"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 a.s.signed 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 k.n.o.b.

"I really should spin this thing up to a proof load," he said. "Might be interesting to see what kind of an a.s.sembly 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."