Two men got out—Olcott and Duncan.
“Everything’s ready,” Hartman said. His tongue was thick, and he steadied himself with an effort.
“Good!” Olcott glanced at his wrist-chronometer. “There’s no time to waste.”
“When do I take off?”
“Immediately. You’ll pick up the Maid this side of the Moon, but it’s a long distance.”
Hartman was blinking at the convict. “You’re Saul Duncan. Hope you’re a good pilot. This is—um—ticklish work.”
“I can handle it,” Duncan said shortly. Olcott was already moving toward a trail that led inland from the beach. The other two followed for perhaps half a mile, till they reached the dead-black hull of a small cruiser-type spaceship, camouflaged from above with vines and pandanus leaves. The boat showed signs of hard usage. Duncan walked around to the stern tubes and carefully examined the jointures.
“Crack-up, eh?” he said.
Olcott nodded. “How do you suppose we got our hands on the crate? It was wrecked south of here, near a little islet. There weren’t any survivors. It cost me plenty to have the ship brought here secretly, where Hartman could work on it. But it has been put in good shape now.”
“She—um—runs,” the scientist said doubtfully, blinking. “And she has strong motors. Unless they’re too strong. I spot-welded the hull, but there is—um—a certain amount of danger.”