Something, Mac decided, was thoroughly rotten in the local checking office of TPL. Something that might show why the operative on Pallas hadn't begun to be able to find the man or men behind the narcophene racket.
MacCauley hadn't shown himself there before because he didn't want himself identified with the Law group. Now that he'd uselessly exposed himself, that obstacle was nullified.
He'd found out where the place was just so he could avoid it. Pausing a second to puzzle out its probable direction, he started off.
It was close, of course; nothing was far from anything on Pallas. Within five minutes he was standing outside the building, rubbing his chin and deciding that he could stand a wash-up before going in.
Like most of the asteroid's structures, this one seemed to have been made by a blind moron for his elder brother's fifth birthday. Stepping gingerly to avoid bringing the ceiling down about his ears, he made for the washroom.
The Kiddie attendant was scrunched up in a corner, luminescing happily over a former airlock handle. "Hey!" Mac said uselessly. A wadded paper towel brought better results, and the Kiddie glanced up.
Of course, it had to be the Kiddie who lifted Mac's roll. The gods of chance saw to that. In a trice Mac had backed the frightened Kiddie into a corner, looking rather threatening what with his grim expression and the bronze knife suddenly sprouting from his fist. He was fumbling for the gesture that would convey, "Gimme!" to the asterite when the interruption came.
"Having fun?"
Mac dropped the Kiddie and spun around, automatically reaching for a blaster that wasn't there. "Who the devil are you?" he snarled.
The long Terrestrial newcomer leaned gingerly on a soot-covered washstand and frowned. "Me? I work near here. Who are you?" He stuck a cigarette in his taut lips, pinched the tip and inhaled sharply as it flared bluely.