He stepped aside, motioned toward the open panel with the ugly snout of the gun he carried. "After you, mister. And step along. You've kept the boss-man waiting a little!"
Both men had spoken in the language of Terra, yet it sounded strangely distorted to Jon. He had known the language almost all his life, but his father had taught him the words as they were said in a part of the planet that had once been called Vermont, and he noticed an odd difference in the other's speech. He wondered, idly, if any of them spoke the Universal. But at least, now, he knew who they were. Solmen of Earth, who had somehow learned to build space ships and weapons; who had somehow escaped the alert eye of Earth's Tinker spies. But he did not feel the surprise he had expected. There were legends about the men of Earth.
The heavy footfalls of the stocky, heavily muscled man behind him echoed hollowly in the narrow corridor. The passageway curved gently, sloping downward, then came to an abrupt end.
"Turn to your right."
He did, and a panel similar to the first was opening for him. He stepped through it, and his second captor followed.
"O.K., hold it."
They were in a compact room, and it was not empty. There were about ten men in it, Jon estimated at first glance, all similarly dressed in the green leatheroid coveralls that his captors wore, and barren of any insignia of rank. They looked up from their places around the paper-littered conference table, and a big man at its head half rose from his chair.
"Haine! I thought I told you—oh, is this the man?"
"Darwin be with us, sir, it is."
The big man's face changed expression quickly. He resumed his seat, and suddenly the room was quiet, and others were turning in their chairs, fixing Jon with their eyes. The big man gave no signal for him to be seated in one of the empty chairs, but spoke to him as though he had been placed under arrest.