"That was one of them," Pell replied, grinning. "Why don't you get one of your own men to pilot the ship?"
"Colonials are not allowed the mastery of space navigation or piloting. It's a security measure," she replied simply. "They are allowed to master space mechanics, however. Heintz is your mechanic, incidentally." She indicated the man in the front seat behind the wheel of the speeder.
"How about weapons? Why do you use such a cumbersome, ancient thing like that pistol?"
Gret Helmuth laughed. "I see you know very little about colonial affairs, Pell. Of course we are not allowed the use of atomic weapons—that would make revolt all too easy. And naturally I could not risk acquiring one here.
"You see, almost all of our technology is geared on a twentieth century level. Only the DIC-controlled power stations and their mercenary army on Centaura are allowed the use of atomic power and weapons."
Pell shrugged and looked at the dark countryside rushing past the speeder. He had not known that it was really as bad as all that. Obviously the colonials had good reason for their revolution. And now it was up to him to run a DIC blockade and deliver five kilos of U-235 to the revolutionaries. Absently he put a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the stud of his lighter.
Gret Helmuth's startled whistling gasp snapped him out of his revery. Even Heintz grunted audibly from behind the wheel and the speeder swerved slightly as it sped down the road.
Pell stared from one to the other with surprise. "What's the matter with you two?" he asked.
"That—that thing you're lighting that cigarette with! What is it?" Gret gasped.
"Oh!" Pell laughed. "I see you're not very familiar with Earth technology," he mocked. "This is a 'Rippo Little-Blast Dandy Atomic Cigarette Lighter.' Cute little novelty, isn't it?"