There was a brief silence. Then a woman's voice inquired softly, "Quillan?"
"Right here, doll! Where—"
"Seal the ComWeb, Quillan."
He reached down to the instrument, tapped the seal button, said, "All right. We're private."
"Probably," the woman's voice said. "But better scramble this, too. I want to be very sure no one's listening."
Quillan grunted, slid his left hand into an inner coat pocket, briefly fingered a device of the approximate size and shape of a cigarette, drew his hand out again. "Scrambling!" he announced. "Now, what—"
"Mayday, Quillan," the soft voice said. "Can you come immediately?"
Quillan's face went expressionless. "Of course. Is it urgent?"
"I'm in no present danger. But we'd better waste no time."
"Is it going to take real hardware? I'm carrying a finger gun at the moment."