There was another trooper on duty on the fifth level exit. Boone paralyzed him with the nerve-gun, not even speaking, and ran on down the corridor to the wardroom.
Two Independent ensigns sat playing N'rlan with a navigator. One glanced up as Boone burst in; half-rose, mouth gaping. "My God! The mek-man!"
Boone's heart leaped. "Then—you know about me?"
"Of course!" This from the other ensign. "Terral had the whole ship readied to take off on two minutes' notice. Only then they grabbed you, and the damn' Cartel nailed us down here with a secret internment order from the Federation."
"But you still could make a run? Everything's aboard and ready?"
"Sure, if the locks would only open. There's just a sergeant and three troopers on duty."
Triumph surged through Boone—a wild, raw-nerved elation that left him sagging back against the door-frame, dizzy.
In a voice that didn't even remotely resemble his own, he said, "The locks are open."
The others took over, after that. As from afar, Boone heard the terse commands, the bellowed orders.
Then lights were flashing, hatches slamming. There was the grav-off's momentary lurch and wallow; the swift rush up, the hiss of passage through the airlocks while the sphere rocked like a cork in the vortex of the bubble's escaping atmosphere.