Pop kept his mouth shut and his eyes open. He saw more than an old man might be expected to see, too. For instance he saw that Carnavon—cautious though he might be—had neglected to take an extra magazine for his blaster. That meant that there were just three shots in the weapon. One of which, Pop figured, would be used against the vault of the scuttled liner. Not that the old man was making any plans. He was still too weighted by his fear and his sense of impotence for that. He merely noticed, and prayed to the gods of space that one of those shots in the blaster might not be meant for him.
As they drew near the liner, Pop felt nausea churning his stomach. The ship was surrounded by satellites. Space-bloated bodies, naked and misshapen in the bitter light of the dim sun that reflected off the pitted flanks of the burst vessel. Spread-eagled grotesquely, the corpses circled their ship, puffy things of horror with staring eyes and extended fingers. Other things, too, circled the hulk. Small, commonplace items. A clock, a chair, shattered crockery. Tiny, inconsequential things, all mutely accusing—all muttering silently that their ship had been betrayed by someone who should have protected her.
Pop glanced over at Carnavon. Through the steelglass bubble of his helmet he could see the wrecker's face. There was no expression on it other than concentration—and greed. Pop knew about greed. He'd lived with greed and degradation a lot in his last few years. He hated Carnavon even more now for having reminded him—but he was still too sick with futility to do more than tell himself that he had done all he could do. He had called the Guard, after all. And then, for an awful moment he found himself regretting that he had done even that and thereby lost all hope of life....
Their magnetic shoes touched the Thunderbird's hull with a sound faintly carried through the air in their suits. They stood on the curving surface, etched in black against the starry sky. A few feet away from them, the terminator was inching toward them as the derelict rotated slowly.
With Carnavon leading the way, they clumped heavily to the ripped and tortured hull plates where the Thunderbird had been sundered. By the light of their helmet lights Pop could see the thoroughness of the wrecker's work. He had been her captain, this Carnavon, and he had known just how to murder her. The outer hull was a shambles and the pressure hull holed in three places. It had been a thorough job. Only one prepared for the sudden horror of her death could have survived it. Pop Wills thought of his boy and sobbed.
The dark companionways were empty, blown clean by the violence of the Thunderbird's death. Ron Carnavon led the way down into the ship to the purser's office and the vault.
Rubble cluttered the small room, bulkheads bent awry and pipes and wires littered the deck. Carnavon turned Pop loose and set him to work cleaning out a path to the vault. Pop's breath was coming in shuddering, grating gasps when he finished the work a half-hour later. Carnavon nodded approvingly and motioned him away from the vault.
Pop watched while the wrecker braced himself and took careful aim at the vault's lock mechanism with the blaster. There was a searing flash of blue flame, and red sparks showered as the oxy-hydrogen bolt sliced into the steel of the door. Pop found himself praying fervently that it would take two more shots.
Carnavon fired again, and the tiny room blazed. Pop muttered shakily under his breath and waiting for the wrecker to blast just once more.