He said: "I have quite a story here, Rastol. I haven't been taking notes, but they say I have a stenographic ear."
Rastol whirled on him. "Use it, and I'll sue you and Galactic News Service for libel and everything else in the statutes. I'll deny everything and produce two witnesses for every one of yours. You're not dealing with an amateur, young man. And now I say good night, you fools."
Kring moved to stand beside his daughter. "There is yet more," he said. "We had hoped to spare you this, although I know now that our concern for your feelings was misguided."
"There is no more," said Rastol. "You have bluffed and you have lost." He whipped his hand through the air. "Stand aside. I am going."
"Stay," said a new voice.
Rastol turned slowly. At the end of the room opposite the door some hangings had parted. Through them from another room had come a tall, cloaked Martian, a young man. Rastol looked at him under a wrinkled forehead.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Hello, Father," said Acton.
Rastol peered across the room. His face seemed to come apart. It went slack, seemed to turn gray.
"You're dead!" cried Rastol. "This is a trick! A disguise! Turn up the lights!"