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And the FBI man said: “Sorry, Mr. Bending; I can’t answer any questions. My job is over as soon as I deliver you.”

A little later, Sam had another question. “Can you tell me where we’re going, at least?”

“Oh–” the agent laughed, “sure. I thought I had. The General Post Office Building, on Kenmore Drive.”

After that, Sam didn’t say anything. That this whole affair had something to do with the Converter, Sam had no doubt whatsoever. But he couldn’t see exactly what, and none of his wild speculations made sense.

He pulled up at last into the parking lot behind the Post Office Building. The second FBI man came up in the steel-blue Ford, and the three of them got out of the cars and went towards the building. It was quite dark by now, and the street lights were glowing against a faint falling of February mist. Bending, in spite of his topcoat, felt chilly.

They went in the back way, past the uniformed Postal Service guard, and took an elevator to the sixth floor. None of the three had anything to say. They walked down the hall, toward the only office that showed any light behind the frosted glass. The lettering on the glass simply said: Conference Room A-6.

The FBI man who had driven with Sam rapped on the door with gentle knuckles.

“Yes?” said a questioning voice from the other side.

“This is Hodsen, sir. Mr. Bending is with us.”

The door opened, and Sam Bending felt mild shock as he saw who it was. He recognized the man from his news photos and TV appearances. It was the Honorable Bertram Condley, Secretary of Economics for the President of the United States.

“Come in, Mr. Bending,” the Secretary said pleasantly. Unnecessarily, he added, “I’m Bertram Condley.”

He held out his hand, and Sam took it. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Secretary.”

Condley gave out with his best friendly-politico smile. “I’m sorry to have to drag you up here like this, Mr. Bending, but we felt it best this way.”

Sam smiled back, with a trace of irony in the smile. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Secretary,” he repeated.

Condley nodded, still smiling–but there was a spark in his eyes now. “I see we understand each other. Come on in; I want you to meet the others.” He looked at the FBI men. “That’s all. For now.”

The Federal agents nodded and moved away into the dimness of the corridor.

“Come in, man, come in,” the Secretary urged, opening the door wider.

Sam hesitated. The light within the room was none too bright. Then he stepped forward, following the Secretary.

* * * * *

The outer room was dark. Not too dark, but illuminated only by the dim light from the corridor and from the inner room. From that inner room, there was only a glow of light from the frosted glass panel of the door that separated the two rooms.

Condley closed the hall door, and, as Sam stepped forward toward the lighted door, held out a hand to stop him. “Just a moment,” he whispered softly. “I think you ought to know what you’re walking in to, Mr. Bending.”

Bending stood stock-still. “Yes, sir?” he asked, questioningly.

“I suppose you know what this is all about?” Secretary Condley asked softly.

“The Converter, I imagine,” Sam Bending said.

Condley nodded, his gray hair gleaming silver in the dim light. “Exactly. I’m sorry we had to drag you up here this way, Mr. Bending, but, in the circumstances, we felt it to be the best way.” He took a breath. “Do you know why we called you here?”

“No,” Sam said honestly.

Condley’s head nodded again. “You’re in for an argument, Mr. Bending. A very powerful one, I hope. We want to convince you of something.” Again he paused. “Are you an open-minded man, Mr. Bending?”

Sam Bending followed the Secretary’s lead, and kept his voice low. “I like to think so, Mr. Secretary.” He recognized that Condley was preparing him for something, and he recognized that the preliminary statements were calculated to soften him. And he recognized the fact that they did soften him. All right–what was the argument?