"I agree. Unfortunately, this one does exist. And it's no longer in
our custody. A woman, obviously an accomplice, got a blaster-gun to
him. Two ISP men were killed, and the prisoner escaped. The documents
went with him. I don't have to tell you that both of these fugitives
must be apprehended or killed. And those papers must be brought back or
destroyed. That's your job."
"I don't like it."
"Tact isn't your long suit, is it, Lieutenant? You weren't asked if you
liked it. With two black marks against your record, you can't afford
an opinion. One more and you're through as an officer in the space
patrol--"
"I don't like working out of uniform."
"--and I wouldn't count too much on a friendship with Paul Jomian, if I
were you, Coran. He's through here ... even if he was kicked upstairs
into the transport ministry. We no longer approve his methods. His
rough-shod, undisciplined methods may get by in a frontier civilization
like that of the outer planets, but nowadays we require efficiency and
complete co-operation in the ISP. The time is past when an ISP officer
can forget to change his uniform and go without shaving for days at a
time."
Coran's eyes glittered. "There was more to Paul Jomian than gold braid
and pretty uniforms. He was a man. And he got things done so a lot
of you pretty-boys could sit on your fat chairs and keep your hair
unmussed. For your information, those black marks on my record are for
tearing apart superior officers who made cracks about Paul Jomian. Do
you want me to turn in my badge?"
The official smiled poisonously. "That would be the easy way out for
you, Coran. What's the matter--the job too tough for you?"
"I can't stand the smell of perfume around here. And the jobs don't
come too tough. Relax, big shot. I'll run your stinking little errand
for you. But it's the last one. When I hand your two-vikdal bad man
over to you, I'm through. Make out my resignation that way, and I'll
sign it before I leave."
* * * * *
The official laughed and stood up. "Resignation accepted--upon
completion of assignment. You're a hard case, Coran. Up to a point,
you're even right. But you don't belong any more, not in this part of
the universe. It took pioneers like you and Jomian to bang the holes in
our fishbowl world, but we need men with dull routine minds to bring
order into it. Unofficially, I'm sorry to see you go. Nowadays a man
conforms or he gets out."
"Skip the bouquets and the funeral oration. What's the layout on the
job you want done?"
The official threw a file card across the desk. "There's the man you
want. The picture won't help you much, since he'll probably be wearing
a plastic face-mask."