the Engine went on around him, and he was not needed. He was left idle as any civilian. He hated idleness. Twice an hour, his thoughts switchbacked from sweaty-palmed nervous hope—because he might be traveling toward some unexpected, unimaginable promotion—to despair—because he might equally well be traveling to his own court-martial, for any one of the countless sins of which he was, he didn’t doubt, entirely guilty.
After a while, he removed a volume of the Black File from his suitcases and passed his time studying it: the names and faces and the modus operandi and the long, long lists of crimes of his enemies, the enemies of all civilized people. . . . He told himself this study was useful work, but in fact he just found that the fog of self-righteous loathing that rolled over him whenever he opened the Black File soothed his nerves.
He’d never visited Kingstown Station before. However, the Station’s physical and hierarchical organization was almost identical to that of Angelus Station—as one would expect, since both were designed according to the same principles of efficiency and good order. The two Stations, though they were thousands of miles apart, differed only in that Kingstown’s outer ring of fortifications was rather thicker than Angelus’s, and bristled with a gteater density of barbed wire and machine guns—but of course, this was wild, unsettled country.
He quickly found his way to the relevant Desk where he was assigned a room and a temporary office, which was identical to the one he’d had back in Angelus.
He waited to be summoned.
They came for him at midnight. Two Privates of the Army of the Kingstown Engine banged on his door, waking him from dreamless sleep. When he answered the door, they turned smartly on their heels and disappeared down an unlit corridor, gesturing for him to follow. He did. Their boots echoed dully down the concrete hallways.
A midnight summons almost invariably meant court-martial, or more often discipline without formal process, and so he didn’t even bother to ask the two Privates where they were leading him. They probably didn’t know, anyway. He trudged along in dismal silence, preparing himself for the worst, reminding himself that the Line’s wisdom was greater than his own.
They led him into a windowless room, and left him there.
The floor was gray tile. At the far side of the room was a steel table. Behind that were three chairs and an electric lamp. Behind the chairs and the lamp, there was another door.
Presently three uniformed persons came through that door and sat at the chairs. Two of them were men. One of them was, Lowry guessed, a woman. With the light at their back, he could not make out their insignia or rank. Their faces were unremarkable, except that one of the men had only one ear, and their expressions told him nothing.
He folded his hands behind his back to stop them shaking.
One of them said, “Please sit, Lowry.”
He looked around. There was nowhere obvious to sit.
“Sit, Lowry.”
Slowly, not sure whether this was the proper response, he sat cross-legged on the cold floor.
“Do you know why you’re here, Sub-Invigilator (Third Class) Lowry?”
He stared blankly at the tiles. “I submit myself to the judgment of the Line.”
“You don’t know why you’re here.”
“I’m sure there are reasons. I have not been informed of them.”
One of them grunted and made a note on a piece of paper.
The one Lowry thought was probably a woman said, “You have a long service record, Lowry.”
A pocket of stubborn pride surfaced in him, like stomach acid, and he said, “I believe my record of service is exemplary.”
“It’s adequate,” she said. “No more.”
The one-eared man said, “Repeated indications of pride.”
“Inappropriate sympathies,” said the other man. A deep and monotone voice.
“Blunders,” the woman said, “Leading to the loss of men and matériel, and the slowing of progress.”
“Yes,” Lowry said. He didn’t know what incidents they were referring to, but he was instantly quite sure they were correct. His face flushed and he continued to stare at the floor. “I regret my inadequacies.”
“Very good.” The one-eared man made another note.
The woman said, “Don’t despair, Lowry. Despair is not productive. Your record is not disgraceful. For instance, you’ve survived an unusual number of encounters with the Agents of our enemy. I understand you have made a special study of their habits. What are your feelings regarding them?”
“Feelings?” Lowry shook his head. “Dogs. Vermin. Criminals. Scum. I don’t know. I do my job. They have to be put down.”