Timmy's eyes traveled over the squat bulk of a figure clad from head to foot in heavy synthi-leather. "A Neptunian," he blurted, "but dead. How? Who did it?"
"I did it ... with toastings fork!"
"What?" Timmy's head went round in circles, "You killed one ton of concentrated Neptunian-venom with a toasting fork?"
"Sure things, boss. I stick heavy fellers with fork. He go hiss. Then bad smells. Then fall down ... woosh!" Damokles gave a graphic description in pantomime, and Timmy understood how this seeming miracle had happened. A Neptunian, accustomed to a mass of seventeen times that of Earth normal, a normal temperature at minus-180 Centigrade, and a methane plus solid oxygen atmosphere, would need some insulating, restricting suit to move about on frail Callisto. Apparently Johnny's fork had struck a weak spot in the refrigerant-suit, and a mild Callistonian climate had literally boiled the Neptunian to death.
Timmy staggered to his feet and tramped through the artificial frost to the Neptunian's side. A tiny mark, distinctive and simple, was branded on his assailant's collar. "The Tsom clan," said Timmy to himself. "The Director was right ... but why did he attack me in particular?"
Johnny Damokles pointed, "Look!" he said.
A bulky figure broke from the bushes and darted toward Hangar 6, but in that darkness, it was unrecognizable. "Get him!" barked Timmy, and raced down the path.
The figure, whoever and whatever it was, had disappeared by the time Timmy Gordon reached his ship. A quick inspection showed nothing in the hangar, and he climbed aboard the Solabor.
"About time you came," grumbled Shelton Thurner. He threw an empty bottle through the door and climbed from his seat in the back of the ship. "You ready to go?"
Gordon disregarded the question. "You see anyone come down here?"