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Valentine knew little about the ISO, save that their field officers were called marshals.
He'd once seen one come in to Rally Base to pick up two river patrol Quislings who'd gotten drunk and decided to fish from the wrong bank of the river. The marshal wore blue pants with a navy stripe down each side and had a badge, but other than that he looked like a typical hand on a horse farm.
"I don't suppose there's someone from the ISO here."
"As a matter of fact, there is. You've got a UFR/ISO district marshal just across the street at the station. He runs a one-man show. He's got an office off our regular police force. His name's Petrie and I wish you luck with him."
* * * *
Ray Petrie had alcohol on his breath at ten thirty in the morning.
The duty sergeant at the small police station had advised them that he showed up anytime between eight and eleven, depending on how late the card games went.
You had to catch him quickly before he left for lunch, a uniformed woman struggling with a rusted padlock on an evidence cage added. So Valentine and Patel drank police-station coffee (and used the station washroom shortly thereafter; Liberty cops liked their smuggled-in beans strong) and waited for Petrie to appear.
There was already a waiting line. A couple, both in the two-tone dungarees, the woman swollen in pregnancy, waited.
"Not long now," Valentine said, looking at the mother-to-be.
"You don't know Petrie," the man said. "I was a librarian in a Youth Vanguard school. I've got a job here, filing, but our application still hasn't been approved. We don't even want to move out of town! And we met here; that's how long the wait's been."
"I meant not long for the child," Valentine said.
"It's our second," she added, closing her eyes and sighing.
Petrie came in yawning, a fleshy man with a heavy mustache and a growth of beard. He paused on the way in, a thoughtful look on his face, grabbed the edge of the duty sergeant's desk as though to keep himself from keeling over, and farted abundantly.
"Christ, Petrie," the duty sergeant said.
The marshal took a chained ring of keys and opened his side office.
"A minute," he said to them. Valentine had time to spot a dead houseplant atop a file cabinet before Petrie closed the office door behind him.
He reemerged only to go into the washroom carrying some items wrapped in a towel. He emerged again, shaved and combed.
"Just another minute," he said, nodding to them. This time the station cat managed to flash through the door.
A radio flicked on in the office. Valentine heard the keys employed again, a file cabinet open, the pop of a cork being pulled, and the marshal sit heavily. A minute passed, then the cabinet and keys sounded again.
The door opened. "C'mon in. Open for business," he said to Valentine.
"They were here first," Valentine said, gesturing to the couple.
"They can wait. They're used to it."
Petrie turned heavily away and went to his chair.
"Go ahead," Valentine said to the Quislings.
The couple went in. Petrie didn't bother greeting them. "Good news, Courage," Petrie said.
Valentine watched the interaction "Your application came back, provisionally approved."
"Provisionally?" the man and woman groaned, if not in unison, at least in harmony.
"Your list of references got misplaced somewhere between here and the office." Petrie got up and shut the door, but that didn't matter to Valentine's ears, or to Patel's for that matter.
"Believe you me, it might take a while. I could make sure they get found soon for another five hundred," Petrie said. "You want that kid born a regular citizen, right?"
