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And, during the past couple of months, he'd seemed to be proving his point. Certainly, the production of the employees from the peninsula had been climbing. Harwood, Morely decided would be the most logical person after himself for the region when the Old Man retired. In fact, for a time, it had looked as though the director of District One was going to be a dangerous rival.

Stephen Grattan had been a drunkard, and was now a reformed man. John Morely had been a drunkard, and was trying to reform. His father, though not a total abstainer, had lived and died a temperate man. But John Morely was not like his father.

For an instant, he thought of Harwood. He focused his mind on a single thought. "Get me the quarters file for Sector Nine." There was a definite effect this time. There was a sharp radiation of pained surprise. Then, there was acquiescence. The clerk started to say something, then backed toward the door. The impression of fear intensified. Morely smiled sardonically.

"Maybe you've got to be able to understand and like people before you can establish full contact with them. Maybe ... Maybe a lot of things." He was silent for a moment. "You know, this thing might become far more valuable than you thought, Graham." Howard Morely looked up from a memo as the clerk tapped on the door. "Come in." The man opened the door and stepped inside.

You will use them for all routine communications." He nodded to his deputy, who stepped to the door and beckoned. Two men came in, carrying cartons, which they distributed around the room. Morely waited until one of the cartons was in the hands of each of the men before him, then he reached up to touch the headband he was wearing. "This is the device I'm speaking of," he said.

He signaled another guard, then pointed toward Morely's ship, and to the landing slot. "I can go with you now." The two went down in the elevator and walked over to the wrecked sportster. A slender man was crawling from a door. When the man was clear of his ship, Morely beckoned. "Over here, Fellow," he commanded.

Caton will just let her play that once." "Not he he's like iron. Didn't he send Bob Morely down for three whole days just before the Thanksgiving game 'cause he got up in Cæsar class and translated 'bout the 'Garlic Wars'?" Gyp sensed the psychological moment to strike. "Never before in the history of our secret order has such an opportunity to serve our school been given to us "

The underground lots were designated for all normal parking. Morely thought over the problem, ignoring the helis which hovered, waiting for him to clear the center of the landing area. Finally, his hand started for the throttle. He would settle in the landing slot, let the guards shove his heli to a space, and avoid any conflict with the director's orders regarding the surface lot.

Almost immediately, a clerk stood in the doorway. "Get me the master quarters file for Sector Fourteen," Morely ordered. The clerk went out, to return with two long file drawers. Quickly, he set them side by side on a small table, which he pushed over to his superior's desk. Idly, Morely fingered through the cards, noting the indexing and condition of the file.

The neat uniform looked as if freshly taken from the tailor shop. The man stepped forward alertly, to halt at the correct distance before his superior. "Good evening, sir. My heli is on the roof." "Very good." Morely nodded shortly and took his notebook from his pocket. "We'll go to Building Seven Twenty-three." He turned and walked toward the self-service elevator.