It was Videnski's voice that woke me up. The door of my room was slid open a little, and I could hear him in the lounge. I got to my feet fast, shoved open the door, and went out.
Videnski had grabbed Brentwood by the front of his union suit, and had lifted him off his feet and slammed his back up against the wall. His free hand was swinging back and forth in open-handed slaps that looked as though any one of them should have torn the smaller man's head off. Felder was ineffectually trying to pull Videnski away from Brentwood, but the big man didn't even seem to notice it. Vivian Devereaux was nowhere in sight.
Videnski's harsh baritone was filled with invective that should have made the air as glowingly blue as the inside of an old-fashioned rectifier tube.
I ran across the room, grabbed Videnski by the shoulder and said: "Stop that!"
He stopped. When I throw out an emotional field like that, only a very exceptional man can disobey.
"Let him go," I said.
Videnski released him, and Brentwood slid down the wall, just this side of unconsciousness.
"What's the idea?" I asked.
"I ... I'm sorry," Videnski rumbled. "Lost my temper, I guess. That ... I mean, he—" He stopped, fumbling for words.
"I know. I heard what you were saying. Sure it's his fault my voice sounds the way it does. Sure he's a spy and probably a saboteur. And if we die, he'll be morally guilty of manslaughter. And suicide—remember that.