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. Henderson frowned. "In the arm? How?" "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?"