Keg ran up to the space lock and handed in a paper.
"You're it," he said. "Good luck, Channings."
It was another message from Hellion Murdoch. It said, bluntly:
TO DONALD A. CHANNING, PH.D.:
DIRECTOR OF COMMUNICATIONS:
CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY HAS BEEN EXPERIENCED IN TRANSMITTING MESSAGES TO THE INTERESTED PARTIES. I DESIRE A FREE HAND IN TELLING ALL WHO CARE THE PARTICULARS OF MY INSURANCE.
SINCE YOUR RELAY STATION IS IN A POSITION TO CONTROL ALL COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN THE WORLDS, I AM OFFERING YOU THE OPTION OF EITHER SURRENDERING THE STATION TO ME, OR OF FIGHTING ME FOR ITS POSSESSION. I AM CONFIDENT THAT YOU WILL SEE THE INTELLIGENT COURSE; AN UNARMED STATION IN SPACE IS NO MATCH FOR A FULLY ARMED AND EXCELLENTLY MANNED CRUISER.
YOUR ANSWER WILL BE EXPECTED IN FIVE DAYS.
ALLISON (HELLION) MURDOCH.
Channing snarled and thrust the power lever down to the last notch. The little ship leaped upward at five G, and was gone from sight in less than a minute.
Arden shook her head. "What was that message you sent to Franks?" she asked.