"No, seriously," said Madison. "It's important that I know."

Flick crawled weakly down to the foot of the bed and sat, too spent to progress further. He said, "The insane? Let's see. Well, when they say somebody is insane, it's not very hard to figure out they're right. They get staring eyes and rush about or flop. They don't know anybody and, when they talk, they say crazy things. So they send them to a big prison far up north and that's that."

"What happens if they get well?"

"Get well? That's a funny term. You mean if they go sane again? Well, if that happens, they watch them for a while and then they let them out."

"You mean they don't shock them or operate on their brains?"

"For pity's sakes, why? How come somebody should punish them? They don't work on them or touch them at all. I had a cousin once was sent to the Insane Detention Camp on Calabar: he went crazy as a gyro with half a wheel gone. They kept him for half a year, didn't do a thing but feed him, and then they let him back out. He was all sane again. I'm sure glad they didn't damage him: my aunt would have raised a thousand Devils if they had."

"Have you ever heard of a mental doctor?"

"Nope. Don't think I ever saw a doctor that went crazy."

"I mean a psychiatrist?" said Madison.

"Look, Chief, I been sitting here awfully patient and every muscle aches, but couldn't we lay off foreign words at least until I have had some breakfast and wake up?"

All this talk had stirred the girls. Twa said, "You don't need any breakfast yet," and reached for him.

Madison left. He felt blocked again.

He went back to his room and paced.

The idea he had had was not really his. It was a historic milestone of the PR trade. It had come to him when he realized the primary purpose of Earth media was to make people go mad. And this had jarred into view one of the PR triumphs of the century.

The American Psychiatric Affiliates, many decades ago, had had a terrible problem with the media. At that time, nobody in his right mind would print anything serious about psychiatrists; the breed was regarded as just a bunch of vicious fakes and quacks, destructive at the very least with their electric shocks and murders.

But PR had saved the day. In league with the World Federation of Mental Stealth-an organization composed of ex-Nazis who had murdered the millions of Jews as well as all the "insane" in Germany, and who were running from the Allied forces-the American Psychiatric Affiliates had pulled the most cunning coup of the age.

They had done such a marvelous job on the media that now, today, a psychiatrist could commit murder several times a day, including Sunday, and could do anything, even exhibit himself in front of children, and the media and every page and frame of it would praise him to the skies and say how scientific and necessary it all was.

Yes, their PR procedure had indeed worked and continued to work. Resoundingly, psychiatry and psychology were now considered totally above all law and even the highest in the land licked their scruffy, bloodstained boots.

Madison, with his command of PR history, knew exactly what they had done, how they had gone about it and continued to go about it down to the finest, minute detail.

But there was one small flaw in his plan: he didn't have a psychiatrist.

Madison, grim determination in his eye, got dressed and had some breakfast and then got on the viewer-phone. He was trying to locate Lombar: he was not at Palace City, he was not at his office in town. He seemed to have vanished.

From what he knew now of Apparatus offices, he hazarded that Lombar must have a chief clerk. By using his blanket order from Hisst that gave him. a free hand in all matters of PR, he finally got through several shunts and wound up looking at an old man of very bitter visage.

"I need information," said Madison.

"Well, I'm not giving any over a viewer-phone, no matter what authority you've got. Tell your driver to land you at Camp Endurance." He clicked off.

Flick, up and around now, went into a deeper gloom. "I knew it would happen sooner or later: you been ordered to Camp Kill. They'll simply take us out of the car and throw us in the chasm. That's what they do with criminals the Apparatus can no longer use." And he would have gone off to bid the staff farewell if Madison hadn't grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the hangar.

Far above the traffic lanes, at six hundred miles an hour, they went over the mountains, crossed the Great Desert with its dust dancers and, after a harsh challenge, were permitted to land at the camp.

Troops were marching here and there and for some time the three of them simply sat in the landing area, unapproached.

"They're getting the execution squad ready," Flick told Cun. "They will probably rape you first. Then over we go. I've just got time to re-re-reform so I can go to my death thinking about Hightee Heller."

Cun hit him.

A smart young officer, followed by a squad, came out to the car. He looked somehow different than others who were around. His squad came to a military halt, very precise. The officer leaned in the window. "I'm Captain Snelz." By chance of changing duty rosters, it was the very same man who had been the fast friend of Heller and the Countess Krak. "Is your name Madison?"

Flick cowered back and Madison had to reach over and get his identoplate, just used in the slot. Snelz looked at it. He clicked the buttons on the back.

"Hello, hello," said Snelz. "Unlimited pay status? Well, it just so happens the canteen is on the way and you won't mind setting up some drinks for me and the squad before we proceed. I'm your escort."

Madison got out. The hot desert wind hit him. He stared at the huge black bulk of the castle and then he felt himself being pushed along. "Wait a minute," he said. "I am supposed to see Lombar Hisst's chief clerk, not attend a military review. What is this place?"

Snelz said, "You must be new in the Apparatus not to know this is Spiteos. Where are you from?"

"Earth," said Madison.

"Earth?" said Snelz. "You mean Blito-P3?"

"That's what they call it here," said Madison. "The right name is Earth."

"Hmm," said Snelz.

They got to the canteen and Snelz ordered tup all around. When he had washed the desert dust out of his throat, he said, "By any chance did you run into an of­ficer named Jettero Heller on Earth?"

"Oh, yes," said Madison. "One of my dearest friends."

"Hmm," said Snelz. "How is he?"

"Oh, splendid, splendid," said Madison.

"You didn't come back here with him, did you?" said Snelz.

"No, I'm afraid I didn't have that pleasure," said Madison.

"Then you know his lady," said Snelz.

"Oh, yes," said Madison. "Lovely person."

"What does she look like?" said Snelz. "Just to make sure we're talking about the same person."

"Oh, lovely, lovely," said Madison. "Very lovely."

"But, confidentially," said Snelz, "didn't you think she was a little short for him? I mean, a girl only five feet two when Heller is six feet six."

"Oh, I thought her slightness was one of her most charming features," said Madison.

"Well, drink up," said Snelz, "and I'll run you on through to the chief clerk." Other than that, Snelz didn't seem to have much more to say, which was not strange, now that he knew Madison was a fake.

Madison paid for the drinks and they got onto a zip-bus and were shortly speeding through the tunnels. They got out and made their way to an elevator. They sped to the high tower where Lombar had his main clerical office, and Snelz pushed Madison in and composed him­self and his squad in the passageway to wait.

The criminal old chief clerk frowned at Madison. "I know you have a blanket order. You probably think, by seeing me, you can get to see the chief...."