He was a third-generation dreamer of participating in the glory. His grandfather had been a citizen of Earth and gave up a commercial position to take a job that amounted to little more than a janitor in an obscure department of Interplanetary Financial Clearing. He wanted to get into the big job, into space, but never made it. Ronny's father managed to work up to the point where he was a supervisor in Interplanetary Medical Exchange, in the tabulating department. He, too, had wanted into space, and never made it. Ronny had loved them both. In a way fulfilling his own dreams had been a debt he owed them, because at the same time he was fulfilling theirs.
And now this. All that had been gold, was suddenly gilted lead. The dream had become contemptuous nightmare.
Finally back in Greater Washington, he went immediately from the shuttleport to the Octagon. His Bureau of Investigation badge was enough to see him through the guide-guards and all the way through to the office of Irene Kasansky.
She looked up at him quickly. “Hi,” she said. “Ronny Bronston, isn't it?”
“That's right. I want to see Commissioner Metaxa.”
She scowled. “I can't work you in now. How about Sid Jakes?”
He said, “Jakes is in charge of the Tommy Paine routine, isn't he?”
She shot a sharper look up at him. “That's right,” she said warily.
“All right,” Ronny said. “I'll see Jakes.”
Her deft right hand slipped open a drawer in her desk. “You'd better leave your gun here,” she said. “I've known probationary agents to get excited, in my time.”