He lunged as he spoke. But Ross was already moving, swinging up the blaster's butt in a hard, fast blow to the other's head.
The man dropped. Hastily, his companion stretched out as ordered.
"Stay there," Ross clipped. Then, incredibly cool, he turned to the ladder and, head tilted forward to hide his face, climbed swiftly towards the hatchway.
Above him, Veta Hall spoke, her voice no longer marred by the amplifier's distortion: "You really did get him, Igor? Alive, not dead—?" But her tone told nothing of how she felt about it.
Ross mumbled incoherently, not slowing his climb.
"Will you need a sling to lift him, Igor?"—A male voice, this one.
Another guttural mumble. Ross' chin scraped his chest, he was holding his head so far forward.
A hand touched his shoulder. "Speak up, Igor! I can't understand—"
Ross gripped the sill of the hatchway. His head came up—teeth bared, eyes blazing. In one lunge, he slammed through the open port, bowling Veta Hall aside.
The next instant he ricocheted into a gaping, goggle-eyed rowdy who held a spanner in one hand, a vortane-tube in the other.