Both scowled. Rostoff opened his mouth to say something and Don Mathers rapped, "Shut up."
Rostoff blinked at him. Demming leaned back in his swivel chair. "You're sober for a change," he wheezed, almost accusingly.
Don Mathers pulled up a stenographer's chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on the back. He said coldly, "Comes a point when even the lowest worm turns. I've been checking on a few things."
Demming grunted amusement.
Don said, "Space patrols have been cut far below the danger point."
Rostoff snorted. "Is that supposed to interest us? That's the problem of the military—and the government."
"Oh, it interests us, all right," Don growled. "Currently, Mathers, Demming and Rostoff control probably three-quarters of the system's radioactives."
Demming said in greasy satisfaction, "More like four-fifths."
"Why?" Don said bluntly. "Why are we doing what we're doing?"
They both scowled, but another element was present in their expressions too. They thought the question unintelligent.