"Yes. How can we expect the people to trust us, if we don't trust ourselves?"
"All right," she said. Her voice held undertones of quiet resignation. "I guess I ought to fight and cry and tell you not to do it, but I know you too well, Jim. Go ahead, if you think you have to do this thing. I—I guess you might as well have my permission, because I know you'll go ahead and do it anyway."
There was the hint of a crack in her voice. Harker smiled palely, thankful that the roughly-furnished office he had here did not have a visual pickup on the phone. He did not want her to see his face now, for he knew his face was that of a frightened man.
"Everything's going to be okay," he told her, and broke the contact.
It was still raining. He pulled a waterproof from the closet, slung it over his shoulders, and dashed across the clearing to Mart Raymond's office. The sky was dark, gray, bleak.
Raymond was working on records when Harker entered—proceeding mechanically, with the air of a man marking time. They were all marking time, waiting for the Congressional decision.
Harker said, "Mart, tell me something."
"Go ahead."
"How close are you to ironing out the business of loss of mind?"
Raymond shrugged. "I told you. A month's more work, maybe. A little less, if we're lucky."