d automatically as Marcus approached.

"Where to?"

"I don't know. It depends on whom we can bump."

* * * * *

Marcus paled visibly. They were moving and didn't know where. Another
day and his map was useless. And if this man was right, even Information
Center wouldn't know where A-CELO was tomorrow. "Isn't there a planning
commission?" he said. "Don't they tell you where to move?"

The man shrugged. "There's a planning commission. But they had too many
responsibilities and had to move to a larger building, the same as we're
doing. Until they get settled, everyone's on his own." The man spoke
quietly into the mike and the tempo of the removal robots accelerated.
He turned back to Marcus and added an explanation: "Three exploration
ships returned yesterday, loaded to the brim with micro-data. That's why
we have to move."

Marcus rubbed his face. He could see it posed a problem. It was not
merely the storage of new data, the data also had to be made available
to the public. This required new offices, human supervisors, robot
clerks.

That was the way they did things on Earth, but he wished they'd waited a
few days. "You can't be moving this stuff out on the streets. Somebody
must have an idea where you're going. Tell me who he is. I've got to
find out where you'll be tomorrow."

"Oh, no. If you found where we're moving, you'd learn who we're going to
bump," said the man with cheerful cunning. "They'd take steps to repel
us. Can't have that." The man scratched his head. "Tell you, if you're
really honest--if you're not a department spy--I can show you how to
take care of your business today."

"I'm an Outer," said Marcus. "I don't care about your squabbles. I want
to get something settled and get out of here."

"You look like an Outer," said the man. "Here's what you do. Part of the
department is still functioning. Go to the side entrance. Question
booths there are open." He turned back to the mike and barked orders
that had no visible effect on anything.

* * * * *

The man was partly wrong. The side entrance was open, but corridors and
booths were jammed with displaced information seekers. Marcus was not
easily discouraged. By now he was accustomed to the vast machinations
required for the simplest things. He went to the back entrance. It, too,
was jammed, but after a short desperate struggle he squeezed into a
booth, leaving Wilbur to hang on