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"I hope you don't think those helpless office types like Faussel or Mervv really represented us there? They just took notes and acted as a front and cover for the organization. Nyjord is a fine planet, but a gentle guiding hand behind the scenes is needed, to help them find their place in the galaxy before they are pulverized." "What's your dirty game, Hys?" Lea asked, scowling.
He was rewarded by a number of sputtering cracks and a quantity of smoke. The compressor moaned and expired. Faussel was standing in the door with more papers, a shocked expression on his face. "What do you have there?" Brion asked. Faussel managed to straighten out his face and brought the folders to the desk, arranging them on the piles already there.
Brion rejected any idea he had of letting the man know that he himself was only a novice in the foundation. He was going to need all the authority he could muster, since they would undoubtedly hate him for what he was going to do. "Better take notes of this, Faussel, and have it typed. I'll sign it." The printed word always carried more weight.
White with anger, Faussel turned on his heel and stamped out to spread the word about what a slave-driver the new director was. They would then all hate him passionately, which was just the way he wanted it. He couldn't risk exposure as the tyro he was. And perhaps a new emotion, other than disgust and defeat, might jar them into a little action.
Perhaps you don't realize we are here to save a planet not file cabinets full of papers." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faussel flush with anger. "As soon as that is typed bring it back. And all the reports as to what has been accomplished on this project. That will be all for now."
They did a job, explosive of some kind." Hope was dead. Dis was dead. In the ruin ahead, mixed and broken with other rubble, were the bodies of all the people who had trusted him. Lea ... beautiful and cruelly dead Lea. Doctor Stine, his patients, Faussel, all of them. He had kept them on this planet, and now they were dead. Every one of them. Dead. Murderer! Life was ended.
There was sympathy in Brion's voice but also the firmness of an order. Faussel swayed for a second longer, then collapsed. He sat with his cheek against the window, eyes closed. A pulse throbbed visibly in his temple and his lips worked. He had been under too much tension for too long a time. This was the atmosphere that hung heavily in the air at the C.R.F. building when they arrived.
"What do you mean, tomorrow?" Brion asked. "It's three days to deadline and we still have a job to do." Faussel had dropped heavily into one of the seats and he sprang to his feet again, clutching the seat back to keep his balance in the swaying car. "Three days, three weeks, three minutes what difference does it make?"
He turned and said something inaudible offscreen. "The call is cancelled. The responsibility is yours. All our wishes for success go with you. End of transmission." "End of transmission," Brion said, and the screen went dark. "Faussel!" he shouted into the intercom.
Brion shivered in the night chill of the air and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself. Depressed, he walked back towards the warmer streets of the city. It was dawn when he reached the Foundation building; a new guard was at the front entrance. No amount of hammering or threats could convince the man to open until Faussel came down, yawning and blinking with sleep.
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