Dog-tired after hours in space suits, with the labor of wresting the golden fortune from the isolated little asteroid, they slept long and when they awoke a table bearing food stood in the room.
Vernon went to the single port-hole opening out of the prison room. Staring through it he could see feverish activity outside. Several cranes had been rigged up on the surface of the little world and the entire crew of the Star Wanderer seemed to be engaged in looting the planetoid of its golden hoard. It was a weird picture. Huge floodlights hastily erected lit up the surface and made the place a plain of light and shadow. Space armor glistened and shone and sudden flashes spurted against the utter blackness of space as charges of explosives were fired. As each charge exploded the Star Wanderer vibrated from end to end. Men with heavy loads of ore toiled up the gangplank and into the airlock.
“What are they doing?” asked Vince sleepily from his bed.
“Come and see,” invited Vernon.
Together the two brothers gazed out upon the scene.
“Our mine,” said Vernon. Vince nodded bitterly.
The two turned from the window and gave their attention to the food on the table.
“Poison,” suggested Vernon, but Vince shook his head.
“Not Robinson’s way of doing things,” he declared. “Not bloody enough. No entertainment just sending two poor souls into eternity with a dose of strychnine. Robinson demands dramatics.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Vernon.