Albrekt ate his meal, keeping a watchful eye on the opening between the living quarters and the storage deck. Then he returned to the control room, locked the hatch and strapped himself down for blasting.
He kept his promise to Carrel and broadcast a warning of the blast over the intercom system. At the appointed moment, he ran the blast tape through the automatic pilot.
The acceleration was not as heavy this time. The ship, safe from the prying of the convoy's radar, swung slowly from its course and into a new prearranged orbit, on which a Flanjo vessel was to intercept it in approximately six months.
Space is a lonely place—lonelier than any place on Earth, lonelier than any place on Mars. No expanse of desert or ocean is so empty as space, for there one at least has something material beneath him and around him.
"An experienced spaceman would rather be burned than left alone in space," said Carrel. "It'll drive most men completely crazy in a pretty short time. I think you've realized that by now, Albrekt. That's why you won't kill us."
Albrekt was eating a meal at the table in the living quarters, his heat gun lying beside his hand. The others were seated on bunks across the room. Since the only necessity was to protect himself and keep the others out of the control room, he had discontinued the practice of making the crew go below while he ate. Despite the atmosphere of enmity, the conversation and companionship filled a need he was beginning to recognize more keenly.
"That's true," answered Albrekt agreeably. "For that and other reasons, I won't kill you unless I'm forced to."
"But there's nothing to prevent our killing you and retaking the ship," reminded Carrel.
"Nothing but this." Albrekt laid his hand on his heat gun.