Olcott picked his words carefully. “There aren’t many qualified space pilots in the system. And those are well paid; I couldn’t get at any of ’em. I tried, I’ll admit—but not after I heard about you. Would you like to make half a million credits?”
“Keep talking.”
“With that many credits, you’d never need to work again. I know a good surgeon who’d remold your face and graft new fingers on your hands, so you wouldn’t have to worry about prints. You probably couldn’t be convicted even if they arrested you—not without complete identification.”
Duncan didn’t answer, but his lips had gone pale and thin. One is seldom transported instantly from hell to heaven. Yet Olcott’s offer was—well, it meant everything, including Andrea.
“Go on,” Duncan said hoarsely. “What d’you want me to do?”
Olcott’s cool, watchful eyes met his own.
“Go into space,” he said, “without a Varra Helmet.”
The plane thundered on, and miles had been left behind before Duncan spoke again.
“Suicide.”
“No. There’s a way.”