"'Get out'—?" The woman's head jerked back. She searched his eyes for a long, unsteady moment.
Then a pallor came to her withered cheeks, for all their show of artificial color. Her breathing speeded. "Thigpen, you mean it! The catalyst—you're not going to sell it to me—"
And then, in a rush, face thrust close: "Don't say it, Thigpen! Don't say it if you want to live! I can give you beauty. I can give you money. But if you won't take them, then I'll get the catalyst without you! They'll find you in an alley with your throat cut, Thigpen—the same way you left Tornelescu! And Thigpen—you'll call it a favor when they finish you, because first they'll make you tell the secret—"
The woman's voice rose higher with every sentence, till she was half-screaming. Her face contorted into a wrinkled mask of hate. Her back bent, too, and her body seemed to pull together, till when she shook her fist at Ross she was hag, incarnate; the embodiment of every creaking crone.
"Out!" Ross clipped. "Out!" Grimly, he pressed her back towards the door.
For an instant it seemed she was going to resist, force him to back his commands with violence. Then, abruptly, she whirled and without another word fled the apartment.
Gustily, Ross let out pent-up breath and, pivoting, turned once more to the other room.
But now, on the threshold, he stopped short. For where the space-sack had lain brief minutes before, now there was only crumpled bedding.
Momentarily, Ross stood as if paralyzed. Then, with a curse, he sprang forward—flinging aside furniture; clawing open the storage areas.
No Veta.