The trick failed to work. Duane had other things on his mind; he walked the thirty-foot length of the room, designed to imbue him with a sense of his own unimportance, as steadily as he'd ever walked in the open air of his home planet.
Whichever planet that was.
The guard had remained just inside the door, at attention. Andrias waved him out.
"Here I am," said Duane. "What do you want?"
Andrias said, "I've had the ship inspected and what I want is on it. That saves your life, for now. But the cargo is in your name. I could take it by force, if I had to. I prefer not to." He picked up a paper, handed it to Duane. "In spite of your behavior, you can keep alive. You can even collect the money for the guns—Stevens' share as well as your own. This is a release form, authorizing my men to take four hundred and twenty cases of dehydrated foods and drilling supplies from the hold of the Cameroon—the ship you came on. Sign it, and we'll forget our argument. Only, sign it now and get it over with. I'm losing patience, Duane."
Duane said, without expression, "No."
Dark red flooded into Andrias' sallow face. His jaws bunched angrily and there was a ragged thread of incomplete control to his voice as he spoke.
"I'll have your neck for this, Duane," he said softly.
Duane looked at the man's eyes. Death was behind them, peeping out. Mentally he shrugged. What difference did it make?
"Give me the pen," he said shortly.