Kinton had stepped forward six or eight paces, irritated despite his anxiety at the way Birken persisted in drifting before him.
Kinton couldn't just grab him—bad leg or not, he could probably break the older man in two.
He glanced back at the Tepoktans beside the helicopter, Klaft, the pilot, the officer, the constable with the rocket weapon.
They stood quietly, looking back at him.
The call for help that had risen to his lips died there.
"Not their party," he muttered. He turned again to Birken, who still retreated toward the ship. "But he'll only get himself killed and destroy the ship! Or if some miracle gets him through, that's worse! He's nothing to turn loose on a civilized colony again."
A twinge of shame tugged down the corners of his mouth as he realized that keeping Birken here would also expose a highly cultured people to an unscrupulous criminal who had already committed murder the very first time he had been crossed.
"Birken!" he shouted. "For the last time! Do you want me to send them to drag you back here?"
Birken stopped at that. He regarded the motionless Tepoktans with a derisive sneer.
"They don't look too eager to me," he taunted.