The place was jet-dark. As he investigated he decided that odor was strongest close to the interviewing desk, pungent enough to choke him.
Into the larger main room he made his way, finding the powder odor was less strong beyond the main office as he switched on lights and took broader observations.
On the large desk used for interviewing visitors he saw that the framed photograph of his aunt, Grover’s sister, had been knocked down, and lay on its face. An inkwell, in a pool of black on the floor beyond the desk, was shattered into large fragments, and tiny bits.
He stood still, and shouted.
“Tip! Tip! Potiphar Potts! Tip!”
Getting no answer he raced across the chemical section to the man’s small quarters.
The bed had been used, its covers had been thrown back, as if in haste.
No Potts, as once before, stood tied to the bedpost.
The room was empty.
He shouted for Astrovox, feeling a strange desire to laugh at the sound of the name when it was shouted. “Astro—vox!”