Nausea seized Frederix's stomach. Hoary-haired Jethe, dealer in power for peace or war, was sprawled across a paper-strewn table in terrible death, his wizened face and body ribboned into one horrible mess of blood and gore, sliced by a disrupter, signature no doubt of Meevo or Onupari—
Dizzy with the sheer bestiality of the scene but driven by some manner of apprehension, Frederix threaded his way through the debris to an all-wave radio clinging on the farther wall, snapped the switch and dialed to the Kaa frequency.
A message was coming through, clear now, proof that the sandstorm had subsided and skies were clear. Frederix recognized the cold emotionless voice of Blake, the Kaa chief operator.
"... the message you've found may ring true, but in the light of Cravens' message from Certagarni, proving Frederix to be in league with anti-service factions, we find that we cannot send ships to a possible trap in Calidao until you've learned from Andres what's really behind all this. Please inform us of any developments. Off!"
Oh, the blind fools! They had found Andres and the message but would do nothing until the paralytic spell had worn away! And Onupari must have been in this room hours before; his ship, prepared for flight, must have long been loaded! He left the place of death at a run.
The tiny monkey-thing led the way toward Space Boulevard, and into the engineer's mind an encouraging thought came. Onupari has not left! And Frederix raged inwardly against the callousness, the bloodlust of that fat, swarthy renegade whom he had seen so many times glossing over crimes charged to him by the Embassy.
The freighter had not taken off yet; the thunder of its atomics would have been easily heard. He might yet—what? If the Service men—If—
As if they, trying to resuscitate an unconscious man almost an hour's flight away, could come in time!
V