Spasmodically, Dane dragged himself to his feet on the far side of the wrenched, warped table.
Panting, Pfaff tried to reach him; then, failing, clawed for the heavy Kalquoi yat-stick that still lay on the slab between them.
With all his might, Dane heaved at the already-sagging table. The yat-stick slid to the floor on his side.
Pfaff hurled himself after it bodily. Jamming him aside, Dane snatched up the stick and swung it in a tight arc, straight for the base of the Security rep's skull.
Pfaff twisted and it hit—snapped—a collarbone instead.
In the same instant the chamber's door swung open. Two space-fleet guards gaped across the threshold.
Face twisted with pain, clutching at his shattered clavicle, Pfaff roared, "Get this stabat!"
Dane lunged for the doorway, swinging the yat-stick. It clipped the first guard alongside the jaw; dropped him in his tracks. Dane stiff-armed the second and sprinted off down the passageway.
But as he ran, alarm bells all about began to jangle. Ahead, a spaceman appeared as if from nowhere, paralyzer at the ready.