"Of course," Dr. Blake said. "But if you'll just relax we'll soon be able to help you—"
The strait-jacket was on. Malone sagged inside it like a rather large and sweaty butterfly rewrapped in a cocoon. Dimly, he realized that he sounded like every other nut in the world. All of them would be sure to tell the doctor and the attendants that they were making a mistake. All of them would claim they were sane.
There was, of course, a slight difference. But how could Malone manage to prove it? The three men held him up.
"Now, now," Dr. Blake said. "You can walk, Mr. Malone. Suppose you just follow me to your room—"
"My room?" Malone said. "Now, you listen to me, Doctor. If you don't take this stuff off me at once I promise you the President will hear of it. And I don't know how he'll take interference in a vital mission—"
"The President?" Blake asked quietly. "What President, Mr. Malone?"
"The President of the United States, damn it!" Malone shouted.
"Hmm," Blake said.
That was no good, either, Malone realized. Every nut would have some sort of direct pipeline to the President, or God, or somebody high up. Nuts were like that.
But he was an FBI Agent. A special agent on a vital mission.