Gavin drew a long breath. "You can save yourself the trouble. The discharge is forged. I haven't had a ship in three years."
"Stand up."
Gavin unfolded himself awkwardly and rose to his full six feet, two inches. He was clad in plain gray shorts and blouse. A Terran of Scotch-American descent, his face was thin, hollow-cheeked, freckled. His sandy hair had been close-cropped in the military fashion. His pale blue eyes were as bright and restless as a hawk's. He had a thin, arched nose, a tight-lipped mouth and a square jaw. He made no attempt to protest further.
The Martian came around the desk to approach Gavin from behind and jam the needle gun against his back. "Don't move!"
"Hell," said Gavin, "I'm not even breathing."
He heard the panel, which led into the outer office, squeak as it was slid back. A new voice asked, "What's the trouble, Trev?" It was a cold, clipped voice, yet the words were strangely blurred.
Gavin could feel his palms grow damp against the back of his neck. He wanted to whip around, but the Martian still had the dart-gun clamped against his spine.
Trev said, "No trouble, Captain Cabot."
Gavin turned his head slowly in the direction of the voice. He saw a tall man with a lean wolfish face. The man, in handsome black shorts, was standing in the doorway to the outer office, one hand braced against the frame. Just behind the man, peering wide-eyed over his shoulder, was a girl.