Then he went down to rejoin Neilson.
Neilson was just finishing hacking at his hair with the short-bladed safety razor. He scowled at Treb, his eyes on the carbine that the man from Baryt yet carried.
"Not taking any chances, eh, Treb?"
"Just in case you change your mind, Harl."
"My friend—my very dear friend—Gram Treb!" Neilson laughed. "What trust—what a faith in human nature!"
"Yes, Harl. Your friend."
They left the lake behind, Neilson in advance. Directly ahead, beyond the outer ring of trees, the locks to the upper levels waited. They had less than a third of a mile to traverse.
The rusting shattered debris of a machine gun, with a spilled clutter of empty shell cases, lay just off the trail.
"Harok Dann died here," said Treb. Neilson did not turn.
"The big man, Manross, was killed by Dann's fire even as he threw the grenade," he added.