"That's O. K. I figured there would be more boats along. They're coming home now—those that have power enough in their engines to make the trip. My name's Duane, Jim Duane."
"They call me Captain," said the little man. "I've got other names, but mostly I answer to Captain. I'm a professional soldier." He added with a trace of a cold smile, "Like you."
"Yeah," Duane said wearily, "that's my work. Fightin' for the highest bidder. But when the war lords ran short of uranium they sent me home." He added with a malicious grin, "Like you."
"And damned lucky to get home. Plenty of boys marooned up there." Captain jerked his chin upward toward the dark, mist-swept sky. "But they'll find more uranium. They'll call us back. Twenty years of fightin' can't end this way. The war lords aren't satisfied. There'll be more power for those crates, and guys like us will be gentlemen again, drawin' monthly wages in four figures."
Duane shook his head. "It's gone. They've hunted everywhere. Oh, they found plenty—enough for centuries. But they burned it up in twenty years. They blasted the worlds apart. They fought like mad dogs. An' now it's gone. An' I'm damned glad."
Captain's eyes narrowed. "You don't talk like a fightin' man."
Duane's hand tightened upon his gun. "A man don't talk fight. Want to see how I fight?"
The little man shrugged his broad shoulders. "I only fight for money. Perhaps we'll fight for different war lords some day."
The scuffling of boots through the undergrowth eased the tension between the two. Two figures stumbled toward the fire. Two men in tattered leather coats and ragged pants and worn boots stopped as one, and stood there with downcast eyes as though awaiting an invitation.