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With Harris were two PD Police guards. Their low conversation impinged on Harris’s ears, and was transmitted to Houston’s mind.

Suddenly, one of them said: “Hey! He’s moving!”

“Better give him another shot, Harry;” said the other, “when those guys wake up, they drive you crazy.”

Houston could almost feel the sting of the needle as it was inserted into the arm of the helpless prisoner.

Slowly, Harris’s thoughts, which had begun to become fully coherent, again became chaotic, finally sliding off into silence and darkness.

“Are you all right, sir?”

Houston looked up from his intense concentration. The stewardess was standing by his seat. He realized that there was a film of perspiration on his brow, and that he probably had looked dazed while he was concentrating on Harris’s mind.

“Sure,” he said quickly, “I’m all right. I’m just a little tired. Had to get up too early to catch this plane.” He rubbed his forehead. “I do have a little headache; would you happen to have any aspirin aboard?”

She smiled professionally. “Certainly, sir. I’ll get a couple of tablets.”

As she left for the first-aid cabinet, Houston thought bleakly to himself: Harris was framed. Possibly others have been, too. But by whom? And why?

He could see why a Normal might do such a thing. But why would a Controller do it?

There was only one answer. Somewhere, there was a Controller, or a group of Controllers who were megalomaniacs par excellence. If that were so, he–or they–could make the late “Blackjack” Donnely look like a meek, harmless, little mouse.

* * * * *

The one part of Continental U.S.A. over which the American Government had no jurisdiction was small, areawise, in comparison with its power. The District of the United Nations occupied the small area of Manhattan Island which ran from 38th Street on the south to 49th Street on the north; its western border was Third Avenue, its eastern, the East River. From here, the UN ruled Earth.

There were no walls or fences around it; only by looking at street signs could anyone tell that they had crossed an international border. Crossing Third Avenue from west to east, one found that 45th Street had suddenly become Deutschland Strasse; 40th Street became Rue de France; 47th was the Via Italiano. 43rd Street’s sign was painted in Cyrillic characters, but beneath it, in English, were the words “Avenue of Mother Russia.”

Third Avenue was technically One World Drive. Second Avenue was labelled as Planetary Peace Drive, and First was United Nations Drive.

But New Yorkers are, and always have been, diehards. Just as The Avenue of the Americas had forever remained Sixth Avenue, no matter what the maps called it, so had the other streets retained their old names in conversation.

Even the International Post Office, after years of wrangling, had given up, and letters addressed to Supreme Headquarters, United Nations Police, 45th Street at Second Avenue, were delivered without comment, even though the IPO still firmly held that they were technically misaddressed. And, privately, even the IPO officials admitted that the numbers were easier to say and remember than the polyglot street names that had been tagged on by the General Assembly.

So when David Houston signalled a taxi at Grand Central Station and said, “Forty-fifth and Second,” the driver simply set his automatic controls, leaned back in his seat, and said, “Goin’ to see the cops, huh?”

When no answer was forthcoming, the driver turned around and took a good look at his passenger. “Maybe you’re a UN cop yourself, huh?”

Houston shook his head. “Nope. Some kids have been scribbling dirty words on my sidewalk, and I’m going to report it to the authorities.”

The driver turned back around and looked ahead again. “Jeez! That’s serious. Hadn’t you better take it up with the Secretary General? I wouldn’t be satisfied with no underlings in a case like that.”