Boyd," he said. None of this sonny-boy stuff; Ranjit Singh was a
man of dignity, and he respected the dignity of others. "If I admit
you to the spaceport, will you give these people the facts exactly as
you learn them?"

"That's what the _Times_ always does, Lieutenant." Well, almost all
the facts almost always.

"Will you people accept what this _Times_ reporter tells you he has
learned?"

"Yes, of course." That was Oscar Fujisawa.

"I won't!" That was Joe Kivelson. "He's always taking the part of that
old rumpot of a Bish Ware."

"Lieutenant, that remark was a slur on my paper, as well as myself," I
said. "Will you permit Captain Kivelson to come in along with me? And
somebody else," I couldn't resist adding, "so that people will believe
him?"

Ranjit Singh considered that briefly. He wasn't afraid to die--I
believe he was honestly puzzled when he heard people talking about
fear--but his job was to protect some fugitives from a mob, not to die
a useless hero's death. If letting in a small delegation would prevent
an attack on the spaceport without loss of life and ammunition--or
maybe he reversed the order of importance--he was obliged to try it.

"Yes. You may choose five men to accompany Mr. Boyd," he said. "They
may not bring weapons in with them. Sidearms," he added, "will not
count as weapons."

After all, a kirpan was a sidearm, and his religion required him to
carry that. The decision didn't make me particularly happy. Respect
for the dignity of others is a fine thing in an officer, but like
journalistic respect for facts, it can be carried past the point of
being a virtue. I thought he was over-estimating Joe Kivelson's
self-control.

Vehicles in front began grounding, and men got out and bunched
together on the street. Finally, they picked their delegation: Joe
Kivelson, Oscar Fujisawa, Casmir Oughourlian the shipyard man, one of
the engineers at the nutrient plant, and the Reverend Hiram Zilker,
the Orthodox-Monophysite preacher. They all had pistols, even the
Reverend Zilker, so I went back to the jeep and put mine on. Ranjit
Singh had switched his radio off the speaker and was talking to
somebody else. After a while, an olive-green limousine piloted by a
policeman in uniform and helmet floated in and grounded. The six of us
got into it, and it lifted again.

The car let down in a vehicle hall in the administrative area, and the
police second lieutenant, Chris Xantos, was waiting alone, armed