"I think you want to live, Maclamore. I think you got something you want to live for. I want a piece of it."
"I can make a deal with you, Arena," I said. "Return me and my shipmate to our scout boat. Fuel us up. You might throw in two qualified men to help handle the ship—minus their black-jacks, preferably—then clear out. We'll handle the rest. And I'll remember, with gratitude."
Arena was silent for a long moment.
"Yeah, I could do that, Maclamore," he said finally. "But I won't. Max Arena is not a guy to pick up the crumbs—or wait around for handouts. I want in. All the way in."
"This time you'll have to settle for what you can get, Arena." I put the gun away and stood up.
I had a feeling I would have to put it over now or not at all.
"The rest of the squadron is still out there. If we don't show, they'll carry on alone. They're supplied for a century's operation. They don't need us."
That was true up to a point. The squadron had everything—except fuel.
"You figure you got it made if you can get your hands on that scout-boat," Arena said. "You figure to pick up fuel pretty easy by knocking off say the Lackawanna Pile."