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of records in any manner not definitely authorized by localstatute. The sergeant went through it, getting full value from eachword.

  At last his finger came away from the page.

  "Those are private records, you're talking about. On this planet, thelaw protects corporate records to the fullest extent. We'd have tohave positive evidence that an incriminating document was inexistence. We'd have to define its location and content within fairlynarrow limits. Then we'd have to go before a local determinator andrequest 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'tactually incriminating, the injured corporation could slap us with ajuicy 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 ofgalactic citizens." He looked pointedly at the insigne on Stan'spocket, then held out a tablet.

  "Here. Suppose you sit down over there at that table and write out thecomplaint 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 youthink you could do anything then?"

  "If you can bring in documentary evidence, that'll make a case; we'lltake action, of course. That's what we're here for." The sergeanttapped impassively on the tablet.

  "Want to make a written statement?"

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

  As he turned away, he thought he noticed a faint flicker ofdisappointment on the sergeant's face before the man bent over hisdesk.

  * * * * *

  He hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked back into thePersonnel building.

  At first, there was a dull resentment--a free-floating rage--whichfailed to find focus, but sought for outlet in any direction.

  The trouble was, he thought, in the formal way of doing things. Itdidn't really matter, he told himself, whether anything really gotdone 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 alldirections at once. There were too many targets and it was a torturingpressure, rather than a dynamic force.

  He thought of his brief explosion, then grunted in self-ridicule. He'dimplied he could just pick up Sornal's record file, bring it in, andthrow it before that sergeant. And for just a flash, he'd reallythought of it as a simple possibility.

  "Maybe," he told himself, "one of those Special Corpsmen could dosomething 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--allwithout remembering his actions.

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

  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 anda 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 spelledout 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 oneof 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 theFederation Building a few minutes ago?"

  Stan tried to lift a hand in a casual gesture, but it seemed stuck tothe chair. He exerted more force, then twisted his body. But his armsand legs refused to move away from the upholstery. Mauson smiled.

  "Just a little precaution, Stanley. A gravito unit, you see. It may beunnecessary, 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 theFederation Building."

  Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. Heforced a grin to his face.

  "Lunch," he said casually. "The Interstellar Room has a reputation allover Talburg, you know." He laughed easily.

  "Truth is, I got sort of homesick. Got a sudden urge to have a gooddish 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 todo 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 hishead. "He was just suffering from--"

  Mauson coughed dryly. "I have a report on that, too. You fed him sometea, 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 readthat and went directly to the Federation Building. Now, I'm not acompletely stupid man. Don't try to make me believe you just wantedsome 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 littlecoy. Suppose you reason with him."

  "Pleasure."

  Wizow strode forward to stand over the chair. He struck one hand intothe palm of the other, twisting his wrist at each blow. For the firsttime 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 timeI saw you, and you haven't done a thing to change that firstimpression.

  "Thought you had something funny about you, the way you've alwayscoddled the workmen. Looked as though you were running some sort ofpopularity contest." Again, he punched his palm.

  "And then, there were those suggestions of yours. Smart words--alwayspushing the wrong people off balance, like other staffmen." The smilebecame one-sided.

  "You know, you haven't made yourself too popular around here. Not withthe people that count. I've been getting complaints.

  "A good staffman doesn't act the way you do. Good man sees to it theworkers work. They don't have to like him--they just get on the jobwhen he's around. Know what'll happen if they slack off.

  "And a good staffman leaves the thinking to guys that get paid to doit. 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. Aheavy 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 theheavy face empty.

  He tried to raise his hand again, then gave a little sob of hopelessrage and moved back, one slow, reluctant step at a time, until he waswedged 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 wasremoved.

  "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 faceshowed strain. Stan went around Mauson's desk.

  "I said a little power." He reached