The man was sitting like a puppet whose controlling strings had been cut. Stan's blazing fury started to burn down.
These minds, he suddenly realized, had been virtually paralyzed. He didn't need anything to tie them down. All he had to do was point his finger. They'd jump. He shook his head.
"Funny," he told himself. "All you have to do is be a little forceful. Why didn't somebody tell me about this?" He looked calculatingly at Mauson.
"Tell you what we're gonna do," he said rhythmically. "Get your car over here. You know, the shielded job. We don't want anyone snapping at us with flashers." His voice hardened.
"Come on," he ordered, "get on that box. Tell 'em you want that car."
As the car rolled down the street, he leaned forward a little.
"All right, driver," he said peremptorily, "when we get to the Federation Building, swing into the official driveway."
The driver moved his head slightly. Stan sat back, waiting.
He looked at the building fronts as they swept past. When he'd first come here, he'd noticed the clean beauty of the city. And he's been unable to understand the indefinable warning he'd felt. But now—he'd looked beneath the surface.