His front door opened and two Quietude Civil Authority policemen made their way into the room. As they walked, their keen, frigid glance took in everything inhabiting the room.

"QCA Hymes and Perkin," one of them said as he briefly let Joe see his identification plaque. "You're a pot-healer, Mr. Fernwright; correct? And you're also on the vet-dole; am I right? Yes I'm right," he finished, answering his own question. "What would you say your daily income amounts to, your dole and money received for the alleged work you do?"

The other QCA man pushed open the door of the bathroom. "Something interesting here. The top of the tank, the toilet tank, is off. And he's got a bag of metal coins hanging in there; I should guess about eighty quarters. You're a frugal man, Mr. Fernwright." The QCA man came back into the main room. "How long—"

"Two years," Joe said. "And I'm not breaking any law; I checked with Mr. Attorney before I began."

"What's this about thirty-five thousand Plabkian crumbles?"

Joe hesitated.

It was not an unusual phenomenon, his attitude toward the QCA and their men. They had such neat suits, such good gray and brown weaves. Each carried a briefcase. All looked like highly reputable businessmen—prosperous and responsible, able to make decisions: they were not mere bureaucrats to whom orders were given and who merely carried out orders like pseudorobots... and yet they had an inhumanity about them, for no particular reason that he could make out. But then he thought, Ah—I have it. No one could ever imagine a QCA man holding a door open for a lady; that was it; that explained his feeling. A small thing, perhaps, but it seemed to be a comprehension of the severe essence of the QCA throughout. Never hold a door, Joe thought, never take off your hat in an elevator. The ordinary laws of charity did not apply to them, and these laws they did not follow. Ever. But how well shaved they were. How greatly neat.