“Umm,” Magnan said. “Don’t make the error of personalizing this situation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of these backwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow its natural course, as always.”

“When does this attack happen?”

“Less than four weeks.”

“That doesn’t leave me much time.”

“I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far as Aldo Cerise. You’ll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the rest of the way.”

“That’s a pretty rough trip, Mr. Counselor. Suppose I don’t make it?”

Magnan looked sour. “Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to put all our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you is not misplaced.”

“This antiac conversion; how long does it take?”

“A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. The Jorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic of some sort.”

Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the tickets inside.

“Less than four hours to departure time,” he said. “I’d better not start any long books.”

“You’d better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination,” Magnan said.

Retief stood up. “If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.”

“The allusion escapes me,” Magnan said coldly. “And one last word. The Soetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen’s Worlds; don’t get yourself interned.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Retief said soberly. “In a pinch, I’ll mention your name.”

“You’ll be traveling with Class X credentials,” Magnan snapped. “There must be nothing to connect you with the Corps.”

“They’ll never guess,” Retief said. “I’ll pose as a gentleman.”

“You’d better be getting started,” Magnan said, shuffling papers.

“You’re right,” Retief said. “If I work at it, I might manage a snootful by takeoff.” He went to the door. “No objection to my checking out a needler, is there?”

Magnan looked up. “I suppose not. What do you want with it?”

“Just a feeling I’ve got.”

“Please yourself.”

“Some day,” Retief said, “I may take you up on that.”

2

Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on the counter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legend “ALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY.” A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouse and a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watching Retief from the corner of his eye.

Retief glanced at him.

The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth and spat it on the floor.

“Was there something?” he said.

“Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group,” Retief said. “Is it on schedule?”

The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. “Filled up. Try again in a couple of weeks.”

“What time does it leave?”

“I don’t think—”

“Let’s stick to facts,” Retief said. “Don’t try to think. What time is it due out?”