He stepped away from the jet. And as he did so, seven men detached themselves from the shadows about the mine's edge, and strolled toward him. Seven men—two more than were with Scott. The odds might be worse, he thought with a sense of relief.
Cautiously, he loosened the blaster in his belt. They were tricky weapons to handle in space gloves, but he'd better be ready to use it fast.
"Party from the Bertha?" The words came thin and metallic into Scott's helmet.
"Right," he grunted. "You?"
"From the Kastil. Who gave you a clearance to land on our claim?"
"We have a prior claim on this pit," Scott flared. "We have it posted and registered. If you're going to mine, find someplace else."
A giant figure, grimly grotesque in a cumbersome vacuum suit, swaggered forward. "I don't see any of your claim posts."
Scott indicated a tall metal stake glittering somberly in the glare of the jet's loading lights.
The tall man laughed easily, his voice thin and far away in Scott's helmet. "Think of a better story. We just dug that claimer in ourselves. Now suppose you people jet out of here. Ought to be plenty of good claims someplace else."
Scott scarcely heard the sudden bitter burst of protest from his men. His body felt light and cool. The blaster pressed hard against his side. "There are plenty of good claims," he said. "You better go find them."