"S'no-so. Bren an' Chat—alone. No—no—famban—phan'ban'—phanoban' on Mer'cry. Die—"
Barbara started to say, "But your company—" but Dusty turned quickly and slapped a broad hand over her mouth.
"Shut up," he whispered in her ear swiftly. "He's got to think there is no help. He's forgotten that someone knows they're here. Play it by ear and follow my lead."
"What can you hope to do?"
"I don't know," said Dusty. "But I'm hoping that I find out." Loud enough for Scyth to hear, Dusty asked, helplessly, "But what can we do?"
"Car—ou'side. Spacer. Pocket—map."
Dusty made a dive for Scyth's jacket and found a folded road map in one of the pockets. Like any stranger in a strange land, Scyth had outlined the route in a heavy blue pencil. His travel was detailed, it took Dusty no more than a glance to place the location of Scyth's big spacecraft.
Scyth rested a moment and then went on: "Hurt—can be doc'or on Maran'is. Hurry—"
Dusty grunted. "And who's going to run this spacecraft of yours?"