The Resident, a tall, lean being with a leathery, gray face that somehow managed to look crocodilian in spite of the fact that his head was definitely humanoid in shape, peered at them from beneath pronounced supraorbital ridges. "Is this man under arrest?" he asked in a gravelly baritone.
"Er ... no," said Jackson. "No. He is merely in protective custody."
"He has not been convicted of any crime?"
"No sir," Jackson said. His voice sounded as though he were unsure of himself.
"That is well," said the Resident. "A convicted criminal cannot, of course, use the credits of society until he has become rehabilitated." He paused. "But why protective custody?"
"There are those," said Jackson, choosing his words with care, "who feel that Professor McLeod has brought disgrace upon the human race ... er ... the Terrestrial race. There is reason to believe that his life may be in danger."
McLeod smiled wryly. What Jackson said was true, but it was carefully calculated to mislead.
"I see," said the Resident. "It would appear to me that it would be simpler to inform the people that he has done no such thing; that, indeed, his work has conferred immense benefits upon your race. But that is your own affair. At any rate, he is in no danger here."
He didn't need to say anything else. Jackson knew the hint was an order and that he wouldn't get any farther with his squad.
McLeod spoke up. "Subject to your permission, sir, I would like to have Mr. Jackson with me."