The other stilt went, then, and Meek found himself floating slowly downward, gravity weak but inexorable. His struggle to retain his balance had flung him forward, away from the face of the rock and he was falling directly over the board on which the bugs were arrayed.
He pawed and kicked at space, but still floated down, course unchanged. He struck and bounced, struck and bounced again.
On the fourth bounce he managed to hook his fingers around a tiny projection of the surface. Fighting desperately, he regained his feet.
Something scurried across the face of his helmet and he lifted his hand before him. It was covered with the bugs.
Fumbling desperately, he snapped on the rocket motor of his suit, shot out into space, heading for the rock where the lights from the ports of Hamilton's shack blinked with the weaving of the rock.
Oliver Meek shut his eyes and groaned.
"Gus will give me hell for this," he told himself.
Gus shook the small wooden box thoughtfully, listening to the frantic scurrying within it.
"By rights," he declared, judiciously, "I should take this over and dump it in Bud's ship. Get even with him for swiping my injector."