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Most
of
all
,
he
had
developed
the
feeling
of
the
power
of
being
a
Technician
.
He
held
the
fate
of
millions
in
his
finger
tips
,
and
if
one
must
walk
lonely
because
of
it
,
one
could
also
walk
proudly
.
So
he
could
stare
coldly
at
the
Communications
man
behind
the
entry
desk
of
the
482nd
and
announce
himself
in
clipped
syllables
:
"
Andrew
Harlan
,
Technician
,
reporting
to
Computer
Finge
for
temporary
assignment
to
the
482nd
,
"
disregarding
the
quick
glance
from
the
middle
-
aged
man
he
faced
.
It
was
what
some
people
called
the
"
Technician
glance
,
"
a
quick
,
involuntary
sidelong
peek
at
the
rose
-
red
shoulder
emblem
of
the
Technician
,
then
an
elaborate
attempt
not
to
look
at
it
again
.
Harlan
stared
at
the
other
’
s
shoulder
emblem
.
It
was
not
the
yellow
of
the
Computer
,
the
green
of
the
Life
-
Plotter
,
the
blue
of
the
Sociologist
,
or
the
white
of
the
Observer
.
It
was
not
the
Specialist
’
s
solid
color
at
all
.
It
was
simply
a
blue
bar
on
white
.
The
man
was
Communications
,
a
subbranch
of
Maintenance
,
not
a
Specialist
at
all
.
And
he
gave
the
"
Technician
glance
"
too
.
Harlan
said
a
little
sadly
,
"
Well
?
"
Communications
said
quickly
,
"
I
’
m
ringing
Computer
Finge
,
sir
.
"
Harlan
remembered
the
482nd
as
solid
and
massive
,
but
now
it
seemed
almost
squalid
.
Harlan
had
grown
used
to
the
glass
and
porcelain
of
the
575th
,
to
its
fetish
of
cleanliness
.
He
had
grown
accustomed
to
a
world
of
whiteness
and
clarity
,
broken
by
sparse
patches
of
light
pastel
.
