"Tell me."
"I was coming in the door to Message Center, going to put my gun back in the armory, then get your supper from the kitchen. I heard someone screeching down the hall and then a couple of shots. The clerk on duty got up and started toward the hall door. But it banged open in his face and someone emptied a pistol into him. I let loose a burst and jumped back. The guy with the pistol came through the door, still hollering. I gave him a belly-full, then waited a moment to see if anyone was behind him. Nobody was. I remembered hearing a window smash, so I looked around this way for you."
"You've got how much ammo?"
"About half a clip, sir."
"We need help. I know they've got Message Centre, but—"
"The private line from the house, sir?"
"Right. And you'll stay here."
Ferguson understood. "No one will get out this way, sir, but I'll go with you part way so I can cover the door out of Message Center, too."
No more words. Not even a handshake.
These two had worked together, fought together, before. Speeches weren't needed.