"I don't believe there's anything left for you to do."
Before Wilson's eyes the face dissolved, lost its lines, seemed to melt away. Only streaming, swirling mist, then a slight refraction in the air and then nothing.
Slowly Wilson rose to his feet, reached for the bottle of whisky on the table. His hand shook so that the liquor splashed. When he raised the glass to his mouth, his still-shaking hand poured half the drink over his white shirt front.
CHAPTER NINE
Ludwig Stutsman pressed his thin, straight lips together. “So that's the setup,” he said.
Across the desk Spencer Chambers studied the man. Stutsman was like a wolf, lean and cruel and vicious. He even looked like a wolf, with his long, thin face, his small, beady eyes, the thin, bloodless lips. But he was the kind of man who didn't always wait for instructions, but went ahead and used his own judgment. And in a ruthless sort of way, his judgment was always right.
"Only as a last resort,” cautioned Chambers, “do I want you to use the extreme measures you are so fond of using. If they should prove necessary, we can always use them. But not yet. I want to settle this thing in the quietest way possible. Page and Manning are two men who can't simply disappear. There'd be a hunt, an investigation, an ugly situation."
"I understand,” agreed Stutsman. “If something should happen to their notes, if somebody could find them. Perhaps you. If you found them on your desk one morning."
The two men measured one another with their eyes, more like enemies than men working for the same ends.
"Not my desk,” snapped Chambers, “Craven's. So that Craven could discover this new energy. Whatever Craven discovers belongs to Interplanetary."