“Damned foolishness!” rumbled the skipper. “Their ship’d begin to crumble with our air in it! If it held to a landing—”
Then he considered the object he’d accepted from the Plumie. It could have been a rocket war head, enclosed in some container that would detonate it if opened. Or there might be a timing device. The skipper grunted. He heaved it skyward.
The misshapen object went floating away toward emptiness. Sunlight smote harshly upon it.
“Don’t want it back in the Niccola,” growled the skipper, “but just to make sure—”
He fumbled a hand weapon out of his belt. He raised it, and it spurted flame—very tiny blue-white sparks, each one indicating a pellet of metal flung away at high velocity.
One of them struck the shining, retreating container. It exploded with a monstrous, soundless, violence. It had been a rocket’s war head. There could have been only one reason for it to be introduced into a Plumie ship. Baird ceased to be shaky. Instead, he was ashamed.
The skipper growled inarticulately. He looked at the Plumie, again standing in the golden ship’s air lock.
“We’ll go back, Mr. Baird. What you’ve done won’t save our lives, and nobody will ever know you did it. But I think well of you. Come along!”
This was at 11 hours 5 minutes ship time.