“That’s a good graphic representation,” Gerd said.  “You know, that line’s so sharp I’d be tempted to think of sapience as a result of mutation, except that I can’t quite buy the same mutation happening in the same way on so many different planets.”

Ben Rainsford started to say something, then stopped short when a constabulary siren hooted over the camp.  The Fuzzies looked up interestedly.  They knew what that was.  Pappy Jack’s friends in the blue clothes.  Jack went to the door and opened it, putting the outside light on.

The car was landing; George Lunt, two of his men and two men in civilian clothes were getting out.  Both the latter were armed, and one of them carried a bundle under his arm.

“Hello, George; come on in.”

“We want to talk to you, Jack.”  Lunt’s voice was strained, empty of warmth or friendliness.  “At least, these men do.”

“Why, yes.  Sure.”

He backed into the room to permit them to enter.  Something was wrong; something bad had come up.  Khadra came in first, placing himself beside and a little behind him.  Lunt followed, glancing quickly around and placing himself between Jack and the gunrack and also the holstered pistols on the table.  The third trooper let the two strangers in ahead of him, and then closed the door and put his back against it.  He wondered if the court might have cancelled his bond and ordered him into custody.  The two strangers—­a beefy man with a scrubby black mustache, and a smaller one with a thin, saturnine face—­were looking expectantly at Lunt.  Rainsford and van Riebeek were on their feet.  Gus Brannhard leaned over to refill his glass, but did not rise.

“Let me have the papers,” Lunt said to the beefy stranger.

The other took a folded document and handed it over.

“Jack, this isn’t my idea,” Lunt said.  “I don’t want to do it, but I have to.  I wouldn’t want to shoot you, either, but you make any resistance and I will.  I’m no Kurt Borch; I know you, and I won’t take any chances.”

“If you’re going to serve that paper, serve it,” the bigger of the two strangers said.  “Don’t stand yakking all night.”

“Jack,” Lunt said uncomfortably, “this is a court order to impound your Fuzzies as evidence in the Kellogg case.  These men are deputy marshals from Central Courts; they’ve been ordered to bring the Fuzzies into Mallorysport.”

“Let me see the order, Jack,” Brannhard said, still remaining seated.

Lunt handed it to Jack, and he handed it across to Brannhard.  Gus had been drinking steadily all evening; maybe he was afraid he’d show it if he stood up.  He looked at it briefly and nodded.

“Court order, all right, signed by the Chief Justice.”  He handed it back.  “They have to take the Fuzzies, and that’s all there is to it.  Keep that order, though, and make them give you a signed and thumbprinted receipt.  Type it up for them now, Jack.”