building.

He edged down the corridor, blaster ready, and turned the corner. There was the sound of laughter coming from a room at the end of the hallway.

After a moment's thought, he crashed the butt of the blaster against a window in the corridor, then flattened himself against the wall and waited.

A few seconds later, a man appeared from the room beyond. "What was that noise?" he asked loudly.

Thornwald glanced down the hall. The man who approached was one of the customs inspectors who had beaten him up that afternoon. He fingered the blaster stud and stepped out to block the hallway.

"What—?"

"Put your hands up," Thornwald ordered quietly. "And if you say a word, I'll roast your brains in your skull."

He glared at the man. "All right, where's my luggage?"

The customs man met his stare grimly. "I don't know."

Thornwald's one arm whipped out and the blaster's barrel slapped the inspector across the face. A trickle of blood dribbled down. "Where's my stuff?" Thornwald repeated.

"Henderson's got it," the customs inspector said sullenly.

"And where's Henderson?"

"I'm not telling."

Crack! with the gun barrel. "That's for this afternoon," Thornwald said. "Where's Henderson?"

"Fourth floor," the man gasped. Thornwald hit him again. "You sure?"

"I'm telling the truth! Fourth floor!"

The gun descended once again. Satisfied, Thornwald left the other crumpled on the floor, and started up the stairs to the fourth floor.

He wanted Henderson, now.

More than anything, he wanted his missing left arm back. Half a dozen times in the last thirty minutes he had cursed the frustrating necessity of fighting with only one hand. Even the prosthetic would do, the steel-thewed robot hand that 

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