The visitor's face froze. All the respect vanished from his manner and
tone; his voice was like ice cakes grating together in a winter river.

"Look, Salgath; this is an Organization order," he said. "You don't
refuse to obey Organization orders, and you don't quit the
Organization. Now get smart, big boy; do what you're told to." He took
a spool of record tape from his pocket and laid it on the desk.
"Outline for your speech; put it in your own words, but follow it
exactly." He stood watching Salgath Trod for a moment. "I won't bother
telling you what'll happen to you if you don't," he added. "You can
figure that out for yourself."

With that, he turned and went out the private door. For a while,
Salgath Trod sat staring after him. Once he put his hand out toward
the spool, then jerked it back as though the thing were radioactive.
Once he looked at the clock; it was just 1600.

* * * * *

The green aircar settled onto the landing stage; Verkan Vall, on the
front seat beside the driver, opened the door.

"Want me to call for you later, Assistant Verkan?" the driver asked.

"No thank you, Drenth. My wife and I are going to a dinner-party, and
we'll probably go night-clubbing afterward. Tomorrow morning, all the
anti-Management commentators will be yakking about my carousing around
when I ought to be battling the Slave Trust. No use advertising myself
with an official car, and giving them a chance to add, 'at public