"Impossible!" The planter roared and squeezed his bulk through the opening.
The green phosphorescent glow of the vegetation lit the flat roof eerily. A raucous screech from some night flying bird floated down from the cloud mass overhead. There was no plane, no sign of a plane; but the man with the hood was gone.
II
Mia MacIver tried to concentrate on her head overseer's report. She felt hot and sticky and the figures ran together, didn't make sense. Moreover, the delicate notes of a flute kept scattering her thoughts. They came through the casement window from the patio outside her study.
"Damn," said Mia MacIver and wriggled at her desk.
She was barefooted, clad only in a short yellow tunic, but she felt as if she were locked in a steam bath. She'd never get used to Venus, she supposed, to its turkish bath atmosphere, its lush phosphorescent vegetation, its ridiculous mingling of periods, Paleozoic, Mesozoic, and the glass age all flourishing together. The Pan-like notes continued to assail her ears from outside the study.
She wrinkled her nose, wiped a trickle of sweat from the end. In despair, she flipped on the Newscaster.
The features of a plump young man flashed on the screen.
"Last night," his voice came through the audio, "the plantation of Councillor Bemmelman was raided by the Renegade. Luckily, he was discovered immediately and the Security Patrol notified. But as usual the Renegade had vanished without a trace."