An elderly man seated at a big desk with his back to me turned and looked up, and I got another surprise. 'Ah, yes, John Lyle,' he said gently. He got up and came toward me, with his hand out. 'It's been a long time, hasn't it?'

It was Colonel Huxley, head of the Department of Applied Miracles when I was a cadet-and almost my only friend among the officers at that time. Many was the Sunday afternoon that I had relaxed in his quarters, my stock unhooked, free for the moment from the pressure of discipline.

I took his hand. 'Colonel-I mean "General", sir . I thought you were dead!'

'Dead colonel into live general, eh! No, Lyle, though I was listed as dead when I went underground. They usually do that when an officer disappears; it looks better. You're dead, too-did you know?'

'Uh, no, I didn't, sir. Not that it matters. This is wonderful, sir!'

'Good.'

'But-I mean, how did you ever-well-' I shut up.

'How did I land here and in charge at that? I've been a Brother since I was your age, Lyle. But I didn't go underground until I had to-none of us do. In my case the pressure for me to join the priesthood became a bit too strong; the Superintendent was quite restless about having a lay officer know too much about the more abstruse branches of physics and chemistry. So I took a short leave and died. Very sad.' He smiled. 'But sit down. I've been meaning to send for you all day, but it's been a busy day. They all are. It wasn't until now that I've had time to listen to the record of your report.'

We sat down and chatted, and I felt that my cup runneth over. Huxley I respected more than any officer I had ever served under. His very presence resolved any residual doubts I might have-if the Cabal was right for him, it was right for me, and never mind the subtleties of doctrine.

At last he said, 'I didn't call you in at this late hour just to chat, Lyle. I've a job for you.'

'Yes, sir?'

'No doubt you've already noticed what a raw militia we have here. This is between ourselves and I'm not criticizing our comrades-every one of them has pledged his life to our cause, a harder thing for them to do than for you and me, and they have all placed themselves under military discipline, a thing still harder. But I haven't enough trained soldiers to handle things properly. They mean well but I am tremendously handicapped in trying to turn the organization into an efficient fighting machine. I'm swamped with administrative details. Will you help me?'

I stood up. '1 shall be honored to serve with the General to the best of my ability.'

'Fine! We'll call you my personal aide for the time being. That's all for tonight, Captain. I'll see you in the morning.'

I was halfway out the door before his parting designation sunk in-then I decided that it was a slip of the tongue.

But it was not. I found my own office the next morning by the fact that a sign had been placed on it reading: 'CAPTAIN LYLE'. From the standpoint of a professional military man there is one good thing about revolutions: the opportunities for swift promotion are excellent... even if the pay is inclined to be irregular.

My office adjoined General Huxley's and from then on I almost lived in it-eventually I had a cot installed back of my desk. The very first day I was still fighting my way down a stack of papers in my incoming basket at ten at night. I had promised myself that I would find the bottom, then write a long letter to Judith. But it turned out to be a very short note, as there was a memorandum addressed to me personally, rather than to the General, at the bottom.

It was addressed to 'Legate J. Lyle,' then someone had scratched out 'Legate' and written 'Captain'. It went on:

MEMORANDUM FOR ALL PERSONNEL NEWLY REPORTED

SUBJECT: Personal Conversion Report

1. You are requested and directed to write out, as fully as possible, all of the events, thoughts, considerations, and incidents which led up to your decision to join our fight for freedom. This account should be as detailed as possible and as subjective as possible. A report written hastily, too briefly, or to superficially will be returned to be expanded and corrected and may be supplemented by hypno examination.

2. This report will be treated as confidential as a whole and any portion of it may be classified secret by the writer. You may substitute letters or numbers for proper names if this will help you to speak freely, but the report must be complete.

3. No time off from regular duties is allotted for this purpose, but this report must be treated as extra-duty of highest priority. A draft of your report will be expected by (here some one had written in a date and hour less than forty-eight hours away; I used some profane expressions under my breath.)

BY ORDER OF THE COMMANDING GENERAL

(s) M. Novak, Col, F.U.S.A. Chief of Psychology

I was considerably annoyed by this demand and decided to write to Judith first anyway. The note didn't go very well-how can one write a love letter when you know that one or more strangers will read it and that one of them will rephrase your tenderest words? Besides that, while writing to Judith, my thoughts kept coming back to that night on the rampart of the Palace when I had first met her. It seemed to me that my own personal conversion, as the nosy Colonel Novak called it, started then... although I had begun to have doubts before then. Finally I finished the note, decided not to go to bed at once but to tackle that blasted report.

After a while I noticed that it was one o'clock in the morning and I still hadn't carried my account up to the point where I was admitted to the Brotherhood. I stopped writing rather reluctantly (I found that I had grown interested) and locked it in my desk.

At breakfast the next morning I got Zebadiah aside, showed him the memorandum, and asked him about it. 'What's the big idea?' I asked. 'You work for this particular brass. Are they still suspicious of us, even after letting us in here?'

Zeb barely glanced at it. 'Oh, that-Shucks, no. Although I might add that a spy, supposing one could get this far, would be bound to be caught when his personal story went through semantic analysis. Nobody can tell a lie that long and that complicated.'

'But what's it for?'

'What do you care? Write it out-and be sure you do a thorough job. Then turn it in.'

I felt myself grow warm. 'I don't know as I will. I rather think I'll ask the General about it first.'

'Do so, if you want to make a ruddy fool of yourself. But look, John, the psychomathematicians who will read that mess of bilge you will write, won't have the slightest interest in you as an individual. They don't even want to know who you are-a girl goes through your report and deletes all personal names, including your own, if you haven't done so yourself, and substitutes numbers... all this before an analyst sees it. You're just data, that's all; the Chief has some heap big project on the fire-I don't know what it is myself-and he is trying to gather together a large enough statistical universe to be significant.'

I was mollified. 'Well, why don't they say so, then? This memo is just a bald order-irritating.'

Zeb shrugged. 'That is because it was prepared by the semantics division. If the propaganda division had written it, you would have gotten up early and finished the job before breakfast.' He added, 'By the way, I hear you've been promoted. Congratulations.'

'Thanks.' I grinned at him slyly. 'How does it feel to be junior to me, Zeb?'

'Huh? Did they bump you that far? I thought you were a captain.'

'I am.'

'Well, excuse me for breathing-but I'm a major.'

'Oh. Congratulations.'

'Think nothing of it. You have to be at least a colonel around here, or you make your own bed.'