They stood there, glowering at each other, breathing hard. "The guy is only one of Baker's slaves," Harvey said. "Why were you taking it out on him?"
The caravan leader was on his feet now. "That's what I was trying to tell him," he said weakly. "I'm only carrying out orders. I've got to work my place and work for Baker, too, to make up my credits. You know how long I'd last if I didn't carry out orders."
"Okay, okay," Harvey said, suddenly sick of the whole thing. "We've got our oxygen, we've got our lecture. Now take off."
The settlers watched Baker's men move to their wagons, like a troop of horses, and slowly set out up the road.
"All right," Red Brace growled abruptly, "I'm sorry. But you didn't have any call to take a poke at me."
"You were about to kill the guy," Harvey snapped.
"All right, all right, I said I'm sorry. It was the wrong guy. Now let's go after the right one."
In the center of the settlement, at the side of the road, was a yellow wooden booth, marked COM, for communications. A loudspeaker on the roof brought messages from the central office. Inside the booth was a microphone and other electronic apparatus. Dr. Lurie sat down before the microphone and pressed the Call button. He cleared his throat. "I—we want to talk to Colonel Baker personally," he said.
In a large circular room, with a huge curving window overlooking the golden valley, sat Colonel Martin E. Baker, sipping a Scotch highball. It was a weak highball; Colonel Baker really didn't enjoy drinking. But his doctor had told him, on the periodic physical he had taken during his last visit to Earth, that a mild drink before dinner might help overcome his dyspepsia. "Tenseness," the doctor had said. "You've got to relax more." This seemed preposterous to Colonel Baker, who always thought himself to be a very relaxed person, but there was no denying the dyspepsia—it was there all the time—and he was willing to try anything that might ameliorate it.