the tablet for a moment.

"Oh--Suppose I manage to get copies of the records on this. Do you
think you could do anything then?"

"If you can bring in documentary evidence, that'll make a case; we'll
take action, of course. That's what we're here for." The sergeant
tapped impassively on the tablet.

"Want to make a written statement?"

"Skip it," Stan told him wearily, "I don't want to waste any more
time."

As he turned away, he thought he noticed a faint flicker of
disappointment on the sergeant's face before the man bent over his
desk.

* * * * *

He hardly noticed his surroundings as he walked back into the
Personnel building.

At first, there was a dull resentment--a free-floating rage--which
failed to find focus, but sought for outlet in any direction.

The trouble was, he thought, in the formal way of doing things. It
didn't really matter, he told himself, whether anything really got
done or not--so long as an approved routine was followed.

Only the wrong people used direct, effective methods.

The anger remained nondirectional, simply swelling and surging in all
directions at once. There were too many targets and it was a torturing
pressure, rather than a dynamic force.

He thought of his brief explosion, then grunted in self-ridicule. He'd
implied he could just pick up Sornal's record file, bring it in, and
throw it before that sergeant. And for just a flash, he'd really
thought of it as a simple possibility.

"Maybe," he told himself, "one of those Special Corpsmen could do
something like that, but I don't see any of them around, trying it."

He looked around, startled. Somehow, he had passed the gate,
identified himself, parked the skip-about, and come inside--all
without remembering his actions.

"Well," he asked himself, "what do I do now? Just become some sort of
thing?"

He walked into the outer office and a clerk looked up at him.

"Oh, Mr. Graham. The chief wants to see you." She touched a button and
a gate opened.

"You know the way."

"Yes. I do. Wonder what he wants."

The woman shook her head and returned to her work.

"He didn't say. Just said to tell you to see him when you came in."

Stan walked through the short corridor, stopping in front of a door.
Down in the corner of the pebbled glass, neat, small letters spelled
out the name--H. R. Mauson.

He tapped on the glass.

"Come in." The Personnel chief glanced up as the door opened.