There was no answer; the hammering continued.
"All right! All right! I'm coming!" He yelled, crawled out of the tub and reached for his bathrobe. It wasn't there. He swore some more and grabbed a towel, wrapping it inadequately around him; it didn't quite meet astern. He paddled wetly across the floor sounding like a flock of ducks on parade.
Retaining the towel with one hand he inched the door cautiously open.
"What the devil—" He stopped abruptly at the sight of a policeman's uniform.
"Sorry, sir, but one of those rebels is loose in the Administration Center somewhere. We're making a check-up of all the apartments."
"Well, you can check out; I haven't got any blasted rebels in here." The policeman's face hardened, then relaxed knowingly.
"Oh, I see, sir. No rebels, of course. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a good—Good night, sir," he saluted and left.
Brian closed the door in puzzlement. What the devil had that flat-foot been smirking about? Well, maybe he could get his bath now.
Hanson turned away from the door and froze in amazement. Through the open door of his bedroom he could see his bed neatly turned down as it should be, but the outline under the counterpane and the luxuriant mass of platinum-blond hair on the pillow was certainly no part of his regular routine.