"We know all about you Company men--"
But the agent did not take fire at that jib. Instead he pushed back a
panel and they were looking into com-unit room where another man in the
tunic of the I-S lounged on what was by law twenty-four hour duty,
divided into three watches.
"These F-Ts want to flash a voucher request through," their guide
informed the tech. The other, interested, gave them a searching
once-over before he pushed a small scriber toward Rip.
"It's all yours--clear ether," he reported.
Ali stood with his back to the wall and Dane still lingered in the
portal. Both of them fixed their attention on Rip's left hand. If he gave
the agreed upon signal! Their fingers were linked loosely in their belts
only an inch or so from their sleep rods.
With his right hand Rip scooped up the scribbler while the Com-tech half
turned to make adjustments to the controls, picking up a speaker to call
the I-S headquarters.
Rip's left index finger snapped across his thumb to form a circle. Ali's
rod did not even leave his belt, it tilted up and the invisible deadening
stream from it centered upon the seated tech.
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