The man held out his hand. "Mr. Sutton, isn't it?" he asked. "The Mr. Sutton, of the eightieth."
"Drop the wrench," said Sutton.
The man pretended not to hear him. "My name is Dean," he said. "Arnold Dean. I'm from the eighty-fourth."
"Drop the wrench," said Sutton and Dean dropped it. Sutton hooked it along the ground with a toe until it was out of reach.
"That is better," he said. "Now, let's sit down and talk."
Dean gestured with a thumb. "The old man will be coming back," he said. "He will get to wondering and he will come back. He had a lot of questions he forgot to ask."
"Not for a while," Sutton told him. "Not until he's eaten and had an after-dinner nap."
Dean grunted and eased himself to a sitting position, back against the ship.
"Random factors," he said. "That's what balls the detail up. You're a random factor, Sutton. It wasn't planned this way."
Sutton sat down easily and picked up the wrench. He weighed it in his hand. Blood, he thought, talking to the wrench. You'll have blood upon one end before the day is out.