Turnbull sighed and got up to open the door. When it sectioned, he had only a fraction of a second to see what the message was.
It was a stungun in the hand of the young man.
It went off, and Turnbull's mind spiraled into blankness before he could react.
Out of a confused blur of color, a face sprang suddenly into focus, swam away again, and came back. The lips of the face moved.
"How do you feel, son?"
Turnbull looked at the face. It was that of a fairly old man who still retained the vitality of youth. It was lined, but still firm.
It took him a moment to recognize the face—then he recalled stereos he'd seen.
It was Scholar Jason Rawlings.
Turnbull tried to lift himself up and found he couldn't.