Ferrell tipped a tired head back against the cushion of his chair.
"Nothing," he said slowly. "At least, nothing I can put my finger on."
"Then," Blake insisted, "from what O'Toole says, you've both been pretty tough on him. That is, if you're telling me the truth."
"Damn it, Blake," Ferrell exploded. "When I say nothing, I mean we haven't caught him violating any laws. It's—well, I just never had any admiration for Wade. He's what the younger generation would call a cream puff. Soft, flabby and a mind that refuses to grasp any problem fitted to a man of his age."
Blake stared out the window, waiting. The mono had pulled out of Hope. Outside nothing was visible in the night except an occasional jagged peak outlined against a cloudy sky. Troubled by Ferrell's continued silence, he turned again to his friend.
"You haven't told me much," he protested. "O'Toole called me home because he thought important things were going to take place. He thinks I ought to knock Wade around a little, but I've got to know why."
Ferrell swore softly.
"O'Toole is always sticking his neck out where it gets clipped every now and then. He's a swell Irishman, but his mountains are actually mole hills."
Blake nodded and said covertly, "Someone tried to heave a knife into me at the space-port. Was that one of O'Toole's mole hills?"