"I know, Jake. It's tough. Sometimes it seems like a fellow works harder after he's thrown out the parasites than he did before."
A cautious guard let Retief and Jake inside, followed them along bright-lit aisles among consoles, cables, batteries of instruments. Armed men in careless uniforms lounged, watching. Here and there a silent technician worked quietly.
Retief paused by one, an elderly man in a neat white coverall, with a purple spot under one eye.
"Quite a bruise you've got there," Retief commented heartily. "Power failure at sunset," he added softly. The technician hesitated, nodded and moved on.
Back in the car, Retief gave Jake directions. At the end of three hours, he had seen twelve smooth-running, heavily guarded installations.
"So far, so good, Jake," he said. "Next stop, Sub-station Number Nine." In the mirror, Jake's face stiffened. "Hey, you can't go down there—"
"Something going on there, Jake?"
"That's where—I mean, no. I don't know."
"I don't want to miss anything, Jake. Which way?"
"I ain't going down there," Jake said sullenly.