“But if we wait, the chances are it’ll be too late; they’ll have had time to cover up. What I’m asking you is, will you back my play if I catch them with the goods?”
“Yes. We’ll be here, armored and ready. But I still think you’re nuts.”
“Maybe so, but even if my mathematics is wrong, it’s still a fact that my arm will grow back on just as fast in the clink as anywhere else. Clear ether, lieutenant—until tonight!”
Cloud made an engagement with Graves for luncheon. Arriving a few minutes early, he was of course shown into the private office. Since the manager was busily signing papers, Cloud strolled to the side window and seemed to gaze appreciatively at the masses of gorgeous blooms just outside. What he really saw, however, was the detector upon his wrist.
Nobody knew that he had in his sleeve a couple of small, but highly efficient, tools. Nobody knew that he was left-handed. Nobody saw what he did, nor was any signal given that he did anything at all.
That night, however, that window opened alarmlessly to his deft touch. He climbed in, noiselessly. He might be walking straight into trouble, but he had to take that chance. One thing was in his favor; no matter how crooked they were, they couldn’t keep armored troops on duty as night-watchmen, and the Patrolmen could get there as fast as their thugs could.
He had brought no weapons. If he was wrong, he would not need any and being armed would only aggravate his offense. If right, there would be plenty of weapons available. There were. A whole drawer full of DeLameters—fully charged—belts and everything. He leaped across the room to Graves’ desk; turned on a spy-ray. The sub-basement—“private laboratories,” Graves had said—was blocked. He threw switch after switch—no soap. Communicators—ah, he was getting somewhere now—a steel-lined room, a girl and a boy.
“Eureka! Good evening, folks.”
“Eureka? I hope you rot in hell, Graves. . . .”
“This isn’t Graves. Cloud. Storm Cloud, the Vortex Blaster, investigating. . . .”