Don't call my bluff, he prayed. Don't!
All Merrill had to do to release the bomb was to trip a cryotonic relay; fiery death would descend on Washington within minutes. Stiffly Conroy moved toward him.
"Keep your hands in the air, Merrill."
A blaster lay to one side—the blaster, no doubt, with which Merrill had overpowered the Wheel's officers. Conroy edged toward it.
And then Merrill put his head down and charged desperately toward Conroy.
Dave's hand wavered on the gun for a moment; he still could not fire. Cursing, he hurled the blaster to one side and met Merrill's charge.
The Commissioner was in his fifties, but heavyset and muscular. He tore into Conroy with a madman's fury. Gasping from a stomach blow, Conroy reeled backward, locked his hands, brought them down with all his force on Merrill's bull-like neck.
Forget he's Janet's dad, he ordered himself. Hit him or he'll kill you.
He drove his fists mercilessly into the Commissioner's bulk. Merrill kept coming in his suicide attack. Finally Conroy crashed a fist into the older man's jaw, and he sagged to the ground.
"Thank God!" Commandant Naylor exclaimed, wrestling in furious impotence with his bonds. "That madman was about to bomb Washington!"