“Hm-m-m,” said the skipper. “You can’t use your drive while we’re glued together, eh? Well?”
The Plumie reached up and added lines to the drawing.
“So!” rumbled the skipper, inspecting the additions. “You say it’s up to us to use our drive for both ships.” He growled approvingly: “You consider there’s a truce. You must, because we’re both in the same fix, and not a nice one, either. True enough! We can’t fight each other without committing suicide, now. But we haven’t any drive left! We’re a derelict! How am I going to say that—if I decide to?”
Baird could see the lines on the plate, from the angle at which the skipper held it. He said:
“Sir, we’ve been mapping, up in the radar room. Those last lines are map-co-ordinates—a separate sketch, sir. I think he’s saying that the two ships, together, are on a falling course toward the sun. That we have to do something or both vessels will fall into it. We should be able to check this, sir.”
“Hah!” growled the skipper. “That’s all we need! Absolutely all we need! To come here, get into a crazy right, have our drive melt to scrap, get crazily welded to a Plumie ship, and then for both of us to fry together! We don’t need anything more than that!”
Diane’s voice came on the speaker:
“Sir, the last radar fixes on the planets in range give us a course directly toward the sun. I’ll repeat the observations.”
The skipper growled. Taine thrust himself forward. He snarled:
“Why doesn’t this Plumie take off its helmet? It lands on oxygen planets! Does it think it’s too good to breathe our air?”