Ballard started down the hill in long, low floating bounds. The Minnow expanded up at him, a ship etched in black and white against a jagged mass of black and grey ores. Just before landing on his second bound, his earphones picked up a sharp metallic ringing note he couldn't identify. Suddenly the ship expanded up directly in front of him; he'd overshot his landing. He thudded into the ship, slid down to the ground and landed facing the lock, his key-magnet in hand.
Again he heard the familiar tuning-fork note, this time ringing faintly up from the magnet in his own hand as he put it against the circle of lighter metal that was the lock. The circle turned, with the magnet rotating out into a handle. He grabbed it and yanked to slide back the airlock panel. The yank pulled him off his feet. For an instant he couldn't orientate; then he realized that he had moved because the panel had not. It was a case of action or reaction. The panel had not budged, seeming to be one with the flawless sweep of the hull.
He tried again, yanking it with the same futile results. Apprehension flooded through him. "Walton!" he called. "Walton, the panel's stuck! Open it from the inside!"
For an instant he was aware of Walton's nervous breathing, then it stopped—there was a low chuckle. "Listen, Ballard! I'd be crazy to let you in. Don't you think I've seen you watching me like a hawk ever since we found the rotenite, just waiting for a chance to catch me off guard! I should have done this weeks ago, but it didn't occur to me how clean and easy it would be until I thought of the airlock jamming with you outside. So—the lock is jammed and you have left little over two hours of suit oxygen. And while you're out there suffocating to death, I'll be waiting in my sleep-tank on a nice euphoriac jag. It's going to be nice being the richest man in the—"
"Wait! Walton, listen! You're all wrong! I—"
Walton had cut his radio. For a moment, Ballard dumbly stood there, his mind racing around like a pin-wheel. Slowly it stopped, as numbing fear coursed through his nervous system. He'd under-concealed his suspicions, after all; Walton had suspected him of the very same thing he'd suspected Walton of.
Suddenly, in spite of his predicament, in spite of death waiting for him only a few hours in the future, Ballard smiled. He really couldn't hate Walton for what he'd done; it was the old cliche again of too much greed and suspicion.
He realized that this didn't alter the fact that he was going to die—unless he could think of something fast. Ballard looked at his chronometer; he now had less than two hours.
In spite of this, his mind suddenly calmed and became clear. First he'd have to think of all the possibilities of getting into the Minnow, then allot only so much time to each possibility. There was the welding torch, the heat-beam, a pneumatic jackhammer, and miscellaneous hand tools. Surely with that assortment he could knock or burn a hole in the ship. All the air would swish out, but there were enough suit cylinders to allow him to take the ship back if he didn't damage it too badly getting in. And Walton would be safe in his sleep-tank; Ballard would see to that by disconnecting the awakener.