The warehouse at III(3) Triangle Square was sealed up tighter than any tomb. The only windows were those in front, flanking the heavy turn-plate door that opened on the street side.
Narrow-eyed, Ross drew Veta back into a patch of shadow, while overhead Phobos raced Deimos across the sky, the two tiny moons like bright coins against the black backdrop of the Martian night.
For the third time, Veta said, "Stewart, it's impossible. There's simply no way to get in. And even if you found one, what good would it do? No one's there. The place is dark as the Coalsack."
"Maybe." Ross' jaw took on a stubborn set. "Then again, maybe not. But one thing's certain: I didn't lay myself open to charges of everything from grand theft to piracy in forcing that cruiser to set us down here just in order to give up now, without even checking."
Turning, he scanned the deserted square for a moment, then walked briskly across to the warehouse again, following its left wall until—a good hundred yards farther on—he reached the rear end.
Breathing hard, Veta came up beside him. "Stewart, where are you going?"
Not answering, Ross sidestepped the friendly sniffing of a six-legged Martian bak and strode to a box that protruded from the warehouse wall, opened it, and flicked his flamer. Light flared, illumining a neat row of dials.
"What—?" Veta began again.
"Power drain," Ross explained succinctly. "If equipment's running in there, we'll see it on these meters." A pause, while he checked dial after dial. Then sudden excitement sprang into his voice: "I was right, see? Something's going!"
Dubiously, Veta eyed the indicator. "Maybe it's an air-wash. Or a heater."