Ross whirled to the barred window.
The bars weren't there any more.
Stiff-faced, stumbling, Ross sank down onto the bed.
Only then, seemingly out of nowhere, Cheng spoke to him: Cheng, the smuggler; Cheng, the slaver; Cheng, the black-browed, scar-faced killer from the Belt:
"All right, Thigpen. Listen to me. This is the way we're going to play, and I don't mean to tell you more than once."
Ross came up from his seat as if on springs. Wildly, he looked this way and that.
To no avail. There was no sign of anyone in either room.
"Get this, now, Thigpen. Get it the first time."
Slowly, Ross turned, searching.
The thing lay on a table close at hand—one of those silvery spheres known as memory balls, a tiny, self-contained speaker unit only slightly larger than a marble yet still capable of repeating once any brief statement made in its immediate vicinity.