"Look—" the waiter began.
"You look!" Timmy said, grinning.
Johnny grabbed a handful of tattered books from under the counter, picked up his toasting fork and knives, slapped a checkered cap on his head and dashed for the door as Timmy burst out laughing.
"Whassamatter, Meester Tims. You go crazies?"
"Not me ... but you. Come on, Space-hawk. Let's hit the hangar."
Hangar 6, block 8, where Timmy kept the Solabor, was one of the smaller impervium shanties built to accommodate just such independents as himself. It lay at the end of the field, sheltered from the major launching-cradle by a thick growth of scrub hedge. Timmy whistled as he walked toward it, and Johnny Damokles picked up the tune. "Where we go, Tim?" asked the Greek, and waved his fork in circles. "Maybe go Jupiters?"
"Nope. Can't tell you till we're aboard ship." The hangar lay just ahead. The Solabor was ready. Timmy grinned.
And then he stopped.
No, that statement is incorrect. Timmy was stopped. His feet dangled stiffly in air, as steel-strong hands, powerful as an atomic lift, closed hard on his throat ... and lifted. His shout of warning was a muttered croak. Then the world faded away in a purplish-gray haze. The only sensation as darkness fell was a refrigerant chill biting at his neck. Blackness.