This was a part of the business that had always thrilled him. Today it was just a job. A dirty, routine job. There wasn't any pleasure in it.
He thought of Jerry. Jerry who had laughed and gone to his death because a certain Blair Freedman had deserted him and tried to find glory.
The cutters were gyrating at a terrific speed now. The nose of the Z1000 was hot with the movement of the bearings. Freedman turned on the oilers. Long, thick jets of oil started to shoot out ahead of the ship, glancing off the blades, oiling the rocks.
Savagely, as though this was a personal battle, Freedman turned on the forward power. The Z1000 hit the remains of the wrecked patrol ship, ripped through it and into the sullen, slow moving mass of metal and rock. It shuddered once, then settled down, matching its blades against the mass.
The Z1000 moved stolidly ahead, its blades roaring.
It moved stolidly ahead, and the roar of the blades drowned out everything else.
The wall wouldn't be thick. Freedman grimaced. He remembered the months he had spent ripping through the first time.