But I had to find out if he could still hit the target uncocked.
Stan Johnson was our second lonely man, remember, General?
He was stubborn.
I questioned him for a half hour the first day, two hours the second and on the third I turned him over to Madison.
Then as I was having my lunch I suddenly thought of something and made steps back to my office.
I got there just in time to grab Madison's bony wrist.
The thing in his fist was silver and sharp, a hypodermic needle. Johnson's forearm was tanned below the torn pastel sleeve. Two sad-faced young men were holding him politely by the shoulders in the canvas chair. Johnson met my glance expressionlessly.
I tugged on Madison's arm sharply.
"What's in that damned sticker?"