His fist struck a gray uniform just as a hand clubbed down numbingly on his shoulder. He shook the blow off, pile-drove his way through the confused, milling pack of people, and headed for the exit.
Once again he was in the corridor. An alarm now wailed through the Wheel; Conroy, half out of breath, dashed pantingly along the metal floor, hearing the dull chonking sound of his feet as he ran.
Run. Run. That was the only thought in his mind. They were hunting him, wanted to stick him back in the jet section to rot into a mindless hulk of neutron-blasted protoplasm, and he was running away.
The endless wheel of the Space-Station opened out before him. He knew he would have to turn off somewhere, else he would come full circle and run smack into guards again.
He passed a washroom, toyed with the idea of entering it, then rejected the stratagem. No sense blockading himself in there; they'd only starve him out once they found out where he was. No. He needed some more strategic hiding-place until this blew over.
The thought of what Janet had said drifted through his mind. A saboteur aboard the Station—threatening to bomb Washington.
Just another wild rumor, probably, though it certainly needed checking. But—
The control center! he thought. What if I hide there—and threaten to destroy the station if they don't release me from serving in the jetroom?
They'd have to grant him safe-conduct; he'd broadcast his appeal over a world-wide circuit to the planet below. It would cause a global scandal once the world learned how recruits for the jetroom were found.
He racked his memory for location of the control center, finally found the blueprint in his mind and searched it. Designs that he'd forgotten along with the rest of his engineering career came back.