Grew went on, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me why the Tribune printed it? You know they wouldn’t print a Galactic Press release for a million Imperial Credits without a good reason.”
He waited uselessly for an answer, then said, “Because they have an editorial on it. A full-page editorial that blasts the living daylights out of this guy Arvardan. Here’s a fellow wants to come here for scientific purposes and they’re choking themselves purple to keep him out. Look at this piece of rabblerousing. Look at it!” He shook the paper at them. “Read it, why don’t you?”
Loa Maren put down her cards and clamped her thin lips firmly together. “Father,” she said, “we’ve had a hard day, so let’s not have politics just now. Later, maybe, eh? Please, Father.”
Grew scowled and mimicked, “ ‘Please, Father! Please, Father.’ It appears to me you must be getting pretty tired of your old father when you begrudge him a few quiet words on current events. I’m in your way, I suppose, sitting here in the corner and letting you two work for three. . . . Whose fault is it? I’m strong. I’m willing to work. And you know I could get my legs treated and be as well as ever.” He slapped them as he spoke: hard, savage, ringing slaps, which he heard but did not feel. “The only reason I can’t is because I’m getting too old to make a cure worth their while. Don’t you call that a ‘freak culture’? What else could you call a world where a man can work but they won’t let him? By Space, I think it’s about time we stopped this nonsense about our so-called ‘peculiar institutions.’ They’re not just peculiar; they’re cracked! I think—”
He was waving his arms and angry blood was reddening his face.
But Arbin had risen from his chair, and his grip was strong on the older man’s shoulder. He said, “Now where’s the call to be upset, Grew? When you’re through with the paper, I’ll read the editorial.”
“Sure, but you’ll agree with them, so what’s the use? You young ones are a bunch of milksops; just sponge rubber in the hands of the Ancients.”
And Loa said sharply, “Quiet, Father. Don’t start that.” She sat there listening for a moment. She could not have said exactly what for, but . . .
Arbin felt that cold little prickle that always came when the Society of Ancients was mentioned. It just wasn’t safe to talk as Grew did, to mock Earth’s ancient culture, to—to—
Why, it was rank Assimilationism. He swallowed earnestly; the word was an ugly one, even when confined to thought.
Of course in Grew’s youth there had been much of this foolish talk of abandoning the old ways, but these were different times. Grew should know that—and he probably did, except that it wasn’t easy to be reasonable and sensible when you were in a wheel-chair prison, just waiting away your days for the next Census.
Grew was perhaps the least affected, but he said no more. And as the moments passed he grew quieter and the print became progressively more difficult to place in focus. He had not yet had time to give the sports pages a detailed and critical perusal when his nodding head lolled slowly down upon his chest. He snored softly, and the paper fell from his fingers with a final, unintentional rustle.
Then Loa spoke, in a worried whisper. “Maybe we’re not being kind to him, Arbin. It’s a hard life for a man like Father. It’s like being dead compared to the life he used to lead.”
“Nothing’s like being dead, Loa. He has his papers and his books. Let him be! A bit of excitement like this peps him up. He’ll be happy and quiet for days now.”
Arbin was beginning to consider his cards again, and as he reached for one the pounding at the door sounded, with hoarse yells that didn’t quite coalesce into words.
Arbin’s hand lurched and stopped. Loa’s eyes grew fearful; she stared at her husband with a trembling lower lip.
Arbin said, “Get Grew out of here. Quickly!”
Loa was at the wheel chair as he spoke. She made soothing sounds with her tongue.
But the sleeping figure gasped, startled awake at the first motion of the chair. He straightened and groped automatically for his paper.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded irritably, and by no means in a whisper.
“Shh. It’s all right,” muttered Loa vaguely, and wheeled the chair into the next room. She closed the door and placed her back against it, thin chest heaving as her eyes sought those of her husband. There was that pounding again.
They stood close to each other as the door opened, almost defensively so, and hostility peeped from them as they faced the short, plump man who smiled faintly at them.
Loa said, “Is there anything we can do for you?” with a ceremonial courtesy, then jumped back as the man gasped and put out a hand to stop himself from falling.
“Is he sick?” asked Arbin bewilderedly. “Here, help me take him inside.”
The hours after that passed, and in the quiet of their bedroom Loa and Arbin prepared slowly for bed.
“Arbin,” said Loa.
“What is it?”
“Is it safe?”
“Safe?” He seemed to avoid her meaning deliberately.
“I mean, taking this man into the house. Who is he?”
“How should I know?” was the irritated response. “But, after all, we can’t refuse shelter to a sick man. Tomorrow, if he lacks identification, we’ll inform the Regional Security Board, and that will be the end of it.” He turned away in an obvious attempt at breaking off the conversation.
But his wife broke the returning silence, her thin voice more urgent. “You don’t think he might be an agent of the Society of Ancients, do you? There’s Grew, you know.”
“You mean because of what he said tonight? That’s past the limit of reason. I won’t argue about it.”
“I don’t mean that, and you know it. I mean that we’ve been keeping Grew illegally
