It took him fifteen minutes to find the thick-walled copper casket containing the treasure, scarred by impact, half fused by the terrific heat even though it had been protected by the walls of the strong room from the brunt of it. He knew that its precious contents could have suffered no harm, and carefully manipulated the ship's grappling mechanism until the casket was safely inside the tender's loading port. He swung the life ship about and drove for clear space.
So easy it had been! A few minutes of effort had won him ten times as much as other men earned during a lifetime of hard, dangerous work in the space-lanes. Lucky he wasn't squeamish by nature. This way he was safe. Every witness against him was dead. His own word would be taken as gospel truth. Already he had planned every detail of the story—how he had been on routine inspection of the tender when the explosion started forward, in the fuel tanks. How the life ship, with him aboard, had been blown free by the blast—how he had barely managed to close the port in time to escape suffocation—how from the tender he had witnessed the destruction of the Cinnabar, and how—a touching detail this—he had cruised back into the wreckage in search of survivors, but found none. He would not try to explain the explosion. The lethally dangerous nature of the fuel would answer all doubts. Nobody could suspect him.
Just before landing he would transfer the Urulium to his own duffle bag—a new one, of course, stocked with clothing taken from the tender's supplies. A welding torch would reduce the copper casket to a lump of reddish metal. He would dispose of a little Urulium illegally, outfit a one-man ship with the proceeds, and go on a prospecting cruise from which he could return with a legitimate store of the precious stuff. Disposed of to the Martians, who valued it as a healing agent, the four kilograms would bring a fortune.
He pushed the little ship to top speed, which was slow at best. Hour after hour he hurled its silvery nose toward the distant stars, on a course which his charts told him led to earth. Mars, smaller than his own world, was on the other side of the sun. It was on earth that automatic cameras would have snapped the explosion of the Cinnabar. Perhaps salvage ships were already on their way; in a few hours he might meet them.
Glancing at the chronometer, he saw that it was safe to remove his mask. The last vestige of kui-knor which might have entered the tender from the Cinnabar would have decomposed by now. By this time it would also have decomposed in the blood of the drugged men had any remained alive to experience it.
"Akars! Blast my orbit, what happened?"
He whirled at the voice, all his fear surging up within him, choking him. In the doorway stood Box Jordan, his tall, lean figure swaying a little, keen eyes questioning.
"Jordan! I—where d'you come from?"
"Routine inspection forward. I was checking the fuel tanks, started to back out of the tank compartment when I froze up. Couldn't move a toe." The navigator's sharp eyes narrowed. "What happened?"