"We've raised the Astral, sir! Afraid Haggard's going to know about it in a few hours, too. One of his scouts jumped us and we killed the men. Better let us go back with Murphy's ship while you round up the rest of the fleet. This is going to mean trouble!"
Carlyle's eyes glowed, and his features seemed to shine with inner energy.
"Great work!" he breathed. "I'll drop off Murphy directly. Mark the way out there with flares. We'll get the rest of the boys and be there in three hours. If we're lucky we can unload the Astral and be out of the territory without crossing his path."
Larry Wolfe saluted and turned back to the scout. He tried to summon the fierce dislike he had for the salvage boss when he was away from him, but it would not rise. Carlyle's personality was a strong one. Men instinctively took orders from him and liked it, and women—Well, Ann had certainly changed. Yet there was a shading of something sinister under the man's smooth, forceful exterior. Larry could not isolate the things about him he distrusted.
Once more they dropped away from the Friar. Murphy, Stoller and Cass came booming along after them, jets belching and the whole, tiny craft leaping like a released whippet in the effort to pace Larry.
It was an hour and a half before they saw the Astral in their glasses once more. In their path they had dropped red fluctuating flares to guide the mother ship to the derelict. The scout sidled in beside the space-barge. Magnets sent out invisible tentacles and hauled them against the vessel with a stiff shock. Murphy's red head bobbed into view as his own craft made landing.
Larry Wolfe snapped orders. Stoller and Cass tackled the job of cutting away the ragged metal to provide more room for the loading of the salvage ship. Jeff, Abe, and Murphy joined Larry in the back-breaking toil of moving the gold.
And all the time they were conscious of the precious weapon that was slipping from their fingers ... time! Minutes, seconds, fleeing from them, while they wondered which ship would be first to return, the Friar Bacon with its glittering silver hull, or the black tiger-shark of the void—the Martian.
Without warning there was a terrific crash against the side of the derelict. The six sweating workmen were flung to their faces on the floor. One of the scout ships was torn lose and went rolling away.
Larry ripped out his gun and crawled to the opening in the vessel's shell. What he saw caused him to sigh with new relief.