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But no; except for that, you’ll be with him all the time. It’s only for forty-eight or seventy-two hours; whichever he chooses. He hasn’t decided. But you probably know that; you read the ’papes.”
    Tinbane said, “I don’t like him.”
    “Too bad for you. But that’s not going to affect Roberts much; I doubt if he cares. He’s got plenty of followers out here, and he’ll get the curiosity crowd. He can survive your opinion. Anyhow, what do you know about him? You’ve never met him.”
    “My wife likes him.”
    Gore grinned. “Well, he can probably endure that, too. I get your point, though. It is a fact that a major part of his following are women. That seems to be generally the case. I have our file on Ray Roberts; I think you should read it before he shows up. You can do it on your own time. You’ll be interested; there’re some strange things in there, things he’s said and done, what Udi believes. We’re allowing that communal drug experience, you know, even though it’s technically illegal. That’s what it is: a drug orgy; the religious aspect is just fabrication, just window-dressing. He’s a weird and violent man—at least so we view him. I guess his followers don’t find him so. Or maybe they do and they like it.” Gore tapped a locked green metal box at the far edge of his desk. “You’ll see when you’ve read this—all the crimes he’s sanctioned for those gunsels of his, those Offspring of Might, to do.” He pushed the box toward Tinbane. “And after this, I want you to go to the People’s Topical Library, Section A or B. For more.”
    Accepting the locked file, Tinbane said, “Give me the key and I’ll read this—on my own time.”
    Gore produced the key. “One thing, Officer. Don’t fall for the ’pape stereotype view of Ray Roberts. A lot’s been said about him, but most of it is fictitious, and what actually is true hasn’t been said . . . but it’s in there, and when you’ve read it you’ll understand what I’m referring to. In particular I mean the violence.” He leaned toward Joe Tinbane. “Look; I’ll give you a choice. After you’ve read the material on Roberts, come back and see me; give me your decision then. Frankly I think you’ll take the job; it’s officially a promotion, a step up in your career.”
    Standing, Tinbane picked up the key and the locked box. I don’t agree, he thought to himself. But he said, “Okay, Mr. Gore. I have how long?”
    “Call me by five,” Gore said. And continued to grin his acid, knowing grin.
    In Section B of the People’s Topical Library, Officer Joe Tinbane warily stood at the Chief Librarian’s desk; something about the Library intimidated him—and he did not know what it was or why.
    Several persons were ahead of him; he waited restlessly, glancing about and wondering as always about his marriage with Bethel and about his career with the police department, and then about the purpose of life and the meaning—if any— of it, what the old-borns experienced while they lay in the ground, and what it would be like, someday, to dwindle away as he eventually would, and enter a nearby womb.
    As he stood there a familiar person came up beside him; small, in a long cloth coat, with her dark, extensive brown hair tumbling: a pretty, but married girl, Lotta Hermes.
    “’Bye,” he said, pleased to run into her.
    Her face white, Lotta whispered, “I—can’t stand it in here. But I have to look up some information for Seb.” Her discomfort was palpable; her whole body was held rigidly, awkwardly, so that its natural lines were warped; her fear made her misshapen.
    “Take it easy,” he said, surprised at her apprehension; he wanted at once to make her feel better and he took her by the arm, led her away from the Chief Librarian’s desk, out of the immense, dully booming room and into the relatively stress-free corridor.
    “Oh god,” she said miserably. “I just can’t do it, go in there and face that woman,