ead with your run. Now go back
to your machine. I'm going to do a little work."

He strode out of the refreshment room, watched Sornal as he took over
the production run, then swung around and walked over to the Personnel
office.

"Like to see the package on a man named Sornal," he told the clerk.

The man hesitated. "We aren't supposed to release a whole file. I can
look up any specific information for you."

Stan frowned. "Don't argue with me. I want to see this guy's package.
Need his complete history. Now get it."

The clerk started to make an objection, then turned and went to the
files. He flipped an index, then punched a combination of numbers on
his selector. Finally, he came back with a folder.

Stan took it and flopped it open on the counter.

"All right, now just stay here while I go through this. I'll give it
back in a few minutes."

He looked through the records, looking closely at one exhibit.

"Wow!" he told himself silently.

"Eleven thousand, six hundred ninety-two interstells. Only way he'll
ever pay that off is by making a big dent in his savings."

He flipped the paper over, noting the details of the determination of
responsibility.

As he examined the payroll data, he nodded. It all balanced out
nicely. They'd get several years of production out of the man for bare
subsistence.

"Very neat," he told himself.

He closed the folder and handed it back to the clerk.

"All right, that's all I need." He glanced at the clock.

"Guess I'll check out for lunch."

He walked out of the office. This one, he thought, could be broken
wide open by a Guard investigation. Sornal would get his freedom, and
there might be sizable damages.

"Now it would be nice," Stan muttered, "if I could work out something
for myself."

* * * * *

The Guard sergeant was an old-timer--and a methodical man. He listened
impassively, then reached under his desk. For a few seconds, his hand
was hidden, then he picked up a pen.

"Now, let's get this straight. What did you say your name was?"

"Graham. Stanley Graham. I--"

The sergeant had pulled a form to him. He bent over, writing slowly.

"Graham, Stanley. All right. Now, where do you live?"

One by one, he went through the maze of blanks, insisting on getting
no other information than that called for by the specific space he was
working on. Finally, he put down the pen and leaned back.

"All right, now how about this oth