Duggan came to his feet, listening for the sound of battle between Rusche and his captive. It came from his right, faintly. About ten feet distant, he judged it. And now the emergency vents were clearing the darkness from the travel strips. Twilight faded and vision replaced it.
Rusche was sitting astride a prone body, and even as Duggan reached his side the struggling criminal's arms and legs went limp. Rusche grunted and started to stand.
"A super mech!" he said. He rubbed thoughtfully at his disarranged nose and cheeks, smoothing them again into their normal contours. "What about yours?"
"The same."
"Here's their loot, anyhow," Rusche said, holding up a small gray plastine bag.
"Drop it, Ted. We better fade out of here before the Squads arrive, too. They might think we're—"
"Not on your life, Al. We should get a reward. Pics on the newswires and tapes."
Duggan shrugged and smoothed at his own neck and face. Four red-uniformed men, their heads hidden by ovoid gas helmets, came hissing toward them along the travel strip. They rode single-wheeled cycles and their rapid-fire expoders were trained on them.
"Careful now, Ted. Let me do the talking. They like to use paralysis needles and question later."
"But—"