Gaylord's expression, at that moment, might have meant anything. Smiling thinly, I moved a trifle closer to the voco. "I do hope it works out for you, you understand. And it may. But then again, it may not. It's hard to predict Kruze's reactions. Sometimes it's almost as if he were unconditioned, like us—"
I gestured as I talked, a lot more than was needed, as if somehow that was going to make the words worth hearing. I walked, too—pacing, turning, anything to keep Gaylord just a bit off balance.
Worry already was closing in on him. It hung about him like a cloak. The paragun's muzzle wasn't following me quite so closely.
My next turn carried me even nearer to the voco. Then, when I started to turn again, I tripped.
It was a nice job, deftly done. I reeled, arms flailing—and crashed bodily into the bulky instrument.
The voco rocked wildly. Scanner, scriber, audex—they all tottered, then swept out in a big arc, faster and faster towards the floor.
Gaylord yelled hoarsely and leaped in, trying to save them.
I waited till he'd passed me. Then, coming up fast, I chopped with a stiff palm-edge at the base of his brain.
He pitched forward. Not even waiting to strike again, or see if he was stunned, or snatch his paragun, I sprinted for the door.
The messenger still stood in the corridor, just outside. Only now, unfortunately, he didn't look quite so stupid or nondescript as before.