Two weeks gone! Two weeks wasted.
One  week to  reach Askone, at  the extreme  borders of which  the vigilantwarships  speared out  to meet  him in  converging¹ numbers.  Whatever theirdetection system was, it worked ?and well.
They  sidled  him  in  slowly, without  a  signal,  maintaining their  colddistance,  and pointing  him  harshly towards  the central  sun  of Askone.
Ponyets could have handled them at a pinch. Those ships were holdovers fromthe  dead-and-gone Galactic  Empire ? but they  were sports  cruisers, notwarships; and  without nuclear  weapons, they were so  many picturesque² andimpotent ellipsoids.  But Eskel  Gorov was a  prisoner in their  hands, andGorov  was   not  a  hostage  to  lose.   The  Askonians  must  know  that.
And then  another week ?a  week to wind a weary  way through the clouds ofminor officials  that formed  the buffer³ between  the Grand Master  and theouter world. Each little  sub-secretary required soothing⁴ and conciliation⁵.
Each required careful and  nauseating⁶ milking for the flourishing signaturethat was the pathway to the next official one higher up.
For  the  first  time, Ponyets  found  his  trader's identification  papersuseless.
I Now, at last, the Grand Master was on the other side of the Guard-flankedgilded door ?and two weeks had gone.
Gorov was  still a prisoner and Ponyets' cargo  rotted useless in the holdsof his ship.
The Grand Master was  a small man; a small man with a balding head and verywrinkled  face, whose  body seemed  weighed down  to motionlessness  by thehuge, glossy⁷ fur collar about his neck.

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