"... and Sadie agrees with United Stars?"
"That's right. I don't get it, Tom."
"Look, son." The old man leaned both hamlike hands on the bar and thrust his face within a few inches of the captain's. "Sadie's a mighty smart gal. If Wildoatia ever gets cleaned up, the Incors in the Underground will have to do the job themselves. The Patrol's work is to police Venusport and see that tender-foot Incors get an even break until they head into the bush."
"But why, Tom? Confound it...."
"Didn't you learn at school," the bartender interrupted, "that the state of Wildoatia is the safety valve for United Stars? The people who go there voluntarily—and the ones who are sent there—don't want to live under a decent government. They're incorrigibles who hate and abominate a peaceful, well-ordered civilization. They want to sow their wild oats—to rob, steal, commit murder and do as they damned well please. Maybe they'll—some of them—become good citizens eventually if we leave them alone—give them a chance to grow up. The growth of the Underground suggests that that may happen. On the other hand, if you use outside force to destroy Wildoatia, you upset the whole apple cart. Where, let me ask you, do you send the Incorrigibles? If you don't deport 'em, in no time at all they'd be raising hob on Earth and Mars the way they did before the Cooperative Commonwealth was set up. That wouldn't be pretty, would it?"
"Of course Venus is the only place to exile fascists, crooks, and plain damn fools," Frank agreed as he signalled for his pie, "but why let them run the whole show up there? Oh, you'll spout that that's their most fitting punishment ... to have a free rein to chew each other up. But what if the Big Shots get strong enough to defy United Stars? You should see them strut and goose step when they visit Venusport. They may have no space ships, but I tell you they're up to something devilish."
He shoved his plate away, tossed a five-credit note across the bar and got up. "It must be about blasting-off time. I'd better be getting into my strait-jacket."
"You've plenty of time. The mail packet from Mars has to come in before you can leave. I won't have another customer until then." The bartender removed his apron. "Come on. I'll walk you around the dome."
As soon as they left the cafe, Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that he had shrunk to pigmy size. The metal hemisphere which served as way station for all ships travelling between planets was a quarter of a mile in diameter. The few grease monkeys moving about its vast floor were almost lost among landing cradles and other pieces of machinery.