The powerful downblast had completely upset the sportster pilot's calculations. The small ship, struck by the gale from above, had listed to the right and gone out of control, grazing one of the heavy splinter shutters at the side of the landing slot. The ship lay on its side, amidst the wreckage of its impellers. Morely flicked on his warning siren and lights, then feathered his own impellers, dropping his ship in free fall. He dropped to the grassy area by the landing slot, ignoring the other ships which scattered like frightened chickens, to give him room. At the last instant, he twisted the impellers to full pitch again, pulled out the throttle for a moment, then slammed the lever to the closed position. His ship touched down on springy turf, its landing gear settling gently to accept the weight. A klaxon was sounding, and warning lights flashed from the landing slot, to warn ships away from an attempted landing. It would be a long time before the shiny, new sportster would be in condition to sweep into another parking area. And, after paying his fine and taking care of his extra duties, it would be an even longer time before the employee-pilot would have much business in the luxury shopping center, anyway. Morely smiled bitterly as he closed the door of his ship. It didn't pay to cross Howard Morely--ever. He walked slowly toward the landing slot, motioning imperiously to an approaching guard. "Have someone place that ship for me," he ordered, jerking a thumb back toward his heli. "Then come over to that wreck. I shall want words with the pilot." He held out his small identification folder. The guard's glance went to the folder. For an instant, he studied the card exposed before him, then he straightened and saluted, his face expressionless. "Yes, sir." 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. The sportster pilot approached, the indignation on his face changing to bewilderment, then dismay as he noted Morely's insignia and the attitude of the two men who faced him. Morely turned to the guard. "Get me his name, identification number, and the name of his leader." "Yes, sir." The guard turned to the man, who grimaced a little with pain as he slowly put a hand in his pocket. Wordlessly, he extracted a bulky folder, from which he took a small booklet. He held out the booklet to the guard. Morely held out a hand. "Never mind," he said. "Simply put him in custody. I'll turn this over to his leader myself." He had noted the cover design on the booklet. It was from District One--Harwood's district. He flipped the cover open, ascertaining that there was no transfer notice. He'd give this to Harwood all right--at the right time. He looked at his watch.