Rita moved a few hesitant steps away.
"Go on," Cartwright ordered sharply. Then he turned to the soldiers stepping gingerly into the meeting chamber.
* * *The Directorate guards fanned out in the meeting chamber. After them came a Directorate official with a brief-case gripped in one hand. More jets were landing, on the roof and on the pavement outside. The sound of traffic died; the street was being sealed off. Two heavy cargo-carrying transports rumbled down the suddenly deserted street and began discharging ugly-snouted cannon.
"You're Leon Cartwright," the official said. He glanced briefly at Cartwright and then put down his case. Opening and leafing through a notebook he said: "Give me your papers."
Cartwright slid his plastic tube from his inside coat pocket, unsnapped the seal and spread out the thin metal foil. One by one he laid papers on the table. "Birth certificate. School and training records. Psycho-analysis. Medical certificate. Criminal record. Status permit. Statement of fealty history. Last fealty release. All the rest." He pushed the heap towards the official, removed his coat and rolled up his sleeve.
The official glanced at the papers, then compared the identification tabs with the markings seared deep in the flesh of Cartwright's forearm. "We'll have to examine fingerprints and brain pattern later. Actually, this is superfluous; I know you're Leon Cartwright." He pushed back the papers. "I'm Major Shaeffer, from the Directorate. There was a change in control this morning.
Major Shaeffer touched Cartwright's status permit. "You're not classified?"
"No."
"I suppose your power-card was collected by your protector, Hill. That's usual, isn't it?"
"That's the system," Cartwright said. "But I'm not under fief to any Hill. I was discharged earlier this year."