"What do you expect to get out of me, Henderson?"

The Governor whirled and sneered at him. "You're a cop, aren't you?"

"I was."

"You still are! And you're down here to spy on us! Where's your transmitter?"

"I don't have any transmitter," Thornwald said. "I was fool enough to think I'd want to live here. I'm no more a spy than that bookcase is."

"Hit him again," Henderson said. "Give it to him until he tells us where the transmitter is."

A cascade of blows descended on Thornwald from all three of them. His head rocked dizzily beneath the assault. He stood it as long as he could.

Finally, he yelled, "Okay! I'll tell you!"

"Step back and let him talk," Henderson ordered. "All right, Thornwald. Where's the transmitter?"

"It's ... in ... my ... trunk," he said weakly. "The trunk."

"Go get the trunk," Henderson said to one of the men. "Bring it here."

A few minutes later, the man returned with Thornwald's trunk. "Force it open," said Henderson. "See if there's a transmitter in there."

The guards cracked the trunk's lock, threw open the lid, and searched the interior. Thornwald watched impassively as his shirts, tunics, ties, cloaks came flying out to land in an untidy heap on the floor.

"Well?"

"There's nothing in here but clothes and things," the guard reported. "And"—he gulped—"there's some kind of arm in there?"

"Arm?" Henderson repeated in surprise.

"It's a man's arm, boss."

"My prosthetic," Thornwald said. "I lost my arm in a space battle."

"And where's the transmitter, then?"

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