He swung back to the keyboard again.
A moment later the administration offices of the prison were on the screen.
The two men searched the vision plate.
"The records are most likely in that vault,” said Russ. “And the vault is locked."
"Don't worry about the lock,” snapped Greg. “Just bring the whole damn thing here-vault and records and all."
Russ nodded grimly. His thumb tripped the tele-transport control and from the engine rooms came a drone of power. In Ranthoor Prison, great bands of force wrapped themselves around the vault, clutching it, enfolding it within a sphere of power. Back in the Invincible the engines screamed and the vault was ripped out of the solid steel wall as easily as a man might rip a button from his shirt.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
John Moore Mallory sat on the single metal chair within his cell and pressed his face against the tiny vision port For hours he had sat there, staring out into the blackness of space.
There was bitterness in John Moore Mallory's soul, a terrible and futile bitterness. So long as he had remained within the Ranthoor prison, there had always been a chance of escape. But now, aboard the penal ship, there was no hope. Nothing but the taunting reaches of space, the mocking pinpoints of the stars, the hooting laughter of the engines.
Sometimes he had thought he would go mad. The everlasting routine, the meaningless march of hours. The work period, the sleep period… the work period, the sleep period… endless monotony, an existence without a purpose. Men buried alive in space.