"What the hell do you think you're doing, mister?"

"Hold it, stalker,” he said. “Just two questions."

I looked up at him. It was Captain Quarterblad. An old friend. He was all dried up and kind of yellow.

"Ah, greetings, captain. How's the liver?"

"Don't try to talk your way out of this, stalker.” He was angry and his eyes bored into me. “You'd be better off telling me why you don't stop immediately when you're called."

And right behind him were two blue helmets, hands on holsters. You couldn't see their eyes, just their jaws working under the helmets. Where in Canada do they find these guys? Have they been sent out here to breed? In general I have no fear of the patrol guards in daytime, but they could search me, the toads, and I wasn't too crazy about the idea just then.

"Were you calling me, captain?” I said. “You were calling some stalker."

"Are you trying to tell me that you're not a stalker?"

"Once the time I spent thanks to you was over, I went straight. Quit stalking. Thanks to you, captain, my eyes were opened. If it hadn't been for you … "

"What were you doing in the Prezone Area?"

"What do you mean, what? I work there. Two years now.” To bring the unpleasant conversation to a close, I showed Captain Quarterblad my papers. He took my book and examined it page by page, sniffing and smelling every stamp and seal on it. He returned the book and I could see how pleased he was. His eyes lit up and there was color in his cheeks.

"Forgive me, Schuhart,” he said. “I didn't expect it of you. I'm glad to see that my advice wasn't wasted on you. Why, that's marvelous. You can believe me or not, but even back then I knew that you would turn out all right. I just couldn't believe that a fellow like you … ” He went on and on like a record.