Narvi sighed. “All right. I’ll do it, although I should have my head examined by the ship’s doctors.”
Lors grinned at him and finished the last of his drink. “It’ll work out, Narvi, and you’ll probably get a medal.”
“A prison cell, likely,” Narvi snorted, “on Thista.”
Lors slapped him lightly on the arm and left the ship’s wardroom. He had a lot to do, and damned little time to do it in.
[p135]
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lors left the wardroom and walked along the hollow, brightly lighted corridors toward the hospital where Detective Nolan Brice was being kept a prisoner. He would be the tough one of the two, because his mental roots were still very close to the witchcraft believing parents who had given him birth.
Brice was a Pennsylvanian; he was fairly intelligent, but like all Pennsylvanians he had an unconscious closeness with tradition. He was of the type who would stoutly deny he was superstitious, yet would refuse to walk under a ladder. How would he react to Lors’ proposal? Would he, with typical Dutch stubbornness, tell him to go to hell, or would he co-operate? It was a difficult thing to predict.
Lors shoved the door to the hospital open and grinned at the spacer behind the desk. “You’ve a Terran here?” He asked.
The spacer nodded and laid down the sheets of paper he had been ruffling as Lors came in. “Yes sir, we have one. He’s in the care of Doctor Zuloe.”
“What are they doing to him?”