"On foot, by the street route to Spawn's—"
Hanley's hurried voice came back: "I've sent the call to Porto Rico."
The guard had moved again. He was no more than forty feet away from me now—standing up gazing directly toward where I was crouching over my tiny instruments in the shadows of the rocky arch. A footstep sounded behind me, on the path outside the arch. Someone approaching!
A tiny light bobbing!
Then a voice calling, "Perona! De Boer!"
The guard took a step forward; stopped, with levelled weapon.
Then the voice again: it was so loud it went through my opened relay, flashed up to New York, and blew out half a dozen of Hanley's attuned vacuums.
"Perona!"
Spawn's voice! He was coming toward me! I lay prone, my little grids switched off. I held my breath.