"Step back and let him talk," Henderson ordered. "All right, Thornwald.
Where's the transmitter?"
"It's ... in ... my ... trunk," he said weakly. "The trunk."
"Go get the trunk," Henderson said to one of the men. "Bring it here."
A few minutes later, the man returned with Thornwald's trunk. "Force it
open," said Henderson. "See if there's a transmitter in there."
The guards cracked the trunk's lock, threw open the lid, and searched
the interior. Thornwald watched impassively as his shirts, tunics,
ties, cloaks came flying out to land in an untidy heap on the floor.
"Well?"
"There's nothing in here but clothes and things," the guard reported.
"And"--he gulped--"there's some kind of _arm_ in there?"
"Arm?" Henderson repeated in surprise.
"It's a man's arm, boss."
"My prosthetic," Thornwald said. "I lost my arm in a space battle."
"And where's the transmitter, then?"
"It's concealed in the arm," Thornwald said.