The other's grin broadened. "It's this starbo," he explained, gesturing to Ross. "It's his clothes."
"His clothes—?" Mawson stared. "Well, what about them?"
"Nothing," smirked Corrack. "Nothing at all—except they're the outfit Thigpen was wearing when I had that drink with him last week!"
Mawson's head snapped round as if on veloid bearings. "Rack you, Ross—!"
But his tone belied his words, for there was wild jubilation in it. Pounding the air of his flying chair, he cried, "Search him, Corrack! Search him! See if he's got a writer!"
Wordless, the blaster-man obeyed ... delivered the instrument to Mawson.
Fingers shaking, the adjudicator manipulated the upper end of the carved shaft.
The cap lifted off. A glistening ampule dropped into his hand.
Mawson threw back his head and laughed—peal after peal, hysterical with sheer delight.