Fear organized itself, finally, settling into a pasty expression, unnatural eyes, and drumming fingers. The expression and eyes and fingers belonged to Carl Wilson, chief of the Demobilization staff. It centered there, but its aura spread out over the backwash it had left. Fear lurked in the hushed silence. Fear rode as an undertone in the slightest sound, lay ready to spring from behind every door.
Larry Jackson felt it as he gave the receptionist his name.
Stella Gamble was oblivious of it as she pushed into the waiting room.
Larry looked at her and wished it was his day off and a girl like her was with him. He wondered what her name was.
"I'm Stella Gamble," Stella said to the receptionist. "I've got to see Mr. Wilson at once. My freighter is overdue with two million junked robots. Something's got—"
"Will you please be seated, Miss Gamble?" the receptionist said firmly. Then, "You may go right in, Mr. Jackson. Mr. Wilson is waiting for you."
It was then Stella and Larry looked into each other's eyes. Hers were narrowed, sizing him up, guessing what he was and why he was there. His were friendly, smiling.
"Thanks," he murmured to the receptionist. He went toward the door, conscious of Stella's eyes following him. He went in.
"There you are, Jackson," Wilson said, running fingers through his iron gray hair in nervous relief. "You've guessed why—"
"Yes," Larry said.