Alarm Clock

: Alarm Clock

Most useful high explosives, like ammonium nitrate, are

enormously violent ... once they're triggered. But they will

remain seemingly inert when beaten, burned, variously

punished--until the particular shock required comes

along....







Many years had passed since the original country rock had been broken,

cut and set, to form solid pavement for the courtyard at Opertal

Prison. And over those years the stones had suffered change as

countless feet, scuffing and pressing against once rough edges, had

smoothed the bits of rock, burnishing their surfaces until the light

of the setting sun now reflected from them as from polished mosaic.



As Stan Graham crossed the wide expanse from library to cell block,

his shoe soles added their small bit to the perfection of the age-old

polish.



He looked up at the building ahead of him, noting the coarse,

weathered stone of the walls. The severe, vertical lines of the mass

reminded him of Kendall Hall, back at the Stellar Guard Academy. He

smiled wryly.



There were, he told himself, differences. People rarely left this

place against their wishes. None had wanted to come here. Few had any

desire to stay. Whereas at the Academy--



How, he wondered, had those other guys they'd booted out really felt?

None had complained--or even said much. They'd just packed their gear

and picked up their tickets. There had been no expression of

frustrated rage to approach his. Maybe there was something wrong with

him--some unknown fault that put him out of phase with all others.



He hadn't liked it at all.



His memory went back to his last conversation with Major Michaels. The

officer had listened, then shaken his head decisively.



"Look, Graham, a re-examination wouldn't help. We just can't retain

you."



"But I'm sure--"



"No, it won't work. Your academic record isn't outstanding in any area

and Gravitics is one of the most important courses we've got."



"But I don't see how I could have bugged it, sir. I got a good grade

on the final examination."



"True, but there were several before that. And there were your daily

grades." Michaels glanced at the papers on his desk.



"I can't say what went wrong, but I think you missed something, way

back at the beginning. After that, things got worse and you ran out of

time. This is a pretty competitive place, you know, and we probably

drop some pretty capable men, but that's the way it is."



"Sir, I'm certain I know--"



"It isn't enough to know. You've got to know better than a lot of

other people."



Michaels got to his feet and came around the desk.



"Look, there's no disgrace in getting an academic tossout from here.

You had to be way above average to get here. And very few people can

make it for one year, let alone three or four."



He raised a hand as Stan started to speak.



"I know. You think it looks as though you'd broken down somehow. You

didn't. From the day you came here, everyone looked for weaknesses. If

there'd been a flaw, they'd have found it--and they'd have been on you

till you came apart--or the flaw disappeared. We lose people that

way." He shrugged.



"You didn't fall apart. They just got to you with some pretty rough

theory. You don't have to bow your head to anybody about that."



* * * * *



Stan looked at the heavily barred door before him.



"No," he told himself, "I don't suppose I'm the galaxy's prize boob,

but I'm no high value shipment, either. I'm just some guy that not

only couldn't make the grade, but couldn't even make it home without

getting into trouble."



He pushed the door aside and went into the building, pausing for an

instant between two monitor pillars. There was no warning buzz and he

continued on his way through a hallway.



He barely noticed his surroundings. Once, when he had first been

brought here, he had studied the stone walls, the tiny, grilled

windows, the barred doors, with fascinated horror. But the feeling had

dulled. They were just depressingly familiar surroundings now.



He stopped at a heavy metal grill and handed a slip through the bars.

A bored guard turned, dropped the paper into a slot, then glanced at a

viewplate. He nodded.



"All right, forty-two ninety. You're on time. Back to your cell." He

punched a button and a gate slid aside.



Stan glanced at the cell fronts as he walked. Men were going about

their affairs. A few glanced at him as he passed, then looked away.

Stan closed his eyes for an instant.






That much hadn't changed. At school, he had never been one with any of

the cadet groups. He had been accepted at first, then coolly

tolerated, then shunted to the outer edges.



Oh, he'd had his friends, of course. There were those other oddballs,

like Winton and Morgan. But they'd gone. For one reason or another,

most of them had packed up and left long before he'd had his final

run-in with the academic board.



And there had been Major Michaels. For a while, the officer had been

warm--friendly. Stan could remember pleasant chats--peaceful hours

spent in the major's comfortable quarters. And he could remember

parties, with some pretty swell people around.



Then the older man had become a forbidding stranger. Stan had never

been able to think of a reason for that. Maybe it was because of the

decline in his academic work. Maybe he'd done something to offend.

Maybe--



He shook the thoughts away, walked to a cell door, and stood waiting

till the guard touched the release button.



* * * * *



As Stan tossed his books on his bunk, Jak Holme raised his head and

looked across the cell.



"More of them books?"



"Yeah." Stan nodded. "Still trying to find out about this planet."



"You trying to be some kinda big politician when you get out?" Holme

snorted.



"Tell you, be better you try mixing with the guys, 'stead of pushing

'em around with that fancy talk, making 'em jump now and then, see.

You get along with 'em, you'll see. They'll tell you all you need. Be

working with some of 'em, too, remember?"



"Oh, I don't try to push anybody around." Stan perched on his bunk.

"Doesn't hurt anyone to study, though."



"Oh, sure." Holme grimaced. "Do you a lot of good, too. Guy's working

on some production run, it helps a lot he knows why all them big guys

in the history books did them things, huh?" He laughed derisively.



"Sure it does! What they want, you should make that fabricator spit

out nice parts, see?" He swelled his chest.



"Now me, I got my mind on my business, see. I get out of here, I

oughta make out pretty good." He looked around the cell.



"Didn't get no parole, see, so I get all the training. Real good

trained machinist now, and I'm gonna walk out of here clean. Get a job

down at the space-yards.



"Machinist helper, see? Then, soon's I been there a while, I'll get my

papers and go contract machinist. Real good money. Maybe you'd do

better, you try that."



* * * * *



From the lower bunk, Big Carl Marlo laughed softly.



"Sure, kid, sure. You got it all made, huh? Pretty quick, you own

Janzel Equipment, huh? Hah! Know what happens, you go outside?



"Sure, they give you a job. Like you said, helper. They pay enough you

get a pad and slop to keep you alive. That's all you get."



"Aw, now listen!" Holme started up.



Marlo wagged his head. "You go for papers, see? Naw! Got no papers for

jailbirds. Staffman'll give you the word. He gets through pushing you

around, you go back, 'counta you don't know nothing else."



He laughed shortly.



"Gopher, that's you. You go fer this, and you go fer that. Slop and a

pad you get." He swung out of his bunk.



"Oh, sure, maybe they put you on a fabricator. Even let you set it up

for 'em. But that don't get you no extra pins."



Holme shook his head.



"Councilor gave me the word," he said stubbornly. "They need good

machinists."



"Yeah." Marlo nodded. "Sure, they want graduates down at Talburg. But

they ain't paying 'em for no contract machinist when they can keep 'em

as helpers." He turned.



"Ain't that right, Pete?"



Karzer looked up from a bag he was packing.



"Yeah, yeah, that's right, Carl. I know a few guys once, tried playing

the legit. Got kicked around, see? Low pay. Staffman hammering on 'em

all the time. Big joke when they try to get more for themselves.



"Yeah, big joke. They get blamed, they bust something, see, so they

owe the company big money." He looked critically at a pair of socks.



"So they get smart after a while. Dusted around the corner and went

back on the make. Do better that way, see?



"Naw, they give you a lot of guff, you go to work outside, work hard,

keep your nose clean, you come out of parole and you're in the money.

It's sucker bait, is all. Don't go like that, see."



Marlo came closer to Holme.



"Naw, you go out clean, see, just like you say. Then you play it easy.

Get a good score and lay back for a while. Don't go pushing your luck.



"That's how they hook me, see. I get too hungry. Get a nice touch, it

looks so good I gotta go back for seconds, and they're waiting. I

don't make that mistake again." He shook his head.



"Got me a nice pad, way up valley. Gonna hole up there. Go out, pull a

good job, then I lay around, maybe a year and think up another. Then,

when I'm all ready, I go out, pull a can or two open and lift what

they got back to the pad. Ain't gonna be no more of this scuffling

around, hitting a quick one and running out to spend the pins quick,

so's I can get in no traps."



He looked at Holme thoughtfully.



"I just now think of something, kid. You can make yourself a nice bit,

real easy. Don't cost hardly nothing to set up and there ain't much

risk. You work more'n a year, learning all about tools, huh? They

teach you all about making tools, huh?"



"Sure." Holme laughed shortly. "Got to make all your own hand tools

before you get through. Why?"



Marlo grinned broadly.



"I could tell you a lotta guys, need real special tools. Need tools

you don't buy in no store, like maybe a good can opener a guy can

carry easy. And they pay real good, you make what they want and keep

your mouth shut." He rubbed his chin.



"Nice," he went on. "Real nice. And all you need is maybe a few tools

you can buy anywhere. And maybe you gotta build up a little forge. Guy

knew his way around, he could make a nice pile that way."



Stan looked at the man thoughtfully.



"Sounds interesting," he broke in, "but suppose they find some

fabricator operator out in the woods, heating up metal instead of

working on a regular job? They'd be curious, don't you think?

Especially if the guy's already picked up a record."



"Naw." Marlo turned toward him. "So he's a graduate--who ain't? See,

they show this guy up here, he's supposed to be a fabmeister. Only

maybe he don't like punching keys. Maybe he don't like to chase them

meters, huh? So maybe he'd rather use muscle hardware, see?" He

grinned.



"Some guy sets himself up a shack up valley, see? Starts a fixit

joint. Looks real legit. Even with muscle hardware, he can put out

jobs faster'n them people can get parts from way down Talburg way,

see.



"And he gets in with the joes, too. They got their troubles getting

things made up for 'em. So this guy gives them a hand. Even working

cheap, he picks up some change there, too, and one way or another, the

guy's got a living, see?" He glanced back at Holme.



"Only now and then, here comes a few guys in the back door, they want

a special job, see, for real special pay. And there's your ice cream

and cake. And maybe a little stack for later on."



"I don't know." Stan picked up a book. "I'd rather try playing 'em on

the table for a while. It might beat getting flashed and dropped back

in."



Big Carl shrugged and crawled back into his bunk.



"Aagh, can happen to anybody," he said. "Just keep this under your

hair. Smart kids like you can make out pretty good, you just use your

heads. Ain't nothing down Talburg way, though." He yawned.





"Well, I've had it. Got into it with that Wanzor again, out on the

pile. Give one of them joes a boost, he gets three meters high." He

yawned again and turned toward the wall.



* * * * *



Stan flipped the pages of the book. He had still been unable to put

his finger on the point at which Kellonia had ceased to be a planet of

free citizens and become the planetary prison he had found himself on.



There had been no sudden change--no dramatic incident, such as the

high spots in the history of his native Khloris. Here, things had just

drifted from freedom to servitude, with the people dropping their

rights as a man discards outworn clothing.



He leaned back, lowering the book. Kell's planet, he remembered, had

been one of the first star colonies to be founded after the discovery

of the interstellar drive. Settlers had flocked to get passage to the

new, fertile world.



During the first three hundred years, people had spread over the

planet, but the frontier stage had passed and the land of promise had

stabilized, adopted laws, embraced the arts and sciences. One by one,

frontier farms had given way to mechanized food-producing land,

worked by trained technical teams and administered by professional

management.



Kellonia had entered the age of industrialized culture, with the large

individual owner a disappearing species.



Unnoticed and unregretted, the easy freedom of the frontier was

discarded and lost. One by one, the rights enjoyed by the original

settlers became regarded as privileges. One by one, the privileges

were restricted, limited by license, eliminated as unsuitable or even

dangerous to the new Kellonian culture.



Little by little, the large group became the individual of law and

culture, with the single person becoming a mere cipher.



Members of groups--even members of the governing council itself--found

themselves unable to make any but the most minor decisions. Precedent

dictated each move. And precedent developed into iron-hard tradition.



In fact, Stan thought, the culture seemed now to be completely

self-controlled--self-sustaining. The people were mere cells, who

conformed--or were eliminated.



Again, he picked up the book, looking casually through its pages.

Detail was unimportant here. There was, he realized with a feeling of

frustration, only a sort of dull pattern, with no significant detail

apparent.



* * * * *



He awoke a little groggily, looked around the cell, then jumped

hastily out of his bunk. Usually he was awake before the bell rang.



Pete Karzer was coming back from the washstand. He looked over.



"You up, Graham?" he said in his whispery voice. "Hey, you know I'm

getting out this morning. Guess you'll want to swap blankets again,

huh?"



"That's right, too. No use turning in a good blanket, is there?"



"Don't make sense." Pete massaged the back of his neck.



"Never could figure that swap," he said. "Don't get me wrong, it was

real good, being able to sleep warm, but you caught me good when I

tried to swipe that blanket of yours. Ain't never seen a guy move so

quick. And I ain't so dumb I don't know when I'm licked." He grinned

ruefully.



"So I'm down, like I been hit with a singlejack. Then you go and hand

over a good blanket for that beat thing I been using. How come?"



Stan shrugged. "I told you," he said. "Where I come from, it's a lot

colder than it is here, so I don't need a blanket. I'd have offered a

swap sooner, but I didn't want to look like some greasy doormat."



"Wasn't no grease about that swap." Pete grinned and rubbed his neck

again. "I found out real quick who was the big man. Where'd you learn

that stuff anyway?"



"Oh, picked it up--here and there." Stan glanced down at the floor.



There would be no point in explaining the intensive close combat

training he'd been put through at school. Such training would make no

sense to his cellmates. To the good citizens of Kellonia, it would

seem horrifyingly illegal. He glanced up again.





"You know how it is," he went on. "A guy learns as he goes."



Big Carl Marlo swung his legs over the side of his bunk.



"Looks like you learned real good," he said. He examined Stan.



"Pete tells me about this deal. I kinda miss the action this time, but

Pete tells me he's got the blanket and he's all set to plug you good,

you should maybe try a hassle.



"Only all at once, you're on him. He feels a couple quick ones, then

he don't know nothing till next day. You can maybe do things like that

any time?"



Stan shrugged. "Guy never knows what he can do till he tries. I know a

few other tricks, if that's what you mean."



Marlo nodded. "Yeah. Know something, kid? Ain't no use you waste your

time being no fabricator nurse. You got a good profesh already, know

what I mean?"



Stan looked at him questioningly.



"Sure." Marlo nodded. "So you come here, like maybe you're a tourist,

see. But the joes get you and they bring you up here. Going to teach

you a trade--fabricator nurse, see. Only they don't know it but you're

one guy they don't have to teach, 'counta you got something better.

All you gotta do is find your way around."



"I have? Do you really think...."



"Sure. Look, there's a lot of antique big-timers around, see. These

old guys figure they need some guy can push the mugs. Pay real good,

too, and they couldn't care less you're a graduate. Maybe makes it

even better, see. You get in with one of those old guys, you got it

made. All legit, too. Oughta look into that, you get out."



Stan smiled. "The first day I was on this planet, they went through my

bags while I was out looking over the town. They found a paper knife

and a couple of textbooks." He shrugged.



"So I came back to the hotel and someone hit me with a flasher. I came

to in a cell." He glanced around.



"Somebody finally told me they'd given me two to five years for

carrying a dangerous weapon and subversive literature. Now what would

I get if I went out and really messed some guy up?"



Marlo waved a hand carelessly.



"Depends on who you work for," he declared. "You got the right boss,

you get a bonus. Worse the guy's gaffed, the bigger the payoff, see?"



Stan reached for his bag of toilet articles.



"That's legitimate?"



"Sure." Mario smiled expansively. "Happens all the time. Even the big

outfits need musclers. Staffmen, see? Sorta keep production up.



"Lot of guys get real big jobs that way. Start out, they're Staff

Assistance Specialists, like they roust the mugs when they got to.

Then pretty quick, they're all dressed up fancy, running things. Real

good deal." He shrugged.



"Need a heavy man once in a while, even in my business. Like maybe

some guy's got a good pad, he doesn't want a lot of prowlers shaking

up the neighbors. You know, gets the law too close, and a guy can't

work so good with a lot of joes hanging around. Might even decide to

make a search, then where'd you be?" He spread his hands.



"But there's some Johnny Raw, keeps coming around. And maybe this is a

pretty rough boy, you can't get on him personal, see. So the only

answer, you get some good heavy guy to teach this ape some ethics.

Lotta staffmen pick up extra pins this way."



"I think I get the idea. But suppose the law gets into this deal?"



Marlo spread his hands. "Well, this is a civil case, see, so long as

the chump don't turn in his ticket. So, anything comes up, you put an

ambassador on the job. He talks to the determinators and the joes

don't worry you none. Just costs a little something, is all."



Pete looked up from his packing, a smile twisting his face.



"Only trouble, some of these big boys fall in love with their work.

This can get real troublesome, like I pick up this five to ten this

way.



"See, they get this chump a couple too many. So, comes morning, he's

still in the street. Real tough swinging a parole, too. I'm in here

since five years, remember? So I'm real careful where I get muscle any

more."



"Sounds interesting." Stan nodded thoughtfully.



"Great Space and all the little Nebulae," he said to himself. "What

kind of a planet is this? Nothing in the histories about this sort of

thing." He walked over to the washstand.



"Some day," he promised himself, "I'm going to get out of here. And

when I do, I'll set up camp by Guard Headquarters. And I'll needle

those big brains till they do something about this."



There was, he remembered, one organization that should be able to do

more than a little in a case like this. He smiled to himself ruefully

as he thought of the almost legendary stories he had heard about the

Federation's Special Corps for Investigation.



As he remembered the stories, though, corpsmen seemed to appear from

nowhere when there was serious trouble. No one ever seemed to call

them in. No one even knew how to get in touch with them. He shrugged.



The men of the Special Corps, he remembered, were reputed to be

something in the superhuman line.



For a large part of his life, he had dreamed of working with them, but

he had been unable to find any way of so much as applying for

membership in their select group. So, he'd done the next best thing.

He'd gone into the Stellar Guard. And he'd lasted only a little more

than three years.



Somehow, he'd taken it from there. He was still a little hazy as to

how he'd managed to land in prison on Kell's planet. It had been a

mere stopover.



There had been no trial. Obviously, they had searched his luggage at

the hotel, but there had been no discussion. He'd simply been beamed

into unconsciousness.



After he'd gotten to Opertal, someone had told him the length of his

sentence and they'd assigned him to the prison machine shop, to learn

a useful trade and the duties of a citizen of Kellonia.



He smiled wryly. They had taught him machinery. And they'd introduced

him to their culture. The trade was good. The culture--?



* * * * *



His memory slid back, past the prison--past the years in Kendall Hall,

and beyond.



He was ten years old again.



It was a sunny day in a park and Billy Darfield was holding forth.



"Yeah," the boy was saying, "Dad told me about the time he met one of

them. They look just like anyone else. Only, when things go wrong,

there they are, just all at once. And when they tell you to do

something, you've had it." He closed his eyes dreamily.



"Oh, boy," he said happily, "how I'd love to be like that! Wouldn't it

be fun to tell old Winant, 'go off some place and drown yourself'?"



Stan smiled incredulously. "Aw, I've heard a lot about the Special

Corps, too. They've just got a lot of authority, that's all. They can

call in the whole Stellar Guard if they need 'em. Who's going to get

wise with somebody that can do that?"



Billy shook his head positively. "Dad told me all about them, and he

knows. He saw one of 'em chase a king right off his throne once.

Wasn't anybody to help him, either. They've got all they need, all by

themselves. Just have to tell people, that's all."



* * * * *



With a jerk, Stan came to the present. He slopped water over his

hands.



"Too bad I can't do something like that myself," he thought. "I'd like

to tell a few people to go out and drown themselves, right now." He

grinned ruefully.



"Only one trouble. I can't. Probably just a lot of rumor, anyway."



But there was something behind those stories of the Special Corps, he

was sure. They didn't get official publicity, but there were pages of

history that seemed somehow incomplete. There must have been someone

around with a lot more than the usual ability to get things done, but

whoever he had been, he was never mentioned.



He shrugged and turned away from the washstand.



"Hope that bell rings pretty soon," he told himself. "I'd better get

chow and go to work before I really go nuts."






A demonstrator had the back off from one of the big Lambert-Howell

sprayers. As the man started to point out a feed assembly, another

prisoner stepped directly in front of Graham.



Stan shook his head impatiently and moved aside. Again, the man was in

front of him, blocking his view. Again, Stan moved.



The third time the man blocked his view, Stan touched his shoulder.



"Hey, Chum," he said mildly, "how about holding still a while. The

rest of us would sort of like to see, too."



For several seconds, the other froze. Then he whirled, to present a

scowling face.



"Who you pushing around, little rat? Keep your greasy paws to

yourself, see." He turned again, then took a sudden, heavy step back.



Stan moved his foot aside and the man's heel banged down on the stone

floor. For a heartbeat, Stan regarded the fellow consideringly, then

he shook his head.



"Stay in orbit, remember?" he told himself. He moved aside, going to

the other side of the group around the fabricator.



Now he remembered the man. Val Vernay had been working on the

fabricators when Stan had come to the shop.



Somehow, he had never run an acceptable program, but he hung around

the demonstrations, unable to comprehend the explanations--resentful

of those who showed aptitude.



He glanced aside as Stan moved, then pushed his way across until he

was again in front of the smaller man. Stan sighed resignedly.



Again, the heavy foot crashed toward the rear. This time, the

temptation was too great. Deftly, Stan swung his toe through a small

arc, sweeping Vernay's ankle aside and putting the man off balance.



He moved quickly away, further trapping the ankle and getting clear of

the flailing arms.



For a breathless instant, Vernay tried to hop on one foot, his arms

windmilling as he fought to regain his balance. Then he crashed to the

floor, his head banging violently against the stones.



Stan looked at the body in consternation. He had merely intended to

make the fellow look a little silly.



"Hope he's got a hard head," he told himself.



The workroom guard came up warily.



"What's all this?"



"I don't know, sir." Stan managed a vaguely puzzled look. "First thing

I knew, he was swinging his arms all over the place. Then he went

down. Maybe he had a fit, huh?"



"Yeah." The guard was sardonic. "Yeah, maybe he had a fit. Well, no

more trouble out of him for a while." He raised his voice.



"Hey, you over by the first-aid kit. Grab that stretcher."



Big Carl Marlo was in his bunk when Stan came into the cell. He looked

up with a grin.



"Hey, kid, you start at the top, huh?"



"What do you mean?"



"This Vernay, what else? Like I said, you start at the top. I didn't

think you got it when I told you about the muscle racket. How'd I know

you was already figuring something?" Marlo shook his head admiringly.



"Real nice job, too. You take it easy, set this chump up, and there

you are. Only you get a real big fish. Think you can handle this guy

again?"



Stan blinked. "Look," he said, "punch in some more data, will you? And

run it by real slow. I'm way off co-ordinates."



"Huh? What you--Oh, I get you." Marlo frowned.



"Now don't go telling me you don't know about this Vernay. Don't give

me you ain't figured how you can land a big job with Janzel Equipment.

You know me--Big Carl. I don't talk, remember?" He looked at the blank

expression on Stan's face.



"Besides, there ain't a guy in the walls, don't figure this deal by

now. Man, you just don't know how many guys been watching that

Vernay."



Stan walked across the cell and sat down on his bunk.



"Look," he said patiently, "let's just say I'm some stupid kid from

off planet. Maybe I don't get things so well. Now, what's this all

about?"



Marlo shrugged. "So all right, but for some guy don't know what he's

doing, you sure pick 'em pretty. Well, anyway, here's the layout.



"See, this guy, Vernay, is one of Janzel's big strong-arms. Real salt

and butter guy. Been pushing them poor apes of theirs all over the

place, see. Don't know too much about the business, but they tell him

some mug's not putting out, Vernay goes over and bends the guy around

his machine a while, he should maybe work faster. See what I mean?"



Stan frowned distastefully and Marlo held up a hand.



"Oh, that's all right," he said. "This is what they pay this guy for.

But he gets to like his work too well, know what I mean? So here a

while back, he gets on some machine tender. Leans all over this poor

guy. Well, the fab nurse ends up turning in his tickets, and this, the

joes don't go for so good." He jerked a shoulder.



"Oh, Janzel tries to kill the squawk, but it's no go. The joes push

the button and here's Vernay." He grinned.



"They manage to get it knocked to some kinda manslaughter, but

Vernay's still got time to pick up, so they pull wires and get him up

here. It ain't no rest home, but it ain't no madhouse neither, like

some of them places." His eyes clouded.



"Oogh, when I think of some of the holes--" He waved a hand.



"So anyway, like you see, Vernay's got plenty of muscle, but he's kind

of low in the brain department. Maybe they thought something might

drill through the skull up here, but that don't work either. I guess

Janzel'd about as soon get another pretty boy, but they know they'll

lose too much face, they dump him right away.



"Then you come along and just about split the chump's conk just so's

he'll stay out of your light, see?" He shook his head slowly.



"Only thing, that don't solve nothing. He comes out of the bone-house

in a couple days, and he ain't gonna like you at all. See what I

mean?"



"Yeah." Stan examined his fingernails.



"Yeah," he repeated. "You make it all nice and clear." He got up and

went to the washstand.



"Whatcha gonna do, Georgie, boy?" he chanted. "Guess I'll just have to

give him a free lesson in breakfalls. He won't like it too well, but

he could use lots of practice."



* * * * *



It took Vernay more than a couple of days to get out of the hospital.

As time went by, Stan became more and more conscious of the

speculative looks he was getting from prisoners and guards alike.



He stood watching, as a maintenance engineer tore into the vitals of a

Lambert-Howell. Around him was space--a full meter on all sides. It

was, he realized, a distinction--symbolic accolade for anyone who had

the temerity to down a man like Vernay. It was also a gesture of

caution. No one was anxious to block the view of a man who had downed

a vicious fighter with an unobtrusive gesture. And no one was anxious

to be too close when Vernay might come by.



What sort of man was Vernay, Stan wondered. Of course, he was familiar

with the appearance of the tall, blond. He could easily visualize the

insolent, sleepy looking eyes--the careless weave of the heavy

shoulders. And he'd heard a lot about the man's actions.



But these could mean anything. Was the man actually as clumsy and

inept as he'd seemed? Was he simply a powerful oaf, who relied on pure

strength and savagery? Or was he a cunning fighter, who had made one

contemptuously careless mistake?



"Well," the maintenance man was saying, "that's the way you set those

upper coils. Remember, each one has its own field angle, and you've

got to set 'em down to within a tenth of a degree. Otherwise, you'll

never get a sharp focus and your spray'll make a real mess." He swept

his glance over the group.



"You use the manual when you set these things up," he added. "Don't go

depending on your memory. You can play some pretty dirty tricks on

yourself that way." He looked thoughtfully at the array of coils.



"And don't go using any gravito clamps around these things when the

back's off. They don't like it. It makes 'em do nasty things." He

flipped his wrist up, looking at his watch.



"All right, that's it. Let's go eat." He snapped a cover back in place

and swung down from the catwalk.



Stan turned away. No tools to put away tonight, he thought. Didn't

need 'em all afternoon. He smiled. And no column to fall into, either.

This was the weekly free night.



He walked out of the shop, following a group of prisoners through the

archway into the main yard. Another small group followed him, keeping

a decent interval behind.



Someone drew a sharp breath.



"Hey, look! Over there."



Stan followed the direction indicated by a dozen abruptly turned

heads. Vernay was lounging in the shadow of the archway. He smiled

tigerishly and sauntered toward Stan. The group of prisoners melted

away, to form a rough semicircle. From somewhere, others were

appearing.



"So all right, little rat," Vernay said softly, "you've had a lot of

fun these last few days, eh? Big man around the yard, huh? Yeah! Well,

it's going to stop." He massaged his right hand with the thumb and

fingers of his left, then stretched out his arms, flexing his fingers.



"Real smart little fella," he added. "Knows all kinds of little

tricks. Got anything to say before I open you up for inspection?"



Stan faced him, his feet a few inches apart, his knees slightly bent.

He folded his arms without interlacing them.



"Look, Vernay," he said. "I'm not looking for any fight, but if you

force one, I'll break you all to pieces. I didn't mean to bust your

head the first time, but I can do it on purpose if I have to. Why

don't we just forget it?"



Vernay looked dazed for an instant, then recovered and laughed

derisively.



"You trying to crawl out and still look good? No, no. You made your

brags. Now we'll have a little dance." He took a step forward.



"Come on, baby, just stay there. I'm going to unscrew your head."



He came closer, then reached out, his hand open.



Stan looked at the hand incredulously. No one could be that careless.

For an instant, he almost spun away from a suspected trap. Then he

decided the man was in no position for a counter. A try for a simple

hand hold couldn't do a bit of harm.



His right hand darted up, gripping the outstretched hand before him.

He jerked down, clamped the hand with his left, then pressed up and

took a quick step forward.



With a startled cry of pain, Vernay spun around and bent toward the

ground. Stan carried the motion through with a sudden surge that

forced the big man's face almost to the stones. Abruptly, Vernay

twisted and kicked, trying to tear away. There was a ripping noise and

he screamed thinly, then slumped to the pavement.



Stan looked down at him in bewilderment. It had been too easy, he

thought. Something had to be wrong. The imprisoned hand twitched and

was flaccid. He let it go and stepped back.



For a few seconds, Vernay lay quietly, then he struggled into violent

motion. He scrambled to get to his feet, his left hand groping at his

belt. Stan caught the glint of polished steel. He stepped quickly

around the man, poising himself.



It was no use, he thought. This would have to be decisive. He brought

his two hands up to his shoulder, then swung them like an axe,

stepping into the swing as Vernay got his feet under him.



The impact of the blow brought Vernay to a standing position. As the

man stood swaying, Stan swung his hands again.



Vernay's back arched and for an instant he was rigid. Then he stumbled

forward, to pitch against the wall.



Briefly, he was braced upright against the wall, his left hand high on

the stones, the scalpel glittering. Then the hand relaxed and the

sliver of steel clattered to the paving. Slowly, the man slid down, to

melt into a shapeless heap in the gutter.



Stan sighed, then shook his head and wiped an arm across his eyes.



There was a concerted sigh behind him.



"Go ahead, kid," someone muttered. "Give him the boots. Big phony

hadda go trying a knife."



Stan turned. "No use," he said wearily. "I just hope he's still

alive."



"I don't get it," said someone. "He wants this guy alive?"



Someone else laughed shortly. "Maybe he just likes to make it tough on

himself. Hey, look out! The joes."



As the crowd faded into the nowhere from whence most of it had come, a

guard approached Stan warily.



"Now, look, Graham," he said cautiously, "I gotta throw you in the

hole. You know that, huh?"



Stan nodded listlessly.



"Yeah," he said. "I suppose so."



"Look, fellow, it won't be too long. He jumped you, so they'll have

you out of there real soon." The guard was apologetic.



"Besides, they'll probably offer you his job at Janzel. Get you clear

out of here. Only don't give me a hard time. All you'll get is both of

us flashed."



"Yeah, I know." Stan held out an arm. "Come on, let's go."



* * * * *



Stan watched as the chief test engineer waved a hand.



"Two hundred twenty gravs," the man said. "Full swing completed on

both axes. That's it. Ease off your tractors."



He looked closely at his panel of meters, then got off his stool and

stretched.



"No evidence of strain. Looks as though all components are good." He

turned, looking at the test operators.



"Let's get this place cleaned up."



The sense of disorientation set up by the tractors was subsiding. Stan

got to his feet and looked at his companion.



Dachmann nodded at him.



"Well," he said slowly, "Golzer can get off the hook now. His run'll

be approved. Suppose we get back on the job."



He led the way out of the blockhouse tunnel.



A car was pulling up at the entrance. A heavy, square face looked from

a rear window and a large hand beckoned.



"Dachmann, Graham. Over here."



"Oh, oh." Dachmann sighed. "Here's trouble. Wizow doesn't come out

here unless he's got something."



The blocky production chief looked coldly at them as they approached

the car.



"It'll be a lot better," he growled, "if you two clear through my

office before you start wandering all over the grounds." He looked at

Stan.



"Got a problem for you. Maybe we'll get some action out of you on this

one." He held out a few sheets of paper.



"Hold up over in the components line." He jabbed at a sheet with a

forefinger.



"Take a trip over there and kick it up." He glanced at Dachmann. "Got

another one for you."



Stan took the papers, studying them. Then he looked up. There was very

little question as to the bottleneck here. Each material shortage

traced back to one machine. He frowned.



"Maintenance people checked over that machine yet?" he asked.



Wizow shrugged impassively. "You're a staffman," he said coldly.

"Been on parole to us long enough, you should know what to do, so I'm

not going to tell you how. Just get to the trouble and fix it. All I

want is production. Leave the smart talk to the technical people." He

turned.



"Get in, Dachmann. I've got a headache for you."



Stan examined the tabulated sheets again. The offending machine was in

building nine thirty-two. Number forty-one.



He walked over to the parking lot and climbed on the skip-about he had

bought on his first pay day. The machine purred into life as he

touched a button and he raised the platform a few inches off the

ground, then spun about, to glide across the field toward block nine.



* * * * *



Fabricator number forty-one was a multiple. A single programming head

actuated eight spinaret assemblies, which could deliver completed

module assemblies into carriers in an almost continuous stream. It was

idling.



Stan visualized the flow chart of the machine as he approached. Then

he paused. The operator was sitting at the programming punch,

carefully going over a long streamer of tape. Stan frowned and looked

at his watch. By this time, the tapes should be ready and the machine

in full operation. But this man was obviously still setting up.



He continued to watch as the operator laboriously compared the tape

with a blueprint before him. There was something familiar in the

sharp, hungry-looking features. The fellow turned to look closely at

the print and Stan nodded.



"Now I remember," he told himself. "Sornal. Wondered what happened to

him. Never saw him after the first day up in Opertal."



Sornal came to the end of the tape, then scrabbled about and found the

beginning. He commenced rechecking against the print. Stan shook his

head in annoyance.



"How many times is he going to have to check that thing?" he asked

himself. He walked toward the man.



"Got trouble?"



Sornal looked up, then cringed away from him.



"I'll get it going right away," he whined. "Honest! Just want to make

sure everything's right."



"You've already checked your tape. I've been watching you."



Sornal flinched and looked away.



"Yeah, but these things is tricky. You get some of this stuff out of

tolerance, it can wreck a whole ship. They got to be right."



"So, why not a sample run-through? Then you can run test on a real

piece."



"This is a very complicated device. Can't check those internal

tolerance without you put in on proof load. These got to be right the

first time."



Stan shook his head wearily.



"Look. Get up. I'll give your tape a run-through, then we'll pull a

sample and check it out. Got a helper?"



"Some place around here." Sornal got out of his chair and stood,

looking at the floor.



Stan picked up the tape and sat down.






"All right, go find him then. And bring him over here while I run out

the sample. We can make with the talk after that."



* * * * *



The tape was perfect, with neither patch nor correction. Stan finally

raised his head, growling to himself.



"Guy's competent enough at programming, anyway. Now, what's wrong with

him?"



He snapped the power switch from stand-by to on, then waited as the

indicators came up. Delicately, he turned a couple of microdrive dials

till the needles settled on their red lines. Then he opened the

control head, poked the tape in, and punched the starter lever.



The tape clicked steadily through the head. Stan kept his eyes moving

about as he checked the meters.



The tape ran out of the head and dropped into the catcher basket and

hydraulics squished as a delivery arm set a small block on the sample

table. Stan picked it up, turning it over to examine it.



It was a simple, rectangular block of black material, about the size

of a cigarette lighter. On five sides were intricate patterns of

silvery connector dots. An identifying number covered the sixth.

Inside, Stan knew, lay complex circuitry, traced into the insulation.

Tiny dots of alloy formed critical junctions, connected by minute,

sprayed-in threads of conductor material. He glanced around.



Sornal watched anxiously. He looked at the little module block as

though it were alive and dangerous.



"Here," Stan told him, "stick this in the test jig and run it."



Sornal carefully set the block into an aperture, then reached for a

switch. His hand seemed to freeze on the switch for a moment, then he

looked back at Stan and snapped it on. Needles rose from their pins,

flickered, then steadied.



Sornal appeared to gain a little confidence. He turned a dial, noted

the readings on a few meters, then twisted another dial. Finally, he

faced around.



"Looks all right," he said reluctantly, "only--"



"Looks all right, period." Stan turned to the helper.



"Get that machine rolling," he ordered. "And keep your eyes on those

meters. Let's get this run finished right." He moved his head.



"Come on, friend, I'll buy you a mug of tea."



Sornal backed away.



"You ain't gonna--Look, ain't I seen you some place before? Look, I

just--"



"I said I'd buy you a mug of tea. Then, we'll talk, and that's all. I

mean it."



"I just got outta--Listen, I can't take it so good any more, see?"



"Don't worry. We aren't going to have any games this morning. Come on,

let's go."



When Sornal started talking, the flow of words was almost continuous.



He had come to Kellonia almost four years before, on a standard

one-year contract. For over twenty years, he'd moved around, working

in space-yards over the galaxy. He'd worked on short contracts,

banking his profits on his home planet. And he'd planned to finally

return to his original home on Thorwald, use his considerable savings

to buy a small business, and settle down to semi-retirement.



But an offer of highly attractive rates had brought him to Kellonia

for one last contract with Janzel.



"They got my papers somewhere around here," he said, "only I can't get

'em back any more." He shook his head wearily and went on.



Everything had gone smoothly for the first half of his contract

period. He'd drawn impressively large checks and deposited them. And

after thinking it over, he had indicated he would like an extension.



"That was when they nailed me down," he said. "There was just that one

bad run, only that was the job that sneaked through the inspection and

went bust at Proof."



"Blowup?"



Sornal grinned sourly.



"Blowup, you want to know? Even took out one of the tractor supports.

Real mess. Oh, you think they weren't mad about that!"



"You say there was just one bad run? Then everything came out normally

again?"



"Yeah. I ran a check, see? Test sample was perfect Beautiful. So then

the power went off for a while. Crew was working around. Well, they

found the trouble and cleared it, just before lunch time. I went ahead

and finished my run. It was only ten gyro assemblies--control job.



"I don't know--guess they were out of balance. Maybe the shaft alloys

came out wrong. Anyway, I finished the run and went for chow. Came

back and set up a new run."



He stared into his cup.



"Along about quitting time, they came after me. Mister, I don't like

to think of that! I been beat up a lot since, but them's just little

reminders. Those guys really enjoyed their work!"



Sornal shuddered and set his cup down. Finally, he sighed and

continued.



He had left the hospital, muttering grim threats of the legal action

he would take. And he'd limped over to file a complaint at the

Federation Residency.



"I didn't get there. Next thing I knew, I was in some cell." He looked

up at Stan.



"Now I know where I see you. You're in that van, going out of some

jail."



"Yeah." Stan nodded, looking at his own empty cup.



"Tell me something," he said slowly. "When that maintenance crew was

working around your machine, did they have a gravito clamp!"



"Clamp? Yeah ... yeah, I suppose they might have. Use 'em a lot around

here when they've got heavy stuff, and those guys had a lot of stuff

to move."



"I see. Wonder if the field head got pointed at your machine?"



"I don't think ... I dunno, I didn't watch 'em close." Sornal looked

sharply at Stan.



"You mean, they mighta--"



"Well, what could cause a temporary misflow?"



"Yeah!" Sornal bobbed his head slowly. "Funny I didn't think of that."



"So anyway, you went up to Opertal?"



"Yeah. Had me for evasion of obligation. Said I owed the company

plenty for the damage done by the blowup. Claimed I'd tried to run

out.



"They wouldn't let me in the machine shop up there. Had me out hauling

stuff for the landscape crew. Then, they paroled me back here. Back to

the machines again, only I ain't a contract man any more. Junior

machinist. Oh, it's better than helper, I guess, only they don't pay

much." Sornal pushed himself away from the table.



"I'm going to be real careful with my work from now on," he said.

"They got me for quite a while, but that sentence'll run out one of

these days. I'll get me out of parole and pay off that claim, then I'm

getting out of here. They aren't hanging another one on me."



"Only one trouble," Stan told him. "You're getting so careful, you're

setting yourself up."



"Huh?"



"Yeah. They'll tack you down for malingering if you don't watch it."

Stan got to his feet.



"Tell you what you do. Run things just as you did when you were a

contract man. Only one thing--if any crew comes around, pull a sample

after they leave. And check it. You know how to check for magnetic and

gravitic deviations. Do that, then go ahead with your run. Now go back

to your machine. I'm going to do a little work."



He strode out of the refreshment room, watched Sornal as he took over

the production run, then swung around and walked over to the Personnel

office.



"Like to see the package on a man named Sornal," he told the clerk.



The man hesitated. "We aren't supposed to release a whole file. I can

look up any specific information for you."



Stan frowned. "Don't argue with me. I want to see this guy's package.

Need his complete history. Now get it."



The clerk started to make an objection, then turned and went to the

files. He flipped an index, then punched a combination of numbers on

his selector. Finally, he came back with a folder.



Stan took it and flopped it open on the counter.



"All right, now just stay here while I go through this. I'll give it

back in a few minutes."



He looked through the records, looking closely at one exhibit.



"Wow!" he told himself silently.



"Eleven thousand, six hundred ninety-two interstells. Only way he'll

ever pay that off is by making a big dent in his savings."



He flipped the paper over, noting the details of the determination of

responsibility.



As he examined the payroll data, he nodded. It all balanced out

nicely. They'd get several years of production out of the man for bare

subsistence.



"Very neat," he told himself.



He closed the folder and handed it back to the clerk.



"All right, that's all I need." He glanced at the clock.



"Guess I'll check out for lunch."



He walked out of the office. This one, he thought, could be broken

wide open by a Guard investigation. Sornal would get his freedom, and

there might be sizable damages.



"Now it would be nice," Stan muttered, "if I could work out something

for myself."



* * * * *



The Guard sergeant was an old-timer--and a methodical man. He listened

impassively, then reached under his desk. For a few seconds, his hand

was hidden, then he picked up a pen.



"Now, let's get this straight. What did you say your name was?"



"Graham. Stanley Graham. I--"



The sergeant had pulled a form to him. He bent over, writing slowly.



"Graham, Stanley. All right. Now, where do you live?"



One by one, he went through the maze of blanks, insisting on getting

no other information than that called for by the specific space he was

working on. Finally, he put down the pen and leaned back.



"All right, now how about this other man you mention?" He pulled

another form to him.



Stan was becoming a trifle impatient. He answered the questions on

Sornal, managing to furnish information for most of the blank spaces

on the sergeant's form.



The man dragged a still different form to him.



"All right, now what's this exact complaint?"



Stan went through Sornal's history, quoting figures and dates from the

Personnel files he had read. The sergeant listened noncommittally,

stopping him frequently to get repetitions.



At last, he looked up.



"Got any documents to back up this story?"



Stan coughed impatiently.



"No, of course not. I can't pull a file out of Personnel and just

carry it up here. It's on file, though. I just got through reading the

working file and there's a private file on the guy, too, that would

really bust things wide open."



The sergeant smiled sourly.



"Maybe it would. I suppose they'd pull it right out and hand it over,

too."



He spun his chair around and fished a book from a shelf behind his

desk.



"Here." He put the book on the corner of the desk. "Here is the

regulation on this sort of situation."



He pointed out words, one at a time.



It was a long regulation, filled with complex terminology. It forbade

seizure of records in any manner not definitely authorized by local

statute. The sergeant went through it, getting full value from each

word.



At last his finger came away from the page.



"Those are private records, you're talking about. On this planet, the

law protects corporate records to the fullest extent. We'd have to

have positive evidence that an incriminating document was in

existence. We'd have to define its location and content within fairly

narrow limits. Then we'd have to go before a local determinator and

request authority for an examination of that document."



He slammed the book shut.



"And if we failed to find the document in question, or if it wasn't

actually incriminating, the injured corporation could slap us with a

juicy damage claim." He looked at Stan coldly.



"If you want, I can get the local statute and let you look that over,

too." He paused briefly and non-expectantly.



"On the other hand, we are obligated to protect the interests of

galactic citizens." He looked pointedly at the insigne on Stan's

pocket, then held out a tablet.



"Here. Suppose you sit down over there at that table and write out the

complaint in your own handwriting. I'll pass it along."



Stan looked at the tablet for a moment.



"Oh--Suppose I manage to get copies of the records on this. Do you

think you could do anything then?"



"If you can bring in documentary evidence, that'll make a case; we'll

take action, of course. That's what we're here for." The sergeant

tapped impassively on the tablet.



"Want to make a written statement?"



"Skip it," Stan told him wearily, "I don't want to waste any more

time."



As he turned away, he thought he noticed a faint flicker of

disappointment on the sergeant's face before the man bent over his

desk.



* * * * *



He hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked back into the

Personnel building.



At first, there was a dull resentment--a free-floating rage--which

failed to find focus, but sought for outlet in any direction.



The trouble was, he thought, in the formal way of doing things. It

didn't really matter, he told himself, whether anything really got

done or not--so long as an approved routine was followed.



Only the wrong people used direct, effective methods.



The anger remained nondirectional, simply swelling and surging in all

directions at once. There were too many targets and it was a torturing

pressure, rather than a dynamic force.



He thought of his brief explosion, then grunted in self-ridicule. He'd

implied he could just pick up Sornal's record file, bring it in, and

throw it before that sergeant. And for just a flash, he'd really

thought of it as a simple possibility.



"Maybe," he told himself, "one of those Special Corpsmen could do

something like that, but I don't see any of them around, trying it."



He looked around, startled. Somehow, he had passed the gate,

identified himself, parked the skip-about, and come inside--all

without remembering his actions.



"Well," he asked himself, "what do I do now? Just become some sort of

thing?"



He walked into the outer office and a clerk looked up at him.



"Oh, Mr. Graham. The chief wants to see you." She touched a button and

a gate opened.



"You know the way."



"Yes. I do. Wonder what he wants."



The woman shook her head and returned to her work.



"He didn't say. Just said to tell you to see him when you came in."



Stan walked through the short corridor, stopping in front of a door.

Down in the corner of the pebbled glass, neat, small letters spelled

out the name--H. R. Mauson.



He tapped on the glass.



"Come in." The Personnel chief glanced up as the door opened.



"Oh, Stanley. Sit down."



Stan lowered himself to the padded seat, then leaned back. It was one

of those deep armchairs which invite relaxation.



The official touched a button, then leaned forward.



"Tell me, Stanley," he said gently, "what were you doing in the

Federation Building a few minutes ago?"



Stan tried to lift a hand in a casual gesture, but it seemed stuck to

the chair. He exerted more force, then twisted his body. But his arms

and legs refused to move away from the upholstery. Mauson smiled.



"Just a little precaution, Stanley. A gravito unit, you see. It may be

unnecessary, but you do have a reputation for a certain--shall we say,

competence. Although you have never demonstrated your abilities here,

I see no reason for taking foolish chances." His smile faded.



"Now, suppose you tell me all about that visit you made to the

Federation Building."



Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. He

forced a grin to his face.



"Lunch," he said casually. "The Interstellar Room has a reputation all

over Talburg, you know." He laughed easily.



"Truth is, I got sort of homesick. Got a sudden urge to have a good

dish of delsau. It's a sort of preserve we really enjoy at home."



"Now, now." Mauson closed his eyes. "Try again. You should be able to

do better than that." He tapped at some notes.



"You were assigned to straighten out that man, Sornal, weren't you?"



"Yes. I was, and I did." Stan found he had enough freedom to move his

head. "He was just suffering from--"



Mauson coughed dryly. "I have a report on that, too. You fed him some

tea, talked for a while, then left him."



Again, he tapped at his notes.



"Then you came here and demanded the man's Personnel file. You read

that and went directly to the Federation Building. Now, I'm not a

completely stupid man. Don't try to make me believe you just wanted

some exotic food."



He poked a switch.



"Wizow, will you step in here, please?"



"Yes, Mauson?" The blocky production chief loomed through a door.



He glanced at Stan.



"Oh. You got him in here, then?"



"Yes. Oh, he came in by himself. But now, he's trying to be a little

coy. Suppose you reason with him."



"Pleasure."



Wizow strode forward to stand over the chair. He struck one hand into

the palm of the other, twisting his wrist at each blow. For the first

time since Stan had known him, he had a faint smile on his face.



"I don't like you, Graham," he said. "I didn't like you the first time

I saw you, and you haven't done a thing to change that first

impression.



"Thought you had something funny about you, the way you've always

coddled the workmen. Looked as though you were running some sort of

popularity contest." Again, he punched his palm.



"And then, there were those suggestions of yours. Smart words--always

pushing the wrong people off balance, like other staffmen." The smile

became one-sided.



"You know, you haven't made yourself too popular around here. Not with

the people that count. I've been getting complaints.



"A good staffman doesn't act the way you do. Good man sees to it the

workers work. They don't have to like him--they just get on the job

when he's around. Know what'll happen if they slack off.



"And a good staffman leaves the thinking to guys that get paid to do

it. He follows established procedure."



He leaned close to Stan, frowning.



"What are you? Some kind of Federation plant?"



Abruptly, his right hand flashed out, to crash against Stan's cheek. A

heavy finger trailed across one eye, bringing a sudden spurt of tears.

The hand moved back, poised for a more solid blow.



Stan's head bounced back against the chair, then forward again.






And the diffuse fury in him coalesced and burst into novalike flame.

It had a single target. It focused. He glared at the big man.



"Those hands," he snapped. "Get them to your side!



"Now, get over into that corner. Move when I tell you!"



For an instant, Wizow stood immobile. The frown faded, leaving the

heavy face empty.



He tried to raise his hand again, then gave a little sob of hopeless

rage and moved back, one slow, reluctant step at a time, until he was

wedged into a corner of the room.



"That's good," Stan told him. "Now stay there. And keep quiet."



He turned toward Mauson.



"You. Turn off that gravito unit. Then sit still."



He pushed himself out of the chair as the constraining force was

removed.



"Now," he growled, "you can kick it in again. Give it a little power,

too, while you're at it." He wheeled around.



"All right," he snapped at Wizow, "turn around. Get into that chair."



He watched as the big body was pressed into the cushions. Wizow's face

showed strain. Stan went around Mauson's desk.



"I said a little power." He reached down and gave the gravito control

an abrupt twist.



Wizow's mouth popped open, agony showing in his eyes. Stan grinned

tightly and eased off on the knob.



"I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said. "Might

be interesting to see what kind of an assembly job they did on you.

But we'll just leave you this way. All you've got to do is keep quiet.

You're deaf, dumb, and blind, you understand?" He turned on Mauson.



"Now, for you--" His voice trailed off.



The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had been

cut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.



These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed. He

didn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was point his

finger. They'd jump. He shook his head.



"Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little forceful.

Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked calculatingly at

Mauson.



"Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your car

over here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone snapping

at us with flashers." His voice hardened.



"Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that car."



* * * * *



As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.



"All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to the

Federation Building, swing into the official driveway."



The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.



He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd first

come here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And he's been

unable to understand the indefinable warning he'd felt. But now--he'd

looked beneath the surface.



The car slowed. A guard was flagging them down at the building

entrance. Stan touched a window control.



"Stand aside, Guardsman," he ordered. "We're coming in." He flicked

the window control again.



"Keep going, driver," he ordered. "You can let us out inside. Then

find a place to park, and wait."



Another guard came toward them as the car rolled to a stop.



"Hey," he protested, "this is--"



Stan looked at him coldly.



"Which way to the Guard commander's office?"



The man pointed. "Elevator over there. Fifth floor. But--"



"I didn't ask for a story. Get our driver into a parking space and

keep him there." Stan turned to Mauson.



"All right. Get out."



He shepherded the man into the elevator and out again. In the hall, he

glanced around, then walked through a doorway.



A middle-aged guardsman looked at him inquiringly.



"Can I do something for you gentlemen?"



"Yes. We want to see the commander."



The guardsman smiled. "Well, now, perhaps--"



Stan looked at him sternly.



"I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see the

commander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"



The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel. Then

he turned.



"This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room, then

tapped at a door on the other side.



"Yes?"



The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to place

it.



"Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."



"Oh? Well, bring them in."



Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could get

these people to take Mauson before a determinator. His statements

would furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of Janzel's

Personnel files.



He jerked his head at Mauson.



"Inside."



He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.



A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.



"Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could make

it."



"Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.



The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "Special

Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out of

the Academy in the first couple of years."



He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point at

Mauson.



"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva.

Graham and I have some talking to do."



"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.



"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.



"Come on, you. March."



Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.



"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handling

that one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to.



Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.



"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."



"But I've got--"