"Afraid my first responsibility is here." Goldsmid's voice was quite matter-of-fact.
"So's mine," grunted Slade. "Warden, even if the world ends tomorrow, I've got to get Squeaker Hanley's gall bladder out today. No point in my hanging around any longer is there?"
"Of course there is," Halloran answered. He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket, selected one, and lit it. He exhaled smoke and looked speculatively at Lansing. The scientist felt himself blushing and looked away.
Halloran turned to Court.
"Quite a problem, isn't it, Alfred," he said. "I suppose these gentlemen are right in keeping the inmates off their ships. At any rate, we can't argue the matter—so let's do what we're asked. I think you'd better plan to get the guards out of here tonight, at shift change. Might pass the word to their wives now, so they can start packing a few essentials. Doc," he turned to Slade, "before you get your greedy hands on Squeaker's gall bladder, you'd better round up your staff and have them make the proper arrangements."
"O.K., I'll put it up to them."
"You'll not put it up to them," the warden said sharply. "You'll order them to be ready when the general, here, wants them."
"I'll give no orders," Slade said grimly.
"Just a minute," interposed Court. "Sir, aren't you going?"
"Of course not. But that's neither here nor there—"