“Not consent?” Professor Graff sneered icily. “What are you saying? You have consented.”
“I can revoke——”
“Not with me!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”
“I am.” Graff’s voice was cold, but his eyes were like balls of fire. “There will be no revocation. You will not withdraw from our compact.”
“What’s to prevent me?”
“Fear. If not fear—this.”
Professor Graff thrust his hand into his pocket and drew a singular weapon. It resembled an automatic revolver, with a cylinderlike device attached to the barrel. There was no trigger, however, but only a small, round button, on which the finger of the chemist lightly rested. He displayed the weapon in his hand, his lips parting with a mocking smile, while Dorson started slightly and gazed at it incredulously.
“This will, if necessary, be our arbiter,” Graff sneered. “I can end you with it in the hundredth part of a second.”
“You would not dare,” gasped Dorson. “You would bring Leary and the bartender. You would be caught red-handed.”