"No." Hawthorne shook his head. "These instruments don't lie. And they say we have an atmosphere. It may be thicker in the valleys!"
"Then," O'Dea insisted, "the Space Guide must be wrong, because my memory distinctly tells me—"
"Be damned to your memory! I brought this ship down, and I felt the atmosphere. What's more, all the planets inside the asteroid belt, except this one, are inhabited by Centaurs—and we're certainly inside the asteroid belt."
"You should know." O'Dea glared at him. "After letting that asteroid smash through our fuel tanks—"
"You make me tired," Hawthorne yawned. "We're getting on each other's nerves. Better get some sleep and cool off."
He cleared a place on the floor and relaxed. While O'Dea watched, fists knotted, the burly pilot started to snore.
O'Dea grinned suddenly and turned away. He stared thoughtfully out the port. It was dark. A feeble, distant sun was falling below a rugged horizon; and in the sky above he picked out ruddy Proxima.
But there should be a "real" sun due to rise soon. Nice thing about Centauri—there were enough suns to suit anybody.
His eyes fell on the wad of bills Hawthorne had thrown at him. He retrieved it happily, also finding the photograph. He gazed fondly at the deep dark eyes and rich lips of the girl, kissed the picture happily.
"Good night, Mercedes," he said. "We'll show him in the morning."