Land! Ricker's forehead wrinkled. Where could they land? The nearest habitable planet was the radium-warmed Pluto and prison was what they were escaping. And who were they? Could they explain the liner and its cremated passengers? As he was marched through the lock into the other plane he decided information wouldn't do a corpse much good but he'd certainly find out all he could until he became one....
The ship was egg-shaped, its interior bisected into cabin and blast-engines. Small but powerful, Ricker inferred from the heavy insulation. He was led into the cabin where another man, also wearing coveralls, with ear-phones on his head, sat at the wheel. He was squat, like a tractor. He eyed Molly Borden appraisingly.
"Hello, Hines," said the Martian. "Get rid of that boat out there and let's go."
"Right," said the big fellow, reluctant to take his eyes from the woman.
They cast off, circled the boat and then settled just over it. Hines jerked a trigger-like lever on the wheel. Ricker glanced through the viewplate.
The boat beneath him glowed red. A puff of white smoke—it was gone!
God o' Mars! Ricker stared through the glass hardly believing what he'd seen. A little chill tickled the back of his neck. The boat had vanished in clear space, like a magician's trick. This plane must have some sort of heat gun—a disintegrator.
Vanger, the Martian, laughed in a voice irritatingly shrill. "And you tried to interfere with us," he jeered at Ricker's amazement. He pushed him into a seat in a corner of the cramped cabin, then turned to Gurren. "It took you long enough to find us," his tone changed to displeasure.
"The liner circled back and radioed the Patrol," the ratty fellow explained. "We thought we better put it out of the way." He grinned. "We just gave 'em a small dose—cooked 'em. When the Patrol comes, won't they get a headache trying to figure that out?"
Vanger laughed with him till a fit of coughing darkened his face.