Far out in the void a clustered blur of faint, needle-sharp lights etched itself against the star-patterned darkness. Space-ships, coming up fast under rocket power. Coran glanced quickly at the wall-chron. It was too soon for the space patrol. Even under full acceleration, they could not make it in less than three hours.
"I'll have to trust you," he said grimly, "Brace yourself—company's coming."
Gerda snapped out of her black reverie.
"What are you going to do?"
"We'd better work out a plan of action." Working like mad, Coran dumped the contents of the metal toolbox onto the floor. With a wrench, he smashed the hand-operated controls which worked the airlock from the interior of the ship into a tangle of twisted machinery. Then he scooped up the rest of the tools and threw them down a waste disposal chute.
"Get inside the toolbox," he ordered. "Try it once to make sure you can raise the lid from inside. Then keep out of sight. When they get here, I'll try to draw them away into the after part of the ship. If I succeed in drawing them off, you slip out and get into the airlock. Close the door and lock it from inside. If I manage to circle around and get back here, I'll signal you with three soft taps on the door, followed by three hard ones. Don't open for anyone else. It'll take them over an hour to cut through that door from in here. You'll have a gambler's chance."
"Good luck," said Gerda softly. She climbed into the toolbox while Coran recharged the blaster-gun and stuffed his pockets with extra ammunition.
Gerda raised the box lid slightly. "It works, Steve," she said. "Take care of yourself."
He grinned. "One thing more. When you're into the airlock, get into a space-suit and get one ready for me. They're on racks at the left side, inside a locker."