Why did it have to be like this? he groaned. A life for a life—Carlyle knew within himself that he was willing to die right now. He'd seen enough of life and its disappointments. But always there was that strain of cowardice in his soul—fear of growing old, of dying. He'd courted death so long, hoping for a quick end on some battlefield, in some remote part of interstellar space. But never did it come. Friar Bacon had indeed cursed him with eternal life.
Six hours later, just as his shift was ending, Larry Wolfe spotted the first loose cluster of drifted wreckage. This meant they had entered the actual salvage field. He rang for Carlyle and the ship owner responded immediately, ducking to enter the bridge.
Larry's clipped voice masked the jealousy he felt toward Carlyle. "Flotsam off the starboard bow sir," he said mechanically.
Through powerful glasses, the other examined the wreckage. He lowered the glasses hurriedly. Apparently it was merely the torn, gutted shell of a barge, but—
"Rest of it may be near," he grunted. "We'll drop off Murphy, Stoller and Cass. Seen anything of Haggard lately? Anything to worry about, I mean?"
"Yes, sir. He's drawn closer ... much too close considering we should be splitting apart now."
Carlyle pivoted and shot a glance back at the darkly looming Martian. His brows drew into a solid bar across his angry eyes. "Half speed astern, Captain," he clipped.
Larry glanced back at him. "You mean that?"
"Exactly. Pull in beside the devil. I'm going to speak him."