The girl was writing.
The others seemed to be swallowing it.
"Quadrate Blair," the tallest of the three said abruptly. "Frankly, we were hoping you might lay the matter open in this way! I don't intend to speak for Quadrate Tayne and Quadrate Klauss, but I think they have felt the same as I. Is it to be our understanding that we are to receive no OP for this year's games? I for one would be the first to grant that our overall system, developed since the days of the Sahara as it has been, is well perfected, as nearly without flaw as is possible to make it. Yet the burden of detail is always with us. It is the small details, after all, each built on each, that have brought us to the high level we've achieved. There has always been room for correction, for experiment, for change. Therefore I, and I think here I may speak for the others, am puzzled that, with the first phase of the games but a week hence, we have received nothing—and there were details of last year's Operational Procedure that I know Quadrate Klauss as well as myself felt should have been further examined in the field. The boys themselves keep developing new techniques—one tells the other, a brother, a friend—and we must make it our business to keep abreast of them, or we'll find ourselves in the midst of a confusion that could conceivably assail the very psychological foundations upon which our civilization is built!"
The one called Klauss rose then. He had a more soldierly carriage than the first man, but he was not as tall. His tone was more conservative, yet of a more subtle firmness. And Doug listened. It was the only way in which he might gain some hint, some shadow of an idea of what these impossible men were talking about.
"Would you answer one question, sir?" the Quadrate named Klauss said. "Is the Director's word on this thing final? I ask this since if there is still the possibility of discussing further any or all of the procedure amendments proposed in our checklists...."
The words meant nothing. So far so good, but it was just stalling—he'd succeeded in gaining time, but when they were finished, they'd expect some sort of decision, and then a follow-through.
Dammit, he was balled up! Somehow maybe he could fake long enough to get the materials, build the Contraption and get out. A tele-radio machine he had examined in the house while Dot slept might provide some of the needed material, but not the vital stuff. He would order that from a government supply office as soon as he returned to the house. His rank should be sufficient to get him what he needed without questions being asked. The Earth he knew with all its clatter of empty heads, its life-long familiarity—Terry and Mike were there. Or this world of seeming intelligence, efficiency, forthright honesty of conviction? Was there a choice?
The girl beside him moved in her chair. Recording secretary, of course. She would know. Everything—
How many times have you dreamed of a world like this? Don't be a fool....