The reporter stepped into the cabin of the ship and looked around. It
had been rebuilt, all right; it didn't look anything like the inside of
a normal stratojet.
"Elshawe."
"Yeah?" The reporter turned to look at Porter, who was standing a little
behind him. He didn't even see the fist that arced upward and smashed
into his jaw. All he saw was a blaze of light, followed by darkness.
The next thing he knew, something was stinging in his nostrils. He
jerked his head aside, coughing. The smell came again. Ammonia.
"Wake up, Elshawe," Porter was saying. "Have another whiff of these
smelling salts and you'll feel better."
Elshawe opened his eyes and looked at the bigger man. "I'm awake. Take
that stuff away. What's the idea of slugging me?"
"I was afraid you might not come willingly," Porter said apologetically.
"I needed a witness, and I figured you'd do better than anyone else."
Elshawe tried to move and found that he was tied to the seat and
strapped in with a safety belt. "What's this for?" he asked angrily. His
jaw still hurt.
"I'll take that stuff off in a few minutes. I know I can trust you, but
I want you to remember that I'm the only one who can pilot this ship. If
you try anything funny, neither one of us will get back alive. I'll let
you go as soon as we get up to three hundred miles."