"Right," the voice said, relaxing a bit. "Everything okay?"
"Simply great," Arthur said, putting a smile into the phrase. It was good to hear George Keating's voice again. "How's everything up there?"
"Not bad. Nobody suspects anything as far as we know. Shipments are getting a bit slow, but I expect they'll be heavier before long. Ready to spring it?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "Oh, one thing though," frowning, "the underground suspects there's a WBI man in my unit."
"Anything further? Have they narrowed him down at all."
"I don't think so. I'm going to a meeting tonight; I managed to talk Julie into it. If I can, I'll contact you later."
"Right-o."
Arthur closed the circuit and sealed the wall again, turning the dials to a random location. He opened the door of the cubicle and peered cautiously into the gloom. He thought he detected a furtive movement, but it was only Helen turning on the bed.
He crossed the room, noiselessly ascended to the roof and leaped outward. Blades unfolded to churn the darkness. It was a Stallman Rotor—their commercials seemed the least offensive—and it deposited him gently beside his house; just as gently as any Ronson would have done.
Ahead of him, the stars glittered frostily in the night. He breathed the crystal air in great intakes of breath, trying not to remember it was taxed. Lines from Walter Scott leaped unaccountably to his mind: "Breathes there a man," he thought, "with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land.'" He felt the last word could be justly changed to "air" to fit this overtaxed era in which he lived.