"That is blackmail."
"It's worse than that. But we're primitive, and therefore lacking in refinement. As far as I am concerned, Transgalactic can keep their secret of our position locked in their sealed file. Scyth can die, and Bren and Chat can spend the rest of their lives marooned on Mercury."
"No. That wouldn't be right. You must bring Scyth back home."
"That's a fine idea! May I suggest that your ship is not as familiar as mine?" Dusty did not mention that the only control room he was familiar with was the one on the Gramer Production Lot, which was an aggregation of fantastic levers and flashing lights and futuristic three-phase busbars which had a most profound effect upon the imagination of the youth of the land but no effect upon space whatsoever.
"This can be taken care of. As a spaceman, you can understand the principles. They are simple. You can follow directions for flight."
"Yes? And which way do I go from here?"
"Not so fast. First, Dusty Britton, tell me the present condition of Scyth Radnor."
"Wait."
Dusty went below. Scyth was in a state of shock. His temperature "taken with the flat of Dusty's hand" was chill—and there was a film of perspiration wetting Scyth's body. The breathing was shallow and the face was pale. Scyth's pulse was weak and the heartbeat thin.