"Put your hands up," Thornwald ordered quietly. "And if you say a word, I'll roast your brains in your skull."
He glared at the man. "All right, where's my luggage?"
The customs man met his stare grimly. "I don't know."
Thornwald's one arm whipped out and the blaster's barrel slapped the inspector across the face. A trickle of blood dribbled down. "Where's my stuff?" Thornwald repeated.
"Henderson's got it," the customs inspector said sullenly.
"And where's Henderson?"
"I'm not telling."
Crack! with the gun barrel. "That's for this afternoon," Thornwald said. "Where's Henderson?"
"Fourth floor," the man gasped. Thornwald hit him again. "You sure?"