``Dammit, Phil, are you trying to wreck my career? Because that's what you're doing -- wrecking it, wrecking it, wrecking it!'' Griffith had confronted Hoag on the building's front steps -- Hoag had been permitted no further -- and backed him against a wrought-iron railing. His rage had built up as he made his way here from the second floor, helped by the quantity of champagne he had consumed.

Hoag said, ``I didn't send for you, Leigh. I want the captain in charge. Where is he?''

``Phil, for God's sake, go away. The undersecretary's in there. I told you there's nothing between Midge and me, nothing. It's all in your mind.'' A couple of sobs escaped him, followed by a sentiment that revealed his emotional state. ``Why, I'm not fit to touch the hem of her garment.''

``Leigh, get a grip on yourself. It's not about you or Midge. I have some security information about the prime minister.''

Griffith looked at him suspiciously through red-rimmed eyes. ``Not about me? You mean it, Phil? You wouldn't pull my leg, old man? I did get you on the platform this morning.''

``I'm not pulling your leg. Will you call that captain?''

``No use, he wonn't come.'' He peered closely at Hoag in the gathering darkness. ``What happened to your head?''

``I was hit -- knocked out. Now will you get him?''

``He says I'm to take the message.'' He stared at Hoag drunkenly. ``Who'd hit you in the head?''