Nelva was still talking: "A cell-sheet's proof positive of identity, Clark. By Federation law, one's made for every human at birth, everywhere among the inner planets. All records on that person then are filed under the cell-sheet's pattern. So you won't be a lost soul much longer. Two minutes after we put this cylinder into the interplanetary index system, we'll know everything there is to know about you...." They were in another room now--a long, narrow room through which busy techs hurried. The walls on either side were banked solid, floor to ceiling, with varicolored index flashers. A black, box-like unit, shoulder-high, occupied the center of the floor. Beyond it, at the room's far end, double doors like those through which Dane and Nelva had just entered provided a second exit. "This way," Nelva commanded briskly. Leading Dane to the box-like unit, she flipped open one of a row of hinged cases lining each edge, fitted Dane's cell-sheet onto a spool, closed the lid once more, and pressed a button. She kept up a running fire of small-talk as she worked. It came out just a trifle too animated. Dane decided her primary purpose was to forestall embarrassing questions rather than to convey data. Now she pointed to a slot below the cylinder-spool. "This is the place, Clark. And in just two minutes!" In spite of himself, Dane couldn't tear his eyes from the slot. Seconds, ticking by ... dragging out to what seemed eons.... Then a bell rang, a single sharp, imperative note. A card spilled from the slot. It seemed to Dane for an instant as if Nelva had stiffened. A nearby tech looked up sharply. But already Nelva's hand was darting out. Deftly, she caught the card before it reached the tray and, turning, studied it. Whether by accident or design, her body shielded the record so Dane couldn't see it. When he would have stepped round her, she flipped the card over and stood scrutinizing the punch-marks and code-symbols on the reverse side. With an effort, Dane held his voice level. "Well? What does it say?" "Say--? Oh, it--it tells the file we have to send to for your records." But Nelva's voice shook. Her face had paled. Tight-lipped, Dane body-blocked her against the machine and snatched the card from her; turned it over. The legend's top line was printed in red letters a good inch tall: NO RECORD And then, smaller, beneath it: HOLD SUBJECT IN TOP SECURITY ISOLATION PENDING INTENSIVE INVESTIGATION AND APPROPRIATE TESTS FOR PSYCHOPATHY, CRIMINALITY, AND/OR POSSIBLE KALQUOI CONNECTIONS. CHAPTER V Words on a card. That was all they were. But they spelled an end to hope. Numbly, Dane looked at Nelva. White to the lips, she dodged his gaze. But beyond her, over by the door through which they'd entered, a man who wore a guard's uniform had suddenly appeared and now stood to one side, scanning the index-chamber.