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tab."
    They walked back into the vault and Hammond had a better look at the aisles filled with filing cabinets and rolling ladders. Dust was conspicuous by its absence. "Went on a clean-up campaign after that St. Louis fire," said the chief. "These are the only remaining files on umpteen-zillion inactive personnel. Costs too much to convert to microfilm, so we're pretty careful about..." He trailed off as they reached the F files. The chief climbed one of the ladders, opened a drawer, thumbed through the folders, and pulled one out.
    He came down the ladder in a jump. It was Fletcher's file again, but when he opened it there was no red flag. "Guess it hasn't come back from upstairs yet," ventured the chief. "Wanna check back tomorrow?"
    "No." He stared at Fletcher's file a moment and then asked, "You wouldn't remember seeing another flag like that on someone else's file recently, would you?"
    The chief closed his eyes tolerantly, then asked, "Do you know how many files we've got in this place, sir?"
    "Yes. Umpteen-zillion." Hammond paused. "Just answer the question."
    "Yes...and no. I've seen flags, yes, but on whose file, sorry."
    "Red flags?"
    "Sure. There was one last week—"
    Hammond's eyes flashed and brought the chief up short. "Those other papers I filled out," said Hammond. "You keep them here?"
    "One set."
    "Well?"       
    The chief grunted angrily and led him back to the reception room. He yanked open one of his own files and started thumbing through papers. Hammond waited patiently. The chief pulled out a form copy and held it up.
    "Yup. This's the one. I remember the name. Yablonski."
    Hammond took the form and read it quickly. "This was three weeks ago. Your memory's better than you think, Chief. C.L. Yablonski, Seaman First Class, USN, Retired. Requested to see his records on twenty-seven September."
    "He was worried about something," added the chief. "That's how come I remember him so well."
    Hammond eyed him dryly. "I want to see his file."
    They went back to the Y's and the chief found it without any trouble. He popped it open and inside was a four-by-five red card: a flag. Hammond drew it out and looked at the lines typed on one side:
     
    9805CGN-166
    YABLONSKI, C.L.
    2194557
     
    Yablonski's name and serial number. The top line Hammond couldn't figure out. That had to be the routing code. "Any idea what these numbers are?" he asked the chief.
    "No, sir. But that was on the other guy's card, too. Now that I think about it, the same stuff appears on a lot of those red flags."
    "Why did Mr. Yablonski want to see his file?"
    The chief shrugged. "Don't have to give a reason. Any man who wants to see his own records just has to ask."
    Hammond nodded and looked through Yablonski's file. Immediately, he noticed a similarity to Fletcher's. Entry into service in 1951, separation in 1955. The actual dates were different but close enough. Yablonski's four years were spent piloting heavy cruisers out of the Boston Naval Base. According to these records, he had never been at Philadelphia either. Hammond wondered what had prompted Yablonski to check into his service record at this time.
    Was it possible there were two men running around suffering from Naval nightmares? And how had Yablonski reacted on seeing the entry under Remarks on his Page-5 document: "Transferred to Inactive Reserve 11 May 1955"?
    "I want copies of all this." Hammond returned the folder along with the form Yablonski had filled out to examine it. The chief never saw Hammond remove the red flag and pocket it.
    "Where do I find this computer we've been talking about?" Hammond asked. "The one that gets all the flags."       
    "Fourth floor. This wing. Room B-418. Central Personnel Assistance."
    "Thanks, Chief. You've been a peach. I'll send over a purple heart."
    The chief grunted, past caring.
     
    Hammond took the elevator up to four and located Room B-418. He was passed through a lobby into a temperature-controlled computer complex, a