"Who's Q62?"
"I don't know. I've never met him."
"How will you know him?"
"I don't know. They said he would be able to identify himself. That's
all. They wouldn't tell me how."
All at once Saxon's skin began to prickle its warning of danger. He
released the girl, wheeled towards the door just as it was flung
viciously back.
He saw three men in the opening and reached for his dart gun.
With a half sob, Ileth hurled herself on him, bearing him backward to
the couch, her arms around his chest, her long legs tangled with his.
[Illustration: _With a half sob, Ileth hurled herself on him._]
"Emil!" she panted. "Quick! He's got a gun!"
"Easy. Easy. Easy," said a man's low amused voice.
Jon Saxon succeeded in throwing Ileth off his chest and surging to his
feet. He found himself staring into the tiny barrel of a dart gun. The
dart gun was being held steady as a rock by a gray-eyed, yellow-haired
man with a faint smile on his wide thin lips.
Saxon let his hand fall away from his holster.
"Get his gun, Ileth."
"Right, Emil."
Saxon felt the girl's cool fingers slip inside his blouse, pluck his
automatic from his holster.
"Has he any other weapons?"
She patted Saxon deftly, impersonally, shook her head, her black hair
swinging.
"No. That's all."