"George Hanlon, you are hereby officially dismissed from the Inter-Stellar Corps' Cadet School!"
So saying, Admiral Rogers ripped all identifying symbols from Hanlon's uniform, then turned again to the marines. "Take him outside the Reservation."
They hauled Hanlon, still shrieking and cursing, out of the room, out of the building, across the park, and to the gate of the Corps' property.
There his handcuffs were removed, and the sneering marines literally and not-too-gently booted him into the street, where he sprawled face downward in a muddy puddle.
Hanlon pulled himself erect, apparently mad clear through. He shook his fist at the grinning marines gathered just inside the gate. He cursed them fluently with every foul oath and name he could remember ever having heard. Innately clean of speech and thought, this swearing nearly gagged him. But he was "putting on a good act."
They stood his insults for some time, but when he began to get too personal, a couple of them started toward him, their mocking laughter gone. To "make his act better," Hanlon now pretended to be frightened, cowardly, and accompanied by the jeers of the civilian on-lookers who had quickly congregated to see what all the rumpus was about, he fled down the city street away from the Reservation.
At first opportunity, after he had outdistanced his pursuers, Hanlon ducked into an alley. He ran down this until he spotted the back door of a little cafe, and dodged inside. There, in the washroom, he cleaned himself as best he could.
Again somewhat presentable, he left by the front door and rode the slideways to a section of the city where he could buy some good but not too expensive clothing.
Now inconspicuously dressed, he got a hotel room, then went to the bank where he bought some shares of stock, arranged for insurance, and rented a deposit box.