"Good," said Svan. "Then we must act. The Council has told us that we alone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if the Earth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must not return."
An old man shifted restlessly. "But they are strong, Svan," he complained. "They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay."
Svan nodded. "No. They will leave. But they will never get back to Earth."
"Never get back to Earth?" the old man gasped. "Has the Council authorized—murder?"
Svan shrugged. "The Council did not know what we would face. The Councilmen could not come to the city and see what strength the Earth-ship has." He paused dangerously. "Toller," he said, "do you object?"
Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice was dull. "What is your plan?" he asked.
Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at his feet, held up a shiny metal globe. "One of us will plant this in the ship. It will be set by means of this dial—" he touched a spot on the surface of the globe with a pallid finger—"to do nothing for forty hours. Then—it will explode. Atomite."
He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grin faded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty, irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leaves off a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made a mark on one of them, held it up.
"We will let chance decide who is to do the work," he said angrily. "Is there anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think...."
No answer. Svan jerked his head. "Good," he said. "Ingra, bring me that bowl."