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"In some way," Holati Tate said, "this little item here seems to be at the core of the whole plasmoid problem. Know what it is?" Trigger looked at the little item with some revulsion. Dark green, marbled with pink streakings, it lay on the table between them, rather like a plump leech a foot and a half long.
"He didn't say a thing about how long this situation might continue?" "No. I've given you the message word for word. My memory is excellent, Trigger." "So it could be more weeks? Or months?" "Yes. Possibly. I imagine...." Plemponi had begun to perspire. "Plemp," said Trigger, "will you give Holati a message from me?" "Gladly!" said Plemponi. "What oh, oh!" He flushed. "Right," said Trigger.
A little study of the recordings showed the facs were just that." Trigger pondered again. "Did they find anything on Tranest?" "Yes. One combat-strength squadron of those souped-up frigates of the Aurora class they're allowed by treaty can't be accounted for." Trigger cupped her chin in her hands and looked at him. "Is that why we've stayed on Luscious, Holati the four of us?" "It's one reason.
One of the things, Holati Tate said, which had not become public knowledge so far was that Professor Mantelish actually succeeded in getting some of the plasmoids on the Old Galactic base back into operation. One plasmoid in particular.
Ancient living machines that after millennia of stillness suddenly begin to move under their own power, for reasons that remain a mystery to men. Holati Tate discovered them then disappeared. Trigger Argee was his closest associate she means to find him. She's brilliant, beautiful, and skilled in every known martial art.
"It can contact human minds," she said, "though, perhaps rather fortunately, it can project that particular field effect only within a quite limited radius. A little less, the Devagas found later, than five miles." Mantelish shook his head, frowning. He turned toward the Commissioner. "Holati," he said emphatically, "I believe that thing could be dangerous!" For a moment, they all looked at him.
She drew the ruler back. "Come, Fido!" Handbag and strap materialized in mid-air and thumped to the floor. "Convinced?" Holati asked. He picked up the handbag and gave it back to her. "It seems to work. How long will that little plasmoid last if it's left in subspace like that?" He shrugged. "Indefinitely, probably. They're tough.
"They seem quite positive that nobody else came near me during that period. And that nobody had used a hypno-spray on me or shot a hypodermic pellet into me anything like that before the seizure or whatever it was came on. How do you suppose they could be so sure of that?" "I wouldn't know," Holati said. "But I think we might as well assume they're right." "I suppose so.
She went past them, feeling rather dreamy. The sight of a squat, black subtub parked squarely on the thick purple carpeting ahead of her, with its canopy up, didn't strike her as unusual. Then she saw that the man leaning against the canopy, a gun in one hand, was Commissioner Tate. She smiled. She waved her hand at him as they came up. "Hi, Holati!" "Hi, yourself," said the Commissioner.
"Nothing," Holati said. "We know his contacts. Why bother? He'll resign end of the month." Quillan cleared his throat and glanced at the door. "I suppose she'll want him put up for rehabilitation seemed pretty fond of him." "Relax, son," said the Commissioner. "Trigger's an individualist. If Inger goes up for rehabilitation, it will be because he wants it. And he doesn't, of course.
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