By concentrating Torry could dimly make out the figure of the detective. Grannar lay in a tumbled heap, threshing wildly and trying to hold shut great rents in his space suit. He seemed to be injured, for one leg was motionless while the rest of his body worked in convulsions.
Torry left his shelter and bounded toward the casualty. He bundled Grannar roughly to his feet and hustled him into the nearest tangle of solid rocks. A hastily aimed blaster beam hurried him at the task. Crouching down, he examined Grannar. The policeman was conscious, swearing valiantly. His leg was broken. Inside the space suit it would be impossible to set the fracture. And outside, the toxic gases of Triton would make short work of human breathing. Even the rents in the suiting were dangerous.
Working quickly, Torry clipped together the rents and sealed them hermetically with compound from the repair kits.
"That's the best I can do," he told the policeman grimly as his eyes searched in vain for a sign of Roper. "You'll have to stand the rest till we can get out of here and back to Mars."
"What are our chances of getting out?"
A man does not shrug in a spacesuit. "Not good," said Torry. "Roper can keep us pinned here as long as he likes."
"How long d'you think that'll be?"
Torry grunted. "Till he gets tired of it and decides to stalk us and kill us. Or till I go out and get him."
"I see. It's like that, eh? Where's the girl?"
"Who knows? She's either hiding out in the rocks, like us, or she's found a way to join Roper. Does it matter?"