"Drop that gun, Denton," Palmer snapped.
Don Denton snarled soundlessly, squared the muzzle of the ati-blaster on Palmer's broad chest, squeezed the firing stud.
Then a great paralysis seemed to fill his rangy body. He came to a dead stop, his guns still jutting before him, but utterly without the will to press the firing studs.
"Holster both guns, Denton," Jim Palmer barked.
Instantly, without a word, the trouble shooter's hands flicked the twin guns back into their sheaths. He stood rigidly, great veins ridging his temples, then all resistance went from his body as he waited for the other to approach.
Jim Palmer halted but a few feet from the trouble shooter, the leather strap dangling from his right hand, his feet wide-braced. He bent forward a trifle, stared directly in Don Denton's eyes.
"Can you hear me, Denton?" he asked quietly.
Don Denton fought the unbreakable control that held his mind and body in complete abeyance. Veins stood in high relief on his forehead, and perspiration rolled down his cheeks. He gagged a bit from the noxious air, tried to turn his head from Palmer's piercing gaze.
"I can hear you, Palmer," he said woodenly.