He followed her down the corridor and through several branching aisles. Unlike the modular cubicles surrounding it, Booth B turned out to be fully enclosed. Only two other similarly secure stations were visible. One was occupied. The walls of the booth were solid and opaque. A tiny console was built into the entrance.

“Enter the query you used to obtain your final instructions,” the woman directed him. Eric used the console. The miniature screen lit up with the single word ADMIT.

The older woman shrugged, eyed him oddly. “So you do belong here. I wonder what your question was?” She’d been too polite to peek. “It must have been important. Only very important inquiries are referred up here.” She gave a little shrug. Eric wanted to ask her what she was baking.

“None of my business, of course.” She gestured to her right. “If you need any help, there are advanced tech people present to assist you.”

“Thanks. I’ll manage.” He smiled gratefully, entered, and listened to the door lock automatically behind him. The console and display were identical to the one he’d used below. A little more modern in design, perhaps, a little sleeker, slightly less proletarian. Taking a seat, he entered the same queries as before, adding the reference number of the Sublevel Ten cubicle which had sent him upstairs.

“Hello,” said a smooth voice. He jumped a little in spite of himself, stared at the console where he’d shut off the audio. Or thought he had.

“Yes, I know you’ve shut off the audio,” said the voice. “Please do not be alarmed. This booth contains independent audio-video facilities. I feel it is better to dispense with the time-consuming process of keyboard entry and retrieval.”

“Who is this? Who am I talking to?”

“I should think you might have guessed. I know who you are. You are Eric Abbott.”

“Just a minute, that’s wrong. You saw the name on my credit card. It’s Mark Curtis.”

“Please do not waste our time with futile denials, Mr. Abbott,” said the voice calmly. If it was a machine voice, Eric thought furiously, it was beautifully processed. “You are a fine technician, but your work is not perfect. You have insufficient experience in illegal modification.” Was that a hint of dry humor there?

“Who is this? Security? City authorities?”

“No indeed. This is the voice of Colligatarch Central.”

“What? From Switzerland?”

“Yes. I am conversing with you via satellite relay.”

Eric sat back in his chair. As an engineer and designer, he held even more respect for the Colligatarch Authority than the average citizen. To find himself addressing the central core of that globe-girdling network was sufficiently overpowering to make him forget for a few moments the troubles which had brought him to this place.

“I don’t see why you should be interested in my query. I’m just trying to find a woman.”

“But I am interested, for reasons of my own.”

“Don’t you always have reasons of your own?”

“You have a sense of humor. That’s good.” Then, quite out of the blue, “Where were you born?”

“I beg your pardon?” Was this some kind of elaborate, cruel joke the authorities were playing on him? For a second he thought of calling in help, then decided against it. He would continue with the game in hopes of learning something useful.

“Your birthplace.”

“If this is really Colligatarch Central, you should have easy access to that kind of information.”

“Verification is always useful.”

“All right. Phoenix. Chandler, actually. That’s a suburb. I’ve lived in the Greater Phoenix area all my life.”

“What were your parents’ names?”

He drummed idle fingers on the unused keyboard. “Listen, this isn’t making any sense. I’m trying to find the woman I love. A number of people don’t want me to find her.”

How much of this did the Colligatarch know? He’d always believed, like most citizens, that the Colligatarch knew everything it wanted to know, but it hadn’t mentioned the events of the past week. Instead it was questioning him about perfectly ordinary details of his life that surely existed already in half a hundred data banks scattered across the North American Federation.

He answered the question, was rewarded with another.

“Where do you work?”

He shook his head, settled himself into the seat, and continued to answer the most mundane queries. Height and weight, color of hair and eyes, the names of his friends, his hobbies, what kinds of optos he liked, how often he attended the symphony, what major illnesses he had suffered while growing up, how he felt about politics, religion, economics, his work, and dozens more.

Finally, “How do you feel at this moment?”

That one made him hesitate. “I don’t follow your meaning.”

“Right now, sitting in Booth B, how would you evaluate your general condition?”

“Put upon, confused, anxious, otherwise healthy and sane.”

“And physically?

“About the same. A little bruised and battered. I’ve had a rough couple of days, but I haven’t broken any bones or torn any muscles.”

A long pause, then, “You are Eric Abbott.”

“Is this some kind of a joke? All this is readily available to you from fifty different sources.”

“Verification is always—”

“Useful, yeah, you said that.”

“You want to know about Lisa Tambor?”

This couldn’t be Colligatarch Central, Eric decided. Never mind the fact that it could hardly be bothered by the problems of one man in search of his lady-love. It would not spend expensive time querying him all the way from Europe simply to ascertain whether his true weight was eighty or ninety kilos. Someone was stalling him, toying with him, though he didn’t think it was Tarragon’s people. They would have burst in on him by now.

“Where is she?” he asked. He did not expect a useful answer. Some part of him added aloud, “I love her.”

“That is not relevant. Eric Abbott, you are advised to return to your home and work in Phoenix and forget about Lisa Tambor.”

“Funny, I’ve already been told that.” Maybe it was Tarragon. Maybe in spite of everything, he was hoping this machine-oriented directive would get the troublesome engineer out of his hair.

“I am aware that you have been so instructed previously. You must return to your home, Eric Abbott. There is no malice in this order.” Order; he thought. Not suggestion. “Lisa Tambor serves a function which your presence complicates. No actions will be taken against you if you return home now.”

“Really? What about my free ticket?”

“I am not aware of it.”

“Oh, come on.” He was tired of the game. “Your security people, a man named Kemal Tarragon, offered me a free ride home if I’d leave Lisa alone.”