He searched the body swiftly, and came up with a flat metal box, attached by a silver chain to the body's middle. He tried the lid; it opened easily. The box was empty.
Horitz sighed and lifted the dead man's chin. Under the grey beard was a deeply-indented red line that encircled the throat.
He stood up and pressed a button on his wrist transceiver. "Walsh," he said. "Sommers. Get up to the observation deck. Thomasson has been murdered."
A deep voice swore fervently in his ear. He didn't wait for it to finish. He made an adjustment on the transceiver and said, "Captain Tooker, please. This is Philip Horitz." A querulous male voice spoke: "Yes, Horitz? What do you want?"
Horitz repeated his message, and added, "I'm bringing the body down to Thomasson's stateroom. Get the ship's doctor and meet me there."
Two figures exploded out of the levitor well a dozen yards away; one bulky and grey-haired, the other lean and young. They ran up to Horitz, panting. The bulky one, Walsh, was still swearing.
"I watched him like a baby," he protested. "He told me he was going to get up at nine this morning, so I set my watch for eight. Why the howling hell did he—"
"Save it," said Horitz. "He did. I'll take his head, Sommers, you take his feet. Walsh, think you can carry Oscar?"
"Listen, Phil," said Sommers abruptly, "are the Equations gone?"
"Yes," Horitz told him. "They're gone."