"Gotcha!" the jock said and the whine of the turbine increased another ten decibels.
"Thanks, Wallingford," Redman said. "If you hadn't pulled me out I'd have had to shoot somebody. And I don't like killing. It brings too many lawmen into the picture." He was as cool as ice. I had to admire his nerve.
"Thanks for nothing," I said. "I figured you'd be grateful in a more solid manner."
"Like this?" he thrust a handful of bills at me. There must have been four thousand in that wad. It cheered me up a little.
"Tell me where you want to get off," I said.
"You said you have a spaceship," he countered.
"I do, but it's a Centaurian job. I might be able to squeeze into it but I doubt if you could. About the only spot big enough for you would be the cargo hold, and the radiation'd fry you before we even made Venus."
He grinned at me. "I'll take the chance," he said.
"Okay, sucker," I thought. "You've been warned." If he came along he'd damn well go in the hold. I could cut the drives after we got clear of Mars and dump him out—after removing his money, of course. "Well," I said aloud, "it's your funeral."
"You're always saying that," he said with chuckle in his voice.