A short northward walk brought them in view of the refitted space craft. Based on stubby fins, it pointed vertically at the sky.
The high sharp ridges surrounding the valley blotted out the late afternoon sun, casting gloom upon the sheer rock walls and overhanging escarpments, and, despite his previous acclimatization to Sierra altitudes, the thin sharp air made breathing difficult for Dollard.
A short distance from where the vessel was cradled, the bodies of five coveralled workmen lay in stiff huddled forms. At the sight, Dollard grunted. "Efficient toxin," he commented. "Good work."
alking contemptuously past the bodies, the tycoon approached a work shack which had housed the space ship mechanics. He picked up an aluminum platform-ladder which rested on the trampled grass. Swinging it above his head, he brought it back to the vessel and hooked it against the rear fin so that the tubular platform lodged itself against the ship's lowest loading hatch.
He turned to Garth. "Too bad we can't run an engine-to-mech check, before taking off. But no mechanics."
Garth said, "Knocking off the men was your idea."
"My conscience'll rest easy with it," Dollard returned. "I was making a joke."
"Very funny joke," said Garth.