As he climbed out, half a dozen guards came running. They were husky men in blue uniforms, armed with stunners, and the dim light showed faces hinting they wouldn't be sorry to feed him a beam. Radek dropped to the ground, folded his arms, and waited. The breath from his nose was frosty under the moon. "What the hell do you want?" The nearest guard pulled up in front of him and laid a hand on his shock gun. "Who the devil are you? Don't you know this is private property? What's the big idea, anyway?" "Take it easy," advised Radek. "I have to see Dr. Lang at once. Emergency." "You didn't call for an appointment, did you?" "No, I didn't." "All right, then--" "I didn't think he'd care to have me give my reasons over a radio. This is confidential and urgent." The men hesitated, uncertain before such an outrageous violation of all civilized canons. "I dunno, friend ... he's busy ... if you want to see Dr. McCormick--" "Dr. Lang. Ask him if I may. Tell him I have news about his longevity process." "His what?" Radek spelled it out and watched the man go. Another one made some ungracious remark and frisked him with needless ostentation. A third was more urbane: "Sorry to do this, but you understand we've got important work going on. Can't have just anybody busting in." "Sure, that's all right." Radek shivered in the thin chill air and pulled his cloak tighter about him. "Viruses and stuff around. If any of that got loose--You understand." Well, it wasn't a bad cover-up. None of these fellows looked very bright. IQ treatments could do only so much, thereafter you got down to the limitations of basic and unalterable brain microstructure. And even among the more intellectual workers ... how many Barwells were there, handling semi-routine tasks but not permitted to know what really went on under their feet? Radek had a brief irrational wish that he'd worn boots instead of sandals. The first guard returned. "He'll see you," he grunted. "And you better make it good, because he's one mad doctor." Radek nodded and followed two of the men. The nearest of the large square buildings seemed given over to offices. He was led inside, down a short length of glow-lit corridor, and halted while the scanner on a door marked, LANG, DIRECTOR observed him. "He's clean, boss," said one of the escort. "All right," said the annunciator. "Let him in. But you two stay just outside." It was a spacious office, but austerely furnished. A telewindow reflected green larches and a sun-spattered waterfall, somewhere on the other side of the planet. Lang sat alone behind the desk, his hands engaged with some papers that looked like technical reports. He was a big, heavy-shouldered man, his hair gray, his chocolate face middle-aged and tired. He did not rise. "Well?" he snapped. "My name is Arnold Radek. I'm a news service operator ... here's my card, if you wish to see it."