Pit-monkeys scurried about the great jet-slagged underside of the Gordak, spraying fresh zircalloy in the aft tubes. Spaceport officers were everywhere in their crisp white uniforms, checking cargo, giving terse directives to the crew of the Gordak, lounging importantly at the foot of the gangplank.
"Name?" one of them snapped at Steve.
"Stedman."
The man flipped through a list of the expedition's members. "Stedman, huh? I don't see—oh, here it is, in pencil at the bottom. Last minute addition, huh, Stedman?"
"Something like that," Steve admitted.
"Well, climb aboard."
And then Steve was walking up the gangplank and into the cool metal interior of the Gordak. His palms were clammy, and he wondered if any of the crewmen within the ship noticed the sweat beading his forehead. He'd managed to come this far with a surprising degree of objectivity, and only now did reaction set in, causing his heart to beat fiercely and his limbs to grow weak. That T. J. Moore must have been spawned in hell, Charlie had said—and now Charlie was dead. Because of T. J. Moore? Indirectly, perhaps, but T. J. Moore was responsible. Or, if you looked at it on a different level, the cut-throat competition between Carmical Enterprises and Barling Brothers Interplanetary was to blame. It didn't matter, not really. Charlie was dead. That alone mattered.
A big man with incredibly broad shoulders, hair the color of flame and a florid face to match it, came stalking down the companionway. Steve said, "I wonder if you know where I can find T. J. Moore."
The giant smiled. "You crew or expedition?"