Down the long palace corridor strode Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins, Natt
Roberts, the aging Reif and his son Taller, now in the prime of manhood.
Their faces were equally wan from long hours without sleep. Half a dozen
Tulan infantrymen brought up their rear.
As they passed Security Police guards, to left and right, eyes took in
their weapons, openly carried. But such eyes shifted and the guards
remained at their posts. Only one sergeant opened his mouth in protest.
"Sir," he said to Watson, hesitantly, "you are entering Number One's
presence armed."
"Shut up," Natt Roberts rapped at him.