A larger group—helmets thrown back for unimpeded vision, hands bared for instantaneous and accurate use of weapons—invaded the main saloon. Most of them went on through to perform previously assigned tasks, only a half dozen posting themselves to guard the passengers. One of these guards, a hook-nosed individual wearing consciously an aura of authority and dominance, spoke.
"Just take it easy, folks, and nobody will get hurt. If any of you have guns, don't go for them. That's a specialty that—" One of his DeLameters flamed briefly. Cloud's right arm vanished almost to the shoulder. The man behind him—what was left of him—dropped.
"Take it easy, I said," he went calmly on. "You can tie that arm up, fella, if you want to. It was in line with that guy who was trying in his slow way to pull a gun. You nurse over there, take him to the sick-bay and let them fix up his wing. If anybody stops you tell them Number One said to. Now the rest of you watch your step. I'll cut down every damn one of you that so much as looks like he wanted to start something."
They obeyed. They were very near the point of panic, but in view of what had happened no one dared to make the first move. The leniency displayed toward the wounded man also had a soothing effect.
In a few minutes the looting parties returned to the saloon.
"Did you get it, Six?"
"We got it. It was in the mail, like you said."
"The safe?"
"Sure. Wasn't much in it, but not bad, at that."
"QX. Control room! All done—let's go!"