It was an hour later. In a ninth-floor corridor of the granyauck times-herald building, Mart leaned against a wall, mentally rehearsing speeches. A stout man emerged from a door lettered editor in chief. Mart stepped forward to intercept him.
"Pardon me, sir. I have to see you. . . ."
Sharp blue eyes under wild-growing brows darted at Maldon
"Yes? What is it?"
"I have a story for you. It's about the Placement procedure."
"Whoa, buddy. Who are you?"
"My name's Maldon. I'm an Applied Tech graduate—almost—but I can't get placed in Microtronics. I don't have a tag—and the only way to get one is to get a job—but first I have to let the government operate on my brains—"
"Hmmmp!" The man looked Maldon up and down, started on.
"Listen!" Maldon caught at the portly man's arm. "They're making idiots out of intelligent people so they can do work you could train a chimp to do, and if you ask any questions—"
"All right, Mac. . . ." A voice behind Maldon growled. A large hand took him by the shoulder, propelled him toward the walkaway entrance, urged him through the door. He straightened his coat, looked back. A heavy-set man with a pink card in a plastic cover clipped to his collar dusted his hands, looking satisfied.
"Don't come around lots," he called cheerfully as the door slammed.