Bidworthy beckoned to his nearest six men. “You heard him—take him up on that.”

Tearing open the cab door, they grabbed. If they had expected the victim to put up a futile fight against heavy odds, they were disappointed. He made no attempt to resist. They got him, lugged together, and he yielded with good grace, his body leaning sidewise and coming halfway out of the door.

That was as far as they could get him.

“Come on,” urged Bidworthy, displaying impatience. “Show him who’s who. He isn’t a fixture.”

One of the men climbed over the body, poked around inside the cab, and said, “He is, you know.”

“What d’you mean?”

“He’s chained to the steering column.”

“Eh? Let me see.” He had a look, found that it was so. A chain and a small but heavy and complicated padlock linked the driver’s leg to his coach. “Where’s the key?”

“Search me,” invited the driver, grinning.

They did just that. The frisk proved futile. No key.

“Who’s got it?”

“Myob!”

“Shove him back into his seat,” ordered Bidworthy, looking savage. “Well take the passengers. One yap’s as good as another so far as I’m concerned.” He strode to the doors, jerked them open. “Get out and make it snappy.”

Nobody budged. They studied him silently and with varied expressions, not one of which did anything to help his ego. The fat man with the candy-striped hat mooned at him sardonically. Bidworthy decided that he did not like the fat man and that a stiff course of military calisthenics might thin him down a bit.

“You can come out on your feet,” he suggested to the passengers in general and the fat man in particular, “or on your necks. Whichever you prefer. Make up your minds.”

“If you can’t use your head you can at least use your eyes,” commented the fat man. He shifted in his seat to the accompaniment of metallic clanking noises.

Bidworthy did as suggested, leaning through the doors to have a gander. Then he got right into the vehicle, went its full length and studied each passenger. His florid features were two shades darker when he came out and spoke to Sergeant Gleed.

“They’re all chained. Every one of them.” He glared at the driver. “What’s the big idea, manacling the lot?”

“Myob!” said the driver, airily.

“Who’s got the keys?”

“Myob!”

Taking a deep breath, Bidworthy said to nobody in particular, “Every so often I hear of some guy running amok and laying ’em out by the dozens. I always wonder why—but now I know.” He gnawed his knuckles, then added to Gleed, “We can’t run this contraption to the ship with that dummy blocking the driver’s seat. Either we must find the keys or get tools and cut them loose.”

“Or you could wave us on our way and go take a pill,” offered the driver.

“Shut up! If I’m stuck here another million years I’ll see to it that —”

“The colonel’s coming,” muttered Gleed, giving him a nudge.

Colonel Shelton arrived, walked once slowly and officiously around the outside of the coach, examining its construction and its occupants. He flinched at the striped hat whose owner leered at him through the glass. Then he came over to the disgruntled group.

“What’s the trouble this time, sergeant major?”

“They’re as crazy as the others, sir. They give a lot of lip and say, ‘Myob!’ and couldn’t care less about His Excellency. They don’t want to come out and we can’t get them out because they’re chained to their seats.”

“Chained?” Shelton’s eyebrows shot upward. “What for?”

“I don’t know, sir. They’re linked in like a load of lifers making for the pen, and—”

Shelton moved off without waiting to hear the rest. He had a look for himself, came back.

“You may have something there, sergeant major. But I don’t think they are criminals.”

“No, sir?”

“No.” He threw a significant glance toward the colorful headgear and several other sartorial eccentricities, including a ginger-haired man’s foot-wide polka-dotted bow. ‘It is more likely that they’re a bunch of whacks being taken to a giggle emporium. I’ll ask the driver.” Going to the cab, he said, “Do you mind telling me your destination?”

“Yes,” responded the other.

“Very well, where is it?”

“Look,” said the driver, “are we talking the same language?”

“Huh?”

“You asked me if I minded and I said yes.” He made a gesture. “I do mind.”

“You refuse to tell?”

“Your aim’s improving, sonny.”

“Sonny?” put in Bidworthy, vibrant with outrage. “Do you realize you are speaking to a colonel?”

“Leave this to me,” insisted Shelton, waving him down. His expression was cold as he returned his attention to the driver. “On your way. I’m sorry you’ve been detained.” .

“Think nothing of it,” said the driver, with exaggerated politeness. “I’ll do as much for you some day.”

With that enigmatic remark, he let his machine roll forward. The patrol parted to make room. The coach built up its whine to top note, sped down the road, diminished into the distance.

“By the Black Sack!” swore Bidworthy, staring purple-faced after it. “This planet has got more punks in need of discipline than any this side of —”

“Calm yourself, sergeant major,” advised Shelton. “I feel the same way as you—but I’m taking care of my arteries. Blowing them full of bumps like seaweed won’t solve any problems.”

“Maybe so, sir, but—”

“We’re up against something mighty funny here,” Shelton went on. “We’ve got to find out exactiy what it is and how best to cope with it. That will probably mean new tactics. So far, the patrol has achieved nothing. It is wasting its time. We’ll have to devise some other and more effective method of making contact with the powers-that-be. March the men back to the ship, sergeant major.”

“Very well, sir.” Bidworthy saluted, swung around, clicked his heels, opened a cavernous mouth. “Patro-o-ol!…right form!”