"Surgically implanted," said Thornwald. "Take a look, if you don't
believe me."
"Give me that arm," said Henderson.
The guard fished the prosthetic reluctantly from the trunk, and,
handling it with the utmost delicacy, carried it over to Henderson. The
Governor took the arm, examined it curiously, flexed the curled fingers.
"Where's the transmitter?" he asked.
Beads of perspiration sprang out on Thornwald's forehead. His neural
network leaped out, made contact with the nerve-mesh of the arm. He was
just five feet away from Henderson. That was close enough to activate
the prosthetic.
_Now!_ he thought.
The arm suddenly came alive in Henderson's hands. Before he could do
anything, the fingers spread, grasped, reached upward, and wrapped
themselves around Henderson's fleshy neck in an iron grip.
* * * * *
"That thing's got the chief!"
Thornwald held up his hand. "Tell your men to drop their blasters,
Henderson. I assure you they can't kill me quick enough for me not to
crush your throat with that arm."
Henderson emitted choking, strangling sounds that might almost have
been, "Drop the guns!" The Governor's florid face was bright red, and
where the fingers dug into his throat the skin was a bloodless white.
The three guards looked around in dismay.
"Don't shoot him!" Henderson ordered. "Drop the guns!"
The blasters clattered to the floor. Thornwald picked one up, kicked
the others away into the corner. Henderson remained transfixed in the
center of the room, the bodyless arm clinging to his throat bizarrely.
"Where's your ultrawave radio?" Thornwald asked.
Henderson glared angrily and made no reply. Thornwald smiled
apologetically and tightened his mental grip on the Governor's throat
ever so slightly.
"Where's the ultrawave?" he repeated.
Henderson gestured to a niche in the wall. Warily, Thornwald stepped
over to it. It was an ultrawave, all right. "Back to the wall," he
said. "Okay, you three. If any of you makes a false move while I'm
calling, Henderson dies--and _you'll_ get the arm around your throat
next."
He dialed the radio into operation with the muzzle of the blaster.
There was a crackling sound, and then an operator's voice said, "Yes?"
"I want the Interstellar Police," Thornwald said.
"IP," said a metallic voice a few moments later.
"This is Mac Thornwald, retired captain. You know me?"
"Sure, Mac! What's up?"
"Listen carefully," Thornwald said. "Get a patrol-ship right down here
now--Bleekman's Planet. There's trouble here. It's under control now,
but the planet will need a complete mopup."
"That's the place you were supposed to live, isn't it? The quiet little
secluded planet out in a corner of the galaxy?"
Thornwald smiled grimly. "It'll be that way soon," he said. "Just as
soon as you clean up a bunch of cheap crooks who can't beat a one-armed
man."