Paying off the taxi, he tramped across the gravel parking lot of the field, down, the street until he arrived at a syndrome of life: a restaurant doing an active business, full of patrons and noise and chatter. Feeling like a fool he buttoned his coat up around him and strode through the doorway to the cashier.

"Put up your hands, lady," he said, jutting out his pocket. "Before I put a McAllister heat beam through your head."

The girl gasped, raised her hands, opened her mouth and gave a terrified bleat. Patrons at nearby tables glanced up in disbelief.

"Okay," Allen said, in a normally-loud voice. "Now let's have the money. Push it across the counter before I blow out your brains with my McAllister heat beam."

"Oh dear," the girl said.

From behind him two Other World police wearing helmets and crisp blue uniforms appeared and grabbed his arms. The girl flopped out of sight and Allen's hand was yanked from his pocket.

"A noose," one cop said. "A super-noose. It's troublemakers like this ruin a clean neighborhood."

"Let go of me," Allen said. "Before I blow off your heads with my McAllister heat beam."

"Buddy," one of the cops said, as they dragged him from the restaurant, "this cancels the Resort's obligations to succor you. You've shown your unreliability by committing a felony."

"I'll blow all of you to bits," Allen said, as they bundled him into the police car. "This heat beam talks."

"Get his ident." A cop snatched Allen's wallet. "John B. Coates. 2319 Pepper Lane. Well, Mr. Coates, you've had your chance. Now you're on your way back to Morec. How does that sound?"

"You won't live to send me back," Allen said. The car was sprinting toward the field, and the big ship was still there. "I'll get you. You'll see."

The car, flying a foot above the gravel, turned onto the field and made directly for the ship. The siren came on; field attendants stopped work and watched.

"Tell them to hold it," one of the cops said. He got out a microphone and contacted the field's tower. "Another super-noose. Open up the fleebee."

In a matter of seconds the car had come alongside the ship, the doors had united, and Allen was in the hands of the ship's sheriff.

"Welcome back to Morec," a run-down fellow super-noose muttered, as Allen was deposited beside him in the restricted area.

"Thanks," Allen said, with relief. "It's good to be back." Now he was wondering if he would reach Earth by Sunday. On Monday morning his job at Telemedia started. Had he lost too much time?

Whoosh, the floor went. The ship was rising.

CHAPTER 15

The trip began Wednesday night, and by Sunday night he was back on Earth. The notation was arbitrary, of course, but the interval was real. Tired, sweaty, Allen emerged from the ship and back into the Morec society.

The field was not far from the Spire and his housing unit, but he balked at the idea of walking. It seemed unnecessarily strict; the supplicants in Other World showed no sign of degeneracy because they rode busses. Going into a phone booth at the field he called Janet.

"Oh!" she gasped. "They released you? You're—all right?"

He asked: "What did Malparto tell you?"

"They said you had gone to Other World for treatment. They said you might be there several weeks."

Now it made even more sense. In several weeks he would have lost his directorship and his status in the Morec world. After that it wouldn't matter if he discovered the hoax or not; without a lease, without a job, he would fairly well have to remain on Vega 4.

"Did he say anything about you joining me?"

There was a hasty flutter from the phone. "Y-yes, he did. He said you'd adjust to Other World, but if you couldn't adjust to this, then—"

"I didn't adjust to Other World. Just a lot of people lounging around sun-bathing. Is that Getabout still there? The one I rented?"

Janet, it developed, had returned the Getabout to the rental outfit. The charge was steep, and the Health Resort had already begun to tap his salary. Somehow that seemed to complete the outrage: the Resort, in the guise of helping him, had kidnapped him, and then billed him for services rendered.

"I'll get another." He started to hang up, then asked: "Has Mrs. Frost been around?"

"She phoned several times."

"That sounded ominous. "What'd you tell her? That my mind gave out and I fled to the Resort?"

"I said you were winding up your aflairs [sic] and couldn't be disturbed." Janet breathed huskily into the phone, deafening him. "Allen, I'm so glad you're back. I was so worried."

"How many pills did you swallow?"

"Well, quite a few. I—couldn't sleep."

He hung up, dug out another quarter, and dialed Sue Frost's personal number. After a time she answered... the familiar calm, dignified voice.

"This is Allen," he said. "Allen Purcell. I just wanted to check with you. Things coming along all right at your end?"

"Mr. Purcell," she said harshly, "be at my apartment in ten minutes. This an order is!"

Click.

He stared at the dead phone. Then he left the phone booth and started walking.

The Frost apartment directly overlooked the Spire, as did the apartments of all Committee Secretaries. Allen took a reassuring breath and then climbed the stairs. A clean shirt, a bath, and a long rest would have helped, but there was no time for luxuries. And he could, of course, pass his appearance off as the effects of a week or so spent closing down business; he had been slaving night and day at the Agency, trying to get all the loose ends to come out. With that in mind he rang Mrs. Frost's doorbell.

"Come in." She stood aside and he entered. In the single room sat Myron Mavis looking weary, and Ida Pease Hoyt looking grim and formal.

"Hello," Allen said, with a strong sense of doom.

"Now," Mrs. Frost said, coming around in front of him. "Where have you been? You weren't at your Agency; we checked there a number of times. We even sent a bonded representative to sit in with your staff. A Mr. Priar is operating Allen Purcell, Inc. during your absence."

Allen wondered if he should lie or tell the truth. He decided to lie. The Morec society couldn't bear the truth; it would punish him and keep on going. And somebody else would be named Director of T-M, a creature of Blake-Moffet.

"Harry Priar is acting administrator," he said. "As Myron here is acting Director of T-M until I take over. Are you trying to say I've been on salary the last week?" That certainly wasn't so. "The understanding was clear enough: I go to work next Monday, tomorrow. This past week has been my own. T-M has no more claim over me this past week than it had last year."

"The point—" Mrs. Frost began, and then the doorbell sounded. "Excuse me. This should be them now."

When the door opened Tony Blake from Blake-Moffet entered. Behind him was Fred Luddy, a briefcase under his arm. "Good evening, Sue," Tony Blake said agreeably. He was a portly, well-dressed man in his late fifties, with snow-white hair and rimless glasses. "Evening, Myron. This is an honor, Mrs. Hoyt. Evening, Allen. Glad to see you back."

Luddy said nothing. They all seated themselves, facing one another, swapping tension and hauteur. Allen was acutely aware of his baggy suit and unstarched shirt; by the minute he looked less like an overworked businessman and more like a college radical from the Age of Waste.

"To continue," Mrs. Frost said. "Mr. Purcell, you were not at your Agency as your wife told us. At first we were puzzled, because we believed there was going to be mutual confidence between us. It seemed odd that a situation of this sort, with you dropping mysteriously out of sight, and these vague evasions and denials by your—"