When I awoke it was ten o'clock, but I felt as though I'd had one hour's sleep instead of six. At four o'clock in the morning, I'd left Mr. Ames talking to Slane O'Graeme. And when Mr. Ames had said he'd want to talk to me in the morning, I'd already kissed my job goodbye.
The first thing I wanted to do was destroy those all-too-candid shots. But I wanted to develop them and have a look-see first. Maybe there'd be one or two mild ones it would be safe to take along as souvenirs.
I was taking the last of the positives out of the acid when there was a knock on my door, and I said, "Come in."
Mr. Ames, wearing a lounging robe, pushed through the door. I made a mental note to look in the mirror later to see if my face looked as bad as his. But, surprisingly, he grinned at me and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"What a night!" he sighed. "But—"
"But never again," I finished for him. "Yeah, I feel the same way. That stuff would have been dynamite to turn loose on the natives."
He nodded gloomily. "I suppose so, but—Well, it was my fault it's all gone. There isn't a trace left for analysis, and because it was my fault, I gave O'Graeme his price for it. Somehow I liked the little cuss. What're you doing?"
"Look," I said, and passed him the quick-drying rack.
He stared from one to another of the shots, and gulped. Then he stared some more and his face turned red, then pale.
"Bill," he said, "do you know these photographs would be worth a million credits to my enemies, and those of Wescott and the Senator? I hope you're not thinking of—"