Pretending to be weaker than he was, Akars lurched to his feet. He had a plan now, and warily circled Jordan before closing in. Then he plunged forward, ducked a swift uppercut, took a solid body blow that left him gasping—but reached the wall behind Jordan which was his objective. A rack of oxygen tanks for use with space suits was fastened there. Akar's hands tore one free—a slender, blunt-ended cylinder, massive enough to be a dangerous club. As Jordan closed in Akars brought it down on the navigator's left arm, which fell limp. With a bellow of triumph Akars struck for the head.
Jordan, still drug-hazy and crippled in one arm, took the blow on a temple. It stopped him like a shot; he crumpled to one knee and fell. Breath rattling in his swollen throat, Akars stared into the hated face and wondered whether he should finish the job with a few more blows. Caution whispered consent, but still he hesitated. This was Box Jordan. Box Jordan! Why kill him like this? He wanted Jordan to know what was coming—to know it as long as possible.
It struck him then that killing Jordan wasn't as simple as it seemed. Found aboard the tender, Jordan's body would convict him. Flung into space, this far from the Cinnabar disaster, it would provoke awkward questions—unanswerable questions—when discovered. Here was an unexpected flaw in a scheme that had looked foolproof! Cursing, Akars pulled the chart book toward him.
He had tied Jordan's feet and fastened his hands behind him, lashed to a wall railing. In a supply closet he had found a paralysis gun, which he now wore in a side holster. For these and other reasons he was as confident, when Jordan showed signs of returning life, as he had been at first. Grinning, he watched the navigator stir and weakly sit up.
"Coming out of it, are you? Listen to me, Jordan. I've got the Urulium aboard. Want to come in on this with me?"
Jordan rubbed his temple tenderly. "I suppose there isn't much choice—"
Akars chuckled. "You'll come in, huh? And spill the first chance you get. I'd be asking for the mercury mines if I took you back. Skip it, Jordan. I was kidding."
"So was I." The navigator smiled crookedly. "But when it comes to teaming up with a rat, I'm ashamed of myself for even kidding about it."
Akars struck out—a hard flat hand blow that rocked Jordan's head and left red welts on his cheek. "You know what? I've got your spot picked out. Nice and cool. No air, except what'll be in your suit tank. And about as much chance of rescue as an ice cube in hell—"