he controlled with his mind. But for the present he'd have to manage with one hand.

He mounted the stairs and emerged on the fourth floor. An array of rooms confronted him. Which was Henderson's? He didn't know.

He started to enter one, picking it at random. Then he felt a cold pressure in the small of his back.

"You can stop right now," a deadly-sounding voice said. "There's a blaster in your back. Close that door."

Without turning, Thornwald backed up and closed the door.

"Now come with me," the voice said. "I'm taking you to Henderson."

The blaster prodded and he headed down the hall to another door.

"Mr. Henderson?"

"Yeah?" said a voice from within.

"It's me. Leswick. I caught a prowler wandering around up here."

"Right out," Henderson said.

The guard named Leswick prodded the blaster harder into Thornwald's back. "Mr. Henderson'll take care of you," he said ominously.

The door opened and Henderson stood there. He was a short, pudgy man with thick jowls and a soft, fleshy pink throat. He was wearing a black dressing-gown, flaked whitely with dandruff.

"Who are you?" Henderson asked coldly.

"I think he's the cop who landed today," Leswick said. "Didn't they say he had only one arm?"

"That's the one, all right," Henderson said. He reached out, grabbed Thornwald by the collar, and yanked him into the room. Covering him with a blaster, he said, "Go downstairs and get a couple more of the boys, Leswick. We'll see what we can get out of this fellow."

Thornwald glanced up at the trio of uniformed men facing him. "I'm not saying anything."

"Hit him again," Henderson commanded boredly.

A guard's fist flashed down and smashed into Thornwald's jaw. Thornwald spat blood and glared defiantly at Henderson.

 Prev. P 8/11 next