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." The clipboard was still on the deck, between Gwen and Bill but a bit
toward me; I could reach it without crossing her line of fire. I picked it up.
Clipped to the board was a receipt form for messages, with a place for me
(or someone) to sign. Clipped beside it was the familiar blue envelope of Mackay
Three Planets; I opened it.
The message was in five-letter code groups, about fifty of them. Even the
address was in code. Written in longhand above the address was "Sen. Cantor, St.
Oil."
I tucked it into a pocket without comment. Gwen queried me with her eyes; I
managed not to see it. "Mistress Hardesty, what shall we do with Bill?"
"Scrub him!"
"Eh? Do you mean, 'Waste him'? Or are you volunteering to scrub his back?"
"Heavens, no! Both. Neither. I am suggesting that we shove him into the
refresher and leave him there until he's sanitary. Bathed, hot water and lots of
suds. Hair shampooed. Clean fingernails and toenails. Everything. Don't let him
out until he whiffs clean."
"You would let him use your 'fresher?"
"Things being the way they are, I don't expect to use it again. Senator,
I'm tired of his stink."
"Well, yes, he does put one in mind of rotten potatoes on a hot day in the
Gulf Stream. Bill, take off your clothes."
The criminal class is the most conservative group in any society; Bill was
as reluctant to strip down in the presence of a lady as he had been to divulge
the hideout of his fellow outcasts
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