"I've arranged to give you and your family an alternate claim, Mr. Marshall. Of course it isn't quite as desirable as the original one. But under the circumstances—" He let the sentence trail off.

"I see," Claude said. "And where is this alternate claim?"

Stubbs examined the end of his cigar.

"It's on the other side of the planet, Mr. Marshall. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do."

At his elbow, Claude caught the sharp intake of his wife's breath.

"It really isn't too bad," the Director went on. "Many of the reports about the cold-side have been exaggerated."

"I'm sure they have," Claude said bitterly. "I'm sure it's just the place to bring up a nine-year-old boy."

"Please Mr. Marshall. Don't be bitter. It isn't my fault."

Claude got up placing his palms on the edge of the metal desk. He leaned forward till his face was only inches away from the Director's cigar, and said: "Isn't it?"

The Director didn't answer. Instead he got up and walked over to the open window. For ten full seconds he stared out at the lush valley that flanked the spaceport. Then he turned.

"You want my advice, Mr. Marshall?"

Claude shrugged his shoulders.

"Go home," Leon Stubbs said. "You can't bring up a boy on the cold-side. It just wouldn't work."

"But we just got here," Joan said. "We sold everything we had to come here!"

Stubbs nodded. "I know," he said. He indicated the folders. "It's all there in your records. Six years ago you left Terra with six-thousand credits. But surely with that kind of money you could get a fresh start almost anywhere."

"But we want to stay here, Mr. Stubbs."

Stubbs took a drag out of the cigar.

"I know," he said woodenly.

Claude remained silent, regarding the conversation carefully. A pattern was beginning to form now—a familiar pattern. He walked over to where the Director was standing.

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