"But just because he was marooned there—"
"Marooned, hell!" Pfaff hammered the butt of a rock-like fist against the doloid table. "Who marooned him, that's what I want to know! No man just pops up on an asteroid, naked as the day he was born, without even a breather mask for company!"
The two officers exchanged helpless glances.
"Answer me, you chitzas!" Pfaff bellowed. Again he smashed his great fist down upon the table. "I want to know who marooned him! And after you've told me that, I want to know who sent out the distress signal on him that we picked up. And who pumped that cave full of air and then slapped an energy seal on it so he'd have something to breathe till we got there. And finally, who"—a momentary pause while he snatched up an object from the table—"who left him this Kalquoi yat-stick to play with?"
"Well—" The first space-fleet officer groped futilely for words.
The second looked away, not speaking.
For a long moment Pfaff watched them—pig-eyes aglitter, bullet-head drawn far between the massive shoulders.
Then, slowly, his snarl changed to a smirk. He straightened; made a show of smoothing his rumpled short-sleeved, civilian tunic.
"For my money," he announced in a suddenly bland and unctuous voice "we've got no evidence whatever that this starbo"—a gesture to Dane—"is even human!"
In spite of himself, Dane went rigid. The officers' heads snapped round as if on springs. "What—?"