Stan looked at him sternly.
"I've had my quota of runarounds today. I said we want to see the
commander. Now, all you have to do is take us to him. Move!"
The smile faded. For an instant, the man seemed about to rebel. Then
he turned.
"This way," he said evenly. He led the way through a large room, then
tapped at a door on the other side.
"Yes?"
The voice was vaguely familiar to Stan. He frowned, trying to place
it.
"Two men to see you, sir. Seems a little urgent."
"Oh? Well, bring them in."
Stan relaxed. This was getting easier, he thought. Now he could get
these people to take Mauson before a determinator. His statements
would furnish plenty of evidence for a full search of Janzel's
Personnel files.
He jerked his head at Mauson.
"Inside."
He waited as the man stepped through the door, then followed.
A slender man was standing behind a wide desk.
"Well," he said calmly. "Welcome home, Graham. Glad you could make
it."
"Major Michaels!" Stan forgot everything he had planned to say.
The other smiled. "Let's say Agent Michaels," he corrected. "Special
Corpsmen don't have actual Guard rank. Most of us got thrown out of
the Academy in the first couple of years."
He glanced at the guardsman, then flicked a finger out to point at
Mauson.
"Take this down and put it away somewhere till we need it, deSilva.
Graham and I have some talking to do."
"Yes, sir." The middle-aged man turned toward Stan.
"Congratulations, sir." He jerked a thumb at Mauson.
"Come on, you. March."
Michaels held up a hand as Stan opened his mouth.
"Never mind," he said quietly. "DeSilva is quite capable of handling
that one. Take care of three or four more like him if he had to.
Pretty good man." He reached for a box on his desk.
"Here," he said. "Light up. Got a few things to talk about."
"But I've got--"
"It can wait. Wall put the whole story on the tape when you were
talking to him downstairs. We've been sweating you out."
"You've been sweating me out? I had to practically force my way up
here."
"That you did." Michaels took a cigarette from the box, started to put
it in his mouth, then pointed it at Stan.
"That's normal procedure. You've heard of the Special Corps for
Investigation, I presume?"
"Yes. But--"
"Ever think of being a corpsman yourself?"
"Of course. You know that--we've talked about it. But I never could--"
"That's right." Michaels waved the cigarette. "We don't have
recruiting offices. All our people have to force their way in. Tell
me, do you know anything about the history of this planet?"
Stan clenched his teeth. Somehow, he had lost the initiative in this
interview. He took a deep breath.
"Look," he said decisively, "I--"
"Later." Michaels shook his head. "You are familiar with this culture
by now, then?"
"Well ... yes. I've read some history ... a little law."
"Good. Saves me a lot of talk. You know, sometimes we run into a
situation that can be corrected by a single, deft stroke. Makes things
very pleasant. We send in an agent--or two or six. The necessary gets
done, and somebody writes up a nice, neat report." He toyed with the
cigarette lighter.
"But this thing isn't like that. We've got a long, monotonous job of
routine plugging to do. We've got to bust a hard-shelled system
without hurting too many of the people within it. And we've been at it
for a while. We think we've made some progress, but we've still got a
lot of snakes to kill.
"But even bad situations have their good points. At least, this place
is a good training ground for probationers."
"Probationers?"
"Right. Probationers who don't even know they're being tested." He
smiled.
"People with the qualifications for Senior Agent are hard to get. Most
of them are latent--asleep. We can't expect them to walk in--we have
to find them. Then we have to wake them up. It can be tricky."
He lit his cigarette, eying Stan thoughtfully.
"I suppose you've heard some of the stories that fly around about the
Corps. The truth of the matter is, the Senior Agent isn't any
superman. He's just a normal human being with a couple of extra
quirks."
He held up a finger.
"First, he's trouble prone. A nasty situation attracts him much as a
flame attracts a moth.
"There are a lot of people like that. Most of them are always getting
themselves clobbered. The agent usually doesn't."
He held up a second finger.
"Because he has a compensating ability. When he turns on the pressure,
people do just as he tells them--most people, that is." He sighed.
"That's the latent ability. Sometimes full control is buried so deeply
it takes something like a major catastrophe to wake the guy up to the
fact he can use it." He smiled wryly.
"Oh, he pushes people around once in a while--makes 'em uneasy when
he's around--makes himself unpopular. But he's got no control. He's
got to be awakened."
"Yes, but--"
"Uh-uh. It sounds simple, but it isn't." Michaels shook his head.
"You don't just snap a finger in front of this fellow. You've got to
provide him with real trouble. Pile it on him--until he gets so much
pressure built up that he snaps himself into action. Makes a place
like this useful."
"I begin to see. You mean all this stuff I've been going through was
sort of a glorified alarm clock?"
"Yes. You could put it that way. That, and a trial assignment as a
junior agent. Still want to be a Special Corpsman?"
Stan looked around the office consideringly, then got to his feet.
"I stood it without knowing what was going on. Even had a little fun
once in a while. Maybe I could learn to like it if I knew what I was
doing." He shrugged.
"What's next?"
Michaels shoved a stack of papers toward him.
"Administrative details. You just can't get away from them." He took a
pen from his desk.
"After you sign all these, I'll get a couple of people in here for
witnesses while we give you your oath.
"It's practically painless."