"Hardly," said Stan. "They'll turn back in a minute."
But they did not turn back. They stayed tilted toward the dawning sky.
"You may be right, at that," said Stan. "We'll see. Try another place."
Five minutes later they landed on a second huge slab of black metal, miles away. Without a word, Stan ensconced Esther on the small platform formed by crossing girders. He took out the torch again. The tiny, blue-white flame. Smoke at its first touch. Metal flowed.
With a vast cachinnation of squeakings, a mile-square section shifted like the first....
"Something," said Stan grimly, "doesn't want us to have power. Maybe they can stop us, and maybe not."
The swelling which was the motor-housing was just within reach from the immovable girder crossing on which Esther waited. Stan reached out now. The torch burned with a quiet fierce flame. A great section of metal fell away, exposing a motor exactly like the one he'd first examined—slabs of allotropic graphite and all. He thrust in and cut the cables. He reached in with the charging clips—
There was a crackling report in the space skid's body. Smoke came out.
Stan examined the damage with grimly set features.