"You asked for it," growled the pilot, lunging after him. What he took hold of wasn't an imitation hand, made of plastic. It was flesh and blood. That was why the pilot screamed, once, before he was lifted off his feet and slammed to the floor.
Docchi bent double. The dark figure on his back came over his head like a sword from a scabbard.
"Jor—"
"Yeah," said Jordan.
He wrapped one arm around the pilot's throat and clamped it tight. With the other he felt for the toaster the pilot still held. Effortlessly he tore it away and used the butt with just enough force to knock the pilot unconscious without smashing the skull. Docchi stood by until it was over. All he could offer was an ineffectual kick, not balanced by arms.
It wasn't needed.
"Let there be light," ordered Jordan, laughing, and there was, a feeble, flickering illumination from Docchi.
Jordan was balancing himself on his hands. A strong head, massive, powerful arms and shoulders. His body ended at his chest. A round metal capsule contained his digestive system.
"Dead?" Docchi looked down at the pilot.
Jordan rocked forward and listened for the heartbeat. "Nah," he said. "I remembered in time that we can't afford to kill anyone."