Alarm Clock Part 8

"Got any doc.u.ments to back up this story?"

Stan coughed impatiently.

"No, of course not. I can't pull a file out of Personnel and just carry it up here. It's on file, though. I just got through reading the working file and there's a private file on the guy, too, that would really bust things wide open."

The sergeant smiled sourly.

"Maybe it would. I suppose they'd pull it right out and hand it over, too."

He spun his chair around and fished a book from a shelf behind his desk.

"Here." He put the book on the corner of the desk. "Here is the regulation on this sort of situation."

He pointed out words, one at a time.

It was a long regulation, filled with complex terminology. It forbade seizure of records in any manner not definitely authorized by local statute. The sergeant went through it, getting full value from each word.

At last his finger came away from the page.

"Those are private records, you're talking about. On this planet, the law protects corporate records to the fullest extent. We'd have to have positive evidence that an incriminating doc.u.ment was in existence. We'd have to define its location and content within fairly narrow limits. Then we'd have to go before a local determinator and request authority for an examination of that doc.u.ment."

He slammed the book shut.

"And if we failed to find the doc.u.ment in question, or if it wasn't actually incriminating, the injured corporation could slap us with a juicy damage claim." He looked at Stan coldly.

"If you want, I can get the local statute and let you look that over, too." He paused briefly and non-expectantly.

"On the other hand, we are obligated to protect the interests of galactic citizens." He looked pointedly at the insigne on Stan's pocket, then held out a tablet.

"Here. Suppose you sit down over there at that table and write out the complaint in your own handwriting. I'll pa.s.s it along."

Stan looked at 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 doc.u.mentary evidence, that'll make a case; we'll take action, of course. That's what we're here for." The sergeant tapped impa.s.sively 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.ton 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 gla.s.s, neat, small letters spelled out the name--H. R. Mauson.

He tapped on the gla.s.s.

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

"Oh, Stanley. Sit down."

Stan lowered himself to the padded seat, then leaned back. It was one of those deep armchairs which invite relaxation.

The official touched a b.u.t.ton, then leaned forward.

"Tell me, Stanley," he said gently, "what were you doing in the Federation Building a few minutes ago?"

Stan tried to lift a hand in a casual gesture, but it seemed stuck to the chair. He exerted more force, then twisted his body. But his arms and legs refused to move away from the upholstery. Mauson smiled.

"Just a little precaution, Stanley. A gravito unit, you see. It may be unnecessary, but you do have a reputation for a certain--shall we say, competence. Although you have never demonstrated your abilities here, I see no reason for taking foolish chances." His smile faded.

"Now, suppose you tell me all about that visit you made to the Federation Building."

Stan forced himself to relax. Have to be careful, he thought. He forced a grin to his face.