"Don't you like any of them?" the girl said. "I just adore _Sentries of the Sky_!" Her enthusiasm was tinged, obscurely, with warning. "Well, I enjoy it, too," Clarey said, sinking back to the stool. "It's very entertaining, but I'm sure it isn't meant to be taken seriously." "Oh, but it is, Sub-Archivist Clarey," Spano said. "_Sentries of the Sky_ happens to be produced by my bureau. We want the public to know all about our operations--or as much as it's good for them to know--and they find it more palatable in fictionalized form." "Documentaries always get low ratings," the girl said. "And you can't really blame the public--documentaries are dull. Myself, I like a love interest." Her eyes rested lingeringly on Clarey's. They must think I'm a fool, Clarey thought; yet why would they bother to fool me? "But I am given to understand," he said to Spano, "even by the tri-dis, that an intelligence agent needs special training, special qualifications." "In this case, the special qualifications outweigh the training. And you have the qualifications we need for Damorlan." "According to the machines, all I'm qualified for is human filing cabinet. Is that what you want?" Spano was growing impatient. "Look, Clarey, the machines have decided that you are not a Musician. Do you want to remain a Sub-Archivist for the rest of your days or will you take this other road? Once you're on a U-E level, you can fight the machines; tape your own music if you like." Clarey said nothing, but his initial hostility was ebbing slowly away. "I wanted to be a writer," Spano said. "The machines said no. So I became a soldier, rose to the top. Now--this is in strictest confidence--I write most of the episodes of _Sentries of the Sky_ myself. There's always another route for the man with guts and vision, and, above all, faith. Why don't we continue the discussion over lunch?" * * * * * It was almost unthinkable for L-E and U-E to eat together. For Clarey this was an honor--too great an honor--and there was no way out of it. Spano and the girl put on their masks; the general touched a section of the wall and it slid back. There was a car waiting for them outside. It skimmed over the delicately wrought, immensely strong bridges that, together with the tunnels, linked the great glittering metropolis into a vast efficient whole. Spano was not really broadminded. Although they went to the _Aurora Borealis_, it was through a side door, and they were served in a private dining room. Clarey was glad and nettled at the same time. The first few mouthfuls of the food tasted ambrosial; then it cloyed and Clarey had to force it down with a thin, almost astringent pale blue liquid. In itself, the liquor had only a mild, slightly pungent taste, but it made everything else increasingly delightful--the warm, luxurious little room, the perfume that wafted from the air-conditioning ducts, Han Vollard.