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"You'd expect me to play the same game, you calling the shots," he said. "Shoot for the top, cut and scramble, claw and dig." "By tomorrow all that may not be necessary," she said. Orne heard the sudden hiss of the carrier wave in his neck transceiver, but there was no voice from the monitor. "What's ... happening ... tomorrow?" he asked. "The election, silly," she said.
"I still hope that this thing can be stopped in time. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to see Lig-magte and I thought it would be better if I had a legitimate reason. Are you in contact with him?" Krafft shook his head. "No, not really in contact. When this trouble started I sent him a transceiver so we could talk directly.
"What's that?" Barby asked. "Directional. The antenna is a tiny coil. When it's broadside to the incoming signal, the volume is loudest, but when it's end on, the volume is much less. So, if you can't hear well, just turn sideways. Turn until the signal is loudest." Scotty took his transceiver from his pocket and examined it with pride.
"What a dope I am!" snarled Orne. "I just realized that I have to be a Nathian, too." "You just realized?" She stared at him. There was a hissing gasp in Orne's transceiver. "The identical patterns in our families," he said. "Even to the houses. And there's the real key. What a dope!" He snapped his fingers. "The head! Polly! Your mother's the grand boss woman, isn't she?"
After all, he is supposed to be here for a rest." Her answer was lost as Orne entered the hall, closed the door. In the privacy of his room, Orne pressed the transceiver stud at his neck, said: "Stet?" A voice hissed in his ears: "This is Mr. Stetson's relief. Orne, isn't it?" "Yes. I want a check right away on those Nathian records the archaeologists found.
Out of the corner of his eyes, and with the very periphery of his consciousness, he was aware of the rest of the room barrels, stores, machinery, a radio transceiver, various bundles and heaps that made no sense at first glance. There was no time to look closer. Every fraction of his attention was focused on the muffled and hooded men. He had found the enemy.
And if you make any sudden moves you are liable to break a phone, electrocute yourself, or choke to death. Just see if you can set the transceiver on this frequency for me." Brion wrote the number on a scratch pad and slid it over to the operator. It was the frequency Professor-Commander Krafft had given him for the radio of the illegal terrorists the Nyjord army.
The computer man vanished inside the rocket and reappeared a minute later with a small package. "There's a scalpel and a magnetized tweezers in here all I could find in the med kit. Hope they'll do." He reached inside and swung out the metal case of a self-contained transceiver. "Take this, it's got plenty of range, even on the longer frequencies." He raised his hand at Brion's offer to pay.
"Sure there's nothing we can do for you?" Sorrow would accomplish nothing. Brion fought to sweep the dregs of emotion from his mind and to think clearly. "You can help me," he said. "I could use a scalpel or any other surgical instrument you might have." Lea would need those. Then he remembered Telt's undelivered message. "Do you have a portable radio transceiver? I can pay you for it."
Scotty was right, of course. He usually was. "We'll make a pair of transceivers, and a receiver for Barby. Unless you think we ought to build a transceiver into her outfit, too." "Would it be much work?" "Not much. We might as well, I suppose." They buckled down to the job. Rick found he couldn't work long, however. "I've still got that guitar-string feeling," he admitted. "I'm all tight inside."
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