He tripped and almost fell across his adversary in the darkness ... a dead adversary, now.
Not quite steadily, Ross flicked on his flamer ... stared down into the other's face.
It was the man who'd been at Zoltan Prenzz' place; the man who'd later tried to run him down as he headed for Naraki's.
A check of the man's pockets revealed nothing whatever of importance. Bleakly, Ross turned him over.
The move threw the flamer's light onto the stacked cases beside which the dead man lay.
Ross took one look. His hand jerked back by sheer reflex. Hastily, he snapped shut the flamer's lid.
His victim had died resting against row after row of fifty-gallon plastidrums of deadly, hair-trigger steron auxiliary flare-fuel, designed for use in atmospheres where nothing else would burn!
Unsteadily, Ross rose and made his way back to the area close to the lighted room.
A switch-box loomed in the dimness. Ross threw the whole bank.
Like magic, light came to the warehouse. Cases appeared, piled high on either side of long, echoing aisles. Overhead, two catwalks—accessible by ladders—ran the length of the building, one above the other.