Thorne would give it the works. He would set it up in solidographs, down to the last shattered piece of glass and plastic. He would have it analyzed and diagramed and the robots would put it in scanners that would peel it and record it molecule by molecule.
And they might find something. Just possibly they might.
Adams shoved the report to one side and leaned back in his chair. Idly, he spelled out his name lettered across the office door, reading backwards slowly and with exaggerated care. As if he'd never seen the name before. As if he did not know it. Puzzling it out.
And then the line beneath it:
SUPERVISOR, ALIEN RELATIONS BUREAU. SPACE SECTOR 16.
And the line beneath that:
DEPARTMENT OF GALACTIC INVESTIGATION (JUSTICE).
Early afternoon sunlight slanted through a window and fell across his head, highlighting the clipped silver mustache, the whitening temple hair.
Five men had died…
He wished that he could get it out of his mind. There was other work. This Sutton thing, for instance. The reports on that would be coming in within an hour or so.