IX.
Down the long palace corridor strode Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins, Natt Roberts, the aging Reif and his son Taller, now in the prime of manhood. Their faces were equally wan from long hours without sleep. Half a dozen Tulan infantrymen brought up their rear.
As they passed Security Police guards, to left and right, eyes took in their weapons, openly carried. But such eyes shifted and the guards remained at their posts. Only one sergeant opened his mouth in protest. "Sir," he said to Watson, hesitantly, "you are entering Number One's presence armed."
"Shut up," Natt Roberts rapped at him.
Reif said, "That will be all, sergeant."
The Security Police sergeant looked emptily after them as they progressed down the corridor.
Together, Watson and Reif motioned aside the two Tulan soldiers who stood before the door of their destination, and pushed inward without knocking.
Joe Chessman looked up wearily from his map and dispatch laden desk. For a moment his hand went to the heavy military revolver at his right but when he realized the identity of his callers, it fell away.
"What's up now?" he said, his voice on the verge of cracking.
Watson acted as spokesman. "It's everywhere the same. The communes are on the fine edge of revolt. They've been pushed too far; they've got to the point where they just don't give a damn. A spark and all Texcoco goes up in flames."