He walked past my chair, stooped for Stenn's gun. I heaved, slammed against him, and the light chair collapsed as we went over. Arena landed a kick, then I was on my feet, shaking a slat loose from the dangling wire. Arena stepped in, threw a whistling right. I ducked it, landed a hard punch to the midriff, another on the jaw. Arena backed, bent over but still strong. I couldn't let him rest. I was after him, took two in the face, ducked a haymaker that left him wide open just long enough for me to put everything I had in an uppercut that sent him back across his fancy desk. He sprawled, then slid onto the floor.
I went to him, kicked him lightly in the ribs.
"Where's Williams," I said. I kept kicking and asking. After five tries, Arena shook his head and tried to sit up. I put a foot in his face and he relaxed. I asked him again.
"You didn't learn this kind of tactics at the Academy," Arena whined.
"It's the times," I said. "They have a coarsening effect."
"Williams was a fancy-pants," Arena said. "No guts. He pulled the stopper."
"Talk plainer," I said, and kicked him again, hard—but I knew what he meant.
"Blew his lousy head off," Arena yelled. "I gassed him and tried scop on him. He blew. He was out cold, and he blew."
"Yeah," I said. "Hypnotics will trigger it."
"Fancy goddam wiring job," Arena muttered, wiping blood from his face.