The guard on the left said, "Your ID card, sir."
The guards were well trained. They would not hesitate to shoot if I made the slightest slip.
I handed the card to him and watched as he held it up to a visi-scanner in the wall. The scanner glowed into life and purred softly, rapidly checking the invisible identification codings on the card against the ID component of Earth's Master Machine. Then it dulled and was silent. The strident alarm siren over the scanner remained inactive. The ID card was returned to me and the guards snapped smartly to attention as I went on into the room beyond the door.
I had passed the first test.
The reception room was small. Thick carpeting deadened the clump of my heels as I marched toward the chromed desk guarding a second unmarked door. A flawlessly proportioned redhead sat behind the desk. Her eyes and face showed no expression when I stopped in front of her. Her tight-fitting uniform was black and bore the gold trim of the Security Police.
Constricting my throat, I let the words snap out crisply, as I had been trained.
"General Spicer," I said, "commanding general of the Security Police, reporting to the Secretary of Defense. As requested."
I waited.
Her eyes, still showing no outward expression, ran over me rapidly. Then she thumbed a button on the desk and a screen, recessed into the chromed surface, glowed into life.