Still, it wasn’t much. If only he had a flashlight!
From a distance, far down the companionway, he could hear voices. The muffled sound that had awakened him had been the soft susurration of the door as it had slid open when the power died. Without the electrolocks to hold it closed, it had opened automatically. The doors in a spaceship are built that way, to make sure no one will be trapped in case of a power failure.
Mike dressed in a matter of seconds and headed toward the door.
And stopped just before he stepped out.
Someone was outside. Someone, or—something.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. He was as certain as if the lights had been on bright.
And whoever was waiting out there didn’t want Mike the Angel to know that he was there.
Mike stood silent for a full second. That was long enough for him to get angry. Not the hot anger of hatred, but the cold anger of a man who has had too many attempts on his life, who has escaped narrowly from an unseen plotter twice because of pure luck and does not intend to fall victim to the dictum that “the third time’s a charm.”
He realized that he was still holding the glowing cigarette lighter in his hand.
“Damn!” he muttered, as though to himself. “I’d forget my ears if they weren’t sewed down.” Then he turned, heading back toward his bed, hoping that whoever was waiting outside would assume he would be back immediately. At the same time, he lifted his thumb off the lighter’s contact.