Lefty Camillion glared at Rick from a chair on the other side of the small circle.
"Why did you do it?" Rick asked. "What did you hope to gain?"
The syndicate chief shrugged, but kept his silence.
"I can shed a little light," Steve said. "Some of it is speculation, but it stands up. Lefty knew his appeal against the deportation order was almost certain to be turned down. Within a few weeks he'd be on his way out of the country. The FBI has been trying to get the full dope on Lefty, and one thing they found was that expensive living had taken most of his money. He needed cash, in other words. This was the way he chose to get it, collecting the data transmitted by the research rockets from Wallops and selling it."
Rick shook his head, then winced. "It's a crazy idea," he said. "I don't know why. I just know it is. I could tell you, but I can't seem to think."
There were sirens far away, but getting closer. Scotty put a hand on Rick's shoulder. "Don't try to think now, old buddy. The ambulance is coming. Plenty of time to talk when you're feeling better."
Rick nodded weakly. It was getting very dark. He closed his eyes and leaned back. Scotty kept a hand on his shoulder.
The ambulance, led by a state trooper, pulled into the grounds. An attendant and an intern jumped out. "Who's hurt?" the intern asked.
"This one first," Steve said. "Then the one on the ground."
Rick felt a hand grip his chin and opened his eyes. The intern was examining his face with a strong flashlight beam.