Shall I tell the reporters that?"
"Fangs of Fasif, no!" Vall fairly howled. Then, curiously: "What
reporters? How'd they get onto PolTerm?"
"About fifty or sixty news-service people Chief Tortha sent down here,
this morning, with orders to prevent them from filing any stories from
here but to let them cover the raids, when they come off. We were
instructed to furnish them weapons and audio-visual equipment and
vocowriters and anything else they needed, and--"
Vall grinned. "That was one I'd never thought of," he admitted. "The
old fox is still the old fox. No, tell them nothing; we'll just take
them along and show them. Oh, and where are Dr. Hadron Dalla and that
girl of Salgath Trod's?"
"They're sleeping, now. Rest Room Eighteen."
* * * * *
Dalla and Zinganna were asleep on a big mound of silk cushions in one
corner, their glossy black heads close together and Zinganna's brown
arm around Dalla's white shoulder. Their faces were calmly beautiful
in repose, and they smiled slightly, as though they were wandering
through a happy dream.
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