"Forget it. I don't like those spying recorders any more than you do, but I don't like to see a man throwing his money away either. Especially when he's on a job where he'll probably earn every dollar of it."
Manson pulled a fade-away chair from its wall socket and pressed the green button.
He waited two seconds for the cushion to inflate, then relaxed in it. "So you really think it's going to be rough," he said casually.
Grimes swung his chair ninety degrees and studied the planet, Primus, looming ever larger on the television screen. There were small breaks in the cloud formations, but it was still too early to glimpse any of the compact little cities.
"We aren't the first group to tackle this mystery, you know, and we'd be hard put to prove we were the best, from what I've read of the reports."
The engineer scratched his carefully trimmed beard and didn't appear at all worried. "If you'd like to know how I feel about it," he grinned, "my wedding date's already set for next June."
The captain had to smile. "I attribute your optimism to your inexperience," he said. "Even assuming that we escape with our necks, what makes you think we'll have it cleared up before June? I've got a reputation for doing things the cautious way, you know."
Manson shrugged. "I've heard of that code they drum into you at Space Academy. Your ship is your life. Every speck of meteoric dust that sticks to its hide is your responsibility. And right along with the ship comes the crew. Each member a ten million dollar investment—not one hair of his head to be risked unnecessarily."
"You're a little inaccurate in the phraseology, but go on. What are you driving at?"
"Nothing special. That's all fine and dandy for escorting bug-hunters around Mars, but this is a combat mission. First one in a hundred years. Not a man in the Service has ever been on a combat mission. I'd give plenty to hear what's on the tape this time."