you're spying for the Eastern
boys--they're starting a Mars colony too, you know. Barness is sure
you're selling them info--" The man hiccupped again. "Barness is an
ass, just like all the other Retreads running this place, but I'm not
an ass, and you didn't fool me for two days--"

Carl gritted his teeth. How could Terry Fisher know? "For the last
time--"

Fisher lurched to his feet. "They'll get you, Carl. They can try you
and shoot you right on the spot, and Barness will do it. I had to tell
you, you've walked right into it, but you might still get away if--"

It was cruel. The drunken man's head jerked up at the blow, and he
gave a little grunt, then slid back down on the chair. Carl stepped
over his legs, worked swiftly at the door beyond. If they caught him
now, Terry Fisher was right. But in five more minutes--

The lock squeaked, and the door fell open. Inside he tore through the
file cases, wrenched at the locked drawers in frantic haste, ripping
the weak aluminum sheeting like thick tinfoil. Then he found the
folder marked KENNETH ARMSTRONG on the tab.

Somewhere above him an alarm went off, screaming a mournful note
through the building. He threw on the light switch, flooding the room
with whiteness, and started through the papers, one by one, in the
folder. No time to read. Flash retinal photos were hard to superimpose
and keep straight, but that was one reason why Carl Golden was on Mars
instead of sitting in an office back on Earth--

He flipped the last page, and threw the folder onto the floor. As he
went through the door, he flipped out the light, raced with clattering
footsteps down the corridor.

Lights caught him from both sides, slicing the blackness like hot
knives. "_All right, Golden. Stop right there._"

Dark figures came out of the lights, ripped his clothing off without a
word. Somebody wrenched open his mouth, shined a light in, rammed
coarse cold fingers down into his throat. Then: "All right, you
bastard, up stairs. Barness wants to see you."

They packed him naked into the street, hurried him into a
three-wheeled ground car. Five minutes later he was wading through
frosty dust into another building, and Barness was glaring at him
across the room.

* * * * *

Odd things flashed through Carl's mind. You seldom saw a Repeater get
really angry--but Barness was angry. The man's young-old face (the
strange, utterly ageless amalgamation of sixty years