His way was clear. Most of the men were still in their dorms, preparing to leave. He traveled in huge low-gravity leaps.
The radio shack rose out of the surface near the verandah. Blades tried the door. It didn't budge. A chill went through him. He backed across the corridor and charged. The door was only plastiboard—
He hit with a thud and a grunt, and rebounded with a numbed shoulder. But it looked so easy for the cops on 3V!
No time to figure out the delicate art of forcible entry. He hurled himself against the panel, again and again, heedless of the pain that struck in flesh and bone. When the door finally, splinteringly gave way, he stumbled clear across the room beyond, fetched up against an instrument console, recovered his balance, and gaped.
The operator lay on the floor, swearing in a steady monotone. He had been efficiently bound with his own blouse and trousers, which revealed his predilection for maroon shorts with zebra stripes. There was a lump on the back of his head, and a hammer lay close by. Ellen must have stolen the tool and come in here with the thing behind her back. The operator would have had no reason to suspect her.
She had not left the sender's chair, not even while the door was under attack. Only a carrier beam connected the Sword with the Altair. She continued doggedly to fumble with dials and switches, trying to modulate it and raise the ship.
"Praises be ... you haven't had advanced training ... in radio," Blades choked. "That's ... a long-range set ... pretty special system—" He weaved toward her. "Come along, now."
She spat an unladylike refusal.
Theoretically, Blades should have enjoyed the tussle that followed. But he was in poor shape at the outset. And he was a good deal worse off by the time he got her pinioned.
"O.K.," he wheezed. "Will you come quietly?"