proffered it to Konstantin’s hand. “I have limited facilities, Mr. Konstantin.
Comp and print isn’t accessible to me where I live. You know that. The situation
there…” He moistened his lips, conscious of Konstantin’s frown. “My office was
nearly mobbed last night. Please, sir. Can we assure my constituents… that the
Downbelow appointments will continue?”
“That’s under negotiation, Mr. Kressich. The station is making every effort to
get procedures back to normal; but programs are being reviewed; policy and
directions are being reviewed.”
“It’s the only hope.” He avoided Keu’s stare, kept his eyes fixed on Konstantin.
“Without that… we’ve got no hope. Our people will go to Downbelow. To the Fleet.
To any place that will take them. Only the applications have to be accepted.
They have to see there’s hope of getting out. Please, sir.”
“The nature of this?” Konstantin asked, lifting the paper to view.
“A bill I haven’t the facilities to reproduce for the council to consider. I
hoped your staff…”
“Regarding the applications.”
“Regarding that, sir.”
“The program remains,” Keu interrupted coldly, “under discussion.”
“We’ll try,” Konstantin said, placing the paper among the others he held “I
can’t bring this up on the floor, Mr. Kressich. You understand that. Not until
the basic issues in question are resolved at other levels. I’ll have to hold it,
and I earnestly beg that you don’t bring up the question tomorrow, although of
course you can do that. Public debate might upset negotiations. You’re a man
experienced in government; you understand me. But in courtesy, if we can bring
this up at some future meeting… I’ll of course have my staff prepare this or
other bills for distribution. You understand my position, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, sick at heart. “Thank you.”
He turned away. He had hoped, dimly. He had hoped also for a chance to appeal
for station help, security, protection. He did not want Keu’s sort of
protection. Dared not ask. They had seen the Fleet’s mercy, in the persons of
Mallory and Sung and Kreshov. The troops would come in; take Coledy’s
organization apart as a beginning; his security; all the protection he had.
He walked out into the council chambers foyer, past the mocking, amazed stares
of Downbelow statues, out the glass doors into the hall, and, unmolested by the
guards, walked toward the lift which would take him down to the blue niner
level, to go home, back to Q.
There was something like normal traffic in the corridors of main station now,
thinner than usual, but station residents were back about their jobs and moving
freely if cautiously; no one tended to linger anywhere.
Someone jostled him in meeting. A hand met his, pressed a card into it. He
stopped, with a confused impression of a man, a face he had not bothered to see.
In terror he resisted the impulse to look about. He pretended to adjust the
papers in his folder, walked on, and farther down the hall examined the card: an
access card, a bit of tape on its surface: green nine 0434. An address. He kept
walking, dropped the hand with the card to his side, his heart hammering against
his ribs.
He could ignore it, pass on back into Q. Could turn the card in, claim to have
found it, or tell the truth: that someone wanted to contact him without others’
knowledge. Politics. It had to be. Someone willing to take a risk wanted
something from the representative of Q. A trap—or hope, a trade of influence.
Someone who might be able to move obstructions.
He could reach green nine; just an accidental wrong button on the lift. He
stopped in front of the lift call plate, alone, coded green and stood in front
of the panel so no one passing might notice the glowing green. The car came; the
doors opened. He stepped in and a woman came darting in at the last moment,
punched the inside plate to code green two. Doors shut; he looked furtively at
her as the car began to move, averted his eyes quickly. The car made a
one-section traverse and started down. She got off at two; he stayed on, while