"Who hasn't. Come on, Billy. A little more soup. I know that pair and they won't waste time."
Thompson poured more power into the car and it increased in speed. The way was cleared for him, though it took some expert driving to cut around and through the traffic, stopped by the demanding throat of the official siren.
Thompson roared up the main road to Mojave, sent the guard-rail gates flying dangerously over the heads of onlookers, and sped out onto the tarmacadam. The dust of the rough landing was just starting to rise as Thompson slid into the outskirts of the circle of ships. His car skidded dangerously on locked wheels, and he used the deceleration of the vehicle to catapult himself forward. He landed running and disappeared into the circling dust.
He could be certain that Lane and Downing would be at the center of this whirling mass.
Lane blinked. Downing shook his head in disbelief. Both recharged their modines and—
"That's about enough!" snapped Thompson, coming through the dust. "You pair of idiots."
They whirled.
"No, you didn't miss, either of you." He waved his own modine. The aperture was wide open. "But I've got a job to do and you aren't going to spoil it on the first try. I'd hate to report to Co-ordinator Kennebec that I'd failed—doubly. And that all there were to his plans were two hardly scarred corpses."
He tossed his weapon on the ground and nursed his hand.