The voice paused. Don heard someone behind him say, “But what do they expect us to do? We’ve no place to go, no way to live—”
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 😮 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.”