Where? Where? WHERE? He could have lowered his head and pounded it to a pulp against the wall, in his rage and frustration at being confined. But banging his brains out wouldn't help. Besides, he was going to stand deeply in need of his gray matter, if he hoped to get out of this one. At evening time, a guardhouse trusty brought him his supper on a tray. Also, the man tossed him half a pack of cigarettes when Lance sought to bum just one. But when the pilot started pitching questions back, the trusty looked scared and unhappy and quickly limped away. The night dragged on, as unending seemingly as one of Luna's two-week darkouts. Lance smoked, paced the cell from wall to wall, occasionally plopped down on his cot and went over everything that had happened, trying to find some pattern to it. But there was no pattern. Next morning, he splashed up and shaved beard away from a tired, red-eyed face in the mirror. Then, he waited. No one came. Finally, at noon a new officer checked in for duty at the guardhouse. Lance recognized him as a young ordinance captain he'd met before. He called out to the man. The officer, striding down the hallway, wheeled at the sound of his name and came back to the cell. His eyes bugged slightly, when he saw Lance: "Holy smoke, major! What've they got you in for?" "Search me." Lance was overjoyed to find someone, at last, who didn't dummy up. "I thought maybe you might have a notion." "I just came on duty. But if there's a charge sheet lying around, I might dig up something from it." "Would you try?" The captain held up two fingers and grinned. "No sweat." Lance waited some more. The captain did not come back, however, until several hours later. After Lance's evening meal, in fact. His face bore a puzzled frown. Lance stood at his cell door, gripping the bars. "Well?" "I checked. Seems the brass are holding you for observation until some headshrinker gets in from HQ. A specialist in hyperspace medicine." "Then, how come I'm not in a regular hospital? Why the jailhouse?"
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