"What the hell are you doing, Arthur? Take us down!"
Farrell gaped at him, speechless.
Stryker lumbered past him and took the controls, spiraling the Marco Four down. Men swarmed outside the ports when the Reclamations craft settled gently to the square again. Gibson and Xavier reached the ship first; Gibson came inside quickly, leaving the mechanical outside making patient explanations to an excited group of Alphardians.
Gibson put a reassuring hand on Farrell's arm. "It's all right, Arthur. There's no trouble."
Farrell said dumbly, "I don't understand. They didn't shoot you and Xav down too?"
It was Gibson's turn to stare.
"No one shot you down! These people are primitive enough to use metallic power lines to carry electricity to their hamlets, an anachronism you forgot last night. You piloted the helihopper into one of those lines, and the crash put you out for the rest of the night and most of today. These Alphardians are friendly, so desperately happy to be found again that it's really pathetic."
"Friendly? That torpedo—"
"It wasn't a torpedo at all," Stryker put in. Understanding of the error under which Farrell had labored erased his earlier irritation, and he chuckled commiseratingly. "They had one small boat left for emergency missions, and sent it up to contact us in the fear that we might overlook their settlement and move on. The boat was atomic powered, and our shield screens set off its engines."
Farrell dropped into a chair at the chart table, limp with reaction. He was suddenly exhausted, and his head ached dully.