"We're not giving her a chance to snafu the works," Gotch said grimly. "She's in protective custody. We have a double for her, too."
"Mind explaining?"
"Not a bit. Let's face the facts and admit both Romer and Temple were murdered. That leaves only you. The enemy isn't about to let us get the Aztec into space. You're the only pilot left who's been trained for the big jump—the only man with the specialized know-how. That's why you're on someone's list. Perhaps, even, someone here at the Base ... or on the highway ... or in town. I don't know when or how but I do know this: You're a marked monkey."
Gotch added flatly: "I don't propose to let you get murdered."
"How about him?" Crag nodded toward his double. The man smiled faintly.
"That's what he's paid for," Gotch said unfeelingly. His lips curled sardonically. "All the heroes aren't in space."
Crag flushed. Gotch had a way of making him uncomfortable as no other man ever had. The gentle needle. But it was true. The Aztec was his baby. Gotch's role was to see that he lived long enough to get it into space. The rest was up to him. Something about the situation struck him as humorous. He looked at his double with a wry grin.
"Home and to bed early," he cautioned. "Don't forget you've got my reputation to uphold."
"Go to hell," his double said amiably.
"Okay, let's get down to business," Gotch growled. "I've got a little to say."