"I've arranged to give you and your family an alternate claim, Mr. Marshall. Of course it isn't quite as desirable as the original one. But under the circumstances—" He let the sentence trail off.
"I see," Claude said. "And where is this alternate claim?"
Stubbs examined the end of his cigar.
"It's on the other side of the planet, Mr. Marshall. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do."
At his elbow, Claude caught the sharp intake of his wife's breath.
"It really isn't too bad," the Director went on. "Many of the reports about the cold-side have been exaggerated."
"I'm sure they have," Claude said bitterly. "I'm sure it's just the place to bring up a nine-year-old boy."
"Please Mr. Marshall. Don't be bitter. It isn't my fault."
Claude got up placing his palms on the edge of the metal desk. He leaned forward till his face was only inches away from the Director's cigar, and said: "Isn't it?"
The Director didn't answer. Instead he got up and walked over to the open window. For ten full seconds he stared out at the lush valley that flanked the spaceport. Then he turned.