zoe Hada had definite psychotic traits.

“Attorney General,” he said to his cousin, “this dame is living on a pension supplied by the U.S. Department of Mental Health. Hada isn’t contributing a dime to her support. You get her here to the White House, you understand? I got a job for her.”

The following morning Zoe Martin Hada was brought to his office.

He saw, between the two FBI men, a scrawny woman, attractive, but with wild, animosity-filled eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Zoe Hada,” Max said. “Listen, I know sumpthin’ about you; you’re the only genuine Mrs. Hada—the others are imposters, right? And Sebastian’s done you dirt.” He waited, and saw the expression on her face change.

“Yes,” Zoe said. “I’ve been in courts for six years trying to prove what you just said. I can hardly believe it; are you really going to help me?”

“Sure,” Max said. “But you got to do it my way; I mean, if you’re waiting for that skunk Hada to change, you’re wasting your time. About all you can do”—he paused—“is even up the score.”

The violence which had left her face crept back as she understood, gradually, what he meant.

Frowning, Dr. Ito Yasumi said, “I have now made my examination, Hada.” He began putting away his battery of cards. “This Rags Park is neither telepath or precog; he neither reads my mind nor cognates what is to be and, frankly, Hada, although I still sense psi power about him, I have no idea what it might be.”

Hada listened in silence. Now Rags Park, this time with a guitar over his shoulder, wandered in from the other room. It seemed to amuse him that Dr. Yasumi could make nothing of him; he grinned at both of them and then seated himself. “I’m a puzzle,” he said to Hada. “Either you got too much when you hired me or not enough… but you don’t know which and neither does Dr. Yasumi or me.”

“I want you to start at once over CULTURE,” Hada told him impatiently. “Make up and sing folk ballads that depict the unfair imprisonment and harassment of Jim-Jam Briskin by Leon Lait and his FBI. Make Lait appear a monster; make Fischer appear a scheming, greedy boob. Understand?”

“Sure,” Rags Park said, nodding. “We got to get public opinion aroused. I knew that when I signed; I ain’t just entertaining no more.”

Dr. Yasumi said to Rags, “Listen, I have favor to ask. Make up folk-style ballad telling how Jim-Jam Briskin get out of jail.”

Both Hada and Rags Park glanced at him.

“Not about what is,” Yasumi explained, “but about that which we want to be.”

Shrugging, Park said, “Okay.”

The door to Hada’s office burst open and the chief of his bodyguards, Dieter Saxton, put his head excitedly in. “Mr. Hada, we just gunned down a woman who was trying to get through to you with a homemade bomb. Do you have a moment to identify her? We think maybe it’s—I mean it was—one of your wives.”

“God in heaven,” Hada said, and hurried along with Saxton from the office and down the corridor.

There on the floor, near the front entrance of the demesne, lay a woman he knew. Zoe, he thought. He knelt down, touched her.

“Sorry,” Saxton mumbled. “We had to, Mr. Hada.”

“All right,” he said. “I believe you if you say so.” He greatly trusted Saxton; after all, he had to.

Saxton said, “I think from now on you better have one of us close by you at all times. I don’t mean outside your office; I mean within physical touch.”

“I wonder if Max Fischer sent her here,” Hada said.

“The chances are good,” Saxton said. “I’d make book on it.”

“Just because I’m trying to get Jim-Jam Briskin released.” Hada was thoroughly shaken. “It really amazes me.” He rose to his feet unsteadily.

“Let me go after Fischer,” Saxton urged in a low voice. “For your protection. He has no right to be President; Unicephalon 40-D is our only legal President and we all know Fischer put it out of commission.”

“No,” Hada murmured. “I don’t like murder.”

“It’s not murder,” Saxton said. “It’s protection for you and your wives and children.”

“Maybe so,” Hada said, “but I still can’t do it. At least not yet.” He left Saxton and made his way with difficulty back to his office, where Rags Park and Dr. Yasumi waited.

“We heard,” Yasumi said to him. “Bear up, Hada. The woman was a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of persecution; without psychotherapy it was inevitable that she would meet a violent death. Do not blame yourself or Mr. Saxton.”

Hada said, “And at one time I loved that woman.”

Dolefully strumming on his guitar, Rags Park sang to himself; the words were not audible. Perhaps he was practicing on his ballad of Jim Briskin’s escape from jail.

“Take Mr. Saxton’s advice,” Dr. Yasumi said. “Protect yourself at all times.” He patted Hada on the shoulder.

Rags spoke up, “Mr. Hada, I think I’ve got my ballad now. About—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Hada said harshly. “Not now.” He wished the two of them would leave; he wanted to be by himself.

Maybe I should fight back, he thought. Dr. Yasumi recommends it; now Dieter Saxton recommends it. What would Jim-Jam recommend? He has a sound mind… he would say, Don’t employ murder. I know that would be his answer; I know him.

And if he says not to, I won’t.

Dr. Yasumi was instructing Rags Park, “A ballad, please, about that vase of gladioli over there on the bookcase. Tell how it rise up straight in the air and hover; all right?”

“What kind of ballad is that?” Rags said. “Anyhow, I got my work cut out for me; you heard what Mr. Hada said.”