"We don't know what drive they've got," Mason answered. "Could be anything—"
"Nuts! You wouldn't get that much from an old-fashioned ion-blast, skipper! That's a shooting war, that's what it is!" There was a glitter in Cain's narrowed brown eyes; a new edge on his heavy voice. "Which side do we take, boss-man?"
"No side at all," Mason said, hardly moving his lips. "We're getting the hell out of here."
"Look, Lance. We've got a crew of ten—we've got a couple of m-guns aboard because we're a Scout. No telling how one of those outfits may show their gratitude if we pitch in, help their side out. That's what we're out here for, isn't it? Dig up new stuff for the double-domes to sink their slide-rules into? Think of the bonus, skipper! Hell, this is made to order—"
Mason turned a quick glance to the girl, but her face told him nothing. It never did when things like this came up between himself and Cain. And it was something he knew he had no right to expect. But he was tired ... too damn much Space, and there was nothing else he knew how to do.
But this time Cain had a point. Aliens—extra-galactic, even if almost neighbors—and his help one way or the other could mean an engraved invitation, a key to the city.
He turned back to the screen, watched as the careening pips massed, mixed, whirled in an insensate jumble. He didn't want any more mistakes. They'd ground him for good, tell him he'd had his limit of Space, and park him on one of the rest-planets with a pension for the rest of his life.
No, he had to think, and quickly.
Earth had only too recently gotten an entire history of wars out of her system. Perhaps for good, this time. And that was it; that was his answer. Better keep his nose clean—
"For God's sake, skipper," Cain snapped. "Come out of it! This is a natural, we'll clean up!"