At the door, he paused. He saw Dorothy Adison standing over the motionless hulk of Trexel. She swayed, one hand at her throat. In her other hand was Trexel's gun. Where the head of the fat man had been was a dark, dripping ball of horror.
The woman dropped the pistol. It struck the man's body, rolled to the floor.
Then she was suddenly in Ricker's arms.
Lounging deep in his red-leather chair, Bill Ricker squinted out at the port as the sleek space ship streamed through the darkness. He could see nothing outside but a big, humorous-eyed young man who was his own reflection and the green tinted star that was Earth—home.
"I hear you got a raise," said the tall blonde women in the seat beside him.
"Yep," said Ricker. "The Chief tried to get out of it but since the government offered his star reporter twice as much, he had to give in." He stared at the woman queerly. With her golden hair, her clear emerald eyes and perfect features she possessed a strange loveliness.
"Madam," he said. "What do you plan to do with your life? Have you no aims, no ideals, no guiding light?"
"Nope," she said. "I'll just follow you around, I suppose."
"And what if I get tired of it?"