Senatorial Councilman Benjamin Towne slammed his cane down on the floor
with a snarl, and eased himself back down in his seat, staring angrily
around the small Federal Security Commission ante-room. The American
Council attaché standing near the door retrieved the cane, handing it
to the Councilman with a polite murmur. Instantly he regretted his
action when Towne began slapping the cane against his palm, short
staccato slaps that rang out ominously in the small room.
The Councilman was not in the habit of waiting. He did not like it
in the least, and made no effort to conceal his feelings. His little
green cat eyes roved around the room in sharp disapproval, resting
momentarily on the neat autodesk, on the cool grey walls, on the
vaguely disturbing water-color on the wall--one of those sickening
Psi-High experimentals that the snob critics all claimed to be so
wonderful. The Councilman growled and blinked at the morning sunlight
streaming through the muted glass panels of the northeast wall. Far
below, the second morning rush hour traffic buzzed through the city
with frantic nervousness.
The Councilman tapped his cane on the floor, glancing up at his
attaché. "That Sanders girl," he snapped. "Give me her file again."
The Council attaché opened a large briefcase, and produced a thick
bundle of papers in a manilla folder. Towne took them and glanced
through the papers, lighting one of his long, green-tipped cigarettes
from a ruby-studded lighter. "How about Dr. Abrams? Was he questioned?"
The attaché nodded in embarrassment. "Nothing doing. He ran us in
circles."