"Very well, then," said Bernard; and it was almost a threat. Their permit required the signature of the Warden of the Reservation, at whose office next morning they duly presented themselves. An Epsilon-Plus negro porter took in Bernard's card, and they were admitted almost imrnediately. The Warden was a blond and brachycephalic Alpha-Minus, short, red, moon-faced, and broad-shouldered, with a loud booming voice, very well adapted to the utterance of hypnopaedic wisdom. He was a mine of irrelevant information and unasked-for good advice. Once started, he went on and on-boomingly.