"Maybe not," Ronal said. "There was plenty of atmosphere wailing away—"
"Five credits gets you 20 it's all pure poison," Logan retorted. He was standing at one of the metalo-glass ports, surveying the colorful terrain speculatively. They joined him.
The ship had hit in an oblong clearing, perhaps five miles in length and half that in width. Surrounding the open, grassy spot were the depths of an untamed, riotously colored jungle.
"I'll give it a try in a suit," Logan said. "The sooner we patch up and get out of here the better. No telling what's in that." He gestured toward the clearing's mile-distant edge.
Ronal helped him into the bundlesome plasti-seal space-suit, then watched tensely with the others as the starboard airlock hissed, and Logan stepped onto the thickly-carpeted clearing floor.
"He's a cool kid," Ronal said. "For all we know, he's just—"
"He's a cracker-jack mechanic," Krist interrupted. "If we've got a couple of straight rivets left, he'll get us out of here. I'm just glad that he picked out this planet to come in on instead of the first or second out from this system's sun. It's plenty hot even here." They were all perspiring freely; the atmosphere conditioner had ceased operating from the shock of landing.
Logan's voice cracked from the still-functioning communications panel.
"Not too bad. Forehull plates got a little bashed in—couple of rips in the speed-skin. Take us maybe four, five days to get her Space-worthy again. Can unclog the free-drive jets in a day easy. But the guy who thought of leaving modern yachts equipped with free-drive units oughtta be hung from a comet tail."