I wasn't working for Magnusson any more. What right
had he, or anybody, to grab me off an outbound starship like a criminal?
By the time I barged into his office, I was spoiling for a fight.
The Secret Service office was full of grayish-pink morning and yellow
lights left on from the night before. Magnusson, at his desk, looked as
if he'd slept in his rumpled uniform. He was a big bull of a man, and
his littered desk looked, as always, like the track of a typhoon in the
salt flats.
The clutter was weighted down, here and there, with solidopic cubes of
the five Magnusson youngsters, and as usual, Magnusson was fiddling with
one of the cubes. He said, not looking up, "Sorry to pull this at the
last minute, Race. There was just time to put out a pull order and get
you off the ship, but no time to explain."
I glared at him. "Seems I can't even get off the planet without trouble!
You raised hell all the time I was here, but when I try to leave--what
is this, anyhow? I'm sick of being shoved around!"
Magnusson made a conciliating gesture.
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