Stiff-fingered, Boone closed the folder. Again, his eyes met Terral's.
The lean man's face had grown bleak as Mars' windswept deserts. "Do you know what it's going to mean when that report gets out?"
"I can imagine."
"Can you? I wonder." The other raised a clenched fist; shook it. "Boone, it means a Cartel-dominated solar system, the end of human freedom! IC's got a monopoly on chandak and they intend to hold it, Federation or no Federation. The rest of us won't have any choice but to come to them on their terms, or else gamble that our children will grow up gibbering idiots."
In spite of himself, Boone shuddered.
Terral kept on talking: "The production records tell the story. They say that chandak's in short supply—so short that it comes in dribbles. But that report you read doesn't mention any shortage, does it? All it gives is an order—a flat directive to see that all IC's people are protected."
Wearily, Boone nodded. "All right. You've sold me. Now tell me just how I fit in. What am I supposed to do?"
"Good!" The other slapped Boone's shoulder. "As to what you do, it's the same proposition that we talked about at Gandor City. The thing we're buying is your training. There's an Independent ship ramped in the main port, ready to grav-off. It's equipped for mekronal production. You take it out and find some Helgae."
Boone's heart leaped. "You mean—I break and run? I don't stand trial?"