Channing was led into an airlock in what had been the old Crowell-Collier building and was now the Denebian Embassy, a hermetically sealed skyscrapper in which most of the rooms and corridors reproduced the environmental conditions of the Denebian planet. Air was pumped from the little chamber; methane and ammonia took its place. When a light flashed red over a bolted door at the far end of the chamber, Channing opened it and walked through.
"Is anything wrong?" Sarchix demanded. The Denebian Ambassador was barely four feet tall, a chunky, fore-shortened dragon with diminutive arms, an outthrust snout, legs like thick, armor-plated columns and a balancing tail which trailed and tapered behind and was, Channing knew, a potent weapon. A dragon on Chinese New Year's Day or Tyrannosaurus Rex in miniature.
"Why should something be wrong?" Channing said as the Denebian waved an almost-atrophied forearm at a couch. At least, the arm looked atrophied. It wasn't. Channing had seen how dexterously the Denebian lacky had fastened the spacesuit helmet.
"Well, you visit me so soon after our meeting."
It was no conspiracy. Channing breathed a sigh of relief, reclined on the couch as was the Denebian custom, and said: "I merely want to go over some of our plans." The Denebian Ambassador and the Department of State could not be working together to drive Channing insane. And Ellen did not fit into the picture at all.
Somewhere, there was a second Bryan Channing.
"But we hardly have any plans, Channing. All we have to do is wait. You said so yourself. Your job is only to keep us informed."
"I have some bad news, then. I was fired."
"Eh?"
"That is, Bryan Channing was fired from his job today. His secretary overheard our conversation and sent a transcript of it to the Secretary of State."