'On the first coach. Which, I believe, takes off in an hour.'
'And you will return?'
'Only Sigmen knows. When my investigation and the report are finished.'
'Report to me at once when you return.'
'I beg your pardon again, but I can't do that. My M.R. will be long overdue by then, and I am compelled to clear that out of the way before I do anything else. That may take hours.'
Olvegssen scowled and said, 'Yes, your M.R. You didn't do so well on your last, Yarrow. I trust your next shows some improvement. Otherwise . . .'
Suddenly, Hal felt hot all through his body, and his legs quivered.
'Yes, abba?'
His own voice sounded weak and distant. Olvegssen made a steeple of his hands and looked at Yarrow over the tip.
'Much as I would regret it, I would be forced to take action. I can't have a man with a low M.R. on my staff. I'm afraid that I...'
There was a long silence. Hal felt the sweat trickling down from his armpits and the beads forming on his forehead and upper lip. He knew that Olvegssen was purposely hanging him in suspense, and he did not want to ask him anything. He did not want to give the smug gray-haired gimel the satisfaction of hearing him speak. But he did not dare seem to be uninterested. And, if he did not say anything, he knew that Olvegssen would only smile and dismiss him.
'What, abba?' said Hal, striving to keep a choking sound from his voice.
' I'm very much afraid that I could not even allow myself the leniency of merely demoting you to secondary school teaching. I would like to be merciful. But mercy in your case might only be enforcing unreality. And I could not endure the possibility of that. No...'
Hal swore at himself because he could not control his trembling.
'Yes, abba?'
'I am very much afraid that I would have to ask the Uzzites to look into your case.'
'No!' said Hal loudly.
'Yes,' said Olvegssen, still speaking behind the steeple of his hands. 'It would pain me to do that, but it would be unshib not to. Only by seeking their help could I dream correctly.'
He broke the steeple of his hands, swung around in his chair so his profile was to Hal, and said, 'However, there is no reason that I should have to take such steps, is there? After all, you and you alone are responsible for whatever happens to you. Therefore, you've nobody to blame but yourself.'
'So the Forerunner has revealed,' said Hal. 'I will see that you are not pained, abba. I will make certain that my gapt has no reason to give me a low M.R.'
'Very good,' said Olvegssen as if he did not believe it. 'I will not hold you up by examining your letter, for I should have a duplicate in today's mail. Aloha, my son, and good dreaming.'
'See real, abba' said Hal, and he turned and left. In a daze of terror, he scarcely knew what he was doing. Automatically, he traveled to the port and there went through the process of obtaining priority for his trip. His mind still refused to function clearly when he got onto the coach.
Half an hour later, he got off at the port of LA and went to the ticket office to confirm his seat on the coach to Tahiti.
As he stood in the ticket line, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He jumped, and then he turned to apologize to the person behind.
He felt his heart hammer as if it would batter through his chest.
The man was a squat broad-shouldered potbellied fellow in a loose, jet black uniform. He wore a tall, conical, shiny black hat with a narrow rim, and on his chest was the silvery figure of the angel Uzza.
The officer leaned forward to examine the Hebrew numbers on the lower rim of the winged foot Hal wore on his chest. Then he looked at a paper in his hand.
'You're Hal Yarrow, shib,' said the Uzzite. 'Come with me.'
Afterward, Hal thought that one of the strangest aspects of the business was his lack of terror. Not that he had not been scared. It was just that the fear was pushed far down into a corner of his mind while the greater part devoted itself to considering the situation and how to get out of it. The vagueness and confusion that had filled him during his interview with Olvegssen and that had lasted long afterward now seemed to dissolve. He was left cold and quick-thinking; the world was clear and hard.
Perhaps, it was because the threat given by Olvegssen was distant and uncertain, whereas being taken into custody by the Uzzites was immediate and certainly dangerous.
He was taken to a small car on a strip by the ticket building. Here he was ordered into the seat. The Uzzite with him also got in, and he set the controls for his destination. The car rose vertically to about five hundred meters and then shot, sirens screaming, toward its destination. Hal, though not in a humorous mood, could not help reflecting that cops had not changed in the last thousand years. Even though no emergency warranted, the guardians of the law must make noise.
Within two minutes, the car had entered a port of a building at the twentieth level. Here the Uzzite, who had spoken not a word to Hal since the initial conversation, gestured to him to get out. Hal had not said anything either because he knew that it would be useless.
The two walked up a ramp and then through many corridors filled with hurrying people. Hal tried to keep the route straight just in case he was able to escape. He knew that flight was ridiculous, that he could not possibly get away. Also, he had no reason as yet to think that he would be in a situation where running was the only way out.
Or so he hoped.
Finally, the Uzzite stopped before an office door which bore no legend. He jerked his thumb at it, and Hal walked in ahead of him. He found himself in an anteroom; a female secretary sat behind a desk.
'Angel Patterson reporting,' said the Uzzite. 'I have Hal Yarrow, Professional LIN-56327.'
The secretary relayed the information through a speaker, and a voice came from the wall telling the two to enter.
The secretary pressed a button, and the door swung open.
Hal, still in the lead, walked in.
He was in a room large by the his standards, larger even than his classroom or his whole puka in Sigmen City. At its far end was a huge desk whose top curved like a crescent or a pair of sharp horns. Behind it sat a man, and the sight of the man shattered Hal's calm composure. He had expected a gapt of high rank, a man dressed in black and wearing a conical hat.
But this man was not an Uzzite. He was clad in flowing purple robes with a cowl over his head, and on his chest was a large golden Hebrew L, the lamedh. And he had a beard.
He was among the highest of the high, a Urielite. Hal had seen his kind only a dozen times in his life and only once before in the flesh.
He thought, Great Sigmen, what have I done? I'm doomed, doomed!
The Urielite was a very tall man, almost half a head higher than Hal. His face was long, his cheekbones protruding, his nose large, narrow, and curved, his lips thin, and his eyes pale blue with a slight internal epicanthic fold.
Behind Hal, the Uzzite said in a very low voice, 'Halt, Yarrow! Stand at attention! Do everything the Sandal-phon Macneff says, without hesitation and with no false moves.'
Hal, who would not have thought of disobeying, nodded his head.
Macneff looked at Yarrow for at least a minute, meanwhile stroking his bushy brown beard.
Then, after making Hal sweat and quiver inwardly, Macneff finally spoke. His voice was surprisingly deep for such a thin-necked man.