The rhetorical question was answered at once. The voice went on, "No assistance will be furnished to dispersed rebels by the Federation. Relief to refugees must be provided by colonists who have not been dispossessed. When you are liberated you are advised to spread out into the surrounding countryside and seek temporary shelter with farmers and in the smaller villages."

A bitter voice said, "There's your answer, Clara-they don't give a hoot whether we live or die."

The first voice answered, "But how can we get away? We don't even own a gondola."

"Swim, I guess. Or walk on water."

Soldiers came inside and delivered them to the gate in groups of fifty, cutting them out like cowpunchers handling cattle. Don had pushed toward the gate, hoping to spot Isobel during the processing, and got picked up against his will in the second group. He produced his I. D.s when demanded and immediately ran into a hitch; his name did not appear in the city lists. He explained that he had come in on the last trip of the Nautilus.

"Why didn't you say so?" grumbled the soldier doing the checking. He turned and produced another list: "Hannegan... Hardecker... here it is: Harvey, Donald J.-Yikes! Wait a minute-it's flagged. Hey, sarge! This bird has a polit flag against his name."

"Inside with him," came the bored answer.

Don found himself shoved into the guardroom at the gate, along with a dozen other worried-looking citizens. Almost at once he was conducted on into a little office at the rear. A man who would have seemed tall had he not been so fat stood up and said, "Donald James Harvey?"

"That's right."

The man came to him and looked him over, his face wreathed in a happy grin. "Welcome, my boy, welcome! Am I glad to see you!"

Don looked puzzled. The man went on, "I suppose I should introduce myself-Stanley Bankfield, at your service. Political Officer First Class, I.B.I., at the moment special adviser to his excellency, the Governor."

At the mention of the I.B.I., Don stiffened. The man noticed it-his little fat-enfolded eyes seemed to notice everything. He said, "Easy, son! I mean you no harm; I'm simply delighted to see you. But I must say you have led me a merry chase-half around the system. At one point I thought you had been killed in the late lamented Glory Road, and I cried tears over your demise. Yes, sir! real tears. But that's over with, and all's well that ends well. So let's have it."

"Have what?"

"Come, now! I know all about you-almost every word you've uttered back to your babyhood. I've even fed sugar :o your stock pony, Lazy. So hand it over."

Hand what over?"

"The ring, the ring!" Bankfield put out a pudgy hand.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Bankfield shrugged mightily. "I am talking about a plastic ring, marked with an initial 'H', given to you by the late Dr. Jefferson. You see, I know what I am talking about; I know you have it-and I mean to have it. An officer in my own service was so stupid as to let you walk out with it-and was broken for it. You wouldn't want that to happen to me, I'm sure. So give it to me."

"Now I know what ring you are talking about," Don answered, "but I don't have it."

"Eh? What's that you are saying? Where is it, then?"

Don's mind was racing ahead. It took him no time at all to decide not to set the I.B.I. to looking for Isobel-no, not if he had to bite his tongue out. "I suppose it's burned up," he answered.

Bankfield cocked his head on one side. "Donald, my boy, I believe you are fibbing to me-I do indeed! You hesitated just a teeny-weeny bit before you answered. No one but a suspicious old man like myself would have noticed it."

"It's true," Don insisted. "Or, at least, I think it is. One of those monkeys you have working for you set fire to the building just as I left. I suppose the building burnt down and the ring with it. But maybe it didn't."

Bankfield looked doubtful. "What building?"

"Two Worlds Dining Room, at the end of Paradise Alley off the foot of Buchanan Street."

Bankfield moved rapidly to the door, gave orders. "Use as many men as needed," he concluded, "and sift every ounce of ash. Move!" He turned back, sighing. "Mustn't neglect any possibilities," he said, "but now we will go back to the probability that you lied. Why should you have taken off your ring in a restaurant?"

"To wash dishes."

"Eh?"

"I was working for my meals, living there. I didn't like putting it in the hot water so I kept it in my room."

Bankfield pursed his lips. "You almost convince me. Your story holds together. And yet, let us both pray that you are deceiving me. If you are and can lead me to the ring, I would be very grateful. You could go back to Earth in style and comfort. I think I could even promise a moderate annuity; we have special funds for such purposes."

"I'm not likely to collect it-unless they find the ring in the restaurant."

"Dear me! In that case I don't suppose either one of us will go back to Earth. No, sir, I think that in such a case I would find it better to stay right here-devoting my declining years to making your life miserable."

He smiled. "I was joking-I'm sure we'll find the ring, with your help. Now, Don, tell me what you did with it." He put an arm around Don's shoulders in a fatherly fashion.

Don tried to shrug the arm off, found that he could not. Bankfield went on, "We could settle it quickly if I had proper equipment at hand. Or I could do this-" The arm around Don's shoulders dropped suddenly; Bankfield seized Don's left little finger and bent it back sharply. Involuntarily Don grunted with pain.

"Sorry! I don't like such methods. The operator, in an excess of zeal, frequently damages the client so that no truth of any sort is forthcoming. No, Don, I think we will wait a few minutes while I get word to the medical department-sodium pentothal seems to be indicated. It will make you more cooperative, don't you think?" Bankfield stepped again to the door. "Orderly! Put this one on ice. And send in that Mathewson character."

Don was conducted outside the guardhouse and into a pen, a fenced enclosure used to receive prisoners. It was some thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long; one of its longer sides was common with the fence that ran around the entire camp, the other shut it off from the free world. The only entrance to it lay through the guardhouse.

There were several dozen prisoners in the receiving pen, most of them civilian men, although Don saw a number of women and quite a few officers of the Middle Guard and of the Ground Forces-still in uniform but disarmed.

He at once checked the faces of the women; none was Isobel. He had not expected to find her, yet found himself vastly disappointed. His time was running out; he realized with panic that it was probably only minutes until he would be held down, drug injected into his veins-and be turned thereby into a babbling child with no will to resist their questioning. He had never been subjected to narco-interrogation but he knew quite well what the drug would do. Even deep-hypnotic suggestion could not protect against it in the hands of a skilled operator.

Somehow he felt sure that Bankfield was skilled.

He went to the far end of the pen, pointlessly, as a frightened animal will retreat to the back of a cage. He stood there, staring up at the top of the fence several feet above his head. The fence was tight and strong, proof against almost anything but a dragon, but one could get handholds in the mesh-it could be climbed. However, above the mesh were three single strands of wire; every ten feet or so on the lowest strand was a little red sign-a skull-and-crossbones and the words HIGH VOLTAGE.

Don glanced back over his shoulder. The everpresent fog, reinforced by smoke from the burning city, almost obscured the guardhouse. The breeze had shifted and the smoke was getting thicker; he felt reasonably sure that no one could see him but other prisoners.