too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.

I sighed. My mood was just as sad, if not sadder, than it had been before. Later, in the rest room, I had a chance to talk to one of the Deacons guarding these two. I was washing my hands when he came in, and he nodded to me briefly and said, "Nice day for a flight." He seemed pleasant enough, more than I would expect a Deacon to be. He was tall and blond and rather lithe; his shoulders sloped forward like a boxer's. "Taking those prisoners to Center One?" I asked. He nodded. "Yup. Habitual nonconforms. About as bad as they come." "What did they do?" He chuckled lasciviously. "Kept meeting each other in the rec centers. Didn't know they were being watched. We nabbed 'em topside after they'd gone out in the desert together." "What happens to them now--Marscol?" "They'd be lucky, brother, if that was only it. Oh, we'll ship 'em to Mars sooner or later, but first they got to be interviewed." "You mean for reclassification?" "No. Just interviewed. We do it routine with everybody we pick up now. Specially morals cases. That's how we crack down on other nonconforms. They got a regular organization, you know." "They have?" "Sure. They're all Southem spies. Trying to weaken us for an attack, that's all. I can spot 'em a mile away." 

I frowned and cleared my throat a little. "Wouldn't you think that any spies would try to act as normal as possible and not call attention to themselves by infracting morally?" He put a big finger on my chest. "Listen, you got no idea. I see these buzzards in operation all the time. I know what goes on." "Of course. I'm sure you do." I kept the sarcasm out of my voice, but it was a struggle. The finger tapped my chest, once to every word, it seemed. "We interview 'em all. Some of 'em, they really got nothing to tell us and the interview kind of breaks 'em. Know what I mean? But we got to do it. If we only get dope on other nonconforms from one out of ten, we figure we didn't waste our time." "You mean these--interviews of yours are a form of torture?" He gave me a hard eye and said, "We don't call it that, brother. We don't call it that." "Of course," I said again, and went back to washing my hands. I watched the prisoners for the rest of the flight. I couldn't stop watching them. And all this time I kept thinking of Lara, visualizing her, seeing her young figure and her light hair and her mouse-colored eyes, and not really knowing why. 

I had the overpowering desire to spring forward and throttle the two Deacons and help the prisoners to escape. Almost overpowering. I didn't, naturally. The jetcopter lowered toward the great green 

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