Doak exhaled, saying nothing.
"And maybe more," the old man said and his eyes were unholy. "Maybe—I wouldn't be surprised if they're—they're printing something up there." He coughed.
Sweat poured off Doak as the glowing hynrane heater made an oven of the windowless room.
The old man closed his eyes. "In my home town, the vermin, in my own town! They always laughed at me here but, by God, that was before the state saw fit to send me to the Senate. The last laugh's been mine. But now—right under my nose, you might say!" He opened his eyes and glared at Doak.
"Subversive reading, you think?" Doak asked.
The old man stared at him. "Is there another kind? I shouldn't have to ask that of a Security Officer. What kind of men is the Department hiring these days?"
Doak thought of something to say and decided not to. He said, "I wondered about how dangerous they were. If I'd need additional men."
"For readers? Young man, there must be some red blood in your veins. By God, if I was two years younger, I'd go along just for the joy of smashing them." He was trembling, leaning forward in his chair. "Go now, go and trap the filthy scum."
Doak went. He left the hot and odorous room and went out through the cool and odorous room to the front hall and out the front door. There his nausea quieted a little under the sun-warmed air from the east.
Behind the wrought-iron fence the dogs slobbered and watched, only their heads moving. As he went down the gravel drive to the heavy gate he was conscious of their stares and a coldness moved through him. The gates opened when he was twenty feet away.