"Please, mister!" Helstrom croaked, bony hands spread as he tried to push Dane back. "Please, I don't want to see nothing. Nothing!"
"Well, if you don't want to...." Scowling irritably, as if disappointed, Dane wadded the plastic back over the end of the yat-stick. "You know who I am, captain?"
"N-no."
"Clark Dane, that's what they call me. Security's after me."
The captain's eyes bugged even further, and his Adam's apple moved up and down. He didn't speak.
Dane went on: "They thought they had me, down on Mars. I got away, though. Dug this"—he patted his bundle grimly—"out of a Security arsenal to bring with me."
The horse-face worked. The coarse grey hair appeared close to standing on end.
Dane scowled more ferociously than ever—as much to keep from laughing himself as to impress the captain. There was something so intrinsically absurd about the whole situation that he knew that one misstep would carry him over into gails of wild, hysterical mirth.
"Captain," he clipped tightly, "how'd you like to have me blow up this ship?"
Whatever it was the captain answered, Dane couldn't understand it. He pressed on: "There's just one way to save yourself, captain. That's to take me where I want to go. Because even if you hit me from behind—stun me, kill me—this grenade will still go off. The trigger's already free. This wrapping's the only thing that's holding it."