“But I’m still testing you,” Dr. Yasumi grumbled.

To his cousin the Attorney General, Max Fischer said disgustedly, “Well, we didn’t get him.”

“No, Max,” Leon Lait agreed. “He’s got good men in his employ; he’s not an individual like Briskin, he’s a whole corporation.”

Moodily, Max said, “I read a book once that said if three people are competing, eventually two of them will join together and gang up on the third one. It’s inevitable. That’s exactly what’s happened; Hada and Briskin are buddies, and I’m alone. We have to split them apart, Leon, and get one of them on our side against the other. Once Briskin liked me. Only he disapproved of my methods.”

Leon said, “Wait’ll he hears about Zoe Hada trying to kill her ex-husband; then Briskin’ll really disapprove of you.”

“You think it’s impossible to win him over now?”

“I sure do, Max. You’re in a worse position than ever, regarding him. Forget about winning him over.”

“There’s some idea in my mind, though,” Max said. “I can’t quite make out what it is yet, but it has to do with freeing Jim-Jam in the hopes that he’ll feel gratitude.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Leon said. “How come you ever thought of an idea like that? It isn’t like you.”

“I don’t know,” Max groaned. “But there it is.”

To Sebastian Hada, Rags Park said, “Uh, I think maybe I got me a ballad now, Mr. Hada. Like Dr. Yasumi suggested. It has to do with telling how Jim-Jam Briskin gets out of jail. You want to hear it?”

Dully, Hada nodded. “Go ahead.” After all, he was paying the folksinger; he might as well get something for his money.

Twanging away, Rags sang:

Rags explained, “That’s the chorus, ‘Blame Max Fischer!’ Okay?”

“All right,” Hada said, nodding.

Rags explained to Hada, “Now here’s what’s going to happen.” He cleared his throat:

“That’s all,” Rags informed Hada. “It’s a sort of holler type of folk song, a spiritual where you tap your foot. Do you like it?”

Hada managed to nod. “Oh sure. Anything’s fine.”

“Shall I tell Mr. Kaminsky you want me to air it over CULTURE?”

“Air away,” Hada said. He did not care; the death of Zoe still weighed on his mind—he felt responsible, because after all it had been his bodyguards who had done it, and the fact that Zoe had been insane, had been trying to destroy him, did not seem to matter. It was still a human life; it was still murder. “Listen,” he said to Rags on impulse, “I want you to make up another song, now.”

With sympathy, Rags said, “I know, Mr. Hada. A ballad about the sad death of your former wife Zoe. I been thinking about that and I have a ballad all ready. Listen:

Hada interrupted, “Don’t whitewash me, Rags; I’m to blame. Don’t put everything on Max as if he’s a whipping boy.”

Seated in the corner of the office, listening quietly, Dr. Yasumi now spoke up. “And also too much credit to President Fischer in your ballads, Rags. In ballad of Jim-Jam’s release from jail, you specifically give credit to Max Fischer for ethical change of heart. This will not do. The credit for Jim-Jam’s release must go to Hada. Listen, Rags; I have composed a poem for this occasion.”

Dr. Yasumi chanted:

“Exactly thirty-two syllables,” Dr. Yasumi explained modestly. “Old-style Japanese-type haiku poetry does not have to rhyme as do U.S.-English ballads, however must get right to the point, which in this matter is all-important.” To Rags he said, “You make my haiku into ballad, okay? In your typical fashion, in rhythmic, rhyming couplets, et cetera, and so on.”

“I counted thirty-three syllables,” Rags said. “Anyhow, I’m a creative artist; I’m not used to being told what to compose.” He turned to Hada. “Who’m I working for, you or him? Not him, as far as I know.”

“Do as he says,” Hada told Rags. “He’s a brilliant man.”

Sullenly, Rags murmured, “Okay, but I didn’t expect this sort of job when I signed the contract.” He retired to a far corner of the office to brood, think, and compose.

“What are you involved with, here, Doctor?” Hada asked.

“We’ll see,” Dr. Yasumi said mysteriously. “Theory about psi power of this balladeer, here. May pay off, may not.”

“You seem to feel that the exact wording of Rags’s ballads is very important,” Hada said.

“That’s right,” Dr. Yasumi agreed. “As in legal document. You wait, Hada; you find out—if I right—eventually. If I wrong, doesn’t matter anyhow.” He smiled encouragingly at Hada.

The phone in President Max Fischer’s office rang. It was the Attorney General, his cousin, calling in agitation. “Max, I went over to the federal pen where Jim-Jam is, to see about quashing the charges against him like you were talking about—” Leon hesitated. “He’s gone, Max. He’s not in there anymore.” Leon sounded wildly nervous.

“How’d he get out?” Max said, more baffled than angry.

“Art Heaviside, Hada’s attorney, found a way; I don’t know yet what it is—I have to see Circuit Court Judge Dale Winthrop, about it; he signed the release order an hour or so ago. I have an appointment with Winthrop… as soon as I’ve seen him, I’ll call you back.”

“I’ll be darned,” Max said slowly. “Well, we were too late.” He hung up the phone reflexively and then stood deep in thought. What has Hada got going for him? he asked himself. Something I don’t understand.

And now the thing to watch for, he realized, is Jim Briskin showing up on TV. On CULTURE’s network.

With relief he saw on the screen—not Jim Briskin but a folksinger plucking away on a banjo.

And then he realized that the folksinger was singing about him.