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power, decided that he’d heard quite enough. He stood up and faced Mr. Sweet. “Who the blazes do you think you are?” Everyone around the table collectively gasped.
    â€œJohn!” the defence secretary snapped. “Sit down.”

    The young general would not be stopped. “I’m ashamed of you all.” He looked around the table at the sheepish faces of the general staff. He turned back to the agents. “You can’t just waltz in here and start making demands of the American military. This is a democracy! We don’t answer to anyone but the American president, and he answers to the American people.”
    Mr. Sweet turned to face the young general. “What a quaint little speech. You, sir, do not know the truth of things. The ODA has provided many services for which the American government can never possibly repay us. In turn, we may use your resources as we see fit. Your president won his office using money from our coffers and he answers to us. These men are ours to command as we wish.”
    The young general’s face reddened. “I won’t stand for it! Do you hear me? I’m going to tell the world.”
    Mr. Candy stepped in close to the young military man. He said softly, “You will tell no one anything.” Fast as a striking snake, he whipped off his glove and pressed his open palm to the man’s face. “And you needn’t stand.” From the grey, clammy palm of the agent’s bare hand millions of wormlike filaments sprouted and burrowed into the flesh of the general’s face. The man screamed briefly and then went silent. His entire body went rigid, and as if a switch had been flipped, he slumped back into his chair. Mr. Candy removed his hand from the man’s face.
    Where the general’s eyes had once held intelligence andemotion, they now stared blankly at the ceiling. Drool slid from the corner of his mouth to collect on the lapel of his uniform. The faces of his colleagues around the table were frozen in shock and horror.
    Mr. Candy replaced his glove. The agents looked around the table at the fear they had inspired. They nodded in unison.
    â€œWell, then,” Mr. Sweet said briskly. “We require results.”
    â€œYou may contact us through the normal channels,” Mr. Candy added, and the two agents strode from the room, leaving silence in their wake.
    â€œI hate those guys,” the defence secretary snarled when he was sure the agents were well out of range.
    â€œGuh,” the general barked. A rear admiral seated to his left used her handkerchief to wipe the drool from his chin.
    â€œGet him out of here,” the secretary said. “What am I going to tell the president?”
    THE BLACK ODA HELICOPTER lifted off from the White House lawn and swung out over the Potomac. Mr. Candy aimed the craft north and they set off for Providence, Rhode Island, and the Orphan Disposal Agency Headquarters.
    â€œThis is a very disturbing development, Mr. Candy.”
    â€œIndeed, Mr. Sweet. Indeed.” The two agents flew on in silence as the midday sun struggled unsuccessfully to force its way through the heavy clouds. The windscreen of the helicopter was streaming with rain.

    Their trip back from Windcity had been arduous and humiliating. The ODA had exerted its influence over the Canadian government to divert a military jet to the remote location and extract the bedraggled agents. After a long flight, they were met at the Theodore Francis Green Airport that served Providence.
    A limousine, driven by a junior agent named Miss Taffy, had met them on the runway and whisked them back to the little house on Angell Street that served as headquarters for the sinister ODA. After donning fresh clothing and undergoing a thorough diagnostic treatment, the search for Hamish X and his companions began in earnest, culminating in the fruitless trip to the White House.
    The agents were quite annoyed (or at least as annoyed