Tommy Strike let out a startled squawk and tried to leap aside. Then suddenly his legs folded limply beneath him, and he fell to the floor.
“Blast it!” he howled at the man behind the desk. “Turn that thing off! You’ve crippled me for life!”
The man behind the desk was past middle age, with rabbit-like eyes peering through thick lenses. On the desk-top before him rested a lead-gray box, the interior of which contained a bewildering array of weird tubes and coils. There was a portable power unit, and a Cameralike lens now focused on Strike’s lower body. The man fumbled for the activating switch, snapped it off.
“Oh—so sorry, Mr. Strike. No harm intended. Just checking my—er—apparatus, seeing that it’s in working order.” Which explained nothing as far as his victim was concerned.
Strike
