* * * * *
A guard at the gate looked at my press pass and used a hidden
telephone. Within not much more than seconds I was ushered into the
Press Secretary's office. The Secretary, a badly shaken man if ever
I'd seen one, had evidently been pacing the floor. He looked at me
sharply out of pale, bloodshot eyes. "Your name Quinlan?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I see your identification?"
I handed him my wallet. He flipped through the panels holding my press
pass, social security card, driver's license and a picture of Lois in
a bathing suit. When he failed to do more than give the latter a
casual glance I knew this was a man with a troubled mind.