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Hewitt, a thin fellow of twenty-two, sat stiffly in his chair. He was not afraid, but he was on the defensive. As the doctor started to read he jumped up. "What's all this about, sir? What I done wrong?"

"Hewitt!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Sit down!"

"Yes, sir!"

"You haven't done anything wrong, yet."

The young man breathed deeply and relaxed in his chair, obviously and completely bewildered. Dr. Benoway studied the papers. "Timothy Hewitt. No middle name. Born 1921. Irish parents. Catholic. Louisville, Kentucky. Baker in civilian life. Married. No children. Boot camp at Great Lakes. Refused baker's training. First station San Diego A and R shops. No record of any trouble. Teeth fair. Eyes 18/20 and 20/20. No scars. Genitals normal. No admission of venereal disease. Weight 157. Height 5, 7. Intelligence test average. No comments." Dr. Benoway thought a moment. "Average. Average. Average," he repeated under his breath. "And what is average, I wonder?"

"Hewitt," he said crisply. The young man rose. "You may remain seated."

"Thank you, sir."

"So this is the package in which such passion comes!" Dr. Benoway muttered. "What, sir?" the sailor asked.

"Nothing, Hewitt. I was just thinking." Lt. Comdr. Benoway studied the man with a military eye. Hewitt was clean cut, had probably put on a little weight, wore his clothes with a jaunty, Irish air, and looked like a good, average sailor. His eyes were clear and his face gave no evidence of undue self-abuse. If the man was psychopathic, he certainly did not betray it in his bearing.

"It's about this letter," Lt. Comdr. Benoway said suddenly. "All of your letters, as a matter of fact." He tossed the unsealed, uncensored letter toward the sailor. Hewitt reached for it.

"But that's my letter, sir!" he protested.

"I know it is, Hewitt, and that's what I wanted to ask you about."

"What's wrong with it? It's to my wife. I didn't say nothing about no ships or nothing."

"Nobody said you did, Hewitt."

The man breathed more easily and twirled the letter about in his hands. Dr. Benoway searched his papers. Yes, there it was, "Schooling Tenth Grade, Louisville, Kentucky."

"Hewitt," he began. The man leaned forward, a youngish, thin fellow perplexed at what might happen next. "Hewitt," the doctor repeated. "Don't you see anything wrong with that letter?"

Hewitt opened the letter and hastily scanned each page. "No, sir," he said. "There ain't a word about nothing."

Dr. Benoway leaned back in his chair and breathed very deeply. This was beginning to confuse him. "Look at page six, I think it is. The last page, Hewitt." He waited while the sailor shuffled the pages. "Don't you see anything strange about that? I mean is that just an ordinary letter?"

"Oh, no sir!" Hewitt replied briskly. "It's a letter to my wife."

"I realize that, Hewitt. But..." Dr. Benoway coughed. The sailor waited. "The language, Hewitt? Is that ordinary?"

Hewitt studied the page. He flushed a little. "Well, sir. It is to my wife. That makes it a little different. Special, you might say."

Dr. Benoway looked at the amazing motor mech. Was the boy pulling his leg? Was this a big joke at his expense? Had Harbison staged all this? No, such a thought was preposterous and ungallant. He decided, by heavens, that he'd have this thing out.

"Hewitt," he began again. The obvious perplexity in the young man's face unnerved him, but he went ahead. "You must be aware that the words you use there and the things you talk about, well..."

"But this is a letter to my wife, sir. That's what we got married for. That's what people get married for. So they can talk about things and things."

"What's your wife say about these letters, Hewitt?" Benoway blurted out.

"Bingo? Why she never says nothing, sir. Nothing that I remember."

"Her letters to you? Are they... like... that?" Dr. Benoway pointed at the letter which now lay on the table.

Hewitt smiled. "Not exactly like that," he said fondly. "I got one right here," he said suddenly, and before Dr. Benoway could stop