Product Description
To anyone who glanced casually inside the detention room the young man
sitting there did not seem very formidable. In height he might have been
a little above average, but not enough to make him noticeable. His brown
hair was cropped conservatively; his unlined boy’s face was not one to
be remembered–unless one was observant enough to note those light-gray
eyes and catch a chilling, measuring expression showing now and then for
an instant in their depths.

Neatly and inconspicuously dressed, in this last quarter of the
twentieth century his like was to be found on any street of the city ten
floors below–to all outward appearances. But that other person under
the protective coloring so assiduously cultivated could touch heights of
encased and controlled fury which Murdock himself did not understand and
was only just learning to use as a weapon against a world he had always
found hostile.

He was aware, though he gave no sign of it, that a guard was watching
him. The cop on duty was an old hand–he probably expected some reaction
other than passive acceptance from the prisoner. But he was not going
to get it. The law had Ross sewed up tight this time. Why didn’t they
get about the business of shipping him off? Why had he had that
afternoon session with the skull thumper? Ross had been on the defensive
then, and he had not liked it. He had given to the other’s questions all
the attention his shrewd mind could muster, but a faint, very faint,
apprehension still clung to the memory of that meeting.

The door of the detention room opened. Ross did not turn his head, but
the guard cleared his throat as if their hour of mutual silence had
dried his vocal cords. “On your feet, Murdock! The judge wants to see
you.”

The Time Traders