“Sam,” he said, his voice clipped. “I've cornered the Movement's leader and am going in for the finish. Maybe some of you journalist boys better get on over here.” He gave the other the address and flicked off before there were any questions.
From the dash compartment he brought a heavy automatic, and checked the clip. He put it in his hip pocket and left the car and walked toward the garages. Time was running out now.
He strode into the only open door, without shift of pace. Two men were posted nearby, neither of them truckmen by appearance. They looked at him in surprise.
Larry clipped out, “The password is Judgment. I've got to see Professor Voss immediately.”
One of them frowned questioningly, but the other was taken up with the urgency in Woolford's voice. He nodded with his head. “He's over there in the office.”
Now ignoring them completely, Larry strode past the long rows of sealed delivery vans toward the office.
He pushed the door open, entered and closed it behind him.
Professor Peter Voss was seated at a paper-littered desk. There was a cot with an army blanket in a corner of the room, some soiled clothing and two or three dirty dishes on a tray. The room was being lived in, obviously.
At the agent's entry, the little man looked up and blinked in distress through his heavy lenses.