"That's not a new theory, Doc. That's been in the books for a hell of awhile."
"Of course, Robbin. But—I have learned to separate the threads!"
"Doc, you old madman, talk sense! Not that I don't appreciate what you did. I do. They had a track on me before I was half way to Pluto. But you had your eye on me as always—"
"I owed you and your father that, boy. No man soon forgets the colony."
"I know. And I realize that somehow you were able to use this hot-water tank here to pluck me out of Space—warp me from there to here, or whatever it is you said you did. Believe me I'm grateful. But this space-time stuff I don't understand. All I know is that there's a million-credit price on my head, and everywhere I look there's the Patrol. Everywhere. In a new ship, I could cruise Deep Space for awhile until I cooled off—"
"When has a Cutlass ever cooled off, Robbin? As long as they have not seen you die with their own eyes...."
Robbin put a cigarette to his lips, smoked quietly for minutes. The little man seated behind the most fantastic master-control panel he had ever seen remained silent, waiting, expectant.
"You really want me to give it a try, don't you, Doc?"
The old man's eyes glittered, and Robbin knew it was all the answer that he'd get. What the hell. If it worked—maybe, back sometime else—