“Arnold Pennell,” I answered, clasping the hand that he held out to me.
He almost jumped. “Don’t tell that to the Council, unless you want the Rest Cure,” he said.
“Don’t tell them my name?”
“Not both names, friend. You know what I mean. If you don’t know—” He shrugged his shoulders. “Mine’s Jones,” he said. “My father’s was Williams. My grandfather’s was Jones again. They say it’s one of our oldest names—common in the days before civilization. Now down we go.”
The airplane swooped down and came to rest upon the roof immediately beneath us. On this I saw a number of men, apparently practicing gymnastic exercises; and hardly were we at a standstill when two of them came running up to us. They were clad in blue uniforms resembling that of the airscout, but instead of a swan each wore a shield-shaped piece of linen upon his back and breast.
“What’s this?” they demanded in a breath, pointing at me and bursting into bellowing laughter.
“One of your defectives,” answered Jones. “I found him in the forest while patrolling.”
They rushed at me and dragged me from the airplane, swiftly patting me about the body, as if in search of weapons. Satisfied that I was unarmed, they turned to the airscout.
“You’ll share the reward!” they cried, again simultaneously.
“Keep it!” replied the airscout tartly, and rose into the air, waving me a cordial good-bye.