"Why—why, good Lord—" I gasped. I was on my feet; mind blurred, numbed with horror. My fists clenched as I whirled at Carruthers. "Why—why, you damned—"
"Easy there!" It was Peter Duroh's growling voice behind me. I swung to face him. His big lanky figure leaned nonchalantly against one of the side bull's-eye windows. Both his hands were at his hips—his hands gripping an old-fashioned bullet-projector and a Banning heat-gun, with muzzles leveled at my chest!
V
"So what are you going to do with me?" I demanded.
"Take it easy. Sit where you are." They had shoved me back into my chair at the instrument board. Over in a corner Alan still sat with his hands clasped between his knees, and his fingers working. Just a boy. He could not meet the glance I flung at him.
"Is Dr. Livingston dead?" I said. "If he isn't—Good Lord, are you going to let him just lie there?"
"Oh, he's dead all right," Duroh growled.
"You have no objection if I see, have you?"
"No. Go ahead."