Drummond, following hesitantly, shook his head.
"Those clunkers have to satisfy a basic behavior circuit," McIntosh explained as he hastened his step. "We don't know what the compulsion of this bunch is. Suppose—well, suppose they have a chiropractic function. How'd you like to be the first person to show up after they've been frustrated for a hundred years?"
"Oh," Drummond said comprehendingly, stumbling to keep pace.
Angus McIntosh brushed a mass of tendrils aside and stepped out on the plain. "We'll report it and let them send in a deactivation crew. That way, at least, we'll get fifty per cent of salvage and no danger."
"Even that ain't bad—just for following an SOS a hundred light-years. Taking an uncharted route and picking up that signal sure paid off like—"
Drummond gagged on his words as he gripped Angus's arm and pointed.
Their ship was a shining oval, bobbing and weaving on a sea of silver that surged across the plain toward a cliff on the left.
"Clunkers!" Drummond gasped. "Hundreds of 'em—making off with our boat!"
He unholstered his weapon and fired.
Angus struck his wrist sharply. "Why don't you just run out waving your arms? We don't have enough firepower to get more than eight or ten of them."