"I beg forgiveness," Donovan said; "your decision is a just one and I
shall make no appeal."
* * * * *
Blascomb had a very persistent thought-call. Donovan relaxed in the
office chair and let his consciousness-levels sink to the call-number.
"This is the moment," the thought patterns registered. "The C.D.
is about to close in with the faked evidence we've prepared. Your
brother-in-law's about to call. Trust in me; all is ready. Do not
become frightened, for excessive adrenalin might upset the required
endocrine balance."
Before he could frame a reply, Blascomb's thought faded away. The
office door slid open and Edel W. Crane walked in. Donovan's heart
throbbed painfully: was this an unexpected crisis in their plans, or
had Blascomb prepared even this?
"The C.D.'s finished its analysis," Crane said, "I thought you might be
interested."
"Naturally, I--"
"The case was very simple. I wish citizens would realize that they
cannot fight against the enormous resources of the C.D. We will
destroy--"
The public-screen flashed urgently. Donovan excused himself and turned
the knob. His brother-in-law's angry face switched into view.
"Donovan! That was a dirty rotten thing to do. What right did you have
to denounce me to the C.D.? I should kill you for this!"
Donovan's bewilderment was genuine. He felt Crane's eyes upon him, and
a thrill of admiration for Blascomb's genius suddenly swept through him.
"What do you want?" he managed to say.
"I've got to see you immediately. I'm downstairs, in back of the
pilo-cab station."
"Later--"
"Now!"
The image snapped off. Donovan turned to the C.D. agent. "'Scuse me for
a moment," he stammered, "some family trouble. I'll be back in a short
while."