Dobermann and Carruthers were at the lip, climbing out of their buckets. There was a puzzled look, even on Dobermann's usually taciturn face.
"You two," Joel snapped, "will have a crew of researchers. Ten men. Take twenty-four hours and scrape the insides of this thing. Carruthers will report directly to me when you're finished. Dobermann, you'll nail K'hall-i-k'hall to a wall somewhere and don't let him down until you find out what became of whoever flew this tank."
He turned and walked away before anyone could protest.
Captain Nicholas Joel drained the flagon. He looked again at the faded image in the small, rectangular frame, finally returned it to the breast pocket of his tunic. Then he looked up across the mahogany desk at Carruthers and Dobermann.
"So," he said slowly, "so he told you he didn't know, did he?"
"Yes, Captain, that is what he told me. He was surprised about the space ship. He called the others in. There was the same reaction. They—"
Joel leaped to his feet. "Don't give me that!" he thundered. He grabbed at the bottle of Bond; spilled it as he poured. "You know he knows!"
"Captain, I was quite convinced."
"Quite convinced, quite convinced, were you.... All right, Dobermann, get out of here. You find out anything, let me know. Sam, I want to talk to you. Go on Dobermann, git!"