“Thanks, sheriff,” said Carter. The ground glass clouded and went dead as the connection was snapped at the other end.
The archaeologist swung around slowly from his desk.
“Buster,” he challenged, “why did you do that to Alf? You know there is no Purple Jug.”
“You accuse me falsely,” said Buster. “There is a Purple Jug.”
Carter laughed shortly. “It’s no use, Buster. You can’t get me all steamed up to look for it.”
He rose and stretched. “It’s time for me to eat,” he said. “Would you like to come along and talk with me?”
“No,” said the robot. “I’ll just sit here and think. I thought of something that will amuse me for a while. I’ll see you later.”
But when Carter came back, Buster was gone. So was the manuscript that had been lying on the desk. Drawers of filing cases that lined one side of the room had been pried open. The floor was littered with papers, as if someone had pawed through them hurriedly, selecting the ones he wanted, leaving the rest.
Carter stood thunderstruck, hardly believing what he saw. Then he sprang across the room, searched hastily, a sickening realization growing on him.
All the copies of his manuscript, all his notes, all his key research data were gone.