"If I don't return soon, General Chisholm, he'll suspect something."
"Again, it doesn't matter very much." He sat down and rubbed his chin. "If we let you go back, do you think he'd let you see how they're organizing their operation? True, it would be more convenient for him if, for a few more days, we wouldn't be investigating him—that's why he took the chance of letting you report back here and avoided the Probationary hunt. To his way of thinking, chances are that you'll want further dosages and keep quiet. But why should we expose you further to that stuff when the possible sacrifice involved won't give us any more information?"
"Then you're just going to surrender the point, let him realize you know and won't do anything about it?"
"Not exactly. The best we can do is keep him uncertain about you. Officially, you've been arrested for insubordinate behavior by a martinet General who's decided to make a horrible example of you. Someone looking like you is going to be seen entering a punishment craft heading for a monotony run to check the automatic satellites around Uranus. That's the stupid best we can do—we're over a barrel." His sharp eyes suddenly dug into Cramer's. "You'll be in isolation quarters for the next few hours. I only hope that you'll deserve to stay there, that your story is all malicious nonsense!"
Cramer was escorted to a small cell where there were no audio-visuals, only old-fashioned printed books. He picked up a few of them, stared at the title pages without knowing what he was reading, then began to pace his cell.
What if they didn't find a germ sample? After all, nobody had ever spotted the stuff before.
No, they knew what to look for now and that made a difference.
But maybe it didn't in this case.
And what made them feel so helpless? What gave Hartley that much of an advantage over a General of the Space Deeps?