Don Peel bared momentarily a mouthful of yellow fangs between lips that writhed hideously. Bonwitt's stomach went sick.
"Good; you fix." The Gosak dismissed them with a scrawny hand.
"Had to do that," the erstwhile super explained in the outer passage, "to keep him happy. Or his men'd be taking pot shots at you."
"That would be nice. They probably will anyway."
"No, no. Everything's hunky-dory now, so long as you co-operate. We go to my hangout now and I'll give you the dope."
So cocksure was the man that Bonwitt's ire rose dangerously. He controlled himself with an effort. He'd have to find out what was what, pretend compliance with any plan, and—wait.
Peterson's hangout, as he had termed it, was a drafting room and office combined. The desk and drawing table were of curious Lunar construction. There were a few chairs and a filing cabinet. Maps and drawings on the walls. Maps of Earth and Luna; drawings of queer machines and structures. One was a cross-section of the moon as Bonwitt was beginning to know it existed. The core, the inner sun, was not central, he saw.
"Look, Bill." Peterson poked a thick finger at this drawing. "Here's where we are; four hundred miles under the crater called Nemesis."
"Four hundred—" Bonwitt gaped, seeing the vertical shaft on the drawing, piercing its way upward through tunnel and many bearings to the surface, "—impossible!"