"Masters," he yelled. "Get the cargo jet ready. With full battle equipment."
"Right, lieutenant. What's up?"
"Piracy." He spun toward the door. Then jolted to a halt, hands balling at his sides.
A picture was forming on the Master Communication Screen.
Elderburg pounded to his side. "Who is it?"
The picture on the screen was very definite now—a swarthy giant of a man, cynically grinning down at them. "Gentlemen," the figure on the screen said, and Scott needed no further introduction.
It was Randell, master of the ship Kastil.
"We've had a very entertaining two days," Randell said. His thick hands rubbed easily together. "It's been a real pleasure watching you work. But I'm afraid the pleasure is over. We're leaving you now. Oh, that disturbance at your mine pit?" He laughed, but only with his mouth; the close-set eyes remained unchanging, watchful. "It seemed so unnecessary to bother mining ore when so much of it was stacked near our pit."
"You bloody murdering bandit," Elderburg thundered. "We'll blast you...."
"You'll blast nobody. Any party approaching the Kastil will get blasted. Any party near the claim—our claim—will get burned down. By the way, I'm afraid your men at the mine contracted space-sickness, or something. They seem to be dead. You needn't bother coming after them."