“So do I. I’ll call Haynes and ask him to rush a ship out there to get us a fine-tooth on it.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
“And there was something else. . . . Oh yes, your friend Fairchild. Narcotics wants him, badly.”
“I’m not surprised. Alive? That might take some doing.”
“Or dead. No difference, as long as they have his head for positive identification,” and at Cloud’s surprised expression Strong went on: “They don’t want him planting any more Trenconian broadleaf, is all, which he’ll keep on doing as long as he’s alive and loose.”
“I see. Wish I’d known sooner; we probably could have caught him on Tominga.”
“I doubt it. They’ve been checking back on him, and he’s a very, very sharp operator. He makes long flits, fast . . . in peculiar directions. But if you stumble across him again, grab him or blast. . . .”
“Just a minute, chief. You mean to say the Patrol can’t find him?”
“Just that. He’s in with a big, strong mob; probably heads it. They’ve been looking for him ever since you found out that he wasn’t killed on Deka.”
“I’m . . . I’m speechless. But Graves . . . but Graves was dead, of course . . . didn’t anybody know Fairchild’s personal pattern?”