"Mostly pensioners, but some bug guard," one of the Martians coded. "Donnolan's there, and...." He ticked off the names of a half dozen fairly prominent Bronsco figures. "Hold on; there's a new contingent moving in; they're wearing masks."
The talk-see began to work again. "Jonas Scatterday and Len Cutt, we're giving you one more chance. We want all of you outside. You two come out with your hands in the air, your bugs on all fours."
"We don't propose to die so quietly," Scat answered. "If you want us, come get us. I intend to defend my property. We're armed—all of us."
Arming bugs! If they'd had any chance, that action had queered it.
The minutes dragged. From somewhere a pellet gun opened up and began to rattle interminably against the glastic. Len began to swear in a low, steady voice. The Martians moved their guns around as if admiring the internal workmanship. Scat realized that he was tapping out "Come on, Come on," in Martian code over and over again with his duraplast fingers.
"There's a new bunch joined them," a Martian informed him finally. "They seem to be arguing. I don't know about what—too far. They're moving off!"
"Kemmerdygn Interests calling Mr. Scatterday."
They all started at that musical voice—even the Martians. Scat jumped for the desk and flipped on the screen. He recognized the secretary he had conferred with.
"Mr. Kemmerdygn hopes you haven't suffered any unpleasantness," she informed him smilingly. "He took steps as soon as he heard you were in trouble. He particularly desires you to resume publication of the evening edition of the Newsbeam. Oh, and about that article you were planning. He would like to confer on it at some later date. You will finish beaming the evening edition, won't you? Good evening."
As she flashed off, Len began to swear again, but in a different vein.