As he strode toward the hangar, the lawyer knew that the days were running short. True, the launching ramp was intact and one door of the hangar was already open; but it would take at least a week to remove the chunks of rejuvenite blocking the remaining door. Tarsh and himself had done most of the heavy work. Yet even Tarsh, with all his feline strength, was beginning to tire. The constant effort to make use of every scrap of daylight was proving too much for them.
According to Gillian, the lifeboat was unharmed. Delman hadn't the time to inspect it properly. But the very position of the hangar, squeezed tight against the cliffside, had given it the best protection possible. No, if only they could remove those stones!
Delman exhaustedly picked up his discarded crowbar. He inserted the point under a slab of rejuvenite, thrust down and pried with all his strength. As it tilted, Gillian Murray forced chocks of metal underneath to hold it in place. The teamwork was repeated time after time, until at last the slab toppled over, gaining them another twelve inches. They rested for a moment. Then the whole endless process started once again.
By dusk, they had removed five stones.
Finished eating, they relaxed in the living room, lying back in the padded comfort of the armchairs. Only Jason Tarsh remained standing—slim and compact, like a young Oriental despot—his eyes fixed on Walter Pellinger.
Pellinger squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I think I'll try and get some sleep," he said.
"Just a moment, Walter," Tarsh lifted a restraining hand. "You're a businessman and I want your advice. It's quite a simple problem. Imagine that four of your employees are stranded on a desert island with very little food. And suppose they all agree to build a raft on which to escape and get back to the head office—what you might call a 'joint venture.' Now let us also suppose that three of those people work hard, cut down trees and fashion them into planks, gather creepers and braid them into ropes, and generally do all they can to further the common purpose. But the fourth, Walter—and this is the point—the fourth does nothing. He eats the food—Company food, mind you!—so urgently needed to keep up the strength of the—"
"Why do you keep picking on me? I do all I can." Walter Pellinger got out of his chair.
"You?" said Jason Tarsh, affecting amazement. "Who said anything about you? Why, you're the last person I'd criticize. But I see you wish to leave the lovebirds to themselves, so let's finish our little chat outside. It's a fine night." He steered the unwilling Pellinger out onto the veranda.