"We could draw straws for him," suggested the green-eyed blonde.
"Look here," Jonathan broke in. "I've got some say in the matter."
"You have not," snapped Billy. "You'll do just as we say." She took a step toward him.
Jonathan edged away in consternation.
"He's going to run!" Olga shouted.
Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to the plain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothing relaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettes at the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.
At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs, he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his space ship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted and tore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside the wreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscription in silver letters: "INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY."
Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced in surprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon Ray Rifle in his hand.
"I'm Jonathan Fawkes," said the castaway as he panted up, "pilot for Universal. I was wrecked."
A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxed mustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in a yellow composition holder. He said, "I'm Doctor Boynton." He had a rich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. "We are members of the Interstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make a cursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr. Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returning when we sighted the wreck."