"Don't waste your breath, starbo!" Cheng leaned on the bars. "I call the turn here, and I say you talk—about Tornelescu's formula; that band, there; anything at all. You can do it quick, or you can hurt awhile first. Make up your mind."
"In that case—"
"You're still stalling. You came here to stall." The slaver's scar twitched. "You thought you'd send me off on some ban-crazy run, while you sneaked away with the girl. Only it won't work." A fragmentary pause. "Where's that formula?"
"I don't know—"
"I said, it won't work!" Cheng gestured to his men. "Strip the lousy chitza. See if it's in his stuff."
A brief flurry of struggle; then a search—the thorough kind of search that took account of every seam, every stain; coins, flamer, writer, pad.
It netted nothing.
Cheng said, "Good enough, Thigpen. I'm glad you're this stubborn. It gives me a chance to loosen you up."
He turned to his men. "Bring 'em in."
Wordless, Ross pulled on his clothes. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.