Urushkidan whirled about. The room was thick with the fumes of his pipe, and one of the two Jovians with him—a bald man in the black uniform of the secret police—was holding a handkerchief to his nose. The other one was Roshevsky-Feldkamp, who started to his feet with an oath and grabbed for his revolver.
Dyann held her own stolen gun on his midriff. "No," she said.
"What are you doing here?" gasped the officer.
"Vere is Ray Ballantyne?"
"Get out! Guards—"
Dyann took one long leap across the office, seized Roshevsky-Feldkamp by the neck and hammered his forehead against the desk. Her free hand covered the secret policeman. "Vere is Ray Ballantyne?" she repeated.
"I am glad you came," said Urushkidan. "Shall we leabe tis uncibilised place?"
Two armed soldiers appeared in the doorway. Dyann brought her gun around. The silenced weapon hissed. One of the men tumbled with a hole drilled in his forehead. She was rather proud of herself, she'd never had much chance for target practice.
There wasn't much time for self-praise, though. The other man already had his rifle up. Dyann dropped behind the desk, and the stream of slugs ripped through the wood after her. She bunched her muscles and threw the desk. There was a crash of splintering wood as it knocked down the Jovian.