"You won't like it!" he promised.
"Tremont! I didn't know they'd do anything to you. Can't ... you and I ... make some kind of ... deal?"
Tremont stared at her levelly.
"But I'd have to really sleep sometime," he pointed out gently. "How can I trust you...?"
He was hardly a million miles out from the satellite system of Centauri VI when the Space Patrol ship he had called managed to put a pilot aboard to land the Annabel for him on the largest moon.
Tremont returned wearily from helping the man in the air lock—which he did with a practiced efficiency that surprised the pilot—to resume his talk with the patrol-ship captain waiting on the screen.
"We could have done it sooner, you know," said the latter curiously. "Well, now that I see him beside you, perhaps you'll explain your request to delay, and also what those pips trailing you are."
"It's all the same story," said Tremont, and explained his difficulties.
The patrol captain frowned and expressed a wish to lay hands on the highjackers.