He tiptoed to a window and peered in. A uniformed man was in there, pacing up and down in a corridor. Thornwald smiled, picked up a rock, and hurled it through the window.
The guard whirled instantly, presenting his blaster. "Who goes there?"
Thornwald made no reply. The guard continued to peer out into the night. "Who's there?" he repeated.
As if in answer, Thornwald hurled another rock through the window. This time the guard dashed out of the corridor, up the stairs, and out into the courtyard—where Thornwald was waiting for him with a third rock.
"It's a good thing it wasn't my pitching arm I lost," he muttered gratefully as the guard crumpled. Swiftly Thornwald extracted the guard's blaster and stepped inside the building.
He edged down the corridor, blaster ready, and turned the corner. There was the sound of laughter coming from a room at the end of the hallway.
After a moment's thought, he crashed the butt of the blaster against a window in the corridor, then flattened himself against the wall and waited.
A few seconds later, a man appeared from the room beyond. "What was that noise?" he asked loudly.
Thornwald glanced down the hall. The man who approached was one of the customs inspectors who had beaten him up that afternoon. He fingered the blaster stud and stepped out to block the hallway.
"What—?"