"The Corps will protect you."

"I don't want anything to do with the Corps." Her lips drew back against her even, white teeth. "My family. My willing Uncle Peter—up for sale, like his Hills." She indicated Benteley. "And he thinks he won't find it here."

"It's not a question of sale," Wakeman said. "It's a principle. The Corps is above any man."

"The Corps is a fixture, like this desk. You buy all the furniture, the lights, the ipvics, the Corps." Disgust glowed in her eyes. "A Prestonite, is that it?"

"That's it."

"No wonder you're anxious to see him. In a morbid way I suppose I'm curious, too."

At the desk, Benteley roused himself from his thoughts. "All right," he said aloud. "I'm ready."

"Fine!" Eleanor slipped behind the desk, one hand raised, the other on the bust. "You know the oath?"

Benteley knew the fealty oath by heart, but gnawing doubt slowed him almost to a halt. Wakeman stood examining his nails, looking disapproving and bored. Eleanor Stevens watched avidly, her face intense with emotions that altered each moment. With a growing con­viction that things were not right, Benteley began reciting his fealty oath to the small plastic bust.

The doors of the office slid back and a group of men entered noisily. One towered over the rest; a huge man, lumbering and broad-shouldered, with a grey, weathered face and thick iron-streaked hair. Reese Verrick, sur­rounded by those of his staff in personal fealty to him, halted as he saw the procedure taking place at the desk.

Wakeman glanced up and caught Verrick's eye. He smiled faintly but said nothing. Eleanor Stevens had become as rigid as stone. As soon as Benteley had finished she snapped into life. She carefully hurried the plastic bust out of the office and then returned, hand held out.

"I want your power-card, Mr. Benteley. We have to have it."