device was permitted, except the big audio-visual camera in front,
which made the single permanent record. Going around the room
counterclockwise to the seats of his faction, he encountered two other
Lancedale men: Gerald K. Toppington, of the Technological Section,
thin-faced, sandy-haired, balding; and Franklin R. Chernov, commander
of the local Literates' guards brigade, with his ragged gray mustache,
his horribly scarred face, and his outsize tablet-holster almost as
big as a mail-order catalogue.

"What's Joyner-Graves trying to do to us, Frank?" Chernov rumbled
gutturally.

"It's what we're going to do to them," Cardon replied. "Didn't the
chief tell you?"

Chernov shook his head. "No time. I only got here fifteen minutes ago.
Chasing all over town about that tip from Sforza. Nothing, of course.
Nothing from Sforza, either. The thing must have been planned weeks
ago, whatever it is, and everybody briefed personally, and nothing on
disk or tape about it. But what's going to happen here? Lancedale
going to pull a rabbit out of his hat?"

Cardon explained. Chernov whistled. "Man, that's no rabbit; that's a
full-grown Bengal tiger! I hope it doesn't eat us, by mistake."

Cardon looked around, saw Lancedale in animated argument with a group
of his associates. Some of the others seemed to be sharing Chernov's
fears.

"I have every confidence in the chief," Toppington said. "If his