Phil Merriwether sat in the deepest, most secluded cell of the United States Government's greatest security prison. He sat and thought, his brain working more furiously than it had ever worked before. He was tired and haggard from loss of sleep, and worn out from hours of questioning. But that wasn't the worst of it. The entire top brass of the government was in a stew over what they should do with Philip Merriwether. The FBI could get no evidence on him; there was nothing to prove he was a spy. And even if there had been, the case could never be brought to court. Phil knew too much.
"Good heavens," he moaned, "how did I ever get into a fix like this?"
"You're a blabbermouth," he answered himself. "If you hadn't told them all that stuff, you'd never have been in this jam!"
But how did he know all the information about the U.S. Government's most top secret plans? It must have had something to do with that fainting spell. How did that explain it?
"Well," he said to himself, "you've got a lot of information—use it!"
So he sat on the edge of the hard bunk, his mind searching for some clue as to what had happened to him.
He was still sitting like that when the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States walked into the cell some hours later. He had thought about all the data he had on every subject from anthropology to zoology. It had something to do with neurology and radiation physics, he was sure, but what?
And then, quite suddenly, the pieces clicked together.
When the Chief Executive walked into his cell, Phil beamed happily. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. President."