button that caused the keyboard to disappear deep into his desk.
“The least you could do is knock,” he said.
“You’re to come with us,” said the Trustee with narrowly placed, beady eyes.
Hansen sat back, trying to think, wondering why Trustees had been sent. They were notoriously difficult to deal with. He said, “Do you realize that Chief Monitor means I keep taps on everything that occurs on the Sun Works Factory?”
“That don’t mean nothing to us.”
“No?” asked Hansen. “You’re innocent of all wrong doing?”
“We’re Trustees. We’re immune.”
“Certainly,” said Hansen. “Until the moment you step out of line. And who do you think catches others doing that?”
The two Trustees glanced at one another. One of them laughed. The beady-eyed Trustee smiled nastily at Hansen.
“You’re trying to suborn a Trustee?”
“Never!” said Hansen. “I’m simply curious as to your errand. How you think you can barge in unannounced? I ask that you give me a few moments to collect myself.”
“No time, Chief Monitor,” said the beady-eyed Trustee, snapping his thick fingers. “Hustle your butt over here double-time, boy.”
Hansen blustered. “I’d like to come now, but I’m engaged in sensitive business. So, if you will tell me who sent you?”
The Trustees nodded to one another and strode into the office.
Hansen leaned forward and tried to click the foot alarm under his desk. A Trustee grabbed one of his skinny arms and jerked Hansen bodily out of the chair. The other Trustee grabbed the other arm. They hustled him out the office, through his secretaries’ rooms and past the desks of surprised monitors. His special team—led by Ervil with his heavily bandaged nose—rose from their chairs.
“We’re under the Praetor’s orders,” the beady-eyed Trustee said.
Dalt and Methlen sank back into their chairs. The shorter Ervil dared take a step toward them.
“We can come back for you later,” the beady-eyed Trustee said. “If you wanna be stupid about this, that is.”
Ervil hesitated and then moved aside.
5.
Nadia heaved a sigh of relief as she donned the vacc suit and reentered the observation dome airlock. It had been a gamble going after the dream dust. But she was going to need it. She was on her own again. To live one needed credits. That was an unpleasant fact. And the universal currency was drugs in demand. It was better than gold or platinum, something that even the common man wanted.
She made the long walk to her hideaway. Back inside she felt more claustrophobic than ever. She was glad she’d spent all this time studying astrophysics. Putting away the dust, she began rummaging through the pile of electronic equipment. What a packrat’s hoard. Finally, she sat, crossed her legs and went through the computer catalog. Ah, that’s what it looked like.
She searched until she found the code-breaker. Then she began to gather supplies.
6.
Hansen screamed. Only his head stuck out of the metal box. The rest of his naked body was strapped and secured within the pain booth as neurowhips lashed his nerve endings. He bellowed until his voice became hoarse. His beet-colored, flushed head, with sweat pouring out him, made it seem as if he was about to pop.
Female techs with earplugs impassively watched him. They wore long white lab coats and stood behind a panel, adjusting the pain intensity and making certain the Chief Monitor served no more or less than the selected time.
Hansen screamed, wheezed and started pleading, even though he knew they couldn’t hear him. He writhed, but the straps held him tightly, although he tore several muscles and tendons in his efforts.
Finally, a tech twirled a dial. The pain stopped.
Hansen gasped in relief, his eyeballs seeming to sink back into his head. For the first time in seven minutes, his body relaxed, although it continued to twitch and jerk. Tears that had streamed from his eyes began to dry on his skin.
The Praetor opened the only door into the soundproofed room. He wore his brown uniform, and with those intense pink eyes, he glared at Hansen.
The two techs removed their earplugs and came to rigid attention.
“Release him,” said the Praetor.
The techs moved like robots. They unlocked the pain booth, drew back the twin doors and began removing the sweat-soaked leather straps. Hansen shivered at their cold touch, they wore rubber gloves. He was naked and humiliated. Small, weak and helpless: he hated the feeling. They helped him stand, their cold, gloved hands on his skinny arms.
“Bring him here,” the Praetor said.
On shaky, trembling legs, Hansen wobbled near. He would have collapsed without the two techs.
“Chief Monitor,” said the Praetor.
Hansen looked up, way up at the giant Highborn. He felt like a child, a naughty boy brought before his angry father. He wondered if he was about to die.
“You have failed in your task,” the Praetor said. “The shock troops have left and I may no longer prove their disloyalty. While incompetence is the chief feature of premen, you surpass the common ruck. I wonder now why the former Chief Monitor trusted you with so many tasks.”
Hansen bowed his head. He wanted to confess and tell the Praetor that Marten Kluge had been a very busy shock trooper indeed. Why, Kluge had even had confederates. But Hansen knew that he had no wits now. Pain and this wretched treatment were meant to intimidate him, and it did, very much. Thus, he didn’t trust himself. As a policeman, he’d learned that unless criminals were very, very careful they always implicated themselves as they tried to explain. He didn’t have the wits to be careful, but at least he had enough to know that. He hung his head a little lower.
“The matter must rest for now,” the Praetor said. “But I do not want you to feel that I tolerate incompetence. I loathe it. I abhor and despise it. Seven minutes in the pain booth is hardly enough for this failure. Yet you premen are so weak that more might damage you beyond repair. In fact, my psychologists tell me that you are weaker in this regard than most of your ilk.”
Hansen let his head droop as far as it could go.
“A pathetic weakling, a wretched fool, a blunderer and a dolt. That is whom I have chosen as my Chief Monitor. My instincts tell me to throttle you on the spot. Instead, I have selected a new Chief Monitor.”
Hansen lifted his head halfway up.
“Ah, you don’t like that, do you?”
Hansen swallowed. He had too many loose ends. A new chief monitor might discover his… indiscretions. The new chief monitor would also have access to his desk and could replay all those spy-stick files and see Marten Kluge. This was a disaster.
“Yet I will not utterly demote you,” the Praetor said. “Moral Enforcer will be your new title.”
“Highborn?”
