"Did you see me out-bluff him?" Molock said, grinning. "Did you see me run a sandy on that six-eyed idiot?"
"You were marvelous, simply marvelous," Rita murmured.
"Oh, hell!" Wilkerson shouted. If there had been a stone wall handy for him to butt his head against, I'm sure he would have felt much better. "Yaas, you bluffed him. You bluffed him so goddamned good that we'll all be dead before we get out of this place. Remember, this is his country, this is his tribal dancing ground—"
"Captain, I'm sure you are taking much too negative a view," Rita interrupted.
Since she was a woman, Wilkerson couldn't slug her. But woman or not, he looked as if he was about to do it.
"I'm not taking nearly as negative a view as Shad Brisbee will take when he comes back and wants his dancing ground," Wilkerson said, bitterly.
For a moment, Molock looked worried.
"You were yelling for a light lunch," Wilkerson said. "You may find you have bitten off more than you can chew. Now I'm going into that ship and get headquarters on the radio and see if I can get some help out here in time to save our necks. In the meantime, by thunder, you get ready to take care of Shad Brisbee."
Turning, Wilkerson stalked toward the ship. Indignation bristled in every step he took. We followed him with reluctance.
Beneath my breath I cursed Trans-Space, Inc., its publicity department, and George Cooper. Cooper was head of the publicity department. It was his brilliant idea that had landed us here in the middle of Venus, where Shad Brisbee was giving us one zonar to get off of his dancing ground—or else.