As he had left the ship with a party of picked men, he had felt Elderburg's cold eyes on him. Eyes that thought—and threatened.
It was easy enough to read the Old Man's mind. An officer might make one vital mistake. But not two—not introducing the cats into the ship; not permitting a flare to be set off. Unless....
Unless he wanted the Bertha to lose time. Unless he wanted the Kastil to find the precious claim.
Cold raced through Scott's veins. His hands locked white about the space helmet he was about to don. He had to prove his loyalty. Had to prove that the accidents were accidents. And little time was left, as the Kastil could load completely in two days.
"There's the pit, Mister Jerill." The navigator's voice was strained. "See anybody?"
"Not yet. Set her down."
The cargo jet dipped. The vast peaks of shattered stone sped up at them with terrifying speed. Scott refrained from closing his eyes, saw the razor-toothed surface of this shattered world streak toward him. Ahead, the bulk of the Kastil loomed. They must have used the ore pits as a landing marker, he thought. And—what was that?
Motion at the lip of the ore pit.
The jet grounded hissing on the burnt landing strip. "Watch it," Scott warned. "We got visitors out there."
There was an ugly muttering among the men. As Scott threw open the cargo doors and dropped to the rocky ground, he saw the crewmen checking blasters and the slender polonium tubes that could permanently blind a man.