eck of hot ash would fall. How long
it would take for the ash to grow long and top-heavy and then to fall into
the powder. And whether or not the ash would be hot enough to touch it
off. I struggled to keep my hands steady, but they were trembling. I felt
the cigarette slip a bit and clamped down tight again with my aching
fingers.

Martha pleaded again: "Stop it! Let us know what you want and we'll do
it."

"Anything," I promised rashly.

Even if I managed to hold that deadly fuse tight, it would eventually burn
down to the bitter end. Then there would be a flash, and I'd probably
never hold my hand around a gun butt again. I'd have to go looking for
this pair of lice with my gun in my left. If they didn't try the same
trick on my other hand. I tried to shut my mind on that notion but it was
no use. It slipped. But the chances were that this pair of close-mouthed
hotboys had considered that idea before.

"Can you dig 'em Martha?"

"Yes, but not deep enough. They're both concentrating on that cigarette
and making mental bets when it will--"

Her voice trailed off. A wisp of ash had dropped and my mental howl must
have been loud enough to scorch their minds. It was enough to stop Martha,
at any rate. But the wisp of ash was cold and nothing happened except my
spine got coldly wet and sweat ran down my face and into my mouth. The
palm of my hand was sweating too, but not enough to wet the little pile of
powder.

"Look," I said in a voice that sounded like a nutmeg grater, "Rambaugh was
a louse and he tried to kill me first. If it's revenge you want--why not
let's talk it over?"

"They don't care what you did to Rambaugh," said Martha.

"They didn't come here to practice torture," I snapped. "They want
something big. And the only guy I know mixed up with Peter Rambaugh is
Scarmann, himself."

"Scarmann?" blurted Martha.

Scarmann was a big shot who lived in a palace about as lush as the Taj
Mahal, in the middle of a fenced-in property big enough to keep him out of
the mental range of most peepers. Scarmann was about as big a louse as
they came but nobody could put a finger on him because he managed to keep
himself as clean as a raygunned needle. I was expecting a clip on the
skull for thinking the things I was thinking about Scarmann, but it did
not come. These guys were used to having people think violence at their
boss. I thought a little harder. Maybe if I made 'em mad enough one of
them would bel