The six of us
got into it, and it lifted again.
The car let down in a vehicle hall in the administrative area, and the
police second lieutenant, Chris Xantos, was waiting alone, armed only
with the pistol that was part of his uniform and wearing a beret
instead of a helmet. He spoke to us, and ushered us down a hallway
toward Guido Fieschi's office.
I get into the spaceport administrative area about once in twenty or
so hours. Oughourlian is a somewhat less frequent visitor. The others
had never been there, and they were visibly awed by all the gleaming
glass and brightwork, and the soft lights and the thick carpets. All
Port Sandor ought to look like this, I thought. It could, and maybe
now it might, after a while.
There were six chairs in a semicircle facing Guido Fieschi's desk, and
three men sitting behind it. Fieschi, who had changed clothes and
washed since the last time I saw him, sat on the extreme right.
Captain Courtland, with his tight mouth under a gray mustache and the
quadruple row of medal ribbons on his breast, was on the left. In the
middle, the seat of honor, was Bish Ware, looking as though he were
presiding over a church council to try some rural curate for heresy.
As soon as Joe Kivelson saw him, he roared angrily:
"There's the dirty traitor who sold us out! He's the worst of the lot;
I wouldn't be surprised if--"
Bish looked at him like a bishop who has just been contradicted on a
point of doctrine by a choirboy.
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