Kendall showed them. Das Shamra lay closest to him, a blaster cradled in his arms. "You're the only one who can move around now, Kendall. One move out of place and I'll drill you."
"Sure you will," Kendall said. "And which one of you is going to pilot the ship back down again? If you want to live, Das Shamra, keep that blaster from going off."
He nestled down in the control webbing, and readied the ship for blasting. A sharp thrill ran through him, as it always did as he readied a ship for a leap into the great blackness. But there was a special thrill this time. Only hours ago he had resigned himself to a short, dreary few years of life remaining to him on barren Mars; now he was behind the controls of a powerful ship again.
He touched the power stud. A reassuring throbbing shuddered through the ship.
"We're about to blast off," he said. "Just relax, and it won't bother you much. I'm going to put the ship in orbit around Phobos and then we can wait for the dionate ship at leisure. Okay?"
"Good enough," Das Shamra grunted. The fat blueskin's face was beaded with sweat. Obviously the Martians weren't looking forward to their trip through space—but they were willing to put up with it for the sake of the millions in dionate to be grabbed off Phobos.
Kendall grinned and jammed down the blastoff key. The ship sprang skyward.
He had his back to a man with a gun. That didn't make him feel happier. But the little ship bit a chunk out of the sky, climbed higher and higher.
He heard a groan from behind him, but didn't turn around. He kept himself bent over the controls, forced himself to remain conscious as the acceleration mounted.